The Arrows of Hercules

Ten – PANORMOS

On the plain behind Cape Plemmyrion, west of Syracuse, Dionysios drew up his army. Despite losses in battle, the departure of his Siceliot allies to their own cities, and the detachment of besieging forces at each of the recalcitrant cities in Phoenician Sicily, he still commanded over fifty thousand men. The Syracusan citizens formed one contingent; the various mercenary nationalities, others. They stood in long, even lines, the sun glinting on their spearheads and the wind ruffling the horsehair crests of their helmets.

Dionysios reviewed the men, praised them—briefly, for he knew they yearned to go home—and ordered the Syracusans to stack their arms. The men piled their weapons with much clatter, as others loaded the sheaves of spears and piles of shields into wagons. Zopyros, sitting his horse behind Dionysios, whispered to an older staff officer:

"We're a long way from Syracuse yet. Why must they stack their arms so soon?"

The officer snorted. "Sometimes, my boy, you don't seem bright. There are always traitors, malcontents, and agitators. What do you think a few thousand such men would do if they entered the city with arms in their hands?"

"Oh."

As soon as he was dismissed, Zopyros hastened home, fearful that Korinna had gone back to Messana after all. But she was there, welcoming him with open arms as if they had never disagreed. After he and Korinna and Hieron had hugged the breath out of one another, Zopyros said to his stepson:

"Hieron, how would you like to go out and play until dinner?"

"Will you play with me, Zopyros?"

"Not this time. I have things to discuss with your mother."

"Then I'll stay home with you. I love you so much."

"I love you too, Hieron dear. But now I want to be alone with your mother."

"Why, Daddy?"

"Never mind. Look: here's a nice, new penny. Go to the market place and buy yourself a drink of sweetened water, or a toy, or whatever you like. Just don't come back before sunset."

"No, I want to play with you."

"Either you go, or you shall spend the afternoon studying your alpha-beta!"

"I don't want to study my alpha-beta today."

"Then go! And take your penny!"

During the winter, the store of weapons in the Arsenal grew, albeit at a slackened tempo. Zopyros, back at his job in the Arsenal, called Segovax, Archytas, and his assistant Abdashtarth into conference on a new catapult design. Segovax said:

"If you put the windlass farther back, the boys can get a better hold on it, without barking the knuckles of them against the frame."

Archytas: "And these stretchers are thicker than they need be. You can save weight ..."

Abdashtarth: "May it please my lord Zopyros, Master Prothymion thinks he can get more range by reinforcing the bow with a strip of sinew, as do the Scythians ..."

As Archytas had predicted, Zopyros found himself drawn into the circle of Dionysios' personal friends. Late one afternoon, he and Archytas were sitting with the others in the andron of Dionysios' palace, sipping Lesbian wine under the watchful eyes of the bodyguards. Damokles, the willowy poet and the most outspoken of Dionysios' flatterers, was holding forth on the greatness of his patron, when Dionysios entered with a letter in his hand. As the guests rose, the tyrannos said:

"At last, my friends, Lithodomos has written us from Neapolis— no doubt concerning his mission to buy grain for the next campaign."

Damokles cried out: "By the gods, O Dionysios, that's good!"

Dionysios looked at Damokles with a puzzled frown. "Since I have not yet opened the letter, how do you know whether he sends me good news or bad?"

Damokles, not put out of countenance, chuckled. "By the gods, Dionysios, that's good—reproof! You always know what to say! Such godlike speed of mind and tongue—no wonder you are the most accomplished, most fortunate, and happiest of mortals. If, that is, you are indeed a mortal."

"Were it not for this iron vest I wear," said Dionysios, "my mortality would, I fear, have been proven ere this. But speaking of happiness: are you then eager to change places with me?"

"Oh, no sir!" cried Damokles. "Does a mortal take the place of a god? One must not seek to climb the sky or to wed Aphrodite. My own shortcomings make such thoughts absurd—nay, blasphemous."

"Someday," said Dionysios, "you shall taste the joys of my position. Then, perchance, you'll chatter less about my ineffable happiness. How is your new catapult coming, Zopyros?"

