Dionysios, capable soldier and experienced officer, went red. "I thought your sister was probably that sort when I saw her at the demonstration," he muttered. "She looked so confident and happy. Tell her and your mother that… I send my respectful greetings."
Archimedes nodded. He realized that if Dionysios had in any way appeared to slight Philyra's opinion, he would have opposed the marriage even if Philyra herself had wanted it, but that now he would dwell on the captain's good points when he informed his sister of the offer. Dionysios was willing to listen to Philyra, and he liked her confident and happy: he passed.
"You're not set on this Alexandrian, or Samian or whatever he is, though?" asked the captain hopefully.
Archimedes shook his head. "Philyra's already said she doesn't want to leave Syracuse."
Wistfully, though, he pictured to himself the beaming moon face of Conon of Samos. In Alexandria he and Conon had spent hours together in cheap taverns, drawing calculations on the table or the walls; they had laughed over other people's mathematical mistakes, and told each other jokes which nobody else had been able to understand. Each had been the first person the other came to with a new discovery, and neither had ever been disappointed of the expected enthusiastic reception. Their differences had merely fueled their friendship. Conon was short and plump; he liked food and drink and dancing, but when it came to music, he always sang out of key. He was rich, and came from a distinguished family, so he had lent his friend money, slipping it into his purse unasked and often unnoticed; Archimedes had no idea how much it had come to in the end. He in turn had made Conon a dioptra, an astronomical sighting instrument, which Conon had thereafter treasured above every other possession. Conon was no good at making things; his pudgy hands were clumsy, though his mind skipped among the stars as nimbly as a lizard.
Conon's family would never have permitted him to marry Philyra, even if Philyra had been willing. He and Conon loved each other like brothers anyway- best to leave it at that.
Dionysios grinned. "Good luck to your loyal sister! I hope you're not planning to leave either."
Archimedes muttered something unintelligible, and concentrated on his food.
"Pardon?" said the captain, polite but relentless. "I didn't hear that."
Archimedes abandoned the food. "Look," he said, "how I can I make promises about what I'll do three or five years from now? We may all be dead by then! I'm not planning to leave while I'm needed to make catapults, so why can't everyone leave it at that?"
But Dionysios was no more able than Philyra to leave it at that. He was very cautious of offending a man he wanted as a brother-in-law, but "as a loyal citizen" he felt it his duty to persuade Archimedes to stay in Syracuse, and his tactful attempts to do this lasted the rest of the meal. Archimedes was heartily sick of him by the time the waiter came in to clear the dishes.
When the dishes had been cleared away, the Arethusa's flute girls were once more ushered in. Dionysios, however, immediately detached the pretty young thing who fastened herself to him. "I'm on duty tomorrow morning," he said gently, though a glance at Archimedes indicated that he was also embarrassed to settle with a whore in front of a man whose sister he had just offered to marry. "But perhaps my friend…?" His glance became interrogative.
Archimedes suddenly wanted very much to get drunk and go to bed with the flute girl- to escape from the questions, to forget Delia, to drown and befuddle the faultless precision of his own too-active mind. "Yes!" he said, stretching out a hand to the girl.
She came at once and draped herself over his knee. "You're Archimedes, aren't you?" she asked throatily, stroking his cheek. "The one they call the archimechanic?"
"Don't call me that!" he told her despairingly. She was holding a set of flutes, and he took them away from her before she could start playing. "Here! I'll show you something much more worth-while than catapults."
At the house near the lion fountain Marcus spent the earlier part of the evening nervous. He suspected the reason for Dionysios' invitation, and it sickened him. His attempt at discouragement seemed only to have spurred the captain to immediate action. He wondered how Archimedes would respond.
But after supper Arata and Philyra sat in the courtyard playing music in the cool dusk, and the sweet clear ripple of the strings soothed him. The desperation that had crushed him for the past three days lifted a little. There had been no repercussions from his visit to the quarry. The Roman army was still camped before the north gate, and his brother and his brother's friend were probably planning their escape, but life in the household went on much as it had always done. He was aware of the family quarrel, but aware too of its essential shallowness, the way it did not even touch the deep ties of affection that bound the family together. As he sat silent in the courtyard listening to the music, the house seemed a richer and more tranquil place to live than it ever had before.
But everything was changing. The family was growing wealthy and important; Philyra would marry and move away- and he would go, too. Somewhere.
When Arata had gone to bed, and Philyra was putting her lute away, Marcus came silently to her side and picked up the kithara, which she had already set in its case. "Thank you!" she said, without looking at him.
He shrugged. "Mistress," he began unhappily- then stopped, not knowing what it was he meant to say to her.
Something in his voice troubled her, and she lifted her head and looked at him, peering to make out his face in the gathering dark. "What?"
"You- don't still believe I took Archimedes' money in Alexandria, do you?" he asked.
She stared, surprised at his earnestness. She had almost forgotten her suspicions. There had been a lot of money coming in since her father died, and Marcus had been very careful with it. Messengers kept bringing bags of coin down from the king's house- a hundred and eighty drachmae for catapults, so far, plus all the funeral expenses. Archimedes barely even looked at it; it had been left to Marcus and herself to keep track of it all. She realized at the slave's question how many pains he had taken to account for every obol. "No," she said, slightly ashamed of herself. If anyone had cheated her brother in Alexandria, it had not been Marcus.
"I'm glad," he said in a low voice. "I don't want you to think ill of me. Whatever happens, please believe that I've never wanted any harm to this house."
"Whatever happens?" repeated Philyra in concern. "What do you mean?"
"I- just mean, with the war, mistress. I know that it's my own people out there. But they've come here because they've been told lies, and I don't- Philyra, if they got in, I would fight to defend you."
She was touched. She reached over and rested her hand for a moment on his. "Thank you, Marcus," she said. Then she straightened, picked up her lute, and declared fiercely, "But they won't get in! The gods will favor Syracuse!"
"I pray they do," he said.
He carried her kithara upstairs for her and watched her go into her room- a slim shadow, black-clad with mourning in the dark house. Then he went back down and sat in the courtyard. He pressed the hand she had touched against his stubbled cheek; his throat was swollen with what he felt. It was no good. He was only property. Still, he wished that he could indeed fight for her- rescue her from his countrymen, carry her to safety, reassure her while she clung to him and… It was no good. He wished her brother would come home and say what answer he'd given to Dionysios.