The fruit stand was on the far side of the market. It took some time to get there through the crowd. The grandfather was nowhere in sight, but the girl was out front completing a sale. I quickly reversed direction. I took about twenty steps then stopped. What was I doing? She was just a girl. How could I not have the courage to buy a few figs from a girl, no matter how infuriating she was?
I turned around and headed straight to the fruit stand. The customer was gone. The girl had been watching me the entire time. Before I could say a word, she demanded, “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You changed directions twice. I watched you. First you were coming here, then you weren’t, now you are.”
“I changed my mind,” was all I could think to say. Her black hair was pulled away from her face and hung down her back in a braid. She wore a simple white tunic—and there wasn’t mud all over her. She was pretty, if perhaps a little pushy, and had intense black eyes that I could look into for only moments at a time.
“Changed your mind about what?”
“Where to spend my two coppers,” I stated firmly. “I thought to get figs and was on my way here. Then I thought to get something else instead, and turned around. Then I remembered how good your figs were.” I hesitated. “Do you have any today?”
She laughed at me. “We always have figs. Two coppers worth?”
“Please,” I said, trying to be as polite as I possibly could.
“That will be thirty figs,” she said curtly.
“I knew that,” I said, giving her the two copper coins.
She reached into the jar behind her and in four fistfuls counted out thirty figs. She held them cupped in both of her hands and dropped them into mine.
As I stuffed them into my tunic pocket, she kicked at the ground with her sandal. “I’m sorry about what happened the last time you were here. My grandfather told me it’s a good practice to allow our patrons to sample the fruit.”
Her sudden change of tone caught me almost as off-guard as when she’d grabbed my wrist. “I should have asked. I hope you weren’t scolded. By the way, my name is Timon.”
“Mine’s Moira.” She smiled. “And I didn’t get scolded. My grandfather isn’t like that.”
“I’m glad we could get that straightened out. I really do like your figs and expect to come back again.”
Another customer stepped up to the stand and asked Moira about her apples. I wanted to wait and say a proper good-bye, but I began to feel awkward standing there and went on my way.
As I walked slowly back to Ortygia, eating the figs and watching faces, I heard some people talking about a plot to assassinate the king. A man by the name of Theodotus had been taken into custody. If the rumors were correct, he was in the basement of the palace at that very moment being tortured to reveal the identities of his fellow conspirators.
When I went down to the kitchen that evening, Hektor, well into his day’s ration of wine, filled in some of the details. “Hieronymus is an arrogant fool. If this attempt has failed, another will get him.”
“Why do they think it was more than one person?” asked Lavinia, attending to a pot of stew that hung from an iron tripod over one of the fire pits.
“Theodotus approached Hieronymus’ childhood friend Callo to help in the plot. Callo proved to be a better friend than a conspirator. He told the king about Theodotus’ treachery, and said there were several others involved whose names he didn’t know. They will torture Theodotus to the edge of his life to obtain those names. So far,” he surveyed his audience with a twisted smile and gritted teeth, “Theodotus has refused to say anything.”
“How could you possibly know that?” scoffed Agathe.
Hektor puffed out his chest. “A good chef knows everything.”
It was clear that something ugly was percolating in the palace and that eventually it would have an impact on me. But other things were on my mind, and something very strange happened that night. Every night until then, I had lain in bed thinking of my parents, sometimes crying myself to sleep. This night I couldn’t sleep at all. Not because of the assassination plot, not because of my grief, but because I felt I’d finally made a friend my age. I said her name aloud just to hear it. “Moira.”
CHAPTER 17
Archimedes finally gave me a task that was more challenging than merely copying a letter. I was given four pieces of wood to assemble into a rectangular frame, two feet by three feet, and a piece of sailcloth to stretch over the frame, much like a painter’s canvas.
I had just begun to put the frame together when Laius appeared in the doorway. I hadn’t seen him since the funeral. He headed directly across the room to Archimedes’ workbench.
Archimedes didn’t look up until Laius touched him on the shoulder. Archimedes lifted his head and smiled, but Laius’ face remained grim.
“I’m sorry, Archimedes,” said Laius. “Of late, it seems my visits bear only bad news.” He looked over his shoulder at me. “This involves you as well, Timon. Listen and heed what I say.”
Laius told us the details of the assassination plot, essentially repeating what I already knew. Then he proceeded to the reason for his visit. “From all that I’ve heard, this man, Theodotus, has proven quite difficult to break. But now, somehow, they’ve decided that my friend Thraso, who I introduced you to at the funeral, was the main force behind the plot. He’s been arrested and imprisoned.” He shook his head. “I know this man. He’s an honest man. We spoke at length yesterday about the arrest of Theodotus and what might come of it.” With each word Laius’ passion grew. “Thraso had nothing to do with the plot. I’m absolutely certain of it.”
Laius glared at the floor in frustration. Archimedes said nothing. I thought of Zoippos’ threat at the funeral but kept it to myself for fear of getting involved.