Zopyros told him. Dionysios said: "Try to get the pilot model under way before the end of Anthesterion*(*Approximately February). The Carthaginians are stirring, hot to avenge last summer's defeat; we must start our campaign early."

Zopyros discussed the forthcoming campaign that evening at dinner with Korinna and Archytas. Both urged him to flee to Taras. But the revulsion he felt after the fall of Motya had faded. He refused, saying:

"If I quit Dionysios' service at the end of my first campaign, people would suspect he's dismissed me in disgrace. Besides, these campaigns don't promise any real danger to a staff officer. This time we're just cleaning up a few little sieges."

Archytas said: "Old boy, I'm afraid your head has been turned by Dionysios."

"Not at all! I see through his rascalities. Although you must admit that, if a city can't manage its own affairs, it could do worse than be led by a man like him."

Korinna said: "It's all very well to talk about your career; but your family ought to mean more to you. You leave us in danger while you pursue glory with that man."

"All right, all right, I promise to quit after this campaign. Just one more try for reputation, that's all!"

During the next few ten-days, Syracuse buzzed with rumors about the Carthaginians' vast preparations. Zopyros, along with Archytas, was asked to another dinner with Dionysios' intimates. The tyrannos walked in upon his guests clad in a long robe of royal purple and wearing a golden crown. A couple of guests whistled in amazement at this gorgeous spectacle.

"Your attire, sir," said Damokles, "confirms my suspicion of long standing, that we have befriended, not a man, but a god."

"Hm!" snorted Dionysios. "Could I but persuade the Carthaginians of that, all my problems would vanish. Understand, my friends, I don't intend to flaunt this raiment before the Syracusans just yet. To them I am still merely their President, and republican simplicity of dress is in order. But, now that I rule most of Sicily, I must experiment with the symbols of a wider sovereignty. Could the Great King retain the loyalty of all the many peoples of the Persian Empire if he strolled about the streets of Babylon in the garb of a common man, talking and joking with the vulgar as if he were one of them? I doubt it."

"How are the Carthaginians' preparations coming, sir?" asked another guest, as they took their positions on the dining couches.

"So far, I have received more rumor than fact. Still, I am told that Himilko will lead a million men to Sicily."

Some of the guests exchanged glances of alarm. Dionysios, taking off his crown and rubbing his scalp where it had chafed him, continued: "But every soldier knows what wild guesses people make about the size of a hostile army."

Zopyros said: "That's right, sir. Even Herodotos, whose history I've been reading, attributed an army of a million eight hundred thousand to Xerxes in his invasion of Hellas. From simple calculations of food and transport, and of the organization of the Persian Empire, Xerxes would have done well to assemble one tenth that number—actual combatants, that is."

"I trust that rumor as greatly exaggerates reality in this instance," said Dionysios. "Whatever the enemy's numbers, however, we must bestir ourselves. You may expect orders to march within a ten-day."

"Ah, with a Dionysios to lead us, we fear nothing!" said Damokles. "One Dionysios is worth a million ordinary men. Happy are we, to be able to bask in the sunshine of his happiness ..."

Dionysios stared fixedly at Damokles until the latter's voice died and his obsequious smile melted away. Then Dionysios slowly raised his eyes to the air over Damokles' couch.

Damokles craned his neck to follow the tyrannos' glance. What he saw made him turn pale; his goblet clattered to the floor. A sword was suspended from the ceiling by a single horsehair; it hung, point down, directly over Damokles' couch. As Damokles stared in frozen horror, Dionysios raised his resonant voice:

"I told you once, my dear Damokles, that the next time you blabbed about my happiness, I would give you a taste of what it is like to be a ruler. Now you know. Plots and intrigues hang like a sword above my head. Malcontents and traitors at home, exiles and foreign foes abroad, stand ready at all times to remove me from this earthly scene.

"Know that a nation is always filled with men who hate their ruler, be he as wise as Sokrates, as noble as Perikles, or as successful as Cyrus the Great. Nothing would satisfy them save to be the ruler themselves. Since there is room for but one ruler at a time, most of these envious men must be disappointed. I shall have had the gods' own luck if I rule this land for another decade without being murdered by someone I trust or torn to bits by a revolutionary mob. You may leave your couch now, Damokles."

