The Sand-Reckoner

11

Archimedes found that it was, after all, possible to understand what a catapult was for and still build it. The trick was to take each step of the construction independently and concentrate on the technical problems, without looking beyond them to the finished machine.

Not that the technical problems were interesting. The increase in the diameter of the bore needed for a three-talenter was only three finger-breadths, giving a proportional increase of three twenty-fifths all around- a laborious figure to calculate with, but not a difficult one. He was aware that if he'd been feeling happier about the work, he would have devised a new pivoting system- but the old one was adequate, and it sufficed.

The most disconcerting thing about working on another, and yet larger, catapult was the way everyone else in the workshop kept grinning about it. Even Eudaimon. The old engineer came up while he was working out the dimensions, shuffled his feet and cleared his throat a few times to attract attention, then asked- very humbly! — for the plans for Good Health, "since the king wants me to copy it." Archimedes found him the notes he'd made and explained a few of them, and Eudaimon nodded and made notes of his own- and then grinned, and said, "I never thought I'd ever build a two-talenter, heh? Make the next one another beauty for me, Archimechanic!" He trotted off, clutching his notes, leaving Archimedes staring after him in consternation.

It seemed that merely recognizing what the king had done wasn't enough to stop it. Archimedes wasn't sure what to do about it; wasn't even sure what he wanted to do about it. His response to his growing reputation depended on whether he was going to Alexandria or staying in Syracuse, and on that question he had not yet made up his mind. There were things to be said on both sides- but the things were different in kind, and he couldn't balance them. He found Hieron interesting, much more so than King Ptolemy- but the Museum was in Alexandria. His family was here, his closest friends there. And the image of Delia kept intruding itself and confusing him. She had not sent him another of her notes arranging a meeting, and he wasn't sure whether to be crushed or relieved. He had even less idea what to do about her than he did about Alexandria. His instinct was to postpone everything. After all, there didn't seem to be any urgent need for him to make up his mind at once. Anything that happened or did not happen with Delia was in Delia's hands, and as for Alexandria, he was obviously not going to abandon Syracuse, his home city, while the enemy was at her gate. The question of Alexandria could safely be left until he had time and energy to spare for it.

The trouble was, other people didn't seem to agree. Two days after he started work on the new catapult, Philyra received an invitation to visit the king's house and play a little music with the king's sister. She went to the mansion in the Ortygia suspicious at this royal condescension- but when Archimedes returned home that evening, it was to find his sister in a rage, with his mother at her side looking quietly resolute.

"The king's sister really wanted to talk about you!" Philyra told him indignantly. "And the queen was there: she said the king promised to make you rich! Medion, what's going on and why haven't you said anything about it to us?"

Archimedes gaped and stammered excuses: he'd been busy, the house was still in mourning, it hadn't seemed the best time. He became aware even as he floundered that the real reason he'd kept the king's machinations to himself was that he knew that his mother and sister would not want to go to Alexandria. He might well decide not to go himself, so why quarrel with them about it? As for Delia- well, they wouldn't approve of that, would they?

"My dearest," said Arata, with a quiet firmness that was much harder to face than Philyra's anger, "you should not leave us to find out such things from others. Ever since you came home from Alexandria, the tyrant has been chasing you like a lover. He's sent people to ask about you; he's invited you to his house; he's offered you large amounts of money; he's dropped compliments about you where other people will be sure to hear them…"

"He might just as well have chalked 'Archimedes is beautiful' up on the walls!" put in Philyra hotly- then subsided at a warning glance from her mother.

"Do you expect us not to notice?" went on Arata. "And when you don't tell us anything, do you expect us not to worry?"

"I'm sorry!" exclaimed Archimedes helplessly. "You've never needed to worry, Mama. I would have told you, if there had been anything to worry about."

"What does the king want from you?" demanded Arata.

"Only that I make machines!" protested her son. "It's just that some of the things I've been doing- I thought they were obvious, and that other people must have done them before. But it turns out that they're new, and the king thinks- well, you see, nobody's ever built a three-talent catapult before, or a system of compound pulleys, or a screw elevator. So I suppose Hieron's right."

"It started before you'd built anything," said Arata suspiciously.

"Well," said Archimedes, "Hieron's a very clever man. He knows enough to realize how important mathematics is for machine-making, and he thought I'd be an exceptional engineer as soon as he heard about me. I suppose he asked for that demonstration mainly to see if he was right. He's a good king- he knows how important engineering works are to the security and prosperity of cities. So he wants me to work for him, and in return he's promised wealth and honor. See? Nothing to worry about."

