The Siege of Syracuse

by Dan Armstrong

  “You never told me about King Hieronymus’ baby,” said Moira. “Surely it must be all right to talk now?”

  “It’s still a secret.”

  “But Hieronymus is long gone. What’s the worry?”

  “It’s the child’s safety that’s at stake.”

  “I’ve been more than patient, Timon. Come on, you can tell me.”

  I looked down at my feet. She nudged me in the ribs, and I looked up at her. “I need your absolute promise. You can tell no one—even if you don’t see the reason for secrecy.”

  “I promise.”

  I told her the story of Eurydice and baby Gelo.

  “So what does it matter if anyone knows?”

  “Moira, please. Who knows what resentment might still exist for Hieronymus and anyone related to him? No one needs to know.”

  “I won’t say a word.”

  Neither of us said anything for a while. I broke the silence. “Where are you living now?”

  “In a tent with my grandfather.”

  “How did you survive the catapults? I saw what they did to the tent city.”

  “It was horrible. I saw a man crushed by a rock not thirty feet from where I stood. I took my grandfather into the tunnels for safety. He’s not doing very well right now. We stood down there in the dark an entire day expecting the city to be overrun.”

  I told her about the focusing mirrors. “I doubt the Romans will ever try attacking the city again.”

  “I just want it to end,” she said. “I need to get my grandfather back to our farm.” She stood up. “And I need to get back to him.”

  “I want you to show me where the man with the birthmark lives. I can’t go now, but maybe another day. How can I find you?”

  She skipped down three stairs and faced me. “Our tent’s not far from where it was before—still quite near the auction stage.”

  “How can I see you without your grandfather knowing?”

  She came back up two stairs. “Take a chance. I did.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and danced down to the next landing. “Good-bye,” she called out.

  And that was it. She was gone. I stood there breathless on the stairs, my cheek still warm from her kiss, my heart throbbing with wonder and excitement. She’d found the man who had bought Adeon!

  “Was there really a girl here?” I asked Plato.

  He looked up at me as if he understood my question, and without a word reassured me that Moira’s visit had been real.

  I ran up to the landing window and looked down at the drawbridge. I saw Moira cross the yard. She walked right up to the two guards. They let her pass as though they knew her. I knew I would have to take a chance and visit her as soon as possible.

  CHAPTER 79

  All through the spring and now into the summer, Hannibal had been in communication with King Philip of Macedon. Four generations removed from Alexander the Great, Philip was a longtime adversary of Rome and a potential ally in Carthage’s war. Hannibal approached him on the topic of Syracuse.

  Hannibal currently held almost all of southern Italy except Rhegium and parts of Lucania. The pivotal piece of the puzzle was Syracuse. If he could secure Sicily, he would have Rome on two fronts. And yet, after a year of siege, Syracuse was still wedged between two armies, and there was no telling how long the blockade would continue. Hannibal instructed Epicydes to open a dialogue with the Macedonian king. He thought Philip might be enticed by the vast wealth that sat in Syracuse’s treasury.

  Epicydes asked a Spartan by the name of Damippus to go to Macedon as his envoy. Damippus was a well-spoken and intelligent man with many connections in Greece. Epicydes told him to offer Philip a large sum of gold to help break the Roman siege from the outside. Eager to leave the embattled city, Damippus accepted the request.

  The plan, however, never got very far. A Roman warship caught Damippus trying to slip through the blockade at night in a fishing boat. After close questioning, Damippus was delivered to Marcellus. Being a Spartan probably saved his life. The Romans, though bitterly distrustful of King Philip, did seek friendly relations with Sparta. Poor treatment of Damippus would be counterproductive. Add that Damippus was a close friend of Epicydes, and the situation eventuated the first non-hostile talks between the two parties since the siege had begun. A meeting was arranged to discuss a ransom.

