He hated killing. He had been horrified when he saw the two Roman maniples advancing on the city, because he had known at once what he was going to do to them. He thought now of the self-satisfied face of Appius Claudius, the Roman in command, and swallowed down a lump of raw hatred. It had been an act of crass stupidity to send out those four hundred men. Claudius should have sent a few scouts under cover of darkness- or a couple of thousand men in close formation, with siege machines. But Romans didn't understand mechanics, and, being Romans, were reluctant to admit it. Claudius would probably blame his assault's failure on the men who had died in it. Not brave enough, not resolute enough, not sensible enough! Throw the survivors out of the camp and give them rations of barley instead of wheat! The general erred and the men suffered: that was the Roman way.
Claudius had probably ordered the assault at once because he was in a hurry for a victory. He was a consul, elected by the Roman people to supreme power- but only for one year, and that year was already more than half over. Hieron suspected that the decision to attack Syracuse rather than a Carthaginian city had been taken because Claudius had thought it would be quicker to take one city than to defeat a great African empire, and he wanted to return home triumphant. Appius Claudius, conqueror of Syracuse! He would be credited with a glorious victory, and have a parade given in his honor. There was no doubt a place reserved in that parade for Hieron, too: walking behind the triumphal chariot in chains.
It had been Appius Claudius and the rest of the Claudian family who had started the war in Sicily in the first place. Hieron had always made a habit of collecting gossip from Italy, and he knew that the Roman Senate had in fact opposed the Sicilian expedition. Rome had had a treaty of peace with Carthage, and the senators strongly disapproved of the Mamertini: a Roman garrison which had committed similar atrocities in Rhegium had been beaten to death by its outraged fellow countrymen. But a faction headed by the Claudii had favored the expansion of Roman power to the south and had played on Roman distrust of Carthage to persuade an assembly of the Roman people to countenance this act of brazen aggression.
"Greedy, ignorant, vainglorious fool!" Hieron said out loud- then set his teeth. It was no good hating Appius Claudius. He might yet have to humble himself before the man. Claudius must have seen now that Syracuse was not a city that could be crushed as an aperitif, before the main war began. He might now offer reasonable peace terms so as not to go home empty-handed. Hieron had to be prepared to accept any realistic offer, even if it allowed Claudius to claim a victory and get his parade. He was bound by the absolute and unalterable facts that Syracuse alone could not contend with Rome, and that she could not trust Carthage: he had to accept terms. It was no use hating. Even the gods were slaves to necessity.
Perhaps the Roman people would now regret their decision to go to war. Syracuse had humbled them once at Messana, and now had humbled them again. Those men camped out there would not forget seeing their comrades butchered before their eyes. It was too much to hope for that they would give up and go home- Rome had never abandoned a war after declaring it- but the next Roman commander might well be more flexible, even if Claudius proved stubborn.
Hieron thought again of the Romans dying under the catapult fire; remembered the two-talent stone smashing its bloody way through the rank. That must have frightened them, surely? It had frightened Hieron, and he was on the right side of it! Perhaps when the three-talenter was working he could arrange for some Romans to see it.
If he got that three-talenter in good time. The engineer had gone home looking green. Hieron could understand how he felt; he'd felt that way himself after killing his first man. It had taken him months to get over it- as much as he ever had: he still woke up sometimes at night remembering that mercenary's face and feeling the hot stickiness of blood on his hands. Any man could lose his nerve. The cavalryman who'd galloped downhill had never recovered it. Should he go after Archimedes and try to talk him through the crisis? No. If the man were pressed to create more engines of death, the revulsion he must feel against those engines now would spill over onto the king as well. Better to leave him alone. Archimedes understood the importance of his work: his answer to the money had proved that. He would work himself around to the task if he could.
Hieron sighed. There were plenty of tasks awaiting him, too, down those stairs. But he sat for a while longer, alone at the top of the tower, looking out over his shining city.
