ran one plump finger down the shelves, then put the scroll of Euclid's Conics back in its place. 'The thing I don't know,' he went on quietly, 'is whether he's merely very good, or invaluable. If he's merely good, treating him generously should be enough to keep him. But if he's what I think he might be, he'll be off to Alexandria eventually however much I pay him- unless I take steps to prevent it. Ptolemy can offer him the Museum, and that's something for which I have no substitute. So perhaps I would do better to save my time and money, treat him as nothing out of the ordinary, and profit by what he's willing to do before he leaves. Or perhaps- perhaps I should decide to keep him whatever he costs, and start chaining him to Syracuse now, before he can realize his own value and assert his freedom.' Hieron dropped back down on the couch and put one foot on the cushions beside Delia. 'So, what do you think, sister? Is he merely a clever young man, or is he inspired by the Muses?'
'I don't know,' said Delia, low-voiced in confusion. She had imagined herself drawing her brother's attention to merit, and watching proudly as the merit was rewarded. Hieron, however, was not talking about reward, but of use, even of exploitation. She remembered Archimedes laughing with excitement at the thought of what his friends in Alexandria were doing, and suddenly regretted that she had mentioned him to her brother at all.
'What's the matter?' asked the king.
'You talk about him as though he were a slave,' said Delia uncomfortably.
Hieron shrugged. ' 'One man is my master,' ' he quoted softly,
' 'Custom, yours- and he masters a myriad others too.
Some are slaves to tyrants, tyrants to fear.
Men are slaves to kings, kings, to the gods, and gods, to Necessity: for Necessity, you see, endows all things with natures great or less and so forever is master of us all.'
'Although,' he added, in a more normal tone, 'I didn't feel like a king's slave even before I was a king myself, and tyrant as I may be, I don't think I'm slave to fear. But I'll grant the poet Necessity and the gods.' He smiled at his sister. 'Don't worry,' he added. 'I'm not going to hurt your fellow aulist. In fact, I've invited him to dinner.'
Archimedes was late for the dinner party. he had spent the day at the naval docks, preparing his demonstration of ideal mechanics; when he did not come home to change his clothes late in the afternoon, Marcus was sent to fetch him. The slave found his master covered in dirt and soot and smelling strongly of mutton-fat pulley grease, perched on the roof of a ship shed fixing a pulley to the main roof beam.
Marcus hauled him down and bore him off to the public baths, ignoring the enthusiastic attempts to explain the system of compound pulleys and wheels- 'toothed wheels, Marcus, so they won't slip'- by which Archimedes expected to move a ship. He saw to it that his master was washed and barbered, then brought him home, where a frantic Philyra was waiting.
'You're going to be late!' she told him furiously. 'You're going to be late for dinner with the king! Medion, how do you expect him to pay you if you're going to be rude to him?'
'But he's the one who ordered the demonstration!' protested Archimedes, blinking.
Philyra gave a shriek of frustration and hurled his good tunic at him. 'You never care about anything except your stupid ideas!'
Arata, calmer by nature and more resigned, ignored her children's quarrel and drew Marcus aside. 'You go with him tonight,' she ordered quietly. 'But be careful.'
Marcus looked at her with narrow-eyed reserve. He'd guessed that he'd be ordered to accompany Archimedes to the king's house. A guest did not arrive at a dinner party carrying his own flutes, like a hired musician: a slave had to act as porter, and he was the most natural slave for the job. But- be careful? 'Is there some special reason for caution, mistress?' he asked.
Arata sighed and brushed back a wisp of graying hair. 'I don't know,' she said slowly. 'But- there have been these people asking questions about my Archimedion. I suppose it's just because of the catapults, and understandable- but I don't like it, Marcus. Who can tell what's in the mind of a tyrant? Watch what you say to them in the king's house.'
'Yes, mistress,' said Marcus grimly.
She smiled. 'I know I can trust you,' she said. 'You've served us well, Marcus. Don't think I haven't noticed.'
Marcus hefted his shoulders uncomfortably and looked away.
When they finally reached the king's house, Archimedes was ushered into the dining room, where the king was already reclining, along with his father-in-law, Leptines, and two army officers (one of them Dionysios), three Syracusan noblemen, and Kallippos- with Archimedes, a conventional total of nine diners. Archimedes was shown to the lowest place on the couch to the left of the table, the most junior place for the youngest guest.
Marcus was led to a workroom which adjoined the kitchen. Most of the other guests had been attended by their own slaves, and the narrow dirt-floored room was packed with a small crowd. Most were men of about Marcus' age, dressed plainly, though one pretty, long-haired boy in a fine tunic had taken the only stool and sat sniffing disdainfully at the others. Marcus returned the boy's look of contempt: there was no doubt why that one was wearing such fancy clothes.
'Sit down,' said the king's doorkeeper genially; he had been the one who showed Marcus to his place. 'What's that you're carrying?'
Marcus settled on the floor and placed the armful of flute cases on his lap- there were four of them. 'My master's auloi,' he said neutrally. 'He was asked to bring them.'
The pretty boy tittered. 'He's the flute boy, is he?'
'That's enough!' ordered Agathon sternly. 'Several of the other guests have brought instruments, too. If you give those to me, fellow, I'll see they're put safe with the others.'
'I can look after them,' replied Marcus.
The slaves had been provided with a plain meal of bean soup and bread, and someone helped Marcus to a bowl. He sat back and began to eat in silence, careful not to drip on the flutes.
The doorkeeper appeared in no hurry to get back to his lodge. He leaned against the storeroom wall, crossing his arms. 'You usually look after his flutes?' he asked casually.
Marcus gave a grunt of assent.
'Been with your master long?'
'Been in the family about thirteen years,' replied Marcus evenly.
'Heard he went out to Alexandria. You go with him?'
Marcus gave another grunt, noting to himself that Arata had been quite right: they were trying to probe him.
'I'd like to go to Alexandria,' said one of the other slaves enviously. 'What's it like?'
Marcus shrugged and concentrated on bean soup.
'This fellow's some kind of barbarian,' remarked the boy, sneering. 'He doesn't know enough Greek to describe it.'
Marcus cast him an irritated glare, then returned to his soup.
'What sort of barbarian are you?' asked the doorkeeper.
'Samnite,' said Marcus firmly. 'And freeborn.'
That was where everything began to go wrong. One of the other slaves gave an exclamation of delight and began speaking rapidly in Oscan. Marcus stared for a moment in horror. He understood Oscan, but to try to speak it would betray his complete lack of a Samnite accentwhich this speaker definitely possessed. He interrupted the flood of words with a hasty explanation, in Greek, that it had been so many years since he spoke Oscan that he'd forgotten his native tongue.
'I thought you said you'd only been a slave for thirteen years!' protested the disappointed Samnite.
'No, no, longer than that!' said Marcus. 'Much longer. I had a couple of other masters- soldiers- before I was sold to my present master's father.' That was true, too, though he had not had them for long.
'You were enslaved by the Romans?' asked the Samnite.
'Yes,' agreed Marcus.
'May the gods destroy them!' said the Samnite. 'I, also.' He offered Marcus his hand.
Marcus made a vague gesture toward it and spilled soup on the flute cases. He swore. The Samnite helped him mop up; the pretty boy giggled. The doorkeeper just stood there watching with cynical eyes.
'What's your name?' asked the Samnite; and, when Marcus told him, exclaimed, 'You shouldn't use the name