Arata gazed at her son steadily. "That's not all," she concluded.

She had always known when he was trying to deceive her. Broken pots blamed on the wind, the kitchen mortar or the loom weights he'd borrowed for a machine and then claimed never to have touched- none of it had ever fooled her. He sighed and lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. "He wants to keep me in Syracuse. The other night, Mama, I asked him exactly the question you just asked me, and he admitted that he has been deliberately inflating my reputation in order to make it difficult for me to leave. He thinks that before long Ptolemy will offer me wealth, honor, and a position at the Museum."

There was a long silence. Arata's face flushed slowly. "You're that good?" she asked at last, breathless from sheer pride. So good that kings vied for his services?

"Yes," agreed Archimedes. "At least, Hieron thinks so. It's not something I can judge. Compound pulleys still look obvious to me. I'm sure Ktesibios at least would have thought of them."

Philyra's face, too, was crimson, but in her case not with pride. "You wouldn't go back to Alexandria!" she exclaimed.

"I don't know," said Archimedes honestly. "I'm not going anywhere until the war's over, so why worry about it now?"

The attempt at evasion was doomed; Philyra began worrying about it at once. She did not want to go to Alexandria; what was more, she believed that if he was really as good as the king thought, he shouldn't go either. She said it would be treachery to Syracuse, and for Archimedes to tell her that this was exactly what Hieron had intended her to say made not the slightest difference. She loved her city and was furious that he could contemplate deserting it.

Arata was more restrained, willing to postpone an argument that might never be relevant- and yet, she too made it plain that she did not want to leave Syracuse. Archimedes' tentative suggestion, however, that if it ever came to such a point, Philyra could marry a Syracusan and Arata live with her, while he himself went to Egypt, did not appease anyone. Arata, like her daughter, thought it would be wrong for her son to leave the city, though she was too much of a peacemaker to say so before the issue had come to the crisis.

The quarrel was eventually suppressed by Arata's diplomatic suggestion that they eat some supper, but it flared up again after the meal. In token of peace they tried to play some music together, but as Philyra tuned her lute she remarked to her brother, "The king's sister loves the way you play the flute," then stared to see him beam delightedly.

"Oh, Medion!" Philyra burst out, as something else became clear to her. "You're not going to tell me she's interested in engineering, too?"

"No," said Archimedes evasively. "In auloi. She's very good, isn't she?"

"When did you ever hear her play?"

"At the king's house. She was in the garden, and…"

Philyra jumped to her feet, holding the lute as though she meant to hit him with it. "You never said anything about that, either! You go and do things that change everything for all of us, and you don't seem to think we have any right even to know about it!"

"I haven't done anything!" Archimedes protested feebly. "I've only spoken to Delia a few times!"

"Delia! O Zeus! Why did she keep asking about you?"

Arata looked at Archimedes in startled concern. "Medion!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean that the king's sister…"

Archimedes fled upstairs and buried himself in calculations on the abacus.

He was relieved when Dionysios invited him out to supper the following evening: it was an escape from the questions at home. But it turned out that Dionysios, too, wanted to talk about Alexandria- and about Philyra.

"I'm sorry to bring this up at a time like this," the captain said apologetically, when they were reclining at the table in the Arethusa. "I know your house is still in mourning, and there's the war as well. But I heard that you were thinking of marrying your charming sister to an Alexandrian, and I thought I'd better put in my own offer before it's too late."

Archimedes choked on his mouthful of tunny-fish and had to be pounded on the back and fetched a cup of water. By the time he'd recovered his breath, the captain was telling him seriously that it was his duty to remain in Syracuse. "I would not presume to dictate to you who your sister should marry, of course," Dionysios went on. "But as a loyal citizen, I must urge you not to leave our lovely city. The king-"

"Who told you I was thinking of marrying my sister to an Alexandrian?" interrupted Archimedes.

Dionysios was taken aback. "I believe your slave said as much to one of my men," he admitted. "Isn't it true?"

"There was never any Alexandrian," said Archimedes doubtfully. "My friend Conon and I used to talk about becoming brothers-in-law. But he's a Samian. And we never… that is, I never said anything about it at home. Oh, by the gods, don't spread it around! I'm already in trouble with my sister because of some other things I didn't tell her about, and if she thinks I was trying to marry her to a foreigner without consulting her, she'll brain me with a kithara. Are you really saying you want to marry her?"