10
Archimedes had walked most of the way back to the Achradina before he even noticed that he'd left the Hexapylon. Then he stopped in the middle of the dusty road and looked up at the sky. Light. Because of what he had made, thirty or forty men who had seen the light that morning would never see it again. No- more than that. Thirty or forty were only what Good Health had killed; the Welcomer had accounted for some too. To say that they had been foreigners bent on conquest was surprisingly little comfort. They were dead, and he had shaped their death for them, devising it with great cunning from wood, stone, and the hair of women.
He had never believed that a man's head could be knocked off like that, and now something inside him had revolted. If he put the hand of his mind to catapults, it went numb and dead. Some part of him wanted nothing more to do with such things. Trying to force it there by loyalty and will was like trying to wrestle a donkey through a door. And yet the city still needed every defense he could contrive for her. Her enemies were camped before her gates, and if they got in everyone within her would suffer. What had happened that day would only make the rest of the Roman army angry.
He sat down in the dust of the roadside and covered his face. He thought of Apollo, who had "come like night" upon the Greeks at Troy, and caused the funeral pyres to burn night and day. There was nothing to be gained by praying to such a god, so he did not pray. He thought instead of cylinders. They began as cylinders of catapult strings, but altered suddenly into abstract cylinders, ideal in form. A section cut through a cylinder at a right angle to its axis was a circle. He imagined that circle, then rotated it to form a sphere which his imaginary cylinder precisely enclosed. Diameters, centers, and axes whirled through his mind, forming a pattern that was fascinating, complex, bewitchingly beautiful.
He realized with a shock that he had not thought about any problem in geometry since his father died. He had sworn to Phidias that he would never give up mathematics for catapults, and yet he had been devoting himself absolutely to the engines of death. He took his hands off his face and stared at the dust beside him. Nice, even dust. He felt about at the roadside, discovered a twig, and began to sketch.
Archimedes was not home by suppertime, so the women of the familywho disapproved of the hours he'd been working- sent Marcus to the Hexapylon with orders to fetch the master home whether the catapult was ready or not. Marcus set out in a hurry, hungry and impatient; he took a shortcut through the back streets and up the edge of the Epipolae plateau, missed his master, and arrived on the main road just as the Roman prisoners were marched past on their way into the city.
News of the assault had yet to penetrate the Achradina, and it was not at first clear to Marcus what this procession was. The people of the Tyche quarter, the poor inhabitants of the dirty shacks, had gathered along the road to watch, and Marcus made his way into the line to see what they were staring at. A double file of Syracusan soldiers, marching to the flute, enclosed an unsteady line of men in plain tunics who carried stretchers laden with wounded. Marcus surveyed them in surprise, then asked the man nearest him what was happening.
The man, an elderly goatherd, spat and replied, "Romans- and may the gods grant that we see the rest of them the same way!"
Marcus looked back at his countrymen in shocked silence. They had been disarmed, but they were not bound, and the injuries of the wounded had been tended; only the expression of bewildered shame on each face betrayed their status. The question "How?" formed in his throat, but he did not utter it, aware as never before of the accent that would mark him out.<
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The procession of stretchers passed, and was followed by a small group of walking wounded. Afterward it seemed utterly inevitable to Marcus that the third man among them should be his brother Gaius.
Gaius had his right arm in a sling, and his tunic, unpinned on the right shoulder, showed that his chest was bandaged as well. His face was white with pain, but he walked steadily- until his eyes, brushing blindly over the faces that watched him, snagged on Marcus'. Then he stumbled. The Syracusan soldier next to him caught his good arm to stop him falling, and Gaius gasped and stood still, sweating and shuddering with pain from some injury that had been jolted. His eyes, recovering before the rest of him, sought out Marcus again, in amazement and disbelief.
Marcus stared silently back. A part of him seemed to be standing somewhere beyond them both, observing the meeting; another part burned and froze with shame. Gaius had no doubt believed him dead. He should have been.
"Marcus?" whispered Gaius; Marcus could not hear his name, but recognized its shape on his brother's lips. He did not respond; instead he made himself glance over his shoulder as though to see who this stranger could be speaking to.
The Syracusan soldier beside Gaius asked him, in Greek, if he could walk. Gaius replied, "I not speak Greek," and began walking again. As he passed Marcus he glanced back, his expression stunned.
