"Yes, mistress," said Marcus grimly.
She smiled. "I know I can trust you," she said. "You've served us well, Marcus. Don't think I haven't noticed."
Marcus hefted his shoulders uncomfortably and looked away.
When they finally reached the king's house, Archimedes was ushered into the dining room, where the king was already reclining, along with his father-in-law, Leptines, and two army officers (one of them Dionysios), three Syracusan noblemen, and Kallippos- with Archimedes, a conventional total of nine diners. Archimedes was shown to the lowest place on the couch to the left of the table, the most junior place for the youngest guest.
Marcus was led to a workroom which adjoined the kitchen. Most of the other guests had been attended by their own slaves, and the narrow dirt-floored room was packed with a small crowd. Most were men of about Marcus' age, dressed plainly, though one pretty, long-haired boy in a fine tunic had taken the only stool and sat sniffing disdainfully at the others. Marcus returned the boy's look of contempt: there was no doubt why that one was wearing such fancy clothes.
"Sit down," said the king's doorkeeper genially; he had been the one who showed Marcus to his place. "What's that you're carrying?"
Marcus settled on the floor and placed the armful of flute cases on his lap- there were four of them. "My master's auloi," he said neutrally. "He was asked to bring them."
The pretty boy tittered. "He's the flute boy, is he?"
"That's enough!" ordered Agathon sternly. "Several of the other guests have brought instruments, too. If you give those to me, fellow, I'll see they're put safe with the others."
"I can look after them," replied Marcus.
The slaves had been provided with a plain meal of bean soup and bread, and someone helped Marcus to a bowl. He sat back and began to eat in silence, careful not to drip on the flutes.
The doorkeeper appeared in no hurry to get back to his lodge. He leaned against the storeroom wall, crossing his arms. "You usually look after his flutes?" he asked casually.
Marcus gave a grunt of assent.
"Been with your master long?"
"Been in the family about thirteen years," replied Marcus evenly.
"Heard he went out to Alexandria. You go with him?"
Marcus gave another grunt, noting to himself that Arata had been quite right: they were trying to probe him.
"I'd like to go to Alexandria," said one of the other slaves enviously. "What's it like?"
Marcus shrugged and concentrated on bean soup.
"This fellow's some kind of barbarian," remarked the boy, sneering. "He doesn't know enough Greek to describe it."
Marcus cast him an irritated glare, then returned to his soup.
"What sort of barbarian are you?" asked the doorkeeper.
"Samnite," said Marcus firmly. "And freeborn."
That was where everything began to go wrong. One of the other slaves gave an exclamation of delight and began speaking rapidly in Oscan. Marcus stared for a moment in horror. He understood Oscan, but to try to speak it would betray his complete lack of a Samnite accentwhich this speaker definitely possessed. He interrupted the flood of words with a hasty explanation, in Greek, that it had been so many years since he spoke Oscan that he'd forgotten his native tongue.
"I thought you said you'd only been a slave for thirteen years!" protested the disappointed Samnite.
"No, no, longer than that!" said Marcus. "Much longer. I had a couple of other masters- soldiers- before I was sold to my present master's father." That was true, too, though he had not had them for long.
"You were enslaved by the Romans?" asked the Samnite.
"Yes," agreed Marcus.
"May the gods destroy them!" said the Samnite. "I, also." He offered Marcus his hand.
Marcus made a vague gesture toward it and spilled soup on the flute cases. He swore. The Samnite helped him mop up; the pretty boy giggled. The doorkeeper just stood there watching with cynical eyes.
"What's your name?" asked the Samnite; and, when Marcus told him, exclaimed, "You shouldn't use the name a Roman gave you! Your father must have named you Mamertus- that is the name you should keep."
"I was sold as Marcus," said Marcus. "I can't change that now."
The Samnite made a disparaging remark about Greeks- in Oscan- then began questioning Marcus about where in Samnium he came from and when he had been enslaved. Marcus sweated and lied, horribly aware of the doorkeeper smiling. Luckily, the Samnite was soon wholly engaged in recounting his own history and did not probe Marcus'. But he could not be got rid of. Even after the other slaves settled to a discussion of the war and prices instead, the Samnite clung to Marcus' side and rambled on about the wonders of Samnium and the wickedness of the Romans. Marcus ached to tell him to be quiet, but did not dare.
After what seemed an eternity, the king's butler came in with a basin of surprisingly good strong wine for the slaves. He gave Marcus a hard look. "You're the slave of that new engineer?" he asked, and, when Marcus admitted that he was, the butler demanded furiously, "Does he always draw on the table?" which sent the pretty boy into floods of giggles. No sooner had he settled than the Samnite started up again.
After another eternity, however, another of the king's waiters appeared to announce that the guests were ready for some music. Marcus picked up the flutes and headed for the dining room in a relieved rush. He did not care where he spent the rest of the evening, so long as it was away from the Samnite- and the door-keeper.
Archimedes had not been enjoying the dinner much more than his slave. When he first arrived, Hieron had asked him how the preparations for the demonstration were going. He'd made a mistake: he'd answered. The preparations were going very well, the project was tremendously interesting, and he was ready to jump and down with excitement. He told the company all about the compound pulleys and toothed wheels, and went on to the principles of the lever and the mechanical advantages of the screw; he sketched diagrams on the table in wine, and flourished table knives and bread rolls to illustrate points. Hieron and the engineer Kallippos asked occasional informed and interested questions, so he did not at first notice that the rest of the company was regarding him as though he were a dead earwig that had turned up in their soup. When he finally did notice, it was halfway through the main course. Then he realized that he'd been speaking virtually without a pause for half an hour, that the other guests were watching him with expressions ranging from outrage to stark disbelief, and that the butler and slaves were glaring at the mess he had made on the table. He went crimson and fell silent.
He kept quiet for the rest of the meal, too embarrassed even to notice what food he was eating. Leptines the Regent and the city councillors discussed finance, with occasional interested comments from the king; the army officers and Kallippos discussed fortifications, again with occasional comments from the king. Archimedes felt ignorant, young, and extremely stupid.
Eventually, however, the slaves brought in the dessert course of apples and honeyed almonds, and Hieron sat up and poured out a few drops of unmixed wine, the offering to the gods which closed the meal. This was supposed to be the moment when the most pleasant part of the dinner party began, when the food was out of the way and the participants could sit about drinking and talking and listening to music.
"My dear friends," said Hieron, as the slaves hurried about refilling cups, "I thought that, given the tense and unhappy situation in which our lovely city finds herself, we might cheer ourselves with a bit of music. For those gifted by the Muses, making music is surely a greater pleasure even than listening to it, so, as several of you are accomplished musicians, I've invited you to bring your instruments. What do you say? Shall we brighten the night with song?"