Damokles squirmed off his couch to the wine-stained floor with the speed of an octopus slithering into its lair. Majestically, Dionysios rose, took a spear from a guard, and struck the hair that held the sword. The sword fell heavily, deeply burying its point in the upholstery of the couch. Dionysios pulled out the sword and handed both weapons to the guard. No one spoke or moved.

"I must have that cut mended," said Dionysios mildly, fingering the tear in the couch. He resumed his own couch.

Damokles rose to his feet with purple wine stains on his tunic. Red-faced, in a voice choked by suppressed anger, he said: "After all, godlike sir, nothing compels you to go on being—ah—President."

"Indeed? Do you know another better qualified to lead the Syracusans in these perilous times?"

"N-no, sir. I—ah—"

"Or perhaps you favor a full constitutional democracy for Syracuse?"

"I—I have never thought much about it."

"Well, I have, and I will tell you what I think about democracy. Democracy is a delightful form of government, but it succeeds only where the people are qualified to practice it. The Athenians made a success of it for nearly a century, because they disciplined themselves and placed the duties of citizenship above selfish personal interests. This, however, does not happen often. Democracy assumes that every citizen is born wise, prudent, farseeing, just, altruistic; but this, we know, is not true.

"Sometimes a great crisis, like the Persian wars, inspires men to attain these heights of virtue for a while. Sooner or later, however, they fall back into their normal swinishness. They listen to demagogues who promise them wealth without work, safety without arms, and public services without taxes. Then they stand amazed when they find themselves powerless and destitute, with the enemy battering down their gates.

"I did not steal democracy from the Syracusans. You, yourselves, let it die, because you did not love it more than your personal lusts and whims and ambitions. I have defended you from grasping politicians within and envious foes without. I have built the ships for your trade and made you rich among the cities of all the world. But I cannot give you these things and democracy, too. Yes, Damokles?"

"I beg my President to excuse me," said Damokles stiffly. "I feel unwell."

"You may withdraw; but think twice before you call me happy again. Rejoice!"

The skies were blue, and tire earth lay brown beneath the scorching summer sun, when the Syracusan army marched back home once more. This time Dionysios did not disarm the citizens outside the city but marched them straight in without halting. He did not fear rebellion; for everyone knew of the huge Carthaginian army and the desertion of the Syracusans' allies. They knew that a long, grinding siege, as desperate as the Athenian attack of eighteen years before, was in prospect.

Zopyros returned on foot, with his left hand bandaged. As soon as he was dismissed, he trudged wearily home. The house was completely empty, but he found a note on a sheet of papyrus, lying on the bare floor:

Korinna to her beloved husband Zopyros, greeting:

Father has sent Glaukos with a traveling cart to fetch Hieron and me home. I go with him. As you know, it terrifies me to remain in this strange city without you. Archytas has arranged to store our furniture on Ortygia. I long to be reunited with you when this dreadful war is over. Farewell.

Zopyros stared at the letter, holding it in trembling hands. Then with a curse he slammed the door behind him and set out with long strides, his fatigue forgotten, for Ortygia. He found Archytas at his desk on the gallery of the Arsenal.

"Why did you let her go?" he snapped.

"My dear fellow, how could I stop her? By force? Her brother was there to prevent that. I repeated all your arguments about the crumbling walls of Messana, but it did no good. She's used to having a family around her, and she's been miserable alone while you were gone. What happened to your hand?"

"Just a burn. The Segestans made a sally at night and put the torch to half our camp. A lot of horses, including mine, perished. What in Hades shall I do now?"

"How should I know? I tried to warn you that you might be taking the pitcher to the well once too often—"

"Go ahead, say: 'I told you so.' "

"I did, but I won't rub it in. How's the war? Were we beaten?"

"No, aside from that setback at Segesta. But Himilko landed more than a hundred thousand at Panormos—rumors said three hundred thousand. The allies, believing the rumors, dashed back to defend their own cities. Leptines was supposed to sink the Carthaginian fleet, but their galleys engaged him while the transports gave him the slip. Although he had some small success, by the time Himilko had called up contingents from the Phoenician cities of Sicily, the Punics again outnumbered us two to one. So Dionysios went on the defensive."