It seemed that Dionysios really was. He began listing his qualifications: his rank, his prospects, his property. He apologized for his lack of fine breeding: he had been born poor and worked his way up through the ranks, and he had not thought of marrying until his most recent promotion gave him the standing to make a good match. But he had acquired some land to the south and a third share in a merchant ship, and he had every hope that after the war he would do very well. He was well thought of by the king and respected in the army. He had noticed Philyra at Archimedes' house and again at the demonstration, and he thought her quite charming. He gathered, too, that she was musical: he had always loved music, and wanted to marry a girl who could share his enthusiasm. Naturally, if he was so fortunate as to acquire her, he would treat her with all the respect that was due to the sister of a man like Archimedes.

Archimedes listened in astonishment. It seemed incredible that Philyra should marry, and that he should be the one who decided whom. He supposed that she was of marriageable age, and that he was the head of the household- but still it seemed incredible. Daydreams with his friend Conon had not prepared him for this. And Dionysios! He quite liked the man- good company, intelligent, capable; a fine voice; he was sure that what the fellow was saying about his prospects was quite true. But did he want such a man for a brother? And suppose he got it wrong, and Dionysios made Philyra miserable? How could he possibly make such a decision?

"I can't give you an answer right now," he said, when the captain had ground to a halt and sat blinking at him anxiously. "As you said, the house is in mourning. It would be quite wrong for my sister marry with her hair still short from the funeral."

"Of course," said Dionysios hastily. "But- afterward?"

"I need to think about it." He sat still for a moment, trying to imagine how his mother and sister would react to this news. Arata would consider the captain of the Ortygia garrison a catch, though she'd want to meet him before making up her mind whether to say yes. Philyra would certainly be excited. Not at all eager to leave home, he thought, but thrilled that such a man had asked for her- and assessing. She would want to know more about Dionysios. He met the captain's anxious gaze and declared suddenly, "I don't know what you think about women, but I've always felt they're just as capable as men, at least in everyday matters. My sister's a very sensible girl. She and my mother are really much better at arranging practical matters than I am, so I'm going to consult them before I answer anything. I don't know what you think of that." He held Dionysios' eyes. Many men would find it deplorable that he allowed his women to dictate his decisions. He was aware that his admission had just confronted Dionysios with a test, and wondered what the other man would have to say to pass.

Dionysios, capable soldier and experienced officer, went red. "I thought your sister was probably that sort when I saw her at the demonstration," he muttered. "She looked so confident and happy. Tell her and your mother that… I send my respectful greetings."

Archimedes nodded. He realized that if Dionysios had in any way appeared to slight Philyra's opinion, he would have opposed the marriage even if Philyra herself had wanted it, but that now he would dwell on the captain's good points when he informed his sister of the offer. Dionysios was willing to listen to Philyra, and he liked her confident and happy: he passed.

"You're not set on this Alexandrian, or Samian or whatever he is, though?" asked the captain hopefully.

Archimedes shook his head. "Philyra's already said she doesn't want to leave Syracuse."

Wistfully, though, he pictured to himself the beaming moon face of Conon of Samos. In Alexandria he and Conon had spent hours together in cheap taverns, drawing calculations on the table or the walls; they had laughed over other people's mathematical mistakes, and told each other jokes which nobody else had been able to understand. Each had been the first person the other came to with a new discovery, and neither had ever been disappointed of the expected enthusiastic reception. Their differences had merely fueled their friendship. Conon was short and plump; he liked food and drink and dancing, but when it came to music, he always sang out of key. He was rich, and came from a distinguished family, so he had lent his friend money, slipping it into his purse unasked and often unnoticed; Archimedes had no idea how much it had come to in the end. He in turn had made Conon a dioptra, an astronomical sighting instrument, which Conon had thereafter treasured above every other possession. Conon was no good at making things; his pudgy hands were clumsy, though his mind skipped among the stars as nimbly as a lizard.

Conon's family would never have permitted him to marry Philyra, even if Philyra had been willing. He and Conon loved each other like brothers anyway- best to leave it at that.

Dionysios grinned. "Good luck to your loyal sister! I hope you're not planning to leave either."

Archimedes muttered something unintelligible, and concentrated on his food.

"Pardon?" said the captain, polite but relentless. "I didn't hear that."