  Epicydes, accompanied by twenty armed militia, met a Roman tribune and ten soldiers outside the city walls, just east of the Hexapylon. The first meeting went well, but the two sides could not agree on a ransom fee. When the soldiers returned to Marcellus with Epicydes’ offer, the tribune also mentioned that the walls at the meeting place were lower than anywhere else he had seen. Marcellus told him to extend the talks as long as possible, and to make a detailed evaluation of the walls at the subsequent meetings.

  During the second meeting, the tribune had one of his men count the courses of stone that made up the wall and estimate the height of each course. When they returned, again without an agreement, the tribune brought a reasonably accurate calculation of the wall’s height. After two more meetings, the Romans exchanged Damippus and seventy-three other prisoners of war for a large payment in gold.

  Marcellus filed away the information about the low portion of wall, but assumed that Archimedes had recognized the vulnerability of this part of the perimeter and had provided it with appropriate defenses. Simply storming the wall was not likely to work. But when he learned from his agents that the Festival of Artemis was three weeks away, and that a city-wide celebration would take place for three days, he wondered if this might not provide just the opportunity he needed.

  Damippus’ capture and ransom became part of the city gossip in the days afterward, but had little impact on life in the kitchen. Our primary objective was to make the most out of what food we had. On occasion a rare shipment of grain did slip into the harbor, but we still had to cook as though what we had in the pantry was all there was—and those supplies were running thin. Hektor’s obsession with Eurydice made for a thicker stew than what we were able to put in the pot.

  I don’t know what Hektor expected, but he touched Eurydice’s bottom so often it seemed that the rest of the crew’s duty was to stand guard over it. Eurydice would brush his hand away as nonchalantly as she could, and Hektor would simply put it back. Lavinia’s face invariably lit bright red. Agathe contemplated mutilation. But Hektor was the boss, and no one dared to confront him directly.

  One day, after being hectored all morning, Eurydice actually slapped the chef’s hand. The spank of her hand on Hektor’s drew everyone’s attention. I winced, afraid Hektor might hit Eurydice. Lavinia froze, and Agathe lifted a frying pan from the fire.

  At just that moment, a gaunt young man in soldier’s attire came around the corner of the tower into the kitchen. Agathe dropped the frying pan and crossed the kitchen in six long strides. She took the young man in her arms. “Phocis, my son!” With tears of joy rolling down her cheeks, she held him back to see his face. She counted his ears, then his fingers and toes. “Thank the gods. You have been spared.”

  The youth—he was only three years older than I was—was crying as well. “Some of us weren’t killed when the Romans surprised us,” he said with difficulty. “I’ve been held as a prisoner until today. I was part of the exchange for the Spartan.”

  The color had drained from Lavinia’s face. “And Cales? What of Cales?”

  Phocis lowered his head momentarily. “We became friends on the march out of the city. We knew our mothers worked together.” He looked straight at Lavinia. “I’m sorry. He was killed in our first action.”

  Lavinia clenched her jaw to keep from wailing. She struggled to speak. “Did—did he show courage?”

  Phocis nodded. “I was there. He bravely took on two Roman soldiers, but was overpowered. I spoke to him at the end. He told me if I ever made it home I would have two mothers. He made me swear to tell that to both of you.”

  Lavinia embraced him and sobbed.


  Agathe turned her eyes to the ground.

  CHAPTER 80

  A week had passed since Moira’s visit to the tower. I spent part of every day looking out the north window to see if she might be coming again. Moira had looked so beautiful in her chiton that she was all I could think about. And the more I thought about her, the more obvious it became. I had to go to her. I had to see if together we could locate Adeon.

  The guards at the island drawbridge knew me from my duties in the kitchen and would let me pass, but leaving Achradina was not so easy. Under Hiero’s rule, the gate was always open. During Hieronymus’ reign, and now during the blockade, Achradina was maintained as a separate fortress and papers were required to come and go. Lavinia and Eurydice left the island and passed through the Achradina gate each night and returned each morning. As part of the kitchen crew, they carried papers from the garrison captain. I needed something in writing from Archimedes if I wanted to leave the east side of the city.