Marcus forced himself to watch the rest of the procession, though his legs were shaking. He was astonished that no one turned to him and asked, "Why was that man staring at you?" He realized later that that meeting of eyes, which for him had burned like the sun, must to others have appeared as nothing more than the blank stare of a wounded man encountering the curious gaze of an onlooker.
When the noise of flute and marching feet had faded away down the road, and the small crowd had dispersed, Marcus went on toward the Hexapylon, then stopped and sat down on a stone at the edge of the road. His mind was in such a chaos of shame and astonishment and excitement that it was several minutes before he was aware of any one thought or feeling. Gaius, alive and in Syracuse! Gaius had seen him, knew he was here. What was he to do?
"Marcus?" said a voice just beside him. He looked up with a guilty start and found the guardsman Straton standing over him. He stared stupidly: it was not anyone he'd expected.
"I thought it was you," said Straton. "What's the matter? You look ill."
Marcus forced himself to stand and struggled to collect his wits. "I ran too fast for the heat," he said. "I'll be fine in a minute. Are you coming from the Hexapylon?"
Straton nodded. "Taking a message back to the Ortygia," he explained. "Did your master leave something at the fort?"
"Isn't he there?" asked Marcus, surprised.
Straton was equally surprised. "He left hours ago! Isn't he home?"
When Marcus explained his own errand, the soldier blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. "I hope nothing's happened to him!" he exclaimed. "The king wouldn't trade him for a battalion, and rightly so. Those catapults of his are worth one. You heard the Romans assaulted the walls?"
"I saw the prisoners on the road," replied Marcus cautiously.
Straton grinned. "All that's left of two maniples," he said proudly. "The catapults did that. You should have seen the two-talenter!" He punched a palm with a fist. "Ten or more of them down with every stone! What a test-firing! The rest of them are camped out there, thinking about it. If they have any sense they'll leave Syracuse alone now."
"What will happen to the prisoners?" asked Marcus, still too shaken to wonder if such a blunt question was wise.
Straton, however, had forgotten all about Marcus's dubious nationality and was too preoccupied with triumph to be suspicious. "They'll be locked up in the Athenian quarry," he said. "The king gave orders that they're to be treated well; I'm sure he has plans for them. He wanted prisoners.- Do you suppose your master's all right?"
"He's probably stopped to draw circles," said Marcus. "He does that sometimes." He turned from the Hexapylon and began walking back along the road into the city.
Straton followed, spear slung across both shoulders. "Will he be able to make a three-talenter?"
"Yes."
"What about a four-talenter?"
"Probably."
"A five-talenter?"
Marcus glared. "You've heard him yourself! He can build them as big as wood and iron and strings will stand. That's probably a lot bigger than anybody wants. But iron will give out before Archimedes' ingenuity does."
Straton laughed. "I believe you! He earned me a month's pay when he moved that ship. I boast now about knowing him."
Marcus grunted. Archimedes' fame had been growing ever since the demonstration. All the shopkeepers and neighbors had become remarkably polite. Marcus didn't like it: they always asked about catapults. Marcus imagined a two-talent stone smashing into his brother's arm, and winced.
Straton kicked a loose stone in the road, then said, "There was a matter my captain asked me to sound you out about, if I could. Your master's sister: is she promised to anyone?"
Marcus' head lifted with a jerk and he stared at the soldier. Straton gave an embarrassed grin and hefted his shoulders. "See," he said, "the captain's not married. He noticed your young mistress, and thinks she's charming. He's a fine man, and the king thinks highly of him. It would be a good match."
"The house is in mourning," said Marcus.
"Well, yes," conceded Straton. "The captain really just wants to know if it's any good him talking to your master when the period of mourning is over."
Marcus imagined Philyra marrying Dionysios son of Chairephon. A good match. An officer with a responsible position and the king's favor, not too old, well liked by his subordinates… musical, too. He thought of Dionysios singing while Philyra's angular body folded about the lute- thought of her low voice that blended with the swift intricacies of the music, her hip outlined against the thin tunic, her hair, her smile, her bright eyes- gone? Out of the house, out of his life.
