The Siege of Syracuse

by Dan Armstrong

  I met this great man in his last days. The conditions could not have been worse. The ongoing conflict in Italy had generated tremendous tension in the region. It seemed only a matter of time before the war would come to Sicily. Rome’s losses on the battlefield had led many influential people in Syracuse to call for a review of foreign policy. Hiero was bitterly opposed to this, but he was also over ninety years old and his health was failing. Carthaginian agents were already primed for the turmoil that was sure to come with his death.

  Laius and I set out for the palace in the morning of my eighth day in Syracuse. Laius wore his best toga. I was given a new white tunic, trimmed with red on the sleeves and hem, and new sandals. I was excited to meet the king, not because he was such an important man, but for the prospect that he might change my status from slave to freedman. Where that would lead I wasn’t certain. Going back to a Carthaginian controlled Croton was out of the question. Combing the city for Adeon would be difficult with no home or income. I was young, naive, and angry. Mostly I didn’t want to be owned by someone or known as a slave.

  We walked east from Neapolis following the base of the plateau to Via Intermuralis, the main north-south street in Syracuse. Although Laius had told me to forget about finding Adeon, I looked into the face of everyone we passed on this busy thoroughfare, hoping to see her or the man who had bought her.

  A thirty-foot-tall stone wall ran along the east side of Via Intermuralis. Beyond the wall was the district of Achradina. The wall was a relic of a much earlier time when it had been the city’s westernmost perimeter. Now Achradina was where the royal family and other high ranking officials lived. Under Hiero’s rule, the gate was always open. The guards served primarily as receptionists. They recognized Laius and welcomed him in.

  We headed down Via Lata, the central artery in Achradina, to the agora, a wide piazza containing the city’s forum and a bustling market. A Doric portico and colonnade framed three sides of the plaza. At the north end, where we entered, an impassioned speaker addressed a small group of men from the base of the Altar of Concord, one of the Greek sculptures brought to the city by Hiero. We crossed the agora between two rows of vendors selling imported luxuries—rugs from Scythia, vases from Cyrene, embroidered cloth and woolens from Miletus. A wide checkerboard boulevard of black and white tiles took us from the agora to the palace, arguably the most impressive piece of architecture in Syracuse. This massive, brilliantly white, limestone building seemed to glow against the clear, blue Sicilian sky.

  We climbed the palace stairs and entered as though Laius lived there. Every attendant or administrator we saw greeted him with a smile and wished him well. A gray-bearded physician by the name of Philiadas met us beneath the vaulted roof of the great hall. He embraced Laius as an old friend, did not acknowledge my presence, and guided us up several flights of stairs to the king’s living quarters.

  The palace was perched on the cliffs that jutted up from Syracuse’s eastern shore. The king’s quarters faced the ocean. Sliding wooden panels on the east wall opened onto a spacious balcony, filling the vast chamber with sunlight and the smell of the sea. Intricate hand-painted landscapes decorated the walls. Persian carpets covered the floor in so many layers I couldn’t count them. An enormous silver- and gold-plated bed with a canopy faced the balcony. The sheets and pillows had been pushed off to one side.

  We followed Philiadas through the room to the balcony. It overlooked the aquamarine waters of the Mediterranean from a dizzying height. The magnificence of the view made me wonder what world I had been living in before.

  Though the day was mild, the king was wrapped in blankets, lying on his side on a divan. His oldest daughter, Princess Damarata, sat beside him. She was a middle-aged woman, bulky in her chest and shoulders. Her husband, Adranodorus, stood a few feet away, leaning on the balustrade, rocking with agitation like a large awkward bird. Two huge sand-colored dogs, Molossers I believe, sprawled out in the sun at the far end of the balcony. One lifted its massive square head as we approached, announced us with one gruff bark, then settled back into its nap.

