He realized with a shock that he had not thought about any problem in geometry since his father died. He had sworn to Phidias that he would never give up mathematics for catapults, and yet he had been devoting himself absolutely to the engines of death. He took his hands off his face and stared at the dust beside him. Nice, even dust. He felt about at the roadside, discovered a twig, and began to sketch.
Archimedes was not home by suppertime, so the women of the familywho disapproved of the hours he'd been working- sent Marcus to the Hexapylon with orders to fetch the master home whether the catapult was ready or not. Marcus set out in a hurry, hungry and impatient; he took a shortcut through the back streets and up the edge of the Epipolae plateau, missed his master, and arrived on the main road just as the Roman prisoners were marched past on their way into the city.
News of the assault had yet to penetrate the Achradina, and it was not at first clear to Marcus what this procession was. The people of the Tyche quarter, the poor inhabitants of the dirty shacks, had gathered along the road to watch, and Marcus made his way into the line to see what they were staring at. A double file of Syracusan soldiers, marching to the flute, enclosed an unsteady line of men in plain tunics who carried stretchers laden with wounded. Marcus surveyed them in surprise, then asked the man nearest him what was happening.
The man, an elderly goatherd, spat and replied, 'Romans- and may the gods grant that we see the rest of them the same way!'
Marcus looked back at his countrymen in shocked silence. They had been disarmed, but they were not bound, and the injuries of the wounded had been tended; only the expression of bewildered shame on each face betrayed their status. The question 'How?' formed in his throat, but he did not utter it, aware as never before of the accent that would mark him out.
The procession of stretchers passed, and was followed by a small group of walking wounded. Afterward it seemed utterly inevitable to Marcus that the third man among them should be his brother Gaius.
Gaius had his right arm in a sling, and his tunic, unpinned on the right shoulder, showed that his chest was bandaged as well. His face was white with pain, but he walked steadily- until his eyes, brushing blindly over the faces that watched him, snagged on Marcus'. Then he stumbled. The Syracusan soldier next to him caught his good arm to stop him falling, and Gaius gasped and stood still, sweating and shuddering with pain from some injury that had been jolted. His eyes, recovering before the rest of him, sought out Marcus again, in amazement and disbelief.
Marcus stared silently back. A part of him seemed to be standing somewhere beyond them both, observing the meeting; another part burned and froze with shame. Gaius had no doubt believed him dead. He should have been.
'Marcus?' whispered Gaius; Marcus could not hear his name, but recognized its shape on his brother's lips. He did not respond; instead he made himself glance over his shoulder as though to see who this stranger could be speaking to.
The Syracusan soldier beside Gaius asked him, in Greek, if he could walk. Gaius replied, 'I not speak Greek,' and began walking again. As he passed Marcus he glanced back, his expression stunned.
Marcus forced himself to watch the rest of the procession, though his legs were shaking. He was astonished that no one turned to him and asked, 'Why was that man staring at you?' He realized later that that meeting of eyes, which for him had burned like the sun, must to others have appeared as nothing more than the blank stare of a wounded man encountering the curious gaze of an onlooker.
When the noise of flute and marching feet had faded away down the road, and the small crowd had dispersed, Marcus went on toward the Hexapylon, then stopped and sat down on a stone at the edge of the road. His mind was in such a chaos of shame and astonishment and excitement that it was several minutes before he was aware of any one thought or feeling. Gaius, alive and in Syracuse! Gaius had seen him, knew he was here. What was he to do?
'Marcus?' said a voice just beside him. He looked up with a guilty start and found the guardsman Straton standing over him. He stared stupidly: it was not anyone he'd expected.
'I thought it was you,' said Straton. 'What's the matter? You look ill.'
Marcus forced himself to stand and struggled to collect his wits. 'I ran too fast for the heat,' he said. 'I'll be fine in a minute. Are you coming from the Hexapylon?'
Straton nodded. 'Taking a message back to the Ortygia,' he explained. 'Did your master leave something at the fort?'
'Isn't he there?' asked Marcus, surprised.
Straton was equally surprised. 'He left hours ago! Isn't he home?'
When Marcus explained his own errand, the soldier blew out his cheeks and rolled his eyes. 'I hope nothing's happened to him!' he exclaimed. 'The king wouldn't trade him for a battalion, and rightly so. Those catapults of his are worth one. You heard the Romans assaulted the walls?'
'I saw the prisoners on the road,' replied Marcus cautiously.
Straton grinned. 'All that's left of two maniples,' he said proudly. 'The catapults did that. You should have seen the two-talenter!' He punched a palm with a fist. 'Ten or more of them down with every stone! What a test- firing! The rest of them are camped out there, thinking about it. If they have any sense they'll leave Syracuse alone now.'
'What will happen to the prisoners?' asked Marcus, still too shaken to wonder if such a blunt question was wise.
Straton, however, had forgotten all about Marcus's dubious nationality and was too preoccupied with triumph to be suspicious. 'They'll be locked up in the Athenian quarry,' he said. 'The king gave orders that they're to be treated well; I'm sure he has plans for them. He wanted prisoners.- Do you suppose your master's all right?'
'He's probably stopped to draw circles,' said Marcus. 'He does that sometimes.' He turned from the Hexapylon and began walking back along the road into the city.
Straton followed, spear slung across both shoulders. 'Will he be able to make a three-talenter?'
'Yes.'
'What about a four-talenter?'
'Probably.'
'A five-talenter?'
Marcus glared. 'You've heard him yourself! He can build them as big as wood and iron and strings will stand. That's probably a lot bigger than anybody wants. But iron will give out before Archimedes' ingenuity does.'
Straton laughed. 'I believe you! He earned me a month's pay when he moved that ship. I boast now about knowing him.'
Marcus grunted. Archimedes' fame had been growing ever since the demonstration. All the shopkeepers and neighbors had become remarkably polite. Marcus didn't like it: they always asked about catapults. Marcus imagined a two-talent stone smashing into his brother's arm, and winced.
Straton kicked a loose stone in the road, then said, 'There was a matter my captain asked me to sound you out about, if I could. Your master's sister: is she promised to anyone?'
Marcus' head lifted with a jerk and he stared at the soldier. Straton gave an embarrassed grin and hefted his shoulders. 'See,' he said, 'the captain's not married. He noticed your young mistress, and thinks she's charming. He's a fine man, and the king thinks highly of him. It would be a good match.'
'The house is in mourning,' said Marcus.
'Well, yes,' conceded Straton. 'The captain really just wants to know if it's any good him talking to your master when the period of mourning is over.'
Marcus imagined Philyra marrying Dionysios son of Chairephon. A good match. An officer with a responsible position and the king's favor, not too old, well liked by his subordinates… musical, too. He thought of Dionysios singing while Philyra's angular body folded about the lute- thought of her low voice that blended with the swift intricacies of the music, her hip outlined against the thin tunic, her hair, her smile, her bright eyes- gone? Out of the house, out of his life.
He had always known she would go one day. Stupid to have thought about her as he had; stupid to feel now this utter desolation. Stupid to worry about a future he might not live to see.
He realized on the last thought, with a chill of pure dread, that he did mean to do something about Gaius.
