Gillian Bradshaw: The Sand-Reckoner

Archimedes too was keenly aware of his slave's evasion. He cleared his throat. "If you really believe that Marcus is a Roman- though why you should expect a Roman to be a slave I don't know- we can go see whoever is responsible for deciding about such things," he offered. "On the other hand…" He dug into his purse and pulled out two silver staters- two-drachma pieces, each one worth more than a day's wage for a mercenary. "It's getting late, and I want to go home to my family, not hang about the magistrates' courts." He held out the coins toward the Tarentine: they gleamed in his palm, fresh-minted silver stamped with the head of King Ptolemy of Egypt.

The Tarentine just stared at them. The Syracusan soldier, however, hurried over and took the coins with a grin. The customs official also hurried over, sucking his teeth. He looked a question at the Syracusan. The Syracusan grinned again and declared easily, "We'll split it three ways."

The Tarentine gave Archimedes a black glare. But the other two were happy to take the money and forget about Marcus, and he didn't quite dare override them. "You can't split two staters three ways!" he snapped instead.

Archimedes forced himself to smile, though the effort nearly choked him. "Of course you can," he said. "It makes eight obols each if you do. But here." He pulled out another coin, identical to the first two. "Good luck to the defenders of the city!"

The Tarentine snatched the coin with a look of pure hatred and strode off toward the nearest gate. His comrade shrugged, gave Archimedes a look of apology, and turned to the customs official with the other two staters. Archimedes limped over to Marcus.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

Marcus rubbed his bruise once more, then shook his head. He got slowly to his feet, scowling. "May the gods destroy that Tarentine filth in the worst way!" he muttered. "Three staters tipped into the sewer!"

Archimedes slapped him across the face, anger and relief adding force to the blow. "You worthless lump!" he exclaimed in a vehement whisper. "You might have been sent to the quarries! Why didn't you say what he told you to?"

Marcus looked away, now rubbing the slap. "I'm not his slave," he declared.

"Sometimes I wish you weren't mine, either!"

"Sometimes I do too!" replied Marcus, looking back and meeting his master's eyes.

Archimedes let out his breath in a hiss. "Well, you nearly got away from me there, didn't you? That fellow wanted you chained up cutting stone till the war ended, whatever your god-hated nation is, and you certainly did everything you could to encourage him. Herakles! I should have let him take you! Why couldn't you have called him 'sir' and lowered your eyes when he talked to you, like a good slave?"

"I'm freeborn," said Marcus sullenly. "I've never crawled to you and your father, so why should I crawl to some Tarentine without a house or half acre to his name?"

"You and your free birth!" exclaimed Archimedes in disgust. "I'm freeborn and a citizen, and I don't quarrel with mercenaries." He was on the point of adding, "Anyway, I don't know why I should believe in your free birth, when you can't decide whether it's free Sabine or free Samnite!" when he noticed that the customs official was walking off while the remaining soldier stood listening. He swallowed the words. They were pointless, anyway. No one born to slavery could ever have been as obstinate, awkward, and proud as Marcus.

"There wouldn't have been any trouble if we'd been seen first," growled Marcus, still defending himself. "They wouldn't've had time for it. And we would have been first, if you hadn't been too busy drawing circles to pay attention." He glanced at the scuffed and scratched quayside and corrected himself: "Drawing cubes."

"Cuboids," said Archimedes wearily. He gazed at the half-eradicated drawings, then started, grabbed at his belt, and exclaimed, "I've lost my compasses!"

Marcus glanced around and quickly retrieved the compasses from the ground beside the luggage. Archimedes seized them gratefully and began checking them for damage.

"That thing looks sharp," said the Syracusan soldier, coming over. "Lucky you dropped it. If it'd been in your belt when Philonides knocked you down, it would've speared you. That leg all right?"

Archimedes blinked, then glanced at his grazed knee. It had stopped bleeding. "Yes," he said. He put the compasses through his belt.

The soldier snorted at this piece of folly, but offered to help with the luggage. The guardsman was, Archimedes noticed, about his own age, a wide-shouldered man with a close-clipped curly beard and a pleasant, shrewd-eyed face. For all his whispered jokes to his comrade earlier, he seemed genuinely to want to be friendly now. Archimedes accepted the offer.

With Marcus carrying one end of the chest, the soldier the other, and Archimedes trying rather ineffectually to help in the middle, they started toward the gate. "Thanks for the money," said the soldier. "My name's Straton, by the way, son of Metrodoros. When you come to enlist, mention me and I'll see that you're looked after."

Archimedes blinked again, then remembered the customs official's assumption that he'd returned to fight for his city. He was silent for a moment. He had no plans to enlist; on the other hand, some advice from a friendly source in the city garrison would be very welcome. "I, uh, wasn't planning to enlist, exactly," he said hesitantly. "I, uh, thought the king would want engineers. Do you know how I should go about asking for a job as one?"

Straton glanced at the wicker basket strapped to the chest- the big bucket! — and smiled to himself. "You know anything about catapults and siege engines?" he asked.

"Um, well," said Archimedes, "I never actually made one. But I know how they work."

Straton smiled again. "Well, you can talk to the king about it, of course," he said. "He might want people. I don't know."

Marcus laughed. The soldier's smile vanished, but he said nothing.

"Is King Hieron in the city now?" asked Archimedes earnestly.

King Hieron, Straton informed him, was off with the army, besieging the city of Messana. The man in charge in Syracuse was the king's father-in-law, Leptines. Straton wasn't sure whether Archimedes should approach Leptines or whether he'd do better to go north to Messana and speak to the king himself. He'd ask around. Would Archimedes like to meet him the following evening, for a drink? He'd be posted to the docks again all day, but his shift finished at dusk, and they could meet at the gate. Archimedes thanked him and accepted the invitation.

They had passed the gate by this time, and they set the heavy chest down in the narrow dirt street on the other side. "Where are you going?" Straton asked.

"Other side of the Achradina," Archimedes supplied at once. "Near the Lion Fountain."

"You don't want to carry this all that way," said Straton authoritatively. "Gelon the Baker down the road has a donkey he'd loan you for a few coppers."

Archimedes thanked him and went off to see about the donkey. Marcus started to sit down on the chest; Straton caught his arm. "Just a minute!" he said sharply.

The slave's face went blank, and he stood perfectly still, making no effort to retrieve his arm from the other's grip. The two men were much of a height, and they looked directly into each other's eyes. It was beginning to get dark, and behind them the new guard shift was closing the sea gate of Syracuse.

"I'm not Philonides," said the soldier quietly, "and I don't beat other men's slaves, but you deserve a thrashing. I don't care what sort of Italian you are, but just at the moment the city doesn't like any of your nation, and if we'd gone to a magistrate, you wouldn't have escaped without a beating at the least. Your master got you out of a nasty hole there- and in return you were insolent to him. I don't like to see a slave laugh at his master. Plenty of other people feel the same way, and some are like Philonides."