of times a day. It was difficult for the guards to avoid talking to him, and, after a perfectly ordinary conversation, hard for them to maintain the same pitch of hatred. The announcement of the betrothal helped again: the garrison were as interested in it as the rest of the city, and the opportunity to question Archimedes' slave about it was too good to be missed. Marcus, once he'd got over the initial shock, willingly spoke of flutes and Alexandria, and insisted that catapults had not been the king's first concern. 'Archimedes was always going to build as many of them as were needed,' he said. 'The king didn't need to give him the girl for that. After he built the Welcomer, the king tried to pay him two hundred drachmae more than the price agreed, and he turned it down. 'I'm Syracusan,' he said. 'I won't profit from Syracuse's need.' '
The guards were impressed with this, though one asked cynically, 'And what did you think of that?'
'I was pleased about it,' said Marcus levelly. 'I've always believed a man ought to love his own city.'
When the guards had gone back to their posts, Marcus leaned back against the shed wall and smiled over the news. He remembered Archimedes beaming when he received Delia's warning, and thought of Delia applauding madly at the demonstration of mechanics. His own sense of pride and delight was curiously shapeless: it was neither a friend's nor a servant's, and though it had a touch of elder brother in it, it was not that either. As a loyal Roman he should have wanted Archimedes out of Syracuse, but the shapeless delight held no regrets. The boy had done well, and good luck to him!
The following morning, the tours began. Thirty prisoners were shackled together in groups of ten and marched together down to the harbor, where they were shown the sea walls, the merchant ships moored along the quay, trading freely despite the war, and the naval vessels drawn up in the ship sheds. Marcus was brought along to interpret. 'If there's danger of a naval assault,' the file leader in charge of the party informed the prisoners, 'the whole of the Great Harbor can be closed with a boom- but your people don't have the ships for it, do you?'
'Why are they showing us this?' one of the prisoners asked Marcus.
'You understand that, surely?' replied Marcus in disgust. 'It's so that you can tell the consul that he can't take Syracuse by starvation.'
In the afternoon, another twenty prisoners were selected and taken along the walls to the fort of the Euryalus, where they were shown the catapults. Two of the hundred-pounders were there, and the two-talenter copied from Good Health. 'We'll have a three-talenter as well, in a few days,' the fort captain told them with relish. 'The archimechanic is working on it now.'
'I thought it was going to the Hexapylon,' said Marcus.
The fort captain stared in surprise, and the file leader murmured an explanation of who Marcus was. The fort captain gave him a resentful look. 'The Hexapylon got the first one,' he admitted. 'But we've been told that ours will be better.'
'You should have asked him to do you a two-hundred-pounder instead,' said Marcus.
The fort captain hesitated, torn between the proud desire to ignore a slave's comment and the itch to have a bigger catapult than the Hexapylon. The itch won. 'Could he?' he asked eagerly.
'He certainly could,' said Marcus, 'but if he's already halfway through a three-talenter, it's a bit late to ask him.'
'Tell them he could do a two-hundred-pounder,' commanded the file leader, waving at the other prisoners.
Marcus nodded, turned to his fellow prisoners, and flatly reported that the fort was expecting a three-talenter and asking for a two-hundred-pounder next.
'Built by your former master, the flute player?' asked one of the prisoners.
'Yes,' agreed Marcus. 'He can do it, believe me.'
The prisoners looked at the ammunition heaped beside the fort's towers- hundred-pound shot, two-talent shot- and sagged. 'Why are they showing us this?' asked one angrily.
'So that we can tell the consul,' said Marcus. 'So that he knows he can't take Syracuse by storm.'
'And why do they want us to tell him that?'
Marcus stood silent for a minute, looking at the prisoners in their chains and the guardsmen in their armor. 'So that he'll offer terms for peace,' he said, and knew with a lift of the heart that it was true.
