The Siege of Syracuse

by Dan Armstrong

  Hektor’s eyes hung low, and his curly hair lay plastered flat on his head with the sweat of a long day of drinking. But my question brought some life to him, reawakening the big, sloppy grin. “Oh, yes! Slaves are free. And the entire city will be open. Everyone will drink. The girls,” he leaned toward me with his head lowered like a glowering bull, “lose their inhibitions. Anything goes.”

  He watched me turn this last statement over in my mind. “What about the mud wrestler? You gotten any further than a kiss?” He raised his left eyebrow.

  I took a sip from my cup. “She wants to meet me on the first night of the festival.”

  Hektor’s smile went from sloppy to knowing. He licked his lips. “Something tells me you’re about to get dipped.”

  My mouth fell open. “Dipped?”

  Hektor laughed. “You’ve got something to look forward to now, Timon.”

  “What? You think so?”

  Hektor gave me a long up and down nod. “Oh, yeah. I think so.”

  “But she’s just a girl.”

  “Does she bleed?”

  I gulped. “She wears a chiton.”

  “She bleeds.”

  I was aghast. I had never thought of it that way. But the mystery of it was dawning in me all of its own.

  Hektor could see it. “Just remember,” he chuckled, “pull it out before it spits.”

  “I’m not so sure about all this.”

  “I am.” Hektor raised his cup to me. “It will be your night to become a man.”

  CHAPTER 83

  I could think of nothing but Moira in the days leading up to the Festival of Artemis. What I’d seen of her through the looking glasses hurt in ways I had never experienced before. But it also made me think of her in ways I hadn’t previously. What had Hektor said? Anything goes during the three days of the festival. There would be sports and competitions throughout the day, then all of Syracuse would go crazy at night. Wine would be given away. The stress of the siege would be put aside in an all night saturnalia. More importantly, I would be released from all but my morning duties for three days, and at sunset the first evening, I would meet Moira as a free man.

  As luck would have it, on the morning of the festival’s opening, Archimedes completed a proof he had been working on. Though mail in and out of Syracuse was suspect at best, he gave me the proof, a very complicated one with many diagrams, and requested I have it copied by the end of the day. He wanted it sent to Eratosthenes in Alexandria as soon as possible.

  Archimedes rarely made these kinds of demands of me. I was sure he had no idea the festival began that day, but this put me in a bind. I had until sunset that evening to finish the copying, or I would be working by the light of an oil lamp while Moira waited for me at the north end of Via Intermuralis.

  All through the day I applied myself to the work, not nearly making the progress I needed. While I watched the sun move across the sky, my mind swam with visions of Moira waiting for me, then going off with someone else when I didn’t show up. No, this wouldn’t happen. I promised myself I would get the proof done with time to spare.

  But when the sun began to settle on the western horizon, I was still struggling badly with some of the more complex diagrams. I thought of reminding Archimedes about the festival or telling him that it might be weeks before the letter could be sent. I even considered just walking out. I would have the right. Slaves were released from their duties at sunset. But I couldn’t do that to Archimedes. I had too much respect for the man and his work.

  As daylight faded and oranges and reds streaked across the western sky, my anxiety took over. My writing showed it. I was trying to work too fast. I simply was not going to be done in time. I wanted to scream.

  I got up from my seat and crossed the room to where Archimedes was working. I stood there a short time without being noticed. I couldn’t bring myself to ask outright. I was just wasting time. I went back to my desk and the diagrams.

  Then out of nowhere—after I had all but given up, Archimedes looked up from his abacus and addressed me from across the room. “Timon,” he said in his deep resonant voice. “Doesn’t the Festival of Artemis start today?”

  I looked up at him with my eyes so wide open I thought they’d fall out. “Yes, master, it does.”

  “Do you plan to join in?”

  “I’d hoped to,” I heard myself say quietly, instead of shouting it.

  The old man nodded. “How close are you to done?”