Laius walked across the room and stood before the east window, gazing out at the infinite blue. After a short time, he turned back to Archimedes. “Thraso was set up. I’m sure of it. He was the one person within the royal circle, the only person with Hieronymus’ ear, who stood fast on loyalty to Rome. Now that he’s been arrested, it will be Adranodorus and Damarata at the boy every day, Zoippos too, pressing him to open up communication with Carthage. This will be the end of Syracuse. I can feel it as sure as Hiero is dead.”
“Your loyalty to Rome is well known, Laius. What does this mean for you?”
Laius came back across the room. “My life! If that boy goes over to the other side, there’s no telling where the bloodletting will stop.” He shook his head at the prospect. “I fear that Thraso will be executed before the end of the week, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”
“Is there anything I can do?” asked Archimedes.
Laius gave him a weak smile. “Can we use all the wonderful war machines you built for Hiero against these people? Can we point your weapons inward where the real threat is?”
“Not without danger to others,” said Archimedes.
Laius nodded and touched his friend on the shoulder. “I’m sorry I’ve come here again with bad news, but you needed to hear it. I don’t know what Hieronymus, or more importantly, Adranodorus knows about you or your work. Just be prepared. Things could change very quickly.” With that, Laius took his leave.
The entire time he was there I had withheld what I’d overheard at the funeral. I felt like a traitor, but it seemed best to me then to remain silent. Besides, what good would the words of a slave be against the likes of Adranodorus and Damarata?
CHAPTER 18
Two days after Laius’ visit, Archimedes sent me back to the woodshop where I had delivered the drawings earlier in the week. This meant an opportunity to continue my search for Adeon—and also a chance to see Moira.
I left the tower midmorning. The guards at the island’s drawbridge lived in the barracks. They all knew me from my work in the kitchen and as Archimedes’ slave. They let me come and go as I pleased. The situation at the Achradina gate was not th
e same. I needed papers. I showed them the letter that Archimedes had dictated to me.
The market was on the way to the woodshop so I went there first. As I walked I realized that I was looking less at people’s faces and thinking more about buying figs—or, more honestly, seeing the girl who sold them.
I dodged and skipped my way across the market to where Moira’s grandfather set up his vending booth. On the way I saw the boys who had stolen my figs coming up the market’s central aisle. Corax—how could I forget that name—was leading his little gang. I quickly cut between two booths before the boys had a chance to see me, and proceeded down a secondary aisle, taking a slightly longer path to Moira’s stand.
When I caught sight of Moira, I took a breath and slowed my pace. There were no other customers, so I walked right up to her.
“I know you,” she said. “You’re the fig thief.”
This caught me off guard, and I’m sure it showed in my face.
She laughed. “I mean, Timon, the lover of figs.”
I only had a single copper and I held it out. “Yes, and you are Moira, the seller of the best figs in Syracuse.”
“Best in Sicily,” she corrected with a grin.
“Of course. Fifteen please.”
She counted the figs into my hands.
“Do you live in the city?” I asked, daring to start a conversation.
“No,” she replied like I should already know. “Where would all this fruit come from?” She pointed to the south. “I live on a farm well outside the city walls. You should try our olives.” She took one from a jar and handed it to me. “They’re my favorite.”
I ate the olive while she watched.
“Well?”
“I like the figs better,” I said.
“Ah, you’ve no taste. They’re the best thing we sell.”
A customer came up from behind me and requested some olives.
Moira turned to me with a smile. “See!” Then she picked up a basket to help the customer.
“I’ll come back when I have another copper,” I said, knowing she was busy.
“Please do,” she called over her shoulder.
My next stop was the woodshop. It was a short distance south of the market, and I headed that way with my head in the clouds, ecstatic that Moira had remembered my name. Thinking back on those times, all these years later, it seems like a little thing, but it was big to me then, and an insight into how badly I wanted a friend.
About halfway to the shop, at a time when I wasn’t even thinking about Adeon, I saw her—up ahead of me some distance. I immediately doubled my pace. The street was crowded and I struggled to gain on her. She turned down an alley. When I reached the alley, I didn’t see her. I ran down the alley fearing I’d lost her. Then all a sudden she stepped out of a doorway, her back to me. I called out her name as I ran up to her. When she turned to face me, my heart sank.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly, “I mistook you for someone else.”
The woman continued on, and I stood there in the street, embarrassed and distraught, realizing how much I’d hoped she were Adeon—and how important it was for me to know the fate of my parents.
The thrill of seeing Moira now thoroughly dispelled, I continued on to the woodshop. It was a simple mud brick building in the industrial portion of Tyche. The craftsman, a man by the name of Orestes, was out front when I walked in. He recognized me from my previous visits and called back to the rear of the shop. “Cales, get the forms we made for Archimedes.”
A boy, maybe sixteen years old, came from the back with two rounded wooden blocks about the diameter of a man’s head. One appeared to be a true hemisphere, the other had a flatter curvature.
Orestes was an affable man with fair hair and a thick, square build. He took the forms from the youth, who I assumed was his son or his apprentice, and gave them to me. “How do they look?” he asked with a big smile, even though I was a boy and a slave.
