The day following the troops’ departure, I went to Orestes’ woodshop to see what I could find out about Lavinia. When I reached the shop, it was empty. The tools had been taken and all that remained was scattered on the floor. Clearly no one had come back to clean it up. I could only hope that Lavinia and Orestes had somehow survived and fled the city.
From there I decided to go to the island. I hadn’t been to Ortygia since the day of Archimedes’ death. I passed through what remained of Achradina. The market was gone, and soldiers were dismantling the agora colonnade to be shipped to Rome.
When I reached Ortygia, the gate was open. Cart after cart, laden with spoils, crossed the drawbridge. I headed to the tower. Roman military cooks were at work in the kitchen. There was no sentry at the door to the tower, so I went in. All of the rooms had been ransacked except the pantry, which had been restocked. Archimedes’ workshop was much as I had left it. The wall drapes lay in heaps on the floor. The screw to Archimedes’ water pump was out of its box and sat in the center of the room. His favorite compass was beside it. I put the compass in my pocket.
Picking through the debris, I discovered the canvas screen, my first real project for Archimedes. It had been kicked through. I also found Archimedes’ pan pipe. I blew across each of the five pipes, then put it in my pocket with the compass. The box of glass beads was in the corner on the floor. Someone had stepped on it, scattering the beads around the room like loose beans. One other bead, the best one, and the crystal lens were in a leather pouch, hanging on a thong around my neck.
The scene was so awful that I felt physically weak. I righted my copying desk and its chair and sat down. The trauma of my time in Syracuse came pressing down on me—the mass murder in the streets, the destruction of the city, the displaced people, the loss of my friends, the overwhelming horror of the war. I could not have felt worse.
I put my head down on the desk on the verge of tears—when I felt something soft glide up against my right calf. Plato looked up at me from the floor with his wide, yellow eyes. His ears stood out flat to the sides making him look like an owl. It was as though a ray of sunlight had broken through my darkness. I touched him gently on the head. He hopped up into my lap and settled down. I remembered it had taken an entire year for him to grant me this honor. I stroked him from head to tail. He purred and looked up at me with all the wisdom of a cat. Although his home has been ravaged, he had survived and so had I.
I headed down the tower staircase with Plato trailing after me. I hoped he would follow me back to the barracks, but when we went outside, he darted behind the tower and was gone. I didn’t need to worry about Plato. I knew he would be all right on his own.
I headed south from the tower to the tenement apartments where Agathe had lived. On the way, I passed the Temple of Apollo. Once the loveliest building in the city, it was now being taken apart stone by stone and loaded into carts. Half of it was already gone. I walked past the Temple of Athene, which was also being dismantled. The whole island seemed like a construction zone—or more accurately, a deconstruction zone.
The south end of Ortygia seemed largely unaffected by the two years of siege. The tenement housing and apartments were mostly undisturbed. People were going about their daily lives when I reached Agathe’s building. I saw three women hanging out their wash. One was Agathe. I greeted this woman I considered an old hag so joyously I nearly hugged her.
“And what kept you from being killed?” she asked in her wonderful way. No smile, no excitement at all. Gelo sat behind her, playing in the dirt.
“Good fortune,” I said, unable to keep myself from grinning. “I’m glad to see we’ve still got the little king.”
Gelo looked up and smiled at me. Agathe put a finger to her lips. But it was all right. The other two women would never have understood my allusion to the king.
“What about Eurydice?” I asked hesitantly, remembering all too clearly how I had last seen her.
On cue she came out of the building. She crossed the yard and picked up Gelo. She looked right at me, made no acknowledgment, and walked away with her son.
I looked to Agathe.
“She isn’t quite the same,” she said bitterly. “Too many soldiers found her appealing.”
“What about Lavinia?”
“She hasn’t bothered to get in touch.” Her tone was the same old Agathe.
I told her I had been to Orestes’ shop. She pretended not to care.
“Are you all right?” I asked, genuinely concerned.
“You fool,” she snapped. “How could anyone be all right after what’s happened?”
Agathe would never change, and like Plato she would be all right.
That night Marcus invited me to his quarters for dinner. It was a modest meal of roast quail and lentil soup, with only one cup of wine. It was the second time we had shared each other’s company outside our military duties. We were quite different, but would become like brothers. During this second meal together, however, it took some time for our conversation to become familiar.
“What are the plans for our cohort?” I asked toward the end of the meal. “How long will we remain in Syracuse?”
“When my father returns, assuming he is successful, our time here will be coming to an end. Crispinus will stay to command the garrison. The rest of us are going back to Rome, hopefully by the end of the summer.”
I immediately thought of my mother. My heart began to race. “What will we do in Rome?”
“We’ll return to our homes, and wait for orders.”
“What will happen to me?”
Marcus smiled. “Don’t worry, Timon. Between my father and me, you’re in good hands. More importantly, my father has earned himself a triumph. We will march into Rome in the only way it should be done—with the treasures of conquest and the glory of victory.”
“Will I be in the procession?”