  Hiero sat up with difficulty. “Laius, my friend. And Philiadas. I suppose you have come to rescue me from those who love me.” He tried to say this with vigor and spirit, but he didn’t have the lungs to support his voice. The words came out weakly, undercutting the intended humor, and were followed by several watery coughs.

  Damarata extended her hand to Laius and then to Philiadas. “Your timing is to be commended, Doctor. I was hoping to have a chance to talk with you.” She wore elaborate make-up and lip paint. Her eyebrows were shaven and redrawn in bright yellow. Her hair, either dyed the color of a canary or perhaps a wig, was piled high on her head in a serpentine coil and held in place with a jewel-studded tiara.

  “My pleasure, Damarata.” Philiadas gave her an abbreviated bow. “What’s on your mind?”

  “We’re worried about my father’s health.” Despite her rings and jewelry, she looked disturbingly like a man impersonating a woman. She was the second most powerful person in Syracuse after her father. “There are things to be worked out among the family.” Damarata looked at her father. It must have been what they had just been talking about. “What is your latest prognosis?”

  “I see that he is still alive,” the soft-spoken doctor replied. “For a man of his age, I consider that doing quite well.”

  The king nodded. “I would be doing a lot better”—his voice trailed off in a wheeze—“if I had more faith in those to whom I must leave my crown.”

  Adranodorus looked to Laius and allowed a weak smile, as if to make light of the old man’s comment. Adranodorus was dark and slender, with large protruding eyes and thick wet lips. His black hair receded at the temples and was combed straight back. A mustache draped around his mouth and came to a point on his chin. He stepped up close to Philiadas. His tongue flicked out across his upper lip. “We have some important papers to draw up, and we are concerned about the timing.”

  “He means my will,” interjected Hiero. “What they really want to know, Philiadas, is how much longer they must put up with me.”

  Damarata forced a laugh. She put a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Father, you’re giving your guests a bad impression of our family. You haven’t been listening to us. We’re simply concerned about the future of Syracuse. We don’t want you doing something silly if your mind fails before your body.” Nothing in her voice supported the compassion of her words. “You’re leaving this kingdom in the best of hands—two devoted daughters and a grandson whose blood mixes yours with that of Pyrrhus. Surely he is destined to things greater than we can imagine.”

  Hiero looked away. His son Gelo, dead now a year, had married Pyrrhus’ daughter, Nereis, and produced a grandson, Hieronymus, and a granddaughter, Harmonia. It was true. There was hardly a stronger bloodline in the world.

  Adranodorus got right to the point. “Will he live another month, Philiadas?”

  The physician advanced to the side of the divan and eased the old man back into his pillows. “I should think he has at least another year or two.”

  Damarata gave the doctor a sour look, dabbed at what couldn’t have been a tear in her eye, and suddenly turned on her heels. She strode from the balcony out through the adjoining room. Adranodorus followed her. It was rude and abrupt. A grim silence held in their absence.

  Hiero broke the spell. “So my friend, Philiadas, how long do I really have?” His eyes were sad, but clear and sharp.

  The physician looked to Laius then the king. “You’ll be lucky to live two months. As I said earlier, I was simply pleased you were still alive when I brought Laius up to see you.”

  Laius advanced to the side of the divan and kneeled. I knelt behind him.

  Up close there was little regal or impressive in this vastly weakened man. His hair was just wisps of white, his skin mottled and transparent. He was clearly near the end, yet he still smiled warmly as he extended his hand to his friend.

  Laius t
ook the king’s frail hand in both of his and pressed it with affection. “Thank you, sire, for allowing me your audience.”

  “You know you’re always welcome, Laius. Please excuse my family. It’s a drama as old as time. They’re getting impatient. I’m not dying quickly enough for them.”

  Laius nodded, clearly holding back what he really felt about the scene he’d just witnessed.

  “I have lost control, Laius. They do what they want. I can’t stop them. The future of Syracuse and its people has passed out of my hands.”

  “I don’t know about that,” comforted Laius, a man who always seemed intent on smoothing the ruffles of any situation. “There’s nothing they can do without your consent.”

