Arata, with her usual patience and clear sense of priorities, first asked him if he'd eaten, and when he admitted that he had not, took him into the dining room and sat him down with a plate of fish stew. But Philyra, red-eyed and sniffing, sat with her elbows on the table as she watched him eat, the slaves hovered anxiously, and even his mother was frowning with anxiety. He gave up and started telling them about Marcus after the first few mouthfuls.
"Will he be all right?" asked Philyra, biting at her fingernailsa habit which her mother had striven to break, and which only reemerged when she was deeply unhappy.
"I hope so," was all Archimedes could say. "Hieron said he's welcome to answer anything the Roman general asks him. And his brother is there to speak up for him. I would think he'd be all right." But he was not altogether certain of it. Marcus ought to be all right- but he was so uncompromisingly honest. He had not prayed for the destruction of Rome for a Tarentine mercenary; he would not pray for the sacking of Syracuse for a Roman consul.
But perhaps the Roman consul would not ask it. Marcus would be returned in company with eighty other prisoners, and his brother would, presumably, be in the army to welcome and protect him. He ought to be all right.
"They're barbarians," said Philyra, blinking at new tears. "They might do anything to him! Can't he just come back to us? It wasn't his fault- you did tell the king that, didn't you, Medion? I mean, it was his own brother, or he wouldn't have…"
"The king has already been very lenient," said Arata quietly. "For your brother's sake, Philyrion. We can't ask more. After all, a man was killed because of what Marcus did."
Archimedes cleared his throat unhappily, then said, "When I saw Marcus just now he, uh, said to tell everyone that he was sorry and that he wished us all much joy. And he said he hoped you would be very happy, Philyrion, with Dionysios or whoever you marry."
Philyra pulled her torn nails out of her mouth and stared, and he realized that he hadn't told her about Dionysios.
"Dionysios only offered last night," he said defensively. "I was going to tell you this morning."
He told her about Dionysios then. There was considerable discussion of the man and his offer, and eventually it was agreed that Archimedes would invite the captain to dinner so that the rest of the family could have a look at him. But when the others went to bed, Philyra sat for a while alone in the courtyard under the stars, playing upon the lute, and it was not Dionysios who filled her thoughts.
"I don't want you to think ill of me," Marcus had told her, only the night before. "Whatever happens, please believe that I've never wanted any harm to this house."
She did believe it; she did not think ill of him. That morning his quiet admission had redefined courage for her. She realized that she no longer thought of him as a slave, and that when she thought of him as a free man, it was as a man she loved. A brave man, honorable and proud, who had- she could see it now- loved her.
"Remember once," she sang, carefully picking the strings of the lute,
"Remember when,
I told you this holy word?
'The hour is fair, but fleet is the hour,
The hour outraces the swiftest bird.'
Look! It's scattered to earth, your flower."
She suspected that for the rest of her life, when she remembered him it would be as something that went tragically wrong- an appointment missed, a letter mislaid, a person misunderstood with devastating and irremediable consequences. Already it was too late to retrieve what had gone by; the flower's spent petals were scattered to earth. She played on for a while, then put the lute away and went to bed.
That night a Roman force attacked the Syracusan seawall under cover of darkness. The extra guards Hieron had posted saw the stealthy movements against the gleam of the sea, however, and sounded the alarm. The Romans were inside catapult arc of fire when they were discovered, but so close to the cliff that it was easy to drop catapult shot directly onto them from the walls. A few hundred weight of stones were followed by some catapult fire canisters, which exploded and splattered the attackers with burning pitch and oil, so that the scene was lit by the burning clothes and bodies of the men who occupied it. Many of the Romans jumped into the sea to escape the fire, and were swept off their feet by the strong currents and drowned. The remainder fled. In the morning it could be seen that they had brought ropes and ladders, which had been woefully short for the height of the cliffs, and which now littered the rubble at the cliff foot, together with the bodies of the dead- and a few more wounded prisoners for the quarry.
The following night, the Romans left. The Syracusans keeping watch from the north wall saw the camp settling itself for the night in the evening, and the campfires glowed throughout the hours of darkness, but in the morning the army was gone, and only the fires remained, with the neat rows of flattened grass where the tents had been pitched.
Hieron sent out scouts to track them. He sent out a letter to the Carthaginian commander as well, writing it in his own hand, because it was still too early in the day for his secretary to have arrived at the house. He warned General Hanno that the Romans might now be heading in his direction, and offered to attack them in the rear if the Carthaginians could engage them. He had sent a similar message when the Romans first appeared outside Syracuse, inviting the Carthaginians to a similar feat, but there had been no response.
As he sealed the letter he wondered how long it would take for the Carthaginians to realize that, faced with an enemy like Rome, they needed Syracuse whole and strong and on their side. Stupidity, he thought, pressing his favorite signet into the wax that fixed the red cord binding of the letter. The Roman campaign, too, was one of blatant stupidity- if the Carthaginians had appeared in their rear, they would have been in a very sorry state. And they had left Messana only lightly guarded, with most of their supplies and all the ships that had carried them from Italy: if the Carthaginians stormed that in their absence, the whole army would be forced to surrender. It was a stroke Hieron was much tempted to himself: load his army onto his own ships, take them up the coast, sail into the Messanan harbor with some big catapults mounted on naval vessels and some incendiaries, fire the Roman ships, and storm the city!
Yes, but to do it would weaken Syracuse while the Romans were too close to her for comfort, and who knew how the Carthaginians would react? They still wanted Messana themselves. The last thing Hieron could afford to do was drive them into open alliance with Rome.
They might well have some kind of understanding with Rome already. Perhaps the reason they were doing nothing at present was that they'd promised not to interfere in any Roman campaign against Syracuse. Still, even if such a promise had been made, Appius Claudius was an awful fool if he trusted it. Just as Hanno was a fool to let what might be his only opportunity for victory slip by. Hieron's envoy had returned from Carthage with the news that the Carthaginian senate was growing impatient with their general. It was very stupid of Hanno to think that he had time to do nothing. Stupidity; it was altogether a stupid, blind, and pointless war, and Hieron felt a sick certainty that it was far from over. He tossed the sealed letter onto his desk and clapped his hands to summon a messenger.
When the messenger came in, Agathon was with him, holding a bundle of the day's other letters. The messenger took the king's letter, vowed to deliver it to General Hanno within three days, saluted, and marched out. Agathon watched him go, then set the other letters down on Hieron's desk. Hieron picked them up and glanced through them; the doorkeeper busied himself in trimming and lighting one of the lamps on the stand beside the desk, even though it was morning. Hieron paused and looked up at his slave inquiringly.