The Siege of Syracuse

by Dan Armstrong

  “No, I’m done with writing. I can do everything I need to in my head. Take them. They could save your life.”

  I took the lenses and gripped them tightly in my right hand. “What if they won’t take me to their general?”

  “Then show the soldiers. Do what you must.”

  I nodded, took two steps toward the south wall, then stopped. “Are you certain, master? Is my life really worth these precious secrets? Didn’t you tell me never to speak of them?”

  Archimedes smiled. “Timon, it might be a mistake to give away the secret of those lenses, and, yes, this knowledge could be misused. But even with the lenses in their hands, it will take the slow Romans a thousand years to decipher the geometry behind them. Surely in that time, man will have deciphered this knowledge anyway.” He touched me on the cheek with his hand, a gesture of kindness he had never shown before. “Now go hide. I will busy myself with some geometric puzzle and hope to divert them from you.” With these final words, Archimedes returned to his desk, and I slipped behind the drapes into the alcove.

  A moment later I heard the soldiers’ footsteps on the last flight of stairs, then the clank of armor on the landing. The door latch rattled. The door creaked as it swung open. Through a break in the curtains I saw two soldiers come into the room. Though their backs were to me, I recognized them as two of the three I had seen in the pantry. One approached Archimedes. The other peered around the room looking at all the strange machines.

  Archimedes focused on his work as though they weren’t there. The soldier closest to him called out loudly. “Be thou Archimedes?” He held a blood-stained gladius at his side.

  Archimedes made no response as he used a small wooden compass to turn a circle in the sand.

  “Be thou Archimedes?” demanded the soldier moving up closer to the desk. “Answer me!”

  Archimedes made no acknowledgment. The soldier smacked the desktop with the flat of his sword to get the old man’s attention. “Are you Archimedes?”

  Archimedes lifted his head slowly. “I am,” he said soft and low, his mismatched eyes enough to unsettle anyone.

  The soldier turned to his companion. “Tell the general I’ve located Archimedes. I’ll get the old man moving.”

  The other soldier turned—looked directly at the break in the drapes where I hid—then hurried out of the room and down the stairs.

  The remaining soldier put his sword in its sheath and warily appraised Archimedes, who had returned to drawing in the sand. The soldier moved up closer, leaning over the desk to see what the scientist was doing. Archimedes drew another circle with the compass. “Stop, old man,” commanded the soldier. “It’s time to go.”

  “I’ll just finish these circles,” Archimedes replied. He moved the compass to a third location in the abacus.

  “Stop now, I said!”

  Archimedes turned the compass through a half circle.

  “Stop!” demanded the soldier again. I could hear the fear in his voice. He must have imagined Archimedes to be a sorcerer. “Not one more mark!”

  Archimedes stayed to his purpose, completing the third of three interlocking circles in the sand. The soldier slapped the compass from his hand, sending it skittering across the floor.

  Archimedes looked up in time to see the soldier draw his sword. He put up his hands but to no avail. The soldier plunged his gladius deep into the chest of the great geometer, then abruptly pulled the sword from Archimedes’ body and backed away—as if he’d stabbed a vicious animal and expected it to make some final reflexive attack before dying.

  Archimedes gasped. He put his hands over the pulsing wound at the center of his chest, sucked in one last breath, and fell sideways to the floor beside his desk.

  The soldier stepped backwards to the center of the chamber, staring at the dead mathematician as though he might magically arise. Gradually he edged up close to the body. He prodded it with his foot. Then he used the tip of his sword—once, twice, with force a third time.

  Convinced the one-eyed monster was dead, he sheathed his sword and stalked about the room, inspecting the various contrivances, taking care not to get too close for fear they might be booby-trapped or hexed. He came to a stop before the terrella. Beside it were Archimedes’ best compass and astrolabe. Both were made of polished bronze and finely engraved. He studied these items for some time before reaching out and giving the terrella a spin. He jumped back when all the other orbs began to move. Like a child, the brute soldier watched the terrella turn. When it stopped, he stepped up and set it spinning again.