  And here was the temptation. Archimedes’ writing was so bad now that I copied everything he wrote. This meant that when he gave me a note to leave Achradina, I would have copied it or it had been dictated to me. Who would ever know if I simply wrote the note myself? I would be breaking my code of honor as a slave. But I was no slave! And if Moira could risk coming to the island, then I could surely forge a document that might help me find out more about my parents. The vision of Moira standing on the landing in her chiton was all the additional inspiration I needed.

  The day of my planned departure, I started my copying immediately following the morning meal. After completing a letter I had begun the day before, I forged a note from Archimedes describing a need for me to go to Orestes’ woodshop. I signed Archimedes’ name.

  Midafternoon, quite a while before I would normally go down to work in the kitchen, I quietly slipped out of the workshop. I stood on the landing for as long as my patience would allow, waiting to see if Archimedes would notice. But he kept no track of my whereabouts and just didn’t seem to care if I was there or not. When I peeked back into the room, his head was down and he was peering through the crystal lens.

  I hopped and skipped down the stairway to the ground floor. The sentry made no comment as I exited the tower headed to the drawbridge. A hello to the guards was all I needed to pass through the gate.

  I walked as fast as I could, past the palace and through the agora, which no longer contained a market of any kind. I slowed down as I approached the Achradina gate to disguise my excitement. I felt confident my letter would pass and that the trip would go smoothly, but I was—and still am—inherently an honest person. The forgery did not sit well with me. While my heart was racing, my conscience was screaming. I walked up to the guards as though I was just another slave performing the duties dictated by his master. The guards were mercenaries and had no idea who I was. They didn’t even take note of Archimedes’ name at the end of the document. They simply waved me through. Gaining admittance on the way back was arguably a bigger issue, but I put it out of my mind.

  I walked north on Via Intermuralis as casually as I could until I knew the guards could no longer see me. Then I took off at a run, knowing I only had so much time before I would be needed in the kitchen.

  I hadn’t been out of Achradina in many months. The city was filled with refugees and the foot traffic on Via Intermuralis moved slowly. I dodged in and out of the crowd, going as fast as I could. I climbed to the top of the plateau and headed straight for the tent city and the auction stage.

  The last time I had been to the tent city it had been in shambles. It was larger now. Makeshift vending stalls had sprung up. It was a city within a city, composed of immigrants from the surrounding farmland and itinerant poor. Families sat before little campfires, roasting acorns over the coals or turning small, long-tailed creatures on skewers. Rough, desperate men moved through the crowd like hungry animals, looking for anything they could snatch. Mercenary soldiers stood around the perimeter, gawking at the conditions, laughing at people’s hardships. The place felt dangerous to me, as though a brawl could break out at any moment. I kept an eye out for Corax or others of his ilk as I walked through the rows of tents.

  Worried what Moira’s grandfather would say if he saw me, I wondered if maybe a hat or different clothing might make me harder to recognize. I approached a beggar. He was missing both ears and sat with his legs crossed before a pile of old clothing. He looked up at me with wild eyes and a crooked, toothless smile. I gave him the only copper coin I had for a ragged woolen cloak and a beat-up goatskin cap. Though it was a warm day, I wrapped the smelly old cloak around my shoulders. I pulled the cap down to my eyes and trudged on, peering this way and that, hoping to blend in.

  I worked my way to the auction stage. Four swarthy mercenaries sat on its front edge, their legs dangling over the side. They were passing a jug, laughing and looking for trouble. I pulled my hat down even lower, not wanting to make eye contact with them, and trying to disguise the fact that I was looking for someone.