Archimedes abandoned the food. "Look," he said, "how I can I make promises about what I'll do three or five years from now? We may all be dead by then! I'm not planning to leave while I'm needed to make catapults, so why can't everyone leave it at that?"

But Dionysios was no more able than Philyra to leave it at that. He was very cautious of offending a man he wanted as a brother-in-law, but "as a loyal citizen" he felt it his duty to persuade Archimedes to stay in Syracuse, and his tactful attempts to do this lasted the rest of the meal. Archimedes was heartily sick of him by the time the waiter came in to clear the dishes.

When the dishes had been cleared away, the Arethusa's flute girls were once more ushered in. Dionysios, however, immediately detached the pretty young thing who fastened herself to him. "I'm on duty tomorrow morning," he said gently, though a glance at Archimedes indicated that he was also embarrassed to settle with a whore in front of a man whose sister he had just offered to marry. "But perhaps my friend…?" His glance became interrogative.

Archimedes suddenly wanted very much to get drunk and go to bed with the flute girl- to escape from the questions, to forget Delia, to drown and befuddle the faultless precision of his own too-active mind. "Yes!" he said, stretching out a hand to the girl.

She came at once and draped herself over his knee. "You're Archimedes, aren't you?" she asked throatily, stroking his cheek. "The one they call the archimechanic?"

"Don't call me that!" he told her despairingly. She was holding a set of flutes, and he took them away from her before she could start playing. "Here! I'll show you something much more worth-while than catapults."

At the house near the lion fountain Marcus spent the earlier part of the evening nervous. He suspected the reason for Dionysios' invitation, and it sickened him. His attempt at discouragement seemed only to have spurred the captain to immediate action. He wondered how Archimedes would respond.

But after supper Arata and Philyra sat in the courtyard playing music in the cool dusk, and the sweet clear ripple of the strings soothed him. The desperation that had crushed him for the past three days lifted a little. There had been no repercussions from his visit to the quarry. The Roman army was still camped before the north gate, and his brother and his brother's friend were probably planning their escape, but life in the household went on much as it had always done. He was aware of the family quarrel, but aware too of its essential shallowness, the way it did not even touch the deep ties of affection that bound the family together. As he sat silent in the courtyard listening to the music, the house seemed a richer and more tranquil place to live than it ever had before.

But everything was changing. The family was growing wealthy and important; Philyra would marry and move away- and he would go, too. Somewhere.

When Arata had gone to bed, and Philyra was putting her lute away, Marcus came silently to her side and picked up the kithara, which she had already set in its case. "Thank you!" she said, without looking at him.

He shrugged. "Mistress," he began unhappily- then stopped, not knowing what it was he meant to say to her.

Something in his voice troubled her, and she lifted her head and looked at him, peering to make out his face in the gathering dark. "What?"

"You- don't still believe I took Archimedes' money in Alexandria, do you?" he asked.

She stared, surprised at his earnestness. She had almost forgotten her suspicions. There had been a lot of money coming in since her father died, and Marcus had been very careful with it. Messengers kept bringing bags of coin down from the king's house- a hundred and eighty drachmae for catapults, so far, plus all the funeral expenses. Archimedes barely even looked at it; it had been left to Marcus and herself to keep track of it all. She realized at the slave's question how many pains he had taken to account for every obol. "No," she said, slightly ashamed of herself. If anyone had cheated her brother in Alexandria, it had not been Marcus.

"I'm glad," he said in a low voice. "I don't want you to think ill of me. Whatever happens, please believe that I've never wanted any harm to this house."

"Whatever happens?" repeated Philyra in concern. "What do you mean?"

"I- just mean, with the war, mistress. I know that it's my own people out there. But they've come here because they've been told lies, and I don't- Philyra, if they got in, I would fight to defend you."

She was touched. She reached over and rested her hand for a moment on his. "Thank you, Marcus," she said. Then she straightened, picked up her lute, and declared fiercely, "But they won't get in! The gods will favor Syracuse!"

"I pray they do," he said.

He carried her kithara upstairs for her and watched her go into her room- a slim shadow, black-clad with mourning in the dark house. Then he went back down and sat in the courtyard. He pressed the hand she had touched against his stubbled cheek; his throat was swollen with what he felt. It was no good. He was only property. Still, he wished that he could indeed fight for her- rescue her from his countrymen, carry her to safety, reassure her while she clung to him and… It was no good. He wished her brother would come home and say what answer he'd given to Dionysios.