“Of course you’ll be in it, but not as plunder.” He laughed, then became serious. “The siege has changed us all, but no one more than my father. I saw it in his eyes after our first encounter with the old man’s catapults. And again after witnessing Archimedes’ claw. When my father saw the mirrors, the change in him became profound. He knew that war was changing.
“Throughout his life he had believed that a trained soldier with a gladius and a buckler was the most dangerous weapon on Earth. ‘War will soon be in the hands of engineers,’ he said to me the night I met you. ‘Men with sharp brains, not sharp swords, will dictate the future of warfare.’ ”
Marcus paused to choose his words. “My father is not a man of religion—or superstition, Timon. Perhaps you have seen that already.”
I recalled the encounter with the haruspex in the tower and nodded.
“He told me of a dream he had. He’s more likely to deny he dreams than speak of them, but this one haunted him. He spoke of it several times over the last few months, probably only to me.
“In the dream he was on the bridge of a warship. The battlements of Syracuse were on the horizon before him. He saw long, silver projectiles propelled by fire arc across the sky. Scores of them. Wherever they landed, they exploded with more fire and destruction than seemed possible. He believed he’d seen a vision of the future. When machines, not men, do the fighting and all the world is collateral damage.” Marcus tilted his head, as if remembering the mood of his father. “It was not a dream he liked.”
“Archimedes was of the same mind,” I said. “In the end, he risked his life to resist making more machines of war.”
“Good or bad, Timon, it doesn’t matter any longer. The secret is out. From now on, machines will be more and more a part of war. That’s one reason I want you to teach me geometry and the numbers. I belong to the next generation of war, and it will be more than just weapons. It will be multiple layers of strategy—and sleight of hand. We have already seen it in Hannibal. His psychological games. His craft, his guile. Just think what he might have accomplished if Archimedes’ weapons had f
allen into his hands?’”
“He would have taken Rome long ago.”
Marcus nodded. “It has taken Rome all of these years to learn that we cannot defeat Hannibal with brute force alone. Our only chance is to adapt to his way of fighting—and thinking.”
“Do you want to confront Hannibal?” I asked.
He lowered his eyes. The question obviously disturbed him. “It will happen whether I want it or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tracking down Hannibal will be one of the first issues my father addresses when he returns to Rome. No one seeks battle with Hannibal more than my father.”
CHAPTER 99
Conditions in Syracuse finally stabilized enough to lift the restrictions on Roman soldiers leaving the city. I immediately set out on the long walk into the farmland where Moira had said her grandfather’s farm was located. I followed the route Moira and I had taken to the Temple of Zeus. My stomach sank when I crossed the Anapus River. The statue of Zeus had been removed from the temple. Soldiers were there building scaffolding for more deconstruction. A string of carts carrying column rounds trailed to the harbor’s edge, where fifty Roman transports sat at anchor waiting to be filled with plunder. Magnificent Syracuse was being carted away stone by stone.
I continued south around the bend in the harbor, through the fields where soldiers from both sides had fought and died. Here and there ravens picked at the ground, looking for bits of bone. I saw three crews of farmers repairing thatched roofs and rebuilding fences. The land had been untended for almost two years. The seasons were turning, and people were eager to get back to work.
I spoke with everyone I encountered. No one had seen Moira or her grandfather. They said that many of the farmers had not returned. Downcast, I trudged back to the city. It seemed that yet another chapter in my life had closed.
I entered the city the way I had left, at the south end of Via Intermuralis. I had the afternoon off and wasn’t in a hurry, so I worked my way west to the wide stone staircase that climbed from Neapolis up to the plateau. I took each step up watching my feet.
Halfway to the top, I paused to look back on Neapolis, recalling the day three years before when Laius Aufidius had led me down those stairs for the first time. The city and I had changed a lot since then. As I turned to continue up, I saw her! Moira stood on the far side of the stairway, wearing a pale yellow chiton. I called out to her, but she didn’t seem to hear. I crossed the stairway, calling her name. Only when I was a few feet away did she look at me.
“Moira! I can’t believe I’ve found you.”
“Timon, what a surprise.” She smiled, but there was no surprise in her eyes.
“What about your grandfather? You aren’t back at your farm. I was just there.”
“My grandfather had the plague. So did I.” Seven months had passed since I had last seen her. She seemed more subdued and older. “My grandfather never fully recovered. We live in a rooming house in the Tyche tenements.”
“But you’re alive and well.”
“Apparently both of us have survived.”
“I’m no longer a slave!” I blurted it out.
She almost smiled. “Congratulations. How did that happen?”
“My master was murdered right in front of me by a Roman soldier.”
“And they let you go free?”
“I was given a position with the Roman army. I’m a scribe. I get regular pay.” I thought this would impress her, but the news caused her to step back.
“You’re in the Roman army?”
“Yes—and free!”
“Free? You’re a slave to Rome.”
“But your grandfather will let me see you now. We won’t have to sneak around to see each other.” I reached for her hand.
She leaned away. “He’s too weak to care about such things, Timon.”
“What is it, Moira? What’s the matter?”