  “I wish that were really true, Laius.” Despite his age and weakness, the king spoke well, though with difficulty, and seemed in full possession of his wits. “My heir is no older than this youth here.” He looked directly at me. “Despite his bloodline, I have some serious doubts about his capacities. And his advisors, like my son-in-law, are not of the quality I would hope.” He turned his head and looked out at the sea, a shimmering brilliant blue, lovely beyond words. “I’ve been trying to work out a way to give the city over to the people, so they can govern from the city council and form a real democracy. It’s something I’ve thought about throughout my reign.” His emotion built behind the words. Something of the depth and character of this proud man showed through despite his weaken state. “My daughters will have none of it, and have pestered me so badly I don’t know what to do. Damarata takes advantage of my infirmity and interferes with all of my efforts. I’m afraid Gelo’s desire to reach out to Hannibal has infected her.”

  Gelo had shared twenty years of rule with his father in preparation for the passing of the crown. After the battle of Cannae, Gelo felt certain Hannibal was destined to take Rome. He tried to convince his father that it was time to change sides in the war. This led to a bitter falling out between a once close father and son. Gelo left Syracuse for six months to tour Sicily looking for support for Carthage. When he returned home, he suddenly fell ill and died. A rumor spread that he’d been poisoned. Despite their differences, Hiero grieved deeply. His health had gone downhill ever since.

  Hiero touched Laius on the arm. “My kingdom has already been taken, Laius. The foundation is crumbling beneath me as I speak, and I’m too weak to do anything about it.” He sighed painfully, then coughed. “I hope that I die before the worst of it comes to be.”

  “I suggest you and I might talk about this more, sire, but when we are alone, without your physician and this slave.”

  Laius’ reference to me as a slave hit me like a splash of cold water.

  Hiero nodded, seemingly exasperated by something, perhaps the conversation that had taken place prior to our arrival. “I just wish I could trust my family as much as I trust you, Laius.”

  Laius bowed his head. “You’re too gracious, sire.”

  The king looked off distractedly, then extended an open hand in my direction. “I imagine this is the youth you’ve told me about.”

  Laius turned to me. “Yes, sire, this is Timon Leonidas.” Already on one knee, I bowed my head.

  I remained with my head down until I heard the old man’s soft, watery voice. “Come forward, Timon.”

  I stood and advanced to the side of the divan. Hiero evaluated me through squinting eyes, then asked, “So Timon, you know some geometry, do you?”

  “Yes, sire,” I said.

  “And the numbers of Pythagoras?”

  I nodded. “My father taught me. He was trying to rebuild the Pythagorean School in Croton.”

  “What’s the square root of two hundred and three?”

  “It doesn’t have an even square root, sire.”

  “Not that I even know what I have asked.” He smiled and followed it with a wink. He turned to Laius. “I like him. He will make a perfect seventy-second birthday gift to my dear cousin, Archimedes.”

  I recognized the name Archimedes immediately. My father had spoken of him with awe. But I had other things on my mind. I looked at Laius, hoping he would ask the question that could not come from me—am I to be this mathematician’s slave or his apprentice?

  Laius went a different direction. “Timon has lived in my home for a week now, sire. His conduct has been exemplary. My only regret is that I must part with him.”

  Hiero winced as if a sharp pain had traversed his body, then gathered himself with a weak smile. “I’ve spent a lifetime reading men. I see depth and character in this young man.”

  I bowed my head at the king’s compliment. He really did seem like a good man.

  The king settled back down on the divan, wrapping the blankets around him, wincing in discomfort. Even this limited interaction had taxed him. Philiadas came forward and placed his hand on the king’s forehead, then turned to Laius. “The king is very weak. I think he should be left to sleep.”

  Laius offered a few final words to the king then led me from the room. One of the dogs got up and followed us out. It was nearly as tall at the shoulders as I was. Philiadas stayed with the king. Nothing was said about my status: freedman or slave. Laius would become someone I counted as an ally and a friend, but in this one instance, he let me down. He was not as forthright as he was kind.