  I watched all of this from within the cramped cubby hole, clutching the lenses in my sweaty palm, trembling with fear, and fighting back tears for the loss of my master.

  The soldier gave the terrella one last spin, then continued around the chamber. The mechanical devices were interesting, but the soldier seemed intent on finding some more acceptable form of plunder before anyone else arrived.

  Having inspected all the open surfaces, the soldier approached the drapes hanging on the wall opposite where I hid. He pushed them aside and looked behind. He saw nothing of value. He moved down the wall a few feet and did this again, uncovering the shelves where Archimedes stored his blank scrolls. The soldier swept his hand through the scrolls, knocking them to the floor. Nothing there was worth taking. He moved on.

  It was clear now that he was going to go all the way around the room like this, lifting the drapes and looking behind. Eventually he would find me. I watched him work his way across the north wall. He found nothing but ordinary stores—the dry goods I had bought in preparation for the siege and odd bits of brass and wood. Twice he looked over his shoulder at Archimedes’ corpse as though fearing the mathematician might come back to life. Then he proceeded to the west wall to continue his search.

  I had to act quickly. I slipped from the cutout, pressed my back against the wall, and began to slide along behind the drapes toward the east corner—in the opposite direction the soldier was circuiting the room. I hoped to stay one wall ahead of his search so that his back was always to me.

  Because I was moving behind the drapes, I had to judge the soldier’s movements by the sound of his sandals scraping on the floor and his rough handling of the drapes and things behind. I held my breath and scooted sideways toward the east wall. When I reached the corner, I realized I would soon come to a window and a wide opening in the drapes. Somehow I would have to cross that opening without being seen.

  Trying to hurry, I inadvertently scraped my sandal over a pebble on the floor, causing a slight scratching sound. The room suddenly became completely quiet. The soldier had stilled himself to listen. I didn’t dare breathe. I heard him draw his sword.

  “Is someone here?” he called out from across the room. “Who’s here?”

  There was a moment of silence, then a dull clank, followed by a ripping sound. Then again. He was using his sword to cut through the curtains in case someone—like me!—might be hiding behind them. I could hear it plainly. He would probe with the tip of the sword then rip downward through the drapes. He was coming in my direction. I was too afraid to move.

  With each poke and rip, it seemed my heart would stop, then start again. On the next probe, not ten feet from where I hid, there was a yowl. Plato! I heard the cat leap to the floor, then scurry out of the room. “Just a damn cat.” The soldier laughed out loud.

  I took a breath. Plato had saved me!

  But the soldier was still only a few feet away. Suddenly he cursed. His gladius clattered to the floor not far from my feet, with the handle just under the edge of the drape. I moved the two lenses into my left hand, thinking I might be able to grab the sword with my right. But before I could reach down, the soldier took the drapes in both hands and yanked. Ten feet of curtain tore from the wall. There I was as plain as day. The soldier’s sword lay on the floor halfway between him and me.

  The soldier’s momentary surprise gave me enough time to drop to one knee and snag the sword. But even as m
y fingers wrapped around the handle, his foot was on my back pinning me to the floor. With a leering grin, he easily pried the sword from my hand and stood back.

  “Stand, slave,” he commanded. “Let me see you,” he said with an ugly excitement, fully aware that I was fair game.

  I stood slowly. The soldier appraised me. I knew the Roman taste in plunder. Once they had smelled blood, their lust was for domination of any kind.

  He put his hand on my head and pressed me down to my knees. He put the gladius in its sheath, then used two hands to unlace the loin piece beneath his leather kilt. In full armor, he exposed his penis. It was as thick as my forearm. Looking down at me, he said, “Make it hard with your mouth.”

  The man’s groin reeked of ripe body stench. What choice did I have? I glanced at the tower’s east window just a few feet away.

  “Do this part well and save your backend,” the soldier jeered.