He had always known she would go one day. Stupid to have thought about her as he had; stupid to feel now this utter desolation. Stupid to worry about a future he might not live to see.
He realized on the last thought, with a chill of pure dread, that he did mean to do something about Gaius.
"She's not promised to anyone," he forced himself to admit- then, despite everything, found himself adding, "But in Alexandria Archimedes talked about marrying her to one of his friends. He wasn't head of the household then, and couldn't arrange it, but he may want to now. I don't know."
"A friend in Alexandria?" demanded Straton, startled.
Marcus nodded solemnly, disgusted but unable to stop himself. He was not exactly lying, but he wasn't telling the truth, either. "A Samian called Conon, a student at the Museum. He and Archimedes each thought the other the cleverest mathematician alive. Conon's of very good family, and rich, but he would have been happy to forgo a dowry in order to call Archimedes brother."
That was all true- but Conon's wealthy and distinguished father had been far less romantic. He had long before arranged for his son to marry a Samian girl of his own class as soon as she came of age. The talk of brotherhood had never been more than daydreams.
"Archimedes can't be planning to go back to Alexandria!" exclaimed Straton.
"He can go where he likes!" replied Marcus sharply.
"B-but- the war!" stammered Straton.
"It won't last forever."
Straton chewed his lip, and Marcus knew that he was thinking of catapults- of the biggest catapults in the world being built in Alexandria instead of in Syracuse. He realized suddenly that the king had thought of that from the first, and saw the purpose of those obscure manipulations.
"A loyal citizen…" began Straton, then stopped: he had just seen Archimedes.
They had followed the road down from the heights now and reached the edge of the Achradina. It was dusk, but there was still enough light to read by. Archimedes was sitting at the edge of a sma
ll public square, folded up like a grasshopper in the middle of a patch of dry ground, chewing the end of a stick and staring at the dust before him. His black mourning tunic was hitched up, exposing thin thighs, and he looked like a delinquent schoolboy.
An elderly woman who'd been drawing water at the fountain in the square noticed them staring and paused beside them. "He's been there for hours," she confided in an anxious whisper. "Drawing in the dust. We think he must be possessed by a god. I pray it's not a bad omen!"
"It's geometry," Marcus informed her. "It's true about the god." He walked over, stopped when he reached the diagrams scrawled across the ground, and called, "Archimedes!"
"Unnh?" replied his master absently.
"It's time to come home," said Marcus firmly. "Your mother and sister sent me to find you."
Archimedes raised one hand in a wait-a-minute gesture. "Jush let me work thish out," he said indistinctly around the stick.
Straton had followed the slave cautiously; now he gazed down at the thicket of endlessly repeated cylinders and spheres, letters and lines that were scraped into the dry ground. "What are you trying to do?" he asked wonderingly.
Archimedes took the stick out of his mouth, glanced up, then returned his eyes to the diagram before him as though this extraneous presence had not registered. "I'm trying to find the ratio between the volumes of a cylinder and an enclosed sphere," he said dreamily. "It isn't straightforward. If I could only…"
"Sir," said Marcus, "it's getting dark."
"Oh, leave me alone!" exclaimed Archimedes irritably. "I'm doing this!"
"You can do it at home."
Archimedes jumped suddenly and unexpectedly to his feet. "I told you to leave me alone!" he shouted, glaring into Marcus' surprised face. "If it were some god-hated machine I was working on, you would have obeyed me, wouldn't you? But this is only geometry, so you interrupt. Slaves can interrupt geometry, but kings keep quiet when it's catapults!" He lashed out furiously with the stick, and broke it with a crack against his slave's arm. "Catapults! They're lumps of god-hated wood and some strings. They're graceless and they kill people. This is wonderful and beautiful! You never understand thatany of you!" He turned the furious glare onto Straton as well. "Geometry is more perfect than anything ever seen with the eyes. That ratio was true before we were all born, will still be true when we're all dead, and would still be true if the earth had never been createdeven if no one ever discovers what it is. It matters- we're the ones who don't!"
The Sand-Reckoner Page 22