"Where's Himilko's army?"

"I hear he's recaptured Motya. I hope he treats the garrison we left there better than our men treated the Motyans. Archytas! If you were Himilko and controlled the western end of Sicily, which route would you take to Syracuse?"

"The southern route, I suppose. You're worrying about Messana, aren't you?"

"Yes. But, you know, Himilko has a lot of his force at Panormos, on the northern coast. If he came by the northern route, Messana would lie in his path ... I'd better ask the big boss."

Zopyros went to the palace. Long after dark, he was admitted. He found Dionysios, looking wan in the lamplight, standing over a table littered with scrolls and sheets and tablets. The tyrannos said:

"What is it, Zopyros? Be quick."

"Sir, I haven't asked many favors of you, have I?"

"You've asked so few that it makes me uneasy. What is it that you want?"

"I want to know which route Himilko is taking towards Syracuse." Dionysios, despite his fatigue, looked sharply at Zopyros. "You think I know that?"

"If anybody does, sir, you do."

Dionysios hesitated, then said: "He is advancing along the northern coast towards Messana. Let me see—Messana—your wife comes from there, doesn't she? And didn't I hear that she had returned thither?"

"Yes, sir. I want leave to go fetch her. That wretched wall at Messana will never keep out the Carthaginians."

"You may not go."

"Wh-why not?"

"In the first place, it would do no good. Himilko has already reached Peloris, a day's march from Messana. He'll almost certainly get there before you. In the second place, I need you here. Let me see ..." Dionysios fumbled among the sheets of papyrus. "Here's a list of things for you to do. You're to study the city's fortifications and decide where to emplace our catapults. Report back by this time tomorrow, with a list of recommended sites."

"But, sir, I've got to get my wife out of that trap!"

"We have a few days to prepare for a siege as great as the siege by the Athenians," roared Dionysios, "and you distract me with your private problems? Who do you think you are? Zeus? Get to work on those catapults, and no more nonsense! You're a soldier now. If you leave town, you will incur my severe displeasure. Now get along with you!"

Clenching his fists, Zopyros held his temper. Although it went against his grain to dissemble, too much stood on the razor's edge to allow himself the luxury of saying what he thought. He muttered:

"Aye, aye, sir. I'll do my best."

As he left the palace, he considered appealing to Archytas again for advice. Then he thought better of it. If he antagonized the tyrannos, he did not wish to involve his friend in his own disgrace.

An hour later, he left Syracuse. When he explained that he was on his way to Megara Hyblaia, to examine the defenses there for the President, the sentries let him through the gate. The soldiers failed to notice how strange it was for a staff officer in full uniform to be driving a traveling cart.

The two horses, although no destriers, were good animals as hackneys went. Zopyros pushed them as fast and as far as he dared that night. He found a pasture where his horses could graze and slept in the cart. Before dawn he was on the road again, driving all day and staying his hunger by gnawing a loaf as he drove. From Catana to the ruins of Naxos—a Siceliot city razed by Dionysios seven years before— he had the vast mass of Aetna, smoking ominously, on his left.

About noon of the following day, he neared Messana. All morning he had passed groups of refugees, with fear on their faces and bundles on their backs. Several times he stopped to question them about the Carthaginians, but their answers were contradictory: "Oh, I'm sure they have taken the town ..." "... No, there was no sign of them when I left ..." "We decided to leave before the foe arrived; but some, relying on the oracle, stayed behind ..." "They're right behind us ..."

Zopyros drove on along the coastal road, skirting the feet of the Poscidonian Hills. The groups of refugees became thicker and thicker, slowing his progress. Between halts he lashed the horses to a gallop to try to make up time. Although he shouted himself hoarse, the refugees stood in stolid clumps in the middle of the road, staring blankly, until he was almost upon them.

At noon he came upon refugees running past him. Others were scrambling up the hillsides. They did not stop to answer his queries. Grimly, he drove on. He had, he thought, escaped from his would-be captors on the ship Sudech; why not again? He still had a chance.