  “Not close enough, master. It will take me quite a bit longer.”

  He seemed to consider this. Then he looked out the window at the setting sun. “Well, another day won’t hurt. This evening is for you. You can finish the copying tomorrow.”

  I thought I would melt I was so relieved. “That’s very kind of you, master.”

  “No,” he said. “It’s tradition.” He reached into the folds of his toga and withdrew a few coins. “Take these, Timon. Enjoy yourself.”

  I walked across the room. He held the coins out in his palm. Two coppers and—I couldn’t believe it—a silver Egyptian stater, with the image of Ptolemy stamped on one side. He dropped the coins into my hand.

  “Thank you,” I said bowing my head. Then, as quickly as I could, I cleared my desk and bounded out of the workshop, down the tower stairs—there was no sentry at the door—and out into the yard. Free at last!

  It was a warm, still summer evening. The sun had just set and the sky shone steel blue in the east. The garrison soldiers were already off duty, partaking freely of the wine supplied by Epicydes. The drawbridge guards remained at their stations, but they too had wine. I strode through the gates with just a nod. They raised their cups as I passed. I could feel it. The party was underway.

  Achradina was similarly open. Two guards sat at the gate with a cask of wine and filled the cups of those that came and went. These guards, however, weren’t drinking and had opened only one of the gates.

  Dusk settled over the city as I ran up Via Intermuralis, dodging through swarms of people to its northernmost end, knowing I was late.

  Epicydes knew the mental state of the populace. He had contributed one thousand casks of wine to ensure the gaiety of the festival. And once the mood took over, everyone’s secreted-away reserves came out. Drunkenness was everywhere in the streets. People leaned out of windows and shouted. A naked man ran down the street trailed by five barking dogs. Another teetered out of an alley, so drunk he wove from one side of the street to the other. Finally he fell to his knees and vomited. Every shop, every house was alive with party and drink. Women shrieked with delight. Men shouted obscenities. I saw things in the alleys among adults I had never seen before. Wickedness and debauchery descended on Syracuse like a blight of the mind and body.

  The streets weren’t as crowded at the north end of Via Intermuralis. It was dark by the time I caught sight of Moira. She was alone, pacing back and forth.

  “Timon, you’re here!” she shouted when she saw me.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I apologized, trying to catch my breath.

  For a moment we just stood there, looking at each other. Then Moira asked, “Would you dare go into the tunnels again?”

  “At night?” Hektor’s words anything goes ran through my mind. “Wouldn’t we need a torch or an oil lamp?”

  “I have a better idea.” Moira grinned and held out a ball of yarn.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You’ll see.” She led me over to the little alcove in the wall. We got down on our knees, lifted the paving stone, and laid it to one side. Moira climbed into the hole.

  “But we don’t have any light.”

  “Do you know the story of Adriadne’s thread and the Minotaur’s labyrinth?”

  “Not really,” I answered, but she was already gone.

  I climbed in after her. She was waiting for me at the bottom of the ladder, no more than a silhouette in a sea of black. “Now what?” I asked.

  “I’ll tie the end of this yarn
to the ladder. Then we’ll go as far into the tunnel as this ball of yarn will let us, knowing we can follow the string back any time we want.”

  “No tricks like before. No disappearing.”

  “No tricks, I promise.” She tied the yarn to the ladder and took my hand. Slowly we edged out into the darkness, Moira unraveling the yarn as we went.

  I was surprised how long the ball of yarn was. I kept expecting Moira to say it had run out, but we continued deeper into the dark. We got in far enough to see the first grate as a gray square above us. A moment later Moira stopped. “That’s the end of the yarn.”

  “So now we go back?”

  “No, silly. Hold the end of the string for me.” She handed it to me and let go of my hand.

  “What are you doing? Don’t go anywhere.”

  “I won’t. You’ve got the string. You’re safe.” She stood right next to me. I heard a rustling. “Take this,” she said, handing me a soft bundle of cloth in the darkness.