  Oblivious to my disappointment, Laius turned to me as we left the palace. “Now we go from one great man to another. It’s time to meet your new master.”

  CHAPTER 6

  I could not see it then, but I can see it now with the perspective of these past fifty years. The world had changed since the times of Alexander of Macedon. It was more than an Aegean civilization centered in Greece, Crete, and the western shore of Asia. It was more than Egypt and the grand Seleucid Empire. The world had become a collection of many peoples and cultures, all interconnected through an uneven mix of colonization, banking interests, and war. Trade routes stretched from Iberia to the Indus River and beyond. The soul of knowledge, once in Athens, now dwelled in Alexandria, and had gained a measure of eastern grace. Civilization was beginning to know itself in a new age of commerce—and political entanglement.

  Syracuse was one of the most advanced city-states of this new era. Croton seemed little more than a stone village compared to Syracuse. Even Rome seemed backward in comparison. Only Rhodes and Carthage commanded a greater reach of commerce than Syracuse. Only Alexandria and Pergamon could compare in architecture and beauty.

  The city itself was roughly the shape of a triangle and, like most large cities of the time, was completely enclosed by a formidable, crenellated stone wall—a wall built two hundred years earlier in the age of Socrates and Plato by the tyrant Dionysius. The northern perimeter extended five Roman miles due west from the coast to Fort Euryalus, on the highest part of the city’s plateau. The fort’s location provided an excellent view of the entire area. Much like Achradina on the cliffs in the east, Fort Euryalus was fortified as a separate entity and could be secured and defended independently of the rest of Syracuse.

  The city was divided into four districts—Achradina in the east, Tyche in the north, Neapolis to the south, and Epipolae at the west end of the plateau. While there were beautiful Greek sculptures and fountains throughout the city, they were the most numerous in Achradina, the wealthiest district in the city. It contained the city council chambers, the treasury, the agora, the granary, Hiero’s palace, and the homes of the royal family.

  There was a fifth district, the island of Ortygia. This one-mile long, quarter-mile wide finger of land that extended off the southern tip of Achradina had been the full extent of Syracuse in the colony’s early years. Now it was separated from the rest of the city by a canal that served as a moat. A large, fortified gate and drawbridge controlled access to the island. Ortygia contained the oldest buildings in Syracuse and served as the sanctuary of last resort should the rest of the city be overrun by invaders.

  Laius led me from the palace to this island citadel—the home of my
new master Archimedes. Arguably Syracuse’s most precious treasure, the famous mathematician and inventor lived in the safest place in the city, a fortified tower on Ortygia.

  I had heard my father speak of Archimedes many times, always with reverence, always with the hope of meeting him one day. And I was to be his slave. I was not particularly excited about the prospect. I could not picture myself a slave for Archimedes or anyone else. This growing resentment and the hope of locating Adeon roiled in my mind as we walked the short distance from the palace to the island.

  The sight of my father being stabbed and my mother attacked had become a recurring nightmare for me during the week I had spent in Laius’ home. I would awaken in the night so frightened that I didn’t know if the pain in my chest was grief or simply the fear that Hannibal’s henchmen might one day come for me. As Laius and I crossed the drawbridge to the island, I remember looking down at the water in the moat some twenty feet below, and then up at the stone walls encircling the island, and then farther up, more than one hundred feet to the top of the tower we were about to enter. I might be a slave, I thought, but this is one place where I will be safe from Hannibal.

  A few words from Laius got us past the tower’s sentry. I counted the stairs as we climbed to its highest chamber. One hundred and twenty or some such number lies buried in my memory of this day, a day, in retrospect, that was nearly the complement in good fortune to the ill that had been thrust upon me some two and a half weeks earlier. Nearly. But I didn’t know this as Laius and I trudged up the last of the stairs to the landing outside Archimedes’ workshop.