Around the next bend in the road he spied a troop of horsemen galloping towards him. They were lean, dark men in kilts, with vermilion-dyed goatskin mantles and turbans of wildcat fur. Each had, slung across his back, a large quiver from which several light javelins protruded. As they sighted Zopyros and his cart, they spurred their mounts, bending low over their horses' necks.

Zopyros pulled up and tried to turn his cart around. But the road was narrow, with little room to spare between the hillside and the sea. The cart tipped wildly as the horses backed it off the road. Zopyros had nevertheless almost completed the turn when the dark horsemen came upon him.

They swarmed around, yelling and poising their javelins. One man grabbed the bridle of one horse; a second man, the other.

Zopyros leaped from the cart. A javelin whizzed through the empty space above him; another glanced from his helmet with a metallic sound. He had not brought a shield or a spear on this journey, since he had not meant to fight and planned to travel light. To engage the horsemen with sword alone would be suicidal. Instead, he rushed at the nearest horse, seized the rider's nigh leg in both hands, and pushed it upward.

The man toppled off his horse and fell into a bush. Zopyros gathered himself to vault to the horse's bare back, for the Numidians rode without even a saddle pad. But, as he placed his hands on the animal's back and sprang into the air, the horse bounded forward like a rabbit. Zopyros fell sprawling. Before he could recover, several of the men were on top of him.

They hauled him to his feet, punching, kicking, and whacking him with the shafts of their javelins. The blows were painful but not crippling. He wondered why they had not killed him outright, when he became aware of a Carthaginian officer on a horse, waving a battle-ax and shouting something in the Numidian tongue. From the man's gestures, Zopyros inferred that the order meant "Take him alive!"

With yelps of glee, the Numidians stripped off Zopyros' crested helmet, sword, dagger, purse, canvas cuirass, and boots. They divided up the loot. Two tied his wrists together, while others turned the cart horses around until the wheels were again in the ruts. They boosted him into the cart and started him for Messana.

The Carthaginian officer and three Numidians escorted the cart. Two Numidians led the horses along the road, while the third rode abreast of Zopyros, ready to spear him if he made a false move. The other Numidians galloped off to southward.

The officer leaned towards Zopyros and said in broken Greek: "You who?"

Zopyros opened his mouth but found himself unable to speak. He was a churning mass of fear, rage, dismay, and self-blame. He was, he told himself, the most useless, clumsy, stupid, incompetent ox—

"Who you?" said the Carthaginian again.

Zopyros swallowed, stammered, and finally said in Punic: "I hight Zopyros the Tarentine, O Captain."

The officer replied in the same tongue: "One of Dionysios' mercenaries, are you not?"

"Aye, sir."

"Then what in the name of Baal Hammon were you about, driving a cart into the midst of the Carthaginian army in broad daylight? A scout on horseback I could fathom, but this madness..."

"I had hoped to rescue my wife and son. They were in Messana."

"Ah, that I can understand."

"I needed the cart to bear them away in. I take it you saved me from being skewered by these barbarians?"

"What use is one more corpse? You will fetch a good price on the block, and I shall get a share of that price. You are lucky to get away with your life, considering how you lying, boy-loving Greeks murdered so many of our folk."

"Have you taken Messana?"

"Aye, Greek; it fell this morn. Some of its citizens fought, but with that paltry wall 'twas like mashing a gnat with a hammer."

Zopyros glanced about. The land had opened out. Soldiers swarmed the fields and groves: marching, drilling, setting up tents, loafing, and quarreling over loot. There were earringed Carthaginians in cuirasses of gilded scales. There were black-cloaked Iberians in purple shirts and tight knee breeches, with little round black bonnets on their heads and double-curved falchions at their sides. There were bronze-plated Greeks, ostrich-plumed Libyans, and veiled Garamantes. Huddled in blankets were companies of black spearmen from beyond the great desert, with shields of rhinoceros hide and woolly hair trimmed in fantastic shapes. Horsemen cantered by; a column of scythe-wheeled chariots rumbled past.

There were thousands upon thousands of tents. They filled the plain around Messana like the waves of the sea. Messana's pitiful wall stood jaggedly above this sea of tents. A few plumes of smoke ascended languidly from fires still raging inside the city. From within came rumbling crashes as Himilko's men overthrew the walls of houses.