“I have no love for Rome.” She looked away, then asked, “When will you be leaving?”
“I’m not certain.” I looked at the ground. “In a few months, I suppose. I’ll be going to Rome. It’s a chance to find my mother.”
“Lucky you.”
I didn’t understand her sarcastic tone. “What’s next for you?”
“Waiting for my grandfather to die.”
Her coldness chilled me.
She looked off into the distance. “Who knows what’s next for me?”
I took hold of her hand and led her down the stairs into Neapolis.
For some time we walked without saying anything. I was so torn I didn’t know what to say. I did want to go to Rome. I had to find my mother. But my heart raced every time I looked at Moira, watched the way her chiton moved around her body, caught wisps of her smell in the air. I wanted to hold her.
We walked for a while in Neapolis, then came to a stop for lack of direction. I couldn’t help myself. I embraced her and kissed her on the mouth. My hands went down along her hips and thighs. She stopped me.
“Maybe we should go to the garden,” she said.
We went to the cluster of laurel bushes and crawled into the little chamber beneath the arching branches. We lay beside each other for a long time. It seemed as though the rest of the world had been left outside. Little by little we snuggled closer. She allowed me to kiss her and touch her face, but nothing more. I didn’t care. I was excited just to be near her.
“I missed you,” I whispered. “I will never forget our one night together.”
“But you’re leaving,” she said.
“I have no other choice.”
“Nor do I have choices.”
After a while we crawled out of the thicket and walked back across the city. When we reached the barracks, we stopped. I asked her if I could see her again.
She was noncommittal. “When will you be leaving?” she asked for a second time. I had already told her I wasn’t sure. Clearly she was trying to tell me something.
CHAPTER 100
What had appeared to be a serious Carthaginian threat coming out of Agrigentum never materialized. Muttines had some early successes, but this inspired jealousy in the two Carthaginian generals, Epicydes and Hanno. Dissent within the cavalry and conflict at the command level left their army so disorganized when they confronted Marcellus that the battle turned into a rout. Marcellus pressed the Carthaginian forces back to Agrigentum, captured eight elephants, and killed thousands of mercenary soldiers. The uprising was over. Marcellus returned to Syracuse three months after he had left.
The job was finally done. Marcellus’ term in Sicily was coming to an end. The final packing of the spoils began and I became very busy with paperwork.
After the huge victory in Sicily, Marcellus wanted to create an impression with his triumphant return to Rome. He was a respected general among the soldiers, but not so much among the other ranking officers. The priesthood had grown to hate him for his disrespect of their rituals, and he had recently been rebuked by the Senate when he had attempted a reconciliation between Rome and a contingent of refugees from the battle of Cannae. Because of this last issue, he particularly looked forward to marching through the gates of Rome with the treasures of Syracuse.
After the humiliating defeat at Cannae, the Roman survivors had been cast out of Italy and sent to Sicily, ordered never to return. If they hadn’t given their lives in defeat, they obviously lacked courage and were not worthy of Roman citizenship—or such was the opinion of those who had not actually been on the battlefield. When Marcellus was camped north of Syracuse, a large group of these exiles had come to him and asked to be reinstated in the army. What better way to prove their courage than on the battlefield? Marcellus needed all the dedicated men he could muster, so he added them to his forces. After the siege, he sent a note to the Senate in Rome, commending the survivors’ valor and asking that they be recognized as Roman citizens. He was severely chastised for even considering such an idea. Now, about to return to Rome for the first time since thi
s dressing down, he was determined to put on a triumph grander than any seen before.
And more than anything else, Marcellus wanted to show off the Greek artwork. After Archimedes, he considered the sculptures the greatest treasures of Syracuse. Parading this statuary, one piece at a time, through the gates of Rome would be a profound moment in the history of the city and a proud moment for his men and his command.
The Eighteenth legion, including my cohort, was returning to Rome with Marcellus. There were still remnants of the Carthaginian presence in Sicily, and enough rancor against Rome among the native Sicilians, that it was decided that two legions should remain in Syracuse under the command of Crispinus.
I received my orders four days before we were to leave. I was excited to take the cruise—my trip in the hold of a slave ship hadn’t offered much view of the sea. The more I thought about going to Rome, the more excited I became about the prospect of finding my mother. But it also meant leaving Syracuse, and if Marcellus got the command he wanted, hunting down Hannibal, I might never be back.
I needed to see Moira before I left. It had been several months since I had run into her on the stairway. I still ached for her, but she had been distant and disdainful of my position in the army. And yet, hadn’t she spent time with me in her secret place? To do that again, if even for a short time, was all that I wanted. I had to see her. I wanted to tell her one last time how much she meant to me.
I set out to find her on my last full day in Syracuse. She’d said she lived with her grandfather in the Tyche district tenements. Even before the Roman siege, it had been one of the poorest neighborhoods in the city.
The area contained many rows of low-rent apartment houses. Most of them had been damaged by the catapults. I had no street name, no number to guide me. I walked down the desolated streets for so long I lost track of where I had been.
The Siege of Syracuse Page 39