For hours he waited in the dark courtyard, watching the stars. At last the soft rap sounded on the door. Marcus pulled himself up and hurried to open it. "Sir…" he began.

"Marcus!" whispered his brother, and clasped him in a one-armed embrace. Beside him Quintus Fabius flowed smokelike through the door.

Marcus had almost forgotten that this was the first night he could have expected them. He stumbled backward, then hastily closed and bolted the door behind them. "Are you being followed?" he whisperedthen had to repeat himself in Latin.

It was Fabius who answered. "No," he said. "But we had to kill a sentry. They'll certainly miss the fellow before morning, and start searching for us. You said you could help us get out of the city. I hope you can do it tonight!"

"Yes," said Marcus, dismayed. Which of the sentries had they killed? The young man, the leader, one of the others who'd laughed and punched the air when they named his master's catapults? Killed with his knife, undoubtedly. He had known when he left the knife that it was a possibility, but he had hoped… "Keep your voices down," he ordered. "You don't want to wake anyone. Gaius, how are you?"

"Sore," replied Gaius. "But I can manage. That Greek doctor knew what he was doing." He reached out again to seize his brother's arm, and squeezed it. "How are you planning to get us out?"

"Do you still have the rope I gave you?"

Two heads, dimly seen, shook together. "We left it hanging from the wall," whispered Fabius.

"I'll get another, then," said Marcus.

Another soft rap sounded suddenly on the house door.

"May I perish!" exclaimed Marcus. He pulled Gaius hurriedly to the door of the dining room and shoved him in. "Hide!" he ordered, as Fabius slipped past him.

A second knock, louder. Marcus closed the door to the dining room behind the two fugitives and went to open the one to the street, just as Archimedes called, "Marcus!" from outside.

"Sorry, sir," he said, opening the door. "I was asleep."

Archimedes wavered through unsteadily and slumped down on the bench against the wall. He smelled of wine and cheap perfume. Marcus closed the door again. "You'd better get to bed," he told his master.

"Not yet," said Archimedes. "There was a tune I thought of, and I want to get it memorized before I forget it. Fetch my flutes." His speech was slurred, but voluble. Marcus recognized the mood with dread: lively-drunk like this, his master would usually try to explain geometry all night.

"Sir?"

"My flutes! The soprano and the tenor."

"But sir, it's after midnight! The neighbors…"

"Oh, Zeus! If they wake up, it's only music!"

Marcus stood where he was. He was aware of Gaius and Fabius crouching in the dining room as though all the night were one block of stone and he carved into it with them, solid with their fear. He realized with horror that he did not trust them. He knew Gaius would not break an oath, but Fabius? There was something hard and lethal about the man. He had wanted to kill the catapult maker the city had boasted of. Archimedes sat there, drunk and at home, suspecting nothing. It would be easy for Fabius to slip out while he was unattended and- what had happened to the knife?

"Marcus!" said Archimedes impatiently. "Do I have to fetch them myself?"

Gods and goddesses, thought Marcus, are the flutes in the dining room? "No, sir!" he said hastily. "I'll get them."

In the dining room, he could just make out Gaius and Fabius crouched exactly where he had imagined them, next to the window. He groped for the flutes on the sideboard and couldn't find them.

"Marcus, did you tell one of Dionysios' men that I wanted Philyra to marry Conon?" Archimedes called from the courtyard.

"I may have," replied Marcus. It was no use: he was going to have to light a lamp. Sweating with horror, he felt for and found the one that normally sat on the table.

"Why'd you say that?" asked Archimedes. "You know Conon's father wouldn't have agreed."

"But you always used to talk about it," said Marcus, abstractedly feeling for the flint lamplighter. "I thought maybe now that we're rich…"

"No," said Archimedes. "No, he has to marry that Samian girl next year. You should have remembered that. And anyway, you know Philyra doesn't want to leave Syracuse. You shouldn't have said anything. If she finds out I even thought of marrying her to someone in Alexandria, she'll be furious. And Dionysios was very worked up about it. You know what he's done? He's offered for Philyra himself!"

Marcus froze, then forced his shaking hands to strike a light. The lamp wick caught at once, casting a warm yellow glow about the room. It gleamed on the eyes of the two men crouched beneath the window; revealed the smear of blood on Fabius' cheek and the knife in his hand. Marcus shook his head and frantically gestured for the man to put the knife away, then glanced about the room for the flutes: they were nowhere to be seen. "Sir, where are your flutes?" he asked distractedly.