  “What’s this?”

  “My chiton,” she whispered.

  “Oh—”

  “Now it’s your turn. Hand me the string.”

  “My turn?”

  “To remove your tunic.” She used her fingers to dig the string from my hand.

  “Uh—you won’t run off?”

  “No, how could I? You’re holding my chiton.”

  I let go of the yarn and was lifting my tunic over my head when the sound of voices came from the south end of the tunnel. Far away we could see the dim light of moving torches—two, three, four of them—coming our way. We were so surprised we just stood there watching until I recognized one of the voices. Corax! His gang was having their own fun exploring the underground on this night when anything goes.

  “Moira, put your chiton back on.” I handed it to her. “I know those boys. We don’t want them to see us.”

  She quickly pulled the chiton over her head.

  I took her hand. She was shaking. “Are you all right?”

  “Those boys scare me.”

  I thought of the time I saw Corax beaten by his father. “Me too. Let’s get going.”

  We quickly began winding the yarn back into a ball. But the boys with torches were coming faster than we could go in the dark. As brave as she usually was, Moira was clearly afraid of Corax’s gang and she tugged too hard on the yarn, trying to go faster. The string snapped. Suddenly we were standing in the dark with no line to follow.

  “What now?” she whispered.

  “Just keep going in the direction we’re headed,” I said, pulling her along.

  But the torchlight was catching up with us. One of the boys yelled, “I see shadows moving up ahead!”

  Corax called out. “Hey! Who’s up there?”

  “It’s a girl!” shouted one of the other boys. They started running after us.

  The closer they got, the better we could see and the faster we could go. But we couldn’t outrun the light for fear of tripping.

  “I see the ladder,” said Moira.

  “So do I. Go for it.” I let go of her hand and we both sprinted for the ladder. I let Moira go up first. The gang was so close they could see me.

  I heard Corax yell, “Hey, that’s the kid who kicked me in the jaw. I owe him one.”

  I practically leapt up the ladder. Moira and I pushed the stone back in place and took off at a run down Via Intermuralis. I glanced over my shoulder. Corax stood at the end of the street, waiting for the others, but we were too far ahead and were soon deep into the safety of the crowded street.

  When we got off the plateau we slowed to a walk, out of breath and breathing hard.

  “That was close,” I said, pushing my hair out of my face.

  “Too close.” She squeezed my hand. “Those boys are mean.”

  “Don’t I know it. I’m thirsty. What about you?”

  Moira’s face lit up. “Let’s find some wine.”

  “It’s everywhere on the street. I passed a tavern on my way to meet you. They were giving it away.”

  The tavern wasn’t far off. Moira waited on the street while I went in.

  I had never been in a tavern before. It was full of older men, drunk and talking loudly. I pushed up to the counter where the barkeep was handing out one cup of wine after another. I took one quickly for myself, then reached for a second for Moira. The barkeep grabbed my wrist. “Gotta pay when you take two at a time,” he growled.

  I had seen others taking three at a time and not paying. But I didn’t want to argue. I reached into my tunic and withdrew my three coins. I opened my palm to pick out a copper. The barkeep snatched the stater. “This will do just fine,” he said and turned away.

  I called after him. He didn’t even look back. I knew I’d been had.

  I went out to the street fuming. Two fat, drunk men had pinned Moira against the building. They were laughing and poking at her. The night was becoming one bad encounter after another.

  I put down the wine, picked a good-size stone from the street, and threw it at the men. It hit one of them solidly on the shoulder. Both of them turned to see where it had come from. Moira broke away. Even with me carrying the cups of wine, we easily outran them. South two blocks, right into an alley, behind a building, then out on the street again. We lost them and about half the wine. We fell together laughing, excited at yet another narrow escape.

  We lifted our cups in celebration of the night, touched them in a toast, and took long swallows.

  We continued south on Via Intermuralis, sipping wine and dodging drunks, excited to be together with a full evening ahead of us.

