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