"I don't know," replied Archimedes, yawning. "Hurry up and find them!"

Marcus went back into the courtyard, carrying the lamp. "What answer did you give Dionysios?" he asked.

His master sat sprawled over the bench, cloakless in mourning black, with another wreath of parsley pushed to the back of his cropped head. Parsley was supposed to prevent drunkenness; it hadn't worked. "I didn't," said Archimedes. "I'll let Philyra say what she thinks. Though it might be a good match."

"But Philyra's just a girl!" urged Marcus, somehow still finding time to worry that she might agree with her brother. "And you can't expect any sixteen-year-old to make a sensible decision about the future."

Archimedes laughed loudly. "Oh, by Apollo! Marcus, you know perfectly well you don't expect me to make a sensible decision about what to buy in the market! Why do you think I can pick a husband for Philyra when I can't even buy olives?" He pulled his knees up and looped his arms round them. "Philyra will make a much more sensible decision than I ever could. Sensible Philyra. Marcus, you think geometry is completely and utterly senseless, don't you?"

"No."

"Don't you? You always used to. You used to watch the scholars going into the Museum with a look on your face like a… like a banker watching an heir squander his estate. So much intelligence to be spent on air! Deep down, Dionysios agrees with you. When we first met, he praised Alexandria and called it the house of Aphrodite, but tonight he did nothing but tell me what I owe Syracuse.- I think my flutes may be in my room."

"I'll fetch them," croaked Marcus helplessly. He set the lamp down beside his master, hoping that its light would be some protection, then ran up the stairs three at a time and burst into the bedroom. The clothes chest was a black oblong under the gray rectangle of the window. He felt along it and found first the notched rim of the abacus and then, like fresh air in a dust storm, a set of smooth wooden boxes heaped one on top of another: the flute cases. He grabbed all of them and ran downstairs again, heart pounding.

Archimedes was still sitting quietly on the bench, turning one hand back and forth in the light of the lamp, watching the shadows shift in his palm. Marcus closed his eyes a moment, weak with relief.

The auloi were seized upon at once, and Archimedes sorted eagerly through them for the soprano and the tenor. He slid the reeds in, adjusted the slides, and without another word launched into a complicated melody.

It was a dance at first: a rapid joyful trill on the soprano, with a quick steady beat supplied by the tenor. A ring dance, a line dance, a tune to dance to in the street. But it changed under his quick fingers. The rhythm shifted to the soprano, and the tenor took up the tune with sudden disquieting shifts of tempo, speeding up and slowing down again, almost out of synchrony, then suddenly resolving into it again. The mode shifted without warning, and the tone became plaintive, with an underlying coloration of darkness. The disquiet grew. What had been fast became faster still, a headlong rush of sound over a chaos of dissonance; the tenor and soprano fought each other, irresolvable notes clipping each other's heels, almost but not quite out of tune. And then, all at once, the notes did overlap, and they were in harmony: the true harmony that was rare in Greek music, two notes singing a chord that brought a shiver up the backbone, and the melody they sang was sad and slow. The dance theme returned, but it was a march now, a slow march of farewell. Harmony became unison, sang quietly to the night, then faded softly into stillness.

There was a long silence. Marcus realized that he had no idea how long the music had lasted, and that while it had lasted he had been aware of nothing else. Archimedes blinked at the flutes in his hands as though he'd forgotten what they were.

"My darling," came Arata's voice from an upstairs window, "that came from a god. But the neighbors may not appreciate it, and you ought to be in bed."

"Yes, Mama," Archimedes called back at once. He slid the reeds out of the auloi and set the instruments back in their cases, then stood up and ran his hands through his stiff hair.

"What was that?" asked Marcus, in a shaken voice.

Archimedes hesitated. "I think it was a farewell to Alexandria," he said bemusedly. "But there's no hurry to decide." He wavered across the courtyard, and Marcus heard the stairs creak as he went up to bed.

Marcus sat down on the bench and stayed there for a little while, trembling. Then he noticed that the lamp was guttering, and blew it out.

The door to the dining room opened soundlessly, and the two fugitives slipped through it. "Jupiter!" whispered Fabius. "I thought that young fool would never stop playing!"

"You be quiet!" Gaius whispered vehemently back. "Gods and goddesses, that boy can play the flute!"

"We don't have time for concerts!" replied Fabius. "If we're going to get out of the city, we need to go!"