  “Let’s go into Achradina,” said Moira. “I know the rest of the city inside out, but I know little of Achradina.”

  “I know it well. And there are casks of wine at the gate. The guards will fill our cups as we enter.” I laughed at the thought of it and so did she.

  We walked hand in hand to the Achradina gate. The guards greeted us with wine. We strolled into the wealthiest district in the city as though we were king and queen. We continued south to the agora. Revelers filled the forum. Five men stood at the Altar of Concord, shouting at the boisterous crowd, talking nonsense and philosophy all spun together with wine.

  Moira and I sat at the base of the colonnade sipping our wine, watching as if it were the theater.

  “Do you think we could get up on of the battlements?” Moira asked. “I’ve never done that. I want to look out at the sea and the stars.”

  “I’ve been there. I know the way.” I took her hand and led her to the tower at the northeast corner of Achradina. There was usually a guard at the tower entry, but not that night. We climbed four flights of stairs and peered out at the battlement walkway. We didn’t see anyone. We leaned out a little further, looking left and right. There was no one else as far as we could see.

  We crossed the walkway to the stone ramparts and gazed out through a crenellation in the battlement. There was no wind at all. The sea was hauntingly still and glassy, reflecting a sky full of twinkling stars and a smiling crescent moon.

  We walked south along the battlements toward Ortygia. I pointed out the silhouette of the tower in the distance. Just about the time we were beginning to think we could walk all the way around the city on top of the wall we saw two guards ahead. We ducked into the shadows and listened to them. They were talking about their wives and sounded drunk. We crept back the way we had come.

  Side by side we stared out over the Trogyli Harbor. I couldn’t help looking at Moira’s face. Her skin glowed in the moonlight. I wanted to kiss her cheek. Before she had always kissed me.

  We stood there quietly, not quite touching shoulders, while I summoned the courage to kiss her. Moira took my hand and turned to me. “You saved me from those awful men, Timon, and those boys. Thank you.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the lips.

  I bowed my head in humility.

  “Timon,” she said softly.

  I looked up into her eyes.

  �
��When I removed my chiton in the tunnel, I wanted to let you do what you asked about before.”

  “What I asked about before?”

  She smiled at my innocence, then let go of my hand. She stood back from the battlements and slipped her chiton off her shoulders. Even in the dim moon shadows, her nipples stood out dark and erect. My heart was pounding. I reached out with one hand and touched her as in a dream.

  She took my hand from her breast and drew it down to her hip. I leaned into her. We kissed fully for the first time. Her tongue slipped in and out of my mouth. I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close, feeling her skin against mine.

  “Timon,” she whispered. “You have touched me. I want to touch you.”

  I stood back as she lifted her chiton back onto her shoulders, then with both hands she lifted my tunic up above my waist. She took hold of me with one hand, gently at first, then pumping with purpose. It happened quickly.

  She used my tunic to wipe her hand. She did it so casually it was unsettling. “Older men are not so easy,” she said, seeing me watching her.

  I saw someone much older in her face. I straightened my tunic, remembering what I had seen through the two lenses.

  Even in the dim light she could see the change in my expression. “I told you of my life before,” she said. “I did things I’m not proud of.” There was no give in her voice. It was a fact of her life. She nodded sadly. “I know it spoils me in some ways, but don’t hate me. You were the first one I wanted to touch.”

  I did hate her. And yet I didn’t. My experience as a slave had been free of physical abuse, but I knew such things happened. I thought of Eurydice. I thought of awful Hieronymus. I thought of the willful actions of Hektor. Moira could not be blamed. “I don’t hate you,” I said. “I hate the war.” I looked out at the gently heaving sea. I felt that same heaving in my heart.

  Moira touched me on the cheek so that I looked into her eyes. “If you let me, you will be pleased by the things I know how to do.”

  PART V

  THE DEATH OF ARCHIMEDES