Not knowing quite what to say, and still thinking about the woman I had mistaken for Adeon, I ran my hand over the two surfaces. “They’re quite smooth.”
Orestes laughed. “They’re perfect is what they are, young man.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, holding each one out to look at, as if I might be able to tell.
This got both Orestes and Cales laughing. Despite the ups and downs of the day, their good spirit was infectious. I couldn’t help joining in with their laughter. I gave them four bronze coins for the forms and walked out of the shop feeling much better than when I’d walked in.
CHAPTER 19
Hector maintained a large herb and vegetable garden beside the kitchen, adjacent to the tower’s south wall. He took great pride in this garden and so did Agathe, who also managed a small hen house and two goats nearby. Together they did the planting and day-to-day upkeep. During the summer months Hektor spent as much of his day tending the garden as he did preparing food.
The garden produced an array of vegetables and fruits in season as well as greens, herbs, and root crops year-round. Hektor was proud of his melons and grapes, but Hektor and Agathe treated the herbs like gifts from the gods. Some they used fresh. Others they dried and stored in ceramic bottles. There was a shelf full of them in the covered part of the kitchen. When making soups or stews, Hektor talked about the art of using the right herbs—not just to enhance the flavor of the food, but also to increase its nutritional value. For all his drinking and bluster, he was an intelligent cook, or so he would have you believe.
One afternoon, I was in the garden with Hektor taking cuttings from the basil plants. This was very common—Hektor or Agathe out in the garden prior to a meal, choosing just the right herbs for what they were preparing.
Hektor nursed a cup of wine. I carried a small paring knife and a basket. Several of Agathe’s chickens dodged in and out of our way as we traced down one row then another, with me cutting a sprig here and there, wherever Hektor pointed. A light breeze blew in from the sea, as it did on so many fall afternoons in Sicily, and the weather was ideal.
I had just cut the last sprig of basil, and we were walking out of the garden when Plato raced past us chased by three dogs. I watched in horror as the first dog overtook him, running right over him and knocking him to the ground. All three dogs were at him instantly.
I screamed Plato’s name, then dropped the basket and sprinted across the yard. I began kicking at the growling, snapping dogs. Two of them ran off. The third remained intent on Plato, circling him, ready to attack. I circled Plato as well, trying to stay between them. The dog lunged at Plato, and I kicked it square in the head, knocking the dog to the ground. Plato dashed off, but I continued to kick angrily at the dog.
Suddenly I felt Hektor’s arms around me. He lifted me off the ground, and despite my screaming for him to let go, carried me away from the dog. He held me tight until he felt me relax, and then he put me down.
I stood there silently fuming. Hektor took me by the shoulders and looked into my eyes. “You would have killed that dog if I hadn’t stopped you. You know that?”
I didn’t say anything. The anger that was buried within me had taken over. I didn’t want to admit I’d lost control. I took a deep breath. “He would’ve killed my cat.”
“Your cat?” Hektor laughed. “Nobody owns that cat.” He let go of my shoulders and rapped me firmly on the top of the head. “Get the basket.”
Walking back to the garden, Hektor needled me. “You named that old cat Plato? Don’t tell me your master’s infected you with philosophy.”
“No. Plato was a favorite of my father’s,” I answered with a twinge of pain.
“Did you know that Plato spent quite a bit of time in Syracuse?”
“No, I’ve never heard that.”
“It was a situation not unlike what we have today,” mused Hektor. “Dionysius had just become dictator of Syracuse. Like Hieronymus, he was young and thrust into a situation that was beyond his years. His uncle Dion was concerned about hi
s nephew and wrote to Plato, offering him a good deal of money to come tutor the young ruler.”
“And he took the offer?”
“He did. It was right after Socrates’ trial and Plato wanted to get out of Athens. He actually came here three times. The first time there was a war and he left. The second and third times Dionysius got fed up with him and ordered him to leave. I’ve heard it said that Plato actually did the young man some good.”
We were back at the garden. Hektor tipped back his cup of wine to finish it off.
I picked up the basket of basil. “Seems like we could use Plato now.”
“I doubt he’d have much impact on Hieronymus,” replied Hektor. “He’s beyond repair.”
Eurydice came out of the tower. We hadn’t seen her but two or three times in the last month. She hadn’t really recovered from the traumatic incident with the king. She continued to stutter when she spoke, and though she’d been quiet before, she said even less now.
Eurydice greeted us with a darting glance. She was as beautiful as ever, but the inner calm that had made her such a pleasure to be around was gone.
“It must be my lucky day, Eurydice,” said Hektor with an over-sized smile.
She looked at him in question.
“You’re on tonight’s shift.” He still loved Eurydice, even if she did struggle to talk.
Eurydice lowered her eyes and continued into the kitchen. Hektor watched her walk away, and then looked at me, clearly pained by her condition. “King or not,” he said roughly, “I’d wring that boy’s neck if I had the chance, Timon. I would.”
The Siege of Syracuse Page 11