There were more tours the next day: one to the Ortygia, and one to the Hexapylon, where the three-talenter was demonstrated. Not all the prisoners were fit enough to be dragged about the city, but all of those capable of walking were shown the strength and splendor of Syracuse. They discussed it unhappily among themselves afterward, and called on Marcus for more details. When he first appeared, they had suspected him of being a planted spy, but the initial hostility of the guards and his own openness about his sympathies had convinced them that he was what he claimed to be. Like Fabius, they thought he'd gone very Greek, but they accepted that he'd been imprisoned with them because of his Roman loyalties, and believed most of what he told them.
Early the following morning, two guards he didn't know came into the shed, went down the row of prisoners until they reached Marcus, then unlocked the leg irons and told him to get up. Marcus rose slowly and stood silent, waiting for further orders, and one of the men cuffed him. 'The king wants you,' he said. 'Come on!'
He stooped quickly and picked up the cased aulos before he obeyedjust in case he never came back.
The two men marched him down to the gate house, where they locked an iron collar about his neck and fastened shackles to his wrists; he managed to slip the flute case through his belt before they snatched it away. They attached a chain to the collar, as though he were a dog, and tested it by jerking it so hard he staggered. 'I'm not going to try to escape,' he told them mildly when he'd recovered his footing.
'You don't need to be rough,' agreed the file leader in charge of the quarry, who was watching. 'He's a philhellene.'
Marcus blinked at the title: so, the guards reckoned he'd gone very Greek as well? But the strangers only glared, and one said harshly, 'He helped kill Straton,' at which the file leader could only shrug.
The two new Ortygians led Marcus out the gate into the street, then turned right toward the New Town. Marcus had expected them to go straight toward the Ortygia, and was nearly jerked off his feet again by the chain. 'Where are we going?' he asked bemusedly, but they did not answer.
They passed the theater and climbed up onto the Epipolae plateau, here an unpeopled region of dry scrub, and he realized that they were once more walking toward the Euryalus. He glanced sideways at his guards and decided not to ask any questions. He would discover the purpose of this journey soon enough.
The Euryalus stood at the highest point of the limestone island of Epipolae, a massive castle from which the land dropped steeply on two sides. They entered the courtyard to find it full of soldiers- a full battalion of two hundred and fifty-six men. Tethered near the outer gate was a white horse Marcus recognized, its harness draped with purple and studded with gold. His guards marched him over to the gate tower, then up into a guardroom. King Hieron was indeed there, discussing something with a number of high-ranking officers, none of whom Marcus knew. His guards struck the butts of their spears on the floor and stood to attention, and the king glanced over.
'Ah,' said Hieron. 'Good.' He crossed the room, drawing red-cloaked officers after him like a ship trailing seaweed, and stopped before Marcus. He regarded the shackles with raised eyebrows. 'You've been enthusiastic with the chains, haven't you?' he remarked to the guards. 'But I suppose it's for the best. Marcus Valerius, how's your voice?'
'My voice, lord?' repeated Marcus in surprise.
'I hope you haven't got a cold,' said Hieron. 'You look as though you have a fine pair of lungs. Are you usually able to make yourself heard when you need to?'
'Yes, lord,' said Marcus. Images of screaming in a bronze bull darted wildly through his mind. He did not credit them, but they were there, nonetheless.
'Good. Your people have just decided to come back this way, and I want a few words with them. Since I don't speak Latin, I need an interpreter. You occurred to me as suitable. Are you willing to translate what I say, as accurately as you can?'
Marcus shifted with relief, and the chains rattled. Most educated Romans spoke Greek; the consul certainly must. That Hieron wanted an interpreter must mean that he intended to be understood by the troops as well as the officers. If the king really meant to return him with the other prisoners, to appear now as a Syracusan interpreter might cause problems. On the other hand, he was in chains, obviously a prisoner, and his people could hardly blame him for merely interpreting what his captors said. Besides, Hieron had treated him with mercy. He still felt little joy at the thought of freedom, but he could now believe that that joy would come in time, and something was owed for mercy. 'I am willing, sir,' he said.