Zopyros' captor delivered him to another Carthaginian, who was in charge of a long line of prisoners chained hand to hand. Other prisoners were brought in from time to time. The officer in charge looked them over as they arrived. As he encountered those enfeebled by age, whether male or female, the officer made a signal to a common soldier who stood by. The soldier smote the aged prisoners over the head with his battle-ax. As a pair of blacks carried the bodies off to throw on a huge stinking pyre blazing a bowshot away, others chained the living together.

The prisoners stood with hanging heads. For hours Zopyros stood with them, equally dejected. Now and then he peered up and down the line, searching for a familiar face. He kept telling himself that he was worthless, worthless, worthless ... How could he ever save Korinna now? To be a slave and yet to live! Slavery, like death, was part of the natural order of things. Like death, it lay in wait for everyone. But a gentleman and a hero would never be enslaved; he would either die fighting or slay himself first. Yet he, Zopyros, had failed to do either. Through his head rang the lines of the Poet:

To make matters worse, his purchaser would probably have him branded or tatooed, in the manner of Phoenician slaveowners. Like all body-worshiping Hellenes, although willing to kill, Zopyros was squeamish about branding, circumcision, or other mutilations.

Once during the long afternoon, a camp servant came by with a bucket of water and a clipper. He doled out the water so carelessly that half ran clown the prisoners' chins and was wasted. Still the captives waited, as the line inched forward towards the slave block.

At last it was Zopyros' turn. His wrists were unchained; his tunic— his sole remaining garment—was snatched off over his head. A pair of soldiers, watchful lest a prisoner make a break for freedom or try to kill himself, shoved him up on the platform. Other soldiers surrounded the area. Zopyros stared down at the semicircle of dealers and shivered slightly.

"Who you?" asked the auctioneer in pidgin Greek.

Eying the man closely, Zopyros replied in Punic: "I hight Zopyros the Tarentine, sir." He had to watch every word now. He had to impress his purchasers with his value, lest he be sold into a man-killing task like mining. On the other hand, he dared not inflate his worth by too much self-praise, lest his kin could never afford to ransom him.

"What can you do?" said the auctioneer with more interest in his voice. Evidently he was impressed by Zopyros' speech and bearing.

"I am an engineer. I can design and build walls, fortifications, shipyards, docks, waterworks, and engines of war."

"You see!" cried the auctioneer, turning to the dealers. "Behold this fine, big-balled slave lad! A man of wit, learning, and talents, furthermore! What am I bid for this flower of Hellas?"

"One pound of silver," said a dealer.

"Absurd!" cried the auctioneer. "Why, the fact that he speaks the Punic tongue—and with a good Tyrian accent, even—alone should add at least a pound to his value!"

"One pound, thirty shekels," said another dealer.

"You do but jest. He'll retail for ten pounds at least. Look at the intelligent gleam in his eye! Speak some more, fellow, to show these niggards how clever you are."

"Were I as clever as all that, my lord," said Zopyros, "I should not be standing here now."

This fetched a laugh. "One pound forty," said a dealer.

"One fifty."

"Two pounds."

Despite the auctioneer's exhortations, bidding slowed down. The price rose by increments of five shekels only. Zopyros thought he had been knocked down for two and forty-five to a fat man with a sash, when a small, familiar figure pushed through the crowd and called:

"I'll raise that bid to three pounds!"

The dealers glowered at Captain Asto, for they did not like outsiders to buy directly from the army and thus deprive them of their middleman's profit. Nevertheless, the auctioneer sold Zopyros to the little mariner.

With a sudden surge of hope and relief, Zopyros stepped clown from the block, donned his shirt, and wordlessly followed Asto out of the guarded slave-dealing area. When they were out of earshot of the soldiers, Asto said softly in Greek:

"I cannot free you here, noble sir, because somebody else would seize you and enslave you again. I shall take you back to Panormos, my present home port. There you shall live with me until the war dies clown, after which you shall be free again."

"Thanks to you, dear friend, and to whatever god sent you! Have you perchance seen my wife amongst the captives? She was with her family in Messana when it fell."