"Sshhh!" said Marcus. "Let the household settle."

Gaius sat down on the bench; Marcus could feel the taut linen of the sling that supported his brother's splinted arm. They sat together in silence, feeling the heat of each other's body through the warm, soft dark. Marcus remembered a time when he was eight years old and his father had beaten him, and Gaius had sat beside him, like thisnot touching because he was bruised raw and a touch was painful; merely giving him the comfort of his presence. The love he had always felt for his brother, which had lurked baffled under his own shame and confusion, now flooded him, and with it a blind, bewildered grief that they should meet again only like this.

The house was still, still. If the neighbors had been disturbed by the concert, they had chosen to say nothing about it and gone back to sleep. Marcus at last rose and went to the storeroom next to the kitchen. Archimedes had built machines at home when he was still a child, and the storeroom still contained all his equipment. There was plenty of rope- there had been a phase when every machine was a kind of crane. Marcus took all of it, setting it in a large wicker basket, which he slung over his shoulder, then added a windlass and little wooden anchor that had been part of a hoist. Fully equipped, he went back to the courtyard. "All right," he whispered. "We can go."

As he unbolted the door, he caught a faint gleam out of the corner of his eye, and he glanced around quickly to see Quintus Fabius checking the knife. He shivered, reminded himself that the man had, after all, kept his oath, and set out.

The back streets of the Achradina lay dark and deserted under the stars. A watchdog barked as they went past, then fell silent. Marcus led the others quickly through the maze, then up along a narrow path which zigzagged up the side of the Epipolae and emerged on the plateau opposite the temple of Fortune. He kissed his fingers to the goddess and trotted past her temple to the right. They quickly passed the last of the hovels of the Tyche quarter and struck off across the bare scrubland of the heights.

"Where are we going?" asked Fabius, moving up beside him and taking advantage of the open country around them to talk.

"I'm going to let you down the sea wall just where the plateau turns inland," Marcus replied. "Since you don't have a fleet, there aren't many guards posted on it. The wall runs along the top of the cliff and the cliff's steep, but we've got plenty of rope. At the bottom there's a bit of broken rock to scramble along, and once you're over that you've only got to walk north and inland a bit to reach your camp."

"You keep saying 'you,' " observed Fabius. "It should be 'us,' shouldn't it?"

"No," replied Marcus evenly. "Not while you're besieging Syracuse."

"Marcus!" exclaimed Gaius, also moving forward to join him. "You're coming with us!"

"No."

"You are a Roman!" Fabius protested angrily. "You don't belong here!"

"I'm a slave," Marcus said harshly. "A Roman would have died at Asculum."

"Stop it!" cried Gaius. "Asculum was a long time ago. You panicked, but you were sixteen, and you'd had about three weeks' training. You should never have been in the legion to begin with. I was the one who brought you along- what happened was more my fault than yours."

"Liar," said Marcus wearily. "You know I'm the one who insisted on coming. I didn't want to stay home with Father. I'm the one who ran away, and I'm the one who chose to stay alive afterward."

"You were telling that flute player that a sixteen-year-old can't be expected to make a sensible decision about the future," said Fabius. "Why are you making an exception for yourself?"

"You speak Greek?" asked Marcus in surprise.

"A little."

"Asculum's over with," said Gaius, returning to the point. "You can come back now."

"To accept my punishment?" demanded Marcus.

"No!" said Gaius, catching his shoulder. "To come home. I'm sure you'll be pardoned. It was a long time ago, and you've redeemed yourself by helping us escape. You can go to the consul and tell him what you know about the defenses of Syracuse, and he'll give you a free pardon. I'm sure he will."

"Oh?" asked Marcus bitterly: he had thought of this. "But what if I don't tell him what I know about the defenses of Syracuse? What would happen then?"

"Why wouldn't you tell him?"

"Because I'm not going to help anyone take Syracuse," said Marcus firmly. "May the gods destroy me if I do!"

"B-but, Marcus!" stammered Gaius disbelievingly.

"You're the ones who have no business being here!" Marcus exclaimed, turning on him furiously. "Don't you see that? Rome and Carthage have both been expanding their power, neither trusts the other, they've been building up to war for a long time. Fine! All that makes sense. But now Rome makes an alliance with Messana and attacks Syracuse! Where's the sense in that?"

"It's what the Senate and People decided was best," said Fabius reprovingly. "You think you know better than they do?"