  An image of the Latin boy diving from the slave ship into the sea flashed across my memory. Should this window serve as my sea? Then I remembered Moira saying she had learned to overcome the revulsion of these acts in order to live another day.

  He gripped my shoulders and pushed his groin into my face. “Take it in your mouth,” he bellowed.

  When I hesitated, he pounded the top of my head with his right fist. Both lenses fell from my hand. The little bead landed beside my right knee, but the crystal hit the floor with a clear ring. The soldier pulled back at the sound. We both watched the crystal roll on its edge, out across the floor, cutting three wide spiraling circles, one within the other—like water down a drain—until the lens fell flat, clattering onto the floor.

  The soldier let go of me. He took a step toward the lens. As he stared down at the clear crystal, I grabbed the glass bead and slipped it into the pocket of my tunic.

  The soldier picked up the crystal and studied the perfectly polished biconvex disk. “Well, I wonder what precious stone this might be?” he muttered. “Did you steal it from your master?”

  I was too frightened to say anything.

  “What is this, boy?” he shouted, coming up close to me and sticking the disk in my face.

  There had been a lot of noise outside in the yard, and we had both been so caught up in the moment that neither of us heard the step-by-step clump of men coming up the stairs.

  “Tell me!” demanded the soldier, reaching back to strike me.

  Just then four men reached the landing, stopping the soldier cold. A powerfully built middle-aged man in polished bronze armor and the purple cape of a Roman general strode into the room. Two centurions were behind him. The soldier who had gone to get the general remained on the landing.

  The soldier before me was still exposed. He hastily girdled himself and came to attention. “Marcellus, sir.”

  Marcellus appraised the corpse. Then he scanned the chamber—the mathematical instruments, the machine parts, the terrella, and me on my knees. His attention returned to the body lying on the floor, a growing pool of blood beside it.

  Marcellus walked up to the corpse, one eye wide open, the other white. He knelt beside the body and looked into the frozen face of the mathematician. The general shook his head in grief and disgust, then closed Archimedes’ eyes with two fingers. He knelt there unmoving and silent, long enough to say a prayer.

  Marcellus stood and addressed the soldier standing at attention. “How is it that this man is dead?”

  “He was dead when I entered, sir. The slave was sacking the place. I found this large gem in the boy’s hand. I think he killed his master for it.” He handed Marcellus the polished disk.

  Marcellus took the lens and turned it over in his hand. Then he called for the soldier on the landing to come into the room.

  “Didn’t you tell me that Archimedes was alive when you were here?”

  There was a long pause, then a firm, “Yes, sir,” from the soldier.

  Marcellus glared at the foot soldier.

  “Sir, he was casting some kind of spell. He was drawing symbols in the sand. I had no choice.”

  I expected Marcellus to strike him. Instead he turned aside in disgust. “Take this man out of here.”

  The centurions marched the soldier out of the room. The other soldier followed them down the stairs, leaving me alone with the general and the corpse.

  Marcellus turned to me. His left hand hung by his side, holding the crystal lens. “What service did you provide for Archimedes?”

  “I was his eyes,” I said with a clarity that belied my state of mind. “He could barely see. I copied all that he wrote.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Timon Leonidas, master.”

  “I am not your master, Timon. I am Marcellus Claudius, commander of all the Roman forces in Sicily.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you Greek?”

  “With Etruscan blood. Yes, sir.”

  “Do you know the science that Archimedes practiced?”

  “Somewhat, yes.”

  “Do you know geometry?”

  “More than most.”

  Marcellus nodded. His eyes fastened again on the body of Archimedes. “I regret that such a great man has died today. And I fear that it is my own fault. I told my soldiers that he must be spared, but I should have taken greater care.” There was emotion in his voice, and sincerity. I had already begun to sense the character of this noble Roman general.

  “He was known as the most clever man in the world. I wanted the opportunity to talk to him,” he said wistfully.

