The party naturally agreed, and presently a number of slaves, including Marcus, hurried in with boxes or canvas-wrapped bundles. Archimedes was surprised to see that Leptines the Regent was handed a kithara and Kallippos a lyre. One of the city councillors had a barbitos- a bass lyre- and one of the army officers a second kithara. Archimedes himself was the only aulist. He took his flute cases nervously, then shot Marcus a startled look: the cases were sticky, as though something had been spilled on them. But the slave was at his most impassive and didn't respond to the look by so much as a blink. Archimedes hesitated, then opened all four sticky cases, inserted reeds in all four auloi, and tied on his cheek strap.
"Captain Dionysios," said Hieron, smiling, "I know you have a very fine voice. Perhaps you could favor us with… what about the 'Swallow Song'? We all know that, don't we?"
Everyone did. Dionysios son of Chairephon, looking slightly less comfortable in the king's house than he had at the Arethusa, stood up, waited for the scuffle of the instrumentalists to abate, then raised his head and began the old folk song:
"Come, come, swallow,
Come bring back the Spring!
Bring us the best season,
White-belly, black-wing!"
Marcus had succeeded in slipping out the far door into a garden, and when the music started he sat down beneath a date palm to listen. The night air was pleasantly cool after the hot sweatiness of the workroom, and the singing carried out clearly from the lamplit dining room. Dionysios did indeed have a fine voice, a clear strong tenor. Leptines' accompaniment was a bit too formal for a folk song, but the other players caught the spirit of the music quickly, especially the barbitos player, who was very good. Archimedes, Marcus noted, had chosen the tenor and soprano auloi: tenor for the melody, soprano for an embroidery of swallowlike chirps which swirled and swooped above the melodic line. It went well, and when the song ended, there was a ripple of applause.
There was a rustling among the ornamental shrubs as the next song started, and someone else came through the dark garden; the care with which the figure eased its way through the under-growth made Marcus certain that it was a woman even when she was no more than a shadow on the other side of the courtyard. She did not notice Marcus until she almost stumbled over him. Then she demanded in an angry whisper, "Who are you?"
Delia was in a temper. She had spent much of the afternoon resenting the convention that barred her from attending the dinner party. The whole world might agree that respectable girls did not recline at table for men's parties, still less come in after the meal was finished and offer to play the flute- but she differed with the world on this and many other points. Now she had come quietly to listen to the music, and here was somebody or other standing watch to prevent her!
But the lumpish shape under the date palm whispered back, "Excuse me. I'm the slave of one of the guests. I wanted to listen to the music."
"Oh," said Delia. Nothing to do with her, then- and she could hardly object to someone else doing what she had come to do herself. "You may stay," she conceded.
She retreated a few steps to a stone bench under a grape arbor, and for a time they both listened in silence. The folk song was followed by an aria from Euripides- Leptines' formality came into its own- then by a drinking song, then by a lament. There was a pause, and then suddenly a duet between the barbitos and the auloi sprang into the still air- a fiery cascade on the strings and a swirl of notes from the flute so thick and fast that the ear struggled to follow them. The barbitos lit up the night; the flutes danced around it, now following the melody, now countering it, and suddenly, in the final phrases, blending with it in a shocking and breathtaking harmony. There was a moment's silence, then a thunder of applause.
The slave gave a satisfied sigh. Delia felt a sudden sympathy for him: banned, like her, from the feast, but sitting outside in the dark to drink in the music. "Whose slave are you?" she asked, remembering to keep her voice low. The music had stopped for the moment, as the guests drank more wine, and she did not want to be overheard.
"Archimedes son of Phidias'," said Marcus. Ordinarily he would have added his own name, but at the moment he was wishing that he were called something nondescript and Greek.
"Oh!" exclaimed Delia.
Marcus caught the note of recognition in her voice and set his teeth angrily. The whole royal household must have been discussing Archimedes! He had no idea who this woman was, but the way she had granted him permission to stay had marked her out as free and important.
After a moment, Delia said warmly, "Your master's flute-playing is superb."
Marcus turned the remark this way and that in his mind and concluded that it was harmless. He gave a grunt of agreement. "The fellow on the barbitos is good, too," he added.
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of voices talking in the dining room and the buzzing call of a scops owl from some corner of the garden. Delia gazed intently at the slave's hunched black shape, struggling with an urgent desire to speak to him, to tell him something of importance… but what? She could feel it there, an undefined tension within herself, crying that she should make use of this providential encounter to warn Archimedes that…
She told herself not to be ridiculous. Warn Archimedes, against her tolerant, generous, much-loved brother? The worst Hieron was going to do was pay Archimedes no more than the salary agreed! Perhaps that was the message she really wanted to send: Don't sell yourself too cheap!
But with that thought she understood suddenly that she did not want Archimedes to sell himself at all. Not even to Hieron and Syracuse.
"Your master…" she said finally, not knowing how or even whether to begin. "Is he a good master?"
Marcus had scrutinized this question, too, before he was aware of it, and discovered that it was difficult to answer. It was, in a way, the wrong question- he very rarely thought of Archimedes as his master at all; when he did, he resented him. But most of the time he thought of Archimedes simply as Archimedes: a phenomenon exasperating, astonishing, and unparalleled. "I don't know," he said, surprised into honesty. "I think most of the time he forgets that he is my master. Does that make him a good master or a bad one?"
Delia made a noise of impatience. "Do you like him?"
"Most of the time," he admitted cautiously.
"Listen, then," said Delia. "Tell him I wish him well. And tell him… tell him that my brother is waiting to see how this demonstration of his turns out to decide what offer to make him. If it goes well he needs to be more careful than he does if it goes badly."
Marcus stared at her. In the night shadows of the garden, he could make out nothing but the gleam of eyes in a pale face. Her brother. "I don't understand!" he said in bewilderment. Then, urgently, "Lady, if the king suspects my master of anything…"
"Nobody suspects him!" said Delia. She was Syracusan enough to understand that the first emotion inspired by a tyrant's interest was fear. "Don't think that! Hieron wouldn't. It's just that Hieron thinks he may become invaluable, and there may be something in the contract that…I don't know, that may bind him in a way he might later regret. Just- ask him to be careful." She stopped, biting her lip. Now that she had delivered it, the nature of her warning seemed to have altered. Night and the unexpected opportunity had tricked her into a betrayal, a breach of the loyalty she owed to her brother. Her face went hot and she felt all at once sick with shame. She jumped to her feet. "No!" she said, in a fervent whisper. "Don't say anything to him at all!" She turned and blundered off through the dark garden as though the slave might chase after her.
Marcus remained under the date palm, too stunned to move.
After many more songs, the party ended, and Marcus slunk back into the dining room to collect the flutes. He found Archimedes busy discussing modes with the barbitos player; the barbitos itself had been collected by the pretty boy, who amused himself by sneering at Marcus as they both stood waiting for their masters to finish talking. Marcus was intensely relieved when the discussion finally ended and they were able to leave the house.