  One of the soldiers called out in a language I didn’t recognize. I wasn’t sure if he was addressing me. Another man turned and made a gesture like he knew the soldier. He pointed to the nearby tents. I couldn’t help looking where he pointed. I saw the old man first, then Moira. They were standing out front of their patchwork tent with four tall jars, presumably selling what was left of their dried fruit. Moira wore the same chiton I had seen her in before. It was worn and plain, but she couldn’t have looked more beautiful to me.

  I waited until her grandfather was occupied with a customer, then approached her. With my cloak and hat, she didn’t seem to recognize me. “Do you have two coppers worth of figs?” I asked.

  As soon as I mentioned figs, her mouth opened in a great smile. She glanced at her grandfather. He was still occupied.

  “That would be thirty figs,” she said giving me a wink. “But they aren’t as good as you’re used to. They’re the last we have.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine.” I heard the mercenaries on the stage laughing. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I don’t really have any money today. Is there any chance you can show me where the man with the birthmark lives?”

  Her eyes met mine. “I was waiting for you to risk a visit.” She reached deep into the jar and withdrew a handful of badly mutilated figs to continue the charade. “Wait at the top of the stairs to Neapolis. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “I’m short on time. Please hurry.”

  Her grandfather had completed his transaction and was watching us. I took the figs and quickly walked away.

  I stood at the top of the stairway overlooking Neapolis hoping that I might soon be talking to Adeon. This came with a flutter of trepidation. What if she told me my parents had been murdered? It didn’t matter. I had to know one way or the other.

  Moira didn’t take long. She came running up, out of breath.

  “How did you get away so quickly?”

  “My grandfather gets tired easily. He takes naps. I pretty much do whatever I want. How did you get out of Achradina?”

  I bowed my head, not proud of what I’d done. “I forged a letter from my master.”

  “So you took a chance for me, then I shall take a chance and visit you again.” She reached out and took the cap off my head. “Where’d you get this?”

  “A beggar,” I said, taking the cloak off my shoulders and tossing it aside. “I guess I don’t need this stuff anymore.”

  Moira sniffed the cap. “You’ll certainly smell better without this.” She held her nose and theatrically dropped it on the cloak.

  “If you do come to the tower again,” I said, “please be very careful. My master is kind and absent-minded, but I wouldn’t want him to see you.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said, “I can be pretty sneaky when I want to.”

  “I’ll bet,” I laughed as we skipped down the long staircase.

  But I sobered quickly. I was anxious about what lay a
head. Moira seemed to understand, and she was all business. We ate the figs as we walked. She took me to a large home quite a distance from the garden.

  “That’s where I saw him go,” she said, pointing to the house. “I didn’t stay, so I can’t be sure if he lives there or was just visiting.”

  “But you followed him here from the garden?”

  Moira nodded. “It was kind of fun making sure he didn’t notice me. Now what?”

  “I’d like to walk around the house. If this is the right place, I might see Adeon working.”

  Moira and I approached the house. It was similar to Laius’—two stories with no windows on the first floor. We crept along the side of the house to the back, looking for the slaves’ quarters. A wooden rail fence ran around the perimeter of the property. We slipped between the rails into the backyard. There was no activity in the building that appeared to be the slaves’ quarters, so we edged up closer to the house to see if we could get a look into the kitchen. Two women stood at the hearth. Neither was Adeon.

  I looked to Moira. “Maybe I should just go up and ask them if she works here?”

  A man’s voice behind us answered. “If who works here?” It was the man with the port-wine birthmark. He was tall, maybe as old as forty-five, and not happy to find intruders. “What are you kids doing here?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I—uh—I came here looking for someone.”

  “So I gathered.” He sounded angry. “Who?”

  “A slave I saw you buy at an auction almost two years ago. Her name is Adeon.”

  “And why would you care what slaves I have? What are you up to?”

  I looked at Moira, then back to the man. “She worked in our home for several years before you bought her.” I told him the story of the kidnapping.

  The man wasn’t entirely convinced. “You’re not trying to reclaim her, are you? Because that won’t work. I bought her fair and square.”