"Yes!" declared Marcus. "I know Syracuse, and you've proved to me yourselves that the Roman people don't. Some bandit spews out a brazen-throated lie about Syracuse, and the great Roman people lap it up like dogs! When Rome started this war I don't think she had any more idea what she was doing than your general did when he sent your maniple out against the catapults. Gaius, I'm sorry, but it's true."

"Marcus," said Gaius urgently, "Marcus, you must come with us. Those guards will remember you came to see us, and they'll guess that it was you who helped us. If you stay here, they'll crucify you!"

"You really don't know anything about Syracuse," Marcus told him in disgust. "It's the Carthaginians who crucify: Greeks behead or poison. But I don't think they'll do that, either. Nobody knows I saw you. As far as the guards are concerned, I was looking at the quarry. My master's well-known and trusted, and his reputation will protect me. And even if I'm caught- listen to me, Gaius! — even if I'm caught, I'm willing to pay the penalty. I deserted my post once, and I've had to live with it. I destroyed my own place in life, and crawled into slavery for a refuge. Now my place is here. I'm not deserting my post again."

"Oh, gods and goddesses!" exclaimed Gaius wildly. "Marcus, you can't do this! I thought you meant to come with us! If I'd known you planned to stay, I would never have tried to escape myself!"

"So?" replied Marcus. "I told you not to. I told you you'd be better off staying where you were. You didn't want to. But nobody forced me to help you: that was my own free choice. If I can live with the consequences, why can't you?"

"I've already had to live with having caused your death once! Don't force that on me again! You must come with us!"

"No."

"Jupiter!" exclaimed Fabius, after a silence. "All this for Syracuse. What was it your master's son said about the Alexandrians?" He repeated in heavily accented Greek, " 'So much to be spent upon air!' "

Marcus stopped walking and frowned at him. "My master's son?" he asked.

"Nephew, then," said Fabius. "Or lover, if that's what he is- I know these Greeks incline that way. The flute player."

"You didn't realize who he was!" exclaimed Marcus. He was instantly certain that his instinctive suspicion had not been wrong, after all: that if Fabius had known who was sitting there, Archimedes would have died.

"Well, who was he, then?" asked Fabius impatiently.

"My master," said Marcus with satisfaction, and began walking again.

"That boy?" said Gaius in astonishment.

"He's twenty-two," replied Marcus. "I was originally sold to his father."

"But you said- and they said at the fort- and I thought…" Gaius stopped, then suddenly burst out laughing. "Oh, Jupiter! I'd pictured him as a stern old man with terrible eyes and a white beard! A fearful magician, I thought. I was wondering what that talkative young flute player could be doing in the same house!"

Marcus was suddenly swamped by another wave of love for his brother, and he joined in the laugh. "Fearful magician?"

Gaius flipped his good hand dismissively. "You said he could number the sands and make water flow uphill. That sounds like magic to me."

Marcus laughed again. "It practically is," he said, longing suddenly to tell his brother everything he had seen and done and thought since he was enslaved. "The water-snail still seems magical to me, and I've helped build them. That's the machine that makes water run uphill, Gaius, it's a sort of- no, you have to see it, really, to appreciate it. It's-"

Gauis's laugh suddenly stopped. "Marcus, come with us!" he repeated. "Please!"

"Gaius, if I come with you, I'll die," Marcus replied wretchedly. "You know I will."

"You won't! Not if you come back as a loyal Roman who helped us escape."

"I'd have to prove it by betraying Syracuse! And I won't. I owe her too much."

"What can you possibly owe to a city where you were a slave?"

Marcus shrugged. He thought of music: the family concerts, the public concerts he'd heard while he attended the family; the plays. And there were people- neighbors, the other household slaves, Arata, Archimedes. Philyra. More than that, there was the vastness of the world he had touched, the constant stream of ideas that had flowed past him, uncomprehended and bewildering, but, now that he looked back on it, enlarging. He had hated his slavery and he hated it still- but he could not regret the rest.

"More than I can explain," he said softly. "Trying to talk about it is like trying to weigh things with a pint measure: I can't do it. But believe me, Gaius, if I betrayed Syracuse, I'd destroy whatever honor and loyalty are left in me. Don't ask me to do that."

Gaius touched his shoulder gently. "I pray to all the gods, then," he whispered, "that you're right, and that they don't suspect you. If they kill you for helping me, Marcus, I… don't know what I'll do."