Gillian Bradshaw: The Sand-Reckoner

"Because when anybody set a mathematical problem, he was always the first to find the answer," said Marcus, startled. Then, "How…"

"I thought it might be that," said Hieron. "Alpha. Not a bad nickname, and I need one for him. His proper name doesn't slip off the tongue easily enough. No, I spared you because- you must excuse me- I had a use for you. You're the only Hellenized Roman I've ever encountered."

Marcus stared.

"I know. Greek is the first language your people study, though most of them are very bad at it. Your coins, when you do coin silver, are based on ours. Your pottery, fashions, furniture, and so forth all mimic ours. You hire Greek architects to build Greek-style temples and fill them with Greek statues of the gods- often of Greek gods. You worship Apollo, don't you? But it's all shallow, like a film of water over granite. A bit of gloss on your own nature, which is hard, brutal, and profoundly suspicious of imagination. A Roman gentleman may read our poetry, listen to our music: he would consider it menial to write or play himself. Our philosophy is condemned as atheistic nonsense, our sports as immoral, and our politics- well, tyranny is bad, and democracy unspeakably worse. Am I being unfair?"

Marcus said nothing. He was stung, but suspicious. With a man like Hieron it seemed better to find out what the object of the speech was before responding.

Hieron smiled. "I'm glad you can be cautious," he remarked. "Very well, I'll put your people's side of things for you. You are also courageous, disciplined, pious, honorable, and extraordinarily tenacious. There is no hope that we can deal with you as Greeks elsewhere deal with barbarians: pay you off and persuade you to go away. You have taken the whole of Italy, and if you decide to take Sicily as well, there is nothing Syracuse can do to stop you. Carthage, too, is growing too powerful for us." He got up suddenly and went to the open door, where he stood leaning against the frame and looking across the plateau toward the city. "Before Alexander conquered the world," he said softly, "men lived in cities. Now they live in kingdoms, and cities must preserve themselves as they can. I've tried aligning Syracuse with Carthage, but there's not much hope there: the hatred is too old. That leaves Rome. But I find Romans… difficult."

"You managed Appius Claudius easily enough," said Marcus sourly. "Three falls and he was out."

Hieron glanced around, then turned back from the view and regarded him with a smile. "You like wrestling, do you?" he asked. "I was never any good at it."

"You obliged Appius Claudius to speak to you," said Marcus resolutely. "He couldn't refuse to parley about prisoners. You got him to accept me an interpreter- and then you pitched every speech over his head directly to the legions. He's a senator and a patrician; they're plebeians, like me. You slipped your finger into the difference and wriggled it around like a man prying a brick out of a rotten wall. You said he was arrogant and incompetent, and that he unjustly blamed them for failures that were his own. You said he risked all their lives when he ignored Carthage, and that he did it to further his own ambitions. And then you said you were an honest and decent man and that you honored the Roman people. He had no answer to any of it. And the Roman people in arms drank it down and cheered for you. Claudius won't get a triumph, and won't be reelected to command the Roman forces in Sicily."

Hieron drew a deep breath and let it out again slowly. "On the other hand," he commented, "the Senate and people of Rome will undoubtedly decide that they have not sent enough troops to deal with the situation in Sicily. The city of Syracuse is altogether more formidable than they first believed, and Carthage hasn't been touched yet. They will never retreat, will they? So they will send more men, under a new commander. Who? What I want, what I was working to achieve- I admit it- was to discredit the Claudian faction, and get a moderate put in charge of the war. But maybe the Roman people, in their usual indomitable style, will pick another Claudius, or an Aemilius, which I believe would be almost as bad. Would it be?"

"I don't know," said Marcus helplessly. "It's been a long time since I was in Rome. Yes, probably. The Aemilii and the Claudii were always allies, always pressing for conquests to the south."

Hieron nodded. "Even if the next general isn't an Aemilius or a Claudius, the chances are I won't know what faction he does represent, and even if I do, there'll be little enough for me to work on. I don't understand Romans. For example, I didn't expect to get the Echetlans for nothing. Greeks would have asked money for them: honor is a fine thing, but so are ransoms. With Greeks I know where I am. Romans are more difficult- and yet I must understand, if I'm to find a safe passage to peace for Syracuse. So you see"- he came away from the door and crouched to meet Marcus' stare eye to eye- "a Hellenized Roman, such as yourself, is potentially very useful to me."

"Useful as what?" asked Marcus harshly.

"Not as a spy, so put it out of your head! Agathon said you were so bad at lying it was pitiable, and he was right. No. You're different from the rest; your Hellenism isn't just a gloss. Your sympathies are genuinely divided between us and your own people. Uncomfortable for you, no doubt, but if we can get peace, or even a solid truce, invaluable to me. You could explain your own people to me, and help me make them understand us. This is what I would like you to do. Go back to your own people, get a feel for them again, wait till Syracuse is out of this war- and I pray to all the gods I can get her out soon! — and then come back here. I would give you a job as Latin interpreter, at once, at whatever salary you think is right. We are going to be dealing with your people for many years to come, and we need to understand them."

Marcus stared at him for another moment, his face hot. Then he said. "I would like that very much, lord. Only I don't know that I will be alive tomorrow."

Hieron sighed. "That, of course, is the problem. I wish you had been a bit less forthright with the consul. I wish I dared keep you here- but I worked quite hard to expose Claudius, and too much depends on it to allow him a chance to cover himself. But listen- keep what I have said in mind, and if you can, lie. I do not mind in the least if you say I threatened you or maltreated you to make you speak as you did. If cursing Syracuse will keep you alive, curse her. The gods laugh at forced oaths. It would not be treachery."

"I will try," whispered Marcus, "but…"

From the courtyard came a sound of trumpets, and then the sweet notes of an aulos and the beat of marching feet. The other prisoners were arriving, and it would soon be time to go.

Hieron sighed again, then added, in a very low voice, "Try. And if you fail- I have a gift for you."

He reached into a fold of his cloak and brought out a small, fat flask of black-glazed pottery. It was about the size of a child's fist, and it had been stoppered with a piece of wood shoved into a fragment of rag. He offered it to Marcus in silence, and Marcus took it slowly, with hands that were suddenly cold.

"It takes about half an hour to work," said the king. "A third of the contents will dull pain, if it's merely a question of flogging or beating. If it's death, drink it all."

"Lord," said Marcus, "you have twice showed me mercy, and I am grateful."

Hieron shook his head angrily. "I spared you because I wished to make use of you, and this mercy is one I pray to the gods you will not need. Do you have somewhere to hide it? Good. Then I wish you joy, Marcus Valerius, and I hope that we will meet again."

Marcus swallowed and nodded, then said, "Tell Archimedes and his household that I pray for the safety of Syracuse. And thank you."