Behind him, Chrestos was curled up on the pallet they shared, while Sosibia and her daughter shared another bed behind a curtain. But he could not sleep, so he stood there, gazing into the darkness of the courtyard below, and listening to the music.
When he had first entered the household, he had found the nightly concerts disturbing. In his own home there had not been much music. His mother had sung sometimes while she worked, and he and his brother had sung in the fields, but apart from that, music had been something one paid others to perform. He had bought some whenever he had money, because he loved it; now he could not afford it, and had it all the time, for nothing. At first he had resented his own pleasure in it: surely it degraded him that he enjoyed any aspect of his slavery? But he'd got used to music, accustomed to having it around, sensitive to its patterns and undertones. He'd almost forgotten what life was like without it.
Philyra sang on, her voice rising clear and sweet into the dark, old songs from the countryside, new songs from the royal courts, love songs and hymns to the gods. Marcus stood silently at the window, listening and watching the stars above the rooftops of Syracuse. After a while she stopped singing and simply played, passing the tune from right hand to left and back again, and he sat down against the bedroom wall, but kept listening, wondering why this ripple of notes should say so many things more than any human tongue.
At last Philyra stopped, yawned, and sat silent, her kithara upon her lap. Marcus stood up hurriedly, so that he could watch her go- but she did not. He understood then that the music had simply been to amuse herself while she waited for her brother to come home. He hesitated, nervous of approaching her. But what harm would it do for a household slave to advise her to go to bed? He turned from the window, crept out of the room- silently, so as not to disturb Sosibia- and down the stairs.
'Mistress?' he called, stepping out into the courtyard, and even in the dark he saw how she jumped.
'What do you want?' she called, guilt from her suspicions of him adding sharpness to her tone.
Marcus stopped a few feet away, faceless in the dark. 'Mistress, don't wait up all night,' he said gently. 'Your brother may not be back for hours yet.'
She made an exasperated noise. 'He's bound to be back soon! He's been gone hours already.'
'Probably he's treating this man to an evening's entertainment. That means he may not be back until after midnight. There's no reason for you to wait up. I'll open the door for him when he comes.'
Night hid Philyra's frown, but not the suspicion in her voice when she said, 'He never used to go out drinking until after midnight!'
Innocent! thought Marcus affectionately. To expect that he'd keep the same hours after three years on his own in a famously luxurious city! 'He was often out late in Alexandria,' he told her. 'And tonight he'll have to go along with whatever the other fellow wants, to be sure of his help. It's probably a good sign that he's late: means there's something on offer.'
For a moment, Philyra said nothing. She told herself that Marcus was implying that her brother had picked up expensive habits in Alexandria, and that this was exactly what Marcus would say, to account for the missing money. 'What was he doing out late in Alexandria?' she asked at last, in a brittle voice. Truth or lies, she didn't really want to know, but it was unfair to go on suspecting Marcus without knowing what he had to say.
But Marcus answered at once, and mildly, 'Nothing you need to worry about, mistress. He had a pack of friends, and they'd sit about drinking and talking and… making music, half the night. When there wasn't a lecture on next day, they'd see the sun up.'
It still didn't sound like her brother. He'd never been inclined to either drinking or talking, and he'd never had any close friends. She tried to think of a question that would catch Marcus in a lie, but at that moment there was a quick rap on the house door.
Marcus opened it, and Archimedes stumbled in, smelling of wine.
He had not stayed at the Arethusa for the inevitable conclusion of the evening. His father's impending death had shriveled up desire, and whatever their other talents, the Arethusa's flute girls hadn't played the flute very well. It had set his teeth on edge to listen to them. In another situation, he might have offered to play himself and let them just dance, but to have made the offer then would have invited the lewdest of ribaldry. So he had done calculations until his companions were provided for, then excused himself with apologies, paid the reckoning, and come home.
'Can you fetch me a light?' he asked Marcus breathlessly, pushing the flute girls' wreath of wilted parsley farther back onto his head. 'I need to write something down.'
Philyra jumped up and hugged him, but he shook her off hastily. 'Careful!' he exclaimed. 'You'll smear it!'
Marcus gave a snort and hurried off.
'Smear what?' she demanded.
'Some calculations I was doing. Marcus! Is there anything to write with?'
'You were doing calculations?' Philyra asked in bewilderment.
He nodded; the gesture was revealed by the sudden glow of the lamp Marcus had just returned with. Archimedes held his left arm toward the light: it was covered with figures sketched in lampblack.
'Medion!' exclaimed Philyra in horror. 'It's gone all over your new cloak!'
'Don't worry,' he said reassuringly, 'I can still read it.'
Since Marcus had not brought anything to write with, Archimedes picked up the laundry board, found a lump of chalk, and began to copy the figures from his arm. 'I'm going to have to correct most of these when I can look at a smaller catapult,' he told the other two, busily writing. 'I couldn't remember most of the dimensions to scale them up. But this should be close enough to let me order the wood, which will speed things up.'
'You got the job,' observed Marcus with satisfaction, and Archimedes nodded absently, frowning at his chalked calculations.
'I thought the man you were seeing tonight was just a soldier!' exclaimed Philyra.
'Oh,' said her brother vaguely, 'yes. But he asked about who I should talk to and his captain wanted to see me. They really do want engineers. I'm to build stone-hurlers, starting with a one-talent machine.'
'What's the pay?' demanded Marcus.
'Uh? To be arranged. Nothing, until the first catapult is complete. But there doesn't seem to be anyone else in the city at the minute who can build big stone-hurlers, and the captain said that they're what the tyrant wants most, so I think it will be good. I'm seeing Leptines the Regent about it tomorrow morning.'
'Oh, Medion!' cried Philyra, torn between delight and exasperation. 'You must give me your cloak at once. You can't go see the regent all covered in lampblack!'
'You can't start doing laundry at this time of night!' protested Marcus.
Archimedes glanced up, finally realized that his sister had been waiting for him, and blinked. 'Philyrion darling,' he said firmly, 'you should be in bed.' Then he noticed the kithara she was clutching and added, 'It's too late for music, too. But tomorrow night we can have a concert.'
'To celebrate your new job!' said Philyra, happily dismissing the state of his cloak. 'Mama and Papa will be so pleased!'
The following morning Archimedes reported his success to his parents; they were, as his sister had expected, pleased. After the first unanswerable questions about pay, however, Phidias asked wistfully, 'And will it leave you much time for study?'
'I don't know,' replied Archimedes awkwardly. He did not want to admit to his father that he foresaw scholarship squeezed to the edges of his life. 'I think- I think not right at the moment, Papa. Because of the war. I will do everything I can to make sure I still have time to talk with you.'
'Oi moi, the war!' sighed Phidias. 'I pray that our king finds some way to get us out of it soon. It will be a bad war, my Archimedion, a very bad war. Our lovely city is like a dove in the pit with two fighting cocks. I am glad that I at least won't have to see what happens to her. My dear boy, you must look after your mother and your sister for me!'
Archimedes took his father's trembling hand. 'I will,' he promised solemnly. 'But I hope, Papa, that King Hieron does find some way out of the war. They say he's a wise man: he may yet bring peace.'
'He's ruled well,' Phidias conceded- reluctantly, for he had always supported the city's turbulent longings for democracy. Even Hieron's enemies, however, had to admit that he had ruled well. He had come to power eleven years before in a bloodless military coup, and had since governed with moderation, humanity, and a strict regard for the law- much to the surprise of the citizens, who did not expect such behavior from a tyrant.