  He knelt again beside Archimedes’ body and touched his brow. “What wonders must have been in this man’s head?” He said this to the air as much as to me. He reached out and lifted Archimedes’ limp hand. “What fabulous machines could he have yet built?” Marcellus looked up to the ceiling and closed his eyes. I saw a tear run down his cheek.

  After a moment, Marcellus stood up. He turned to me as though he had forgotten I was there. “What is this disk?” he asked, holding it out to me.

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I had already decided not to reveal the secret of the two lenses unless my life was on the line. “A burning glass, sir.”

  “Did you steal it?

  “No, sir. It was a gift to me from my master.”

  “How is it used?”

  “May I show you?”

  He handed me the disk. I went over to a patch of sunlight coming through the south window. A piece of wood was on the floor nearby. I knelt on the floor and pulled the piece of wood into the sunlight. Marcellus stood beside me. I caught the sunlight in the lens and brought it to focus on the piece of wood. It started to smoke, then flame. I did this again at another location on the piece of wood. I looked up at Marcellus who was clearly impressed. “It concentrates the sunlight into fire.”

  “Is it the same principle used to burn our ships?”

  “Yes, but that was with mirrors,” I replied, already feeling more comfortable with the man.

  I gave him back the lens. He looked at it a second time. “Could you build such mirrors?”

  I shook my head. “No.” I had some idea but not the capacity to engineer them. “I don’t know those secrets.”

  Marcellus nodded. “What else did this man teach you?”

  “That the Earth is round and it’s moving,” I answered, thinking I sounded like a fool.

  “It’s moving?” The Roman general’s brow furrowed.

  “It revolves around the Sun,” I added.

  “The Earth is moving around the Sun?” he said to himself. Caught by the thought, he wandered to the south window and looked into the sky. “But the Sun is the one that passes across the heavens.” He looked back at me. “You’re sure this is what Archimedes said?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s a model of it.” I pointed to the terrella. “Much that he said, sir, I couldn’t understand.”

  Marcellus looked over his shoulder to the corpse once again. It was clear he had really wanted to talk to Archimedes, and
for the moment, I was all that he had. Suddenly Marcellus’ face went cold. I followed his eyes to the doorway. A sallow man in a white hooded robe stood like the image of death in the entryway. Behind him was a young priest, also in a white robe, bearing a small flint knife on a white linen cloth.

  The priest strode across the chamber and stared down at the corpse. “I thought you ordered your men to take Archimedes alive.”

  Marcellus ignored the question. “I’m in no mood for words from the gods, augur.”

  Ignoring Marcellus, the haruspex reached out to touch the drapery that hung throughout the chamber. He held it between his fingers, feeling the softness, as though it were a garment he might buy. “This moment is full of meaning, General.” He noticed me kneeling on the floor and smiled. “Surely this slave has a liver to offer the gods.”

  Marcellus drew his gladius. “Maybe it should be my liver that we inspect?”

  The haruspex answered with more sarcasm. “What is it, Marcellus? Are you just too fond of this boy? Perhaps I should open the old mathematician? We might learn the entire future of the world with the organs of a man as special as Archimedes.” He raised his eyebrows.

  Marcellus came up close to the haruspex and pressed the gladius blade sideways against the priest’s chest. “Get out of here! We don’t need the gods’ measure of this moment. They’ve already spoken!”

  The haruspex spun away from the enraged general and skulked out the door. He took one step down the stairs, then turned back to Marcellus. “It’s a grave mistake, General, to insult the priesthood. Here you may get away with it, but wait until you return to Rome.” The man continued down the stairs with his companion trailing behind.

  Marcellus stared down at the workbench. Such was the heat in his eyes I expected the wood to burst into flame. After a long moment, he lifted his head and looked at the terrella. He crossed the room, and as everyone who saw it had, turned the largest globe with his hand. All the others orbs moved along their defined paths. He looked out the window at the sun, then back to the slowly turning terrella, then to me. “You’ll be coming with me.”