"No, I have not; but we might walk about to make sure."

For an hour they strolled the camp, inspecting every catch of prisoners; but no sign of Korinna or Hieron or Xanthos' family did they see. At last Asto said:

"If they were caught, they must have been sold and taken away earlier. Now we must go back to my ship, for I hope to reach a good harbor by nightfall."

"How did you happen along just in time to buy me, Asto?"

"I am carrying supplies for Himilko's army."

"Were you or any of yours caught in the siege of Motya?"

"No, the gods be praised! I prayed, and the Lady Tanith sent me a dream, warning me to move my family to Panormos. It proves what I said on the Muttumalein about the gods, does it not? They rule the world absolutely, down to the tiniest grain of sand, and mortals can do nothing without them."

Zopyros said: "I shall save up my price and pay you back every shekel."

"Don't think of it! You saved my life in Syracuse, and I pay my just debts."

During the following months, Zopyros lived as a privileged servant in Asto's house in Panormos. Mindful that his ultimate liberty depended upon the Phoenician's good will, Zopyros tried not to impose upon the good nature of Asto and his family. This was sometimes difficult, for Asto's wife was a sharp-tongued, fanatical housekeeper, while Zopyros' clumsiness led him to break a few small objects—a lamp, a dish, a flowerpot.

When Zopyros' skill as a calculator became known, some of Asto's friends and associates hired him to solve their problems. Zopyros was glad to have a little money: first, to replace the things he had broken and add a few small trinkets to mollify the mistress of the house; second, to save up for traveling expenses when he had regained his freedom.

As time passed, Zopyros heard tales of the war: how Himilko marched around the west side of Aetna on his way south, because an eruption had blocked the coastal road; how the Carthaginian admiral Mago defeated the Syracusan fleet under Leptines; and how the Carthaginians invested the city. He learned of the abortive uprising against Dionysios' rule; of Dionysios' freeing and arming the slaves of Syracuse; of the plague that broke out among the besiegers.

At last, one day in Metageitnion, Asto returned from a voyage with news: "The siege is broken. The Carthaginian forces are all slain, captured, or fled."

"Dear Herakles! How did that come to pass?" said Zopyros.

"When Himilko's army was weakened by the plague, your tyrannos sallied forth and smote the Carthaginians by land and by sea. He led the attacks himself, galloping about like one possessed of daemons.

"When destruction seemed certain for the forces of Carthage, Himilko bribed Dionysios with three hundred talents to let him and his Carthaginians escape by sea, leaving his mercenaries to their fate. The Syracusans routed these bodies of troops and slew or enslaved them, save for the Iberians. These warriors offered so stout a defense that Dionyios enlisted the survivors in his mercenary forces."

Zopyros said: "You seem not so cast down as I should have thought."

Asto shrugged. "Why should I love Carthage? Her hand has always lain heavily upon us Canaanites of Sicily, just as the hand of Dionysios has been heavy upon the Siceliot Greeks. I only hope these masterful men will end their strife and let simple folk like me get back to their proper work. And, in sooth, the African tribes subject to Carthage have revolted, so now war rages in New Canaan. They say Himilko has starved himself to death, to atone for his defeat and his desertion of the mercenaries ... And now, clear friend, when do you plan to leave us?"

"You mean I'm free to go whenever I wish?"

"You always were, even though for your own protection we kept up the fiction of your servitude."

"You're a great-souled man, Asto."

Asto shrugged and spread his hands. "No worse than most, and better than some. I'll write your document of manumission forthwith."

The following day, Asto brought six friends to his house to witness Zopyros' emancipation. The document, in duplicate, was inscribed on sheets of parchment in Punic and Greek. Asto read the Punic version aloud:

Whereas I, Asto ben-Elram, residing in the city of Machanath (called Panormos by the Greeks), have purchased the slave Zopyros ben-Megabyzos the Tarentine for the sum of three pounds Carthaginian, and

Whereas the said Zopyros has done for me a service far exceeding the aforesaid price in value, and

Whereas it is my wish and desire, in return for this service, to free the said Zopyros from his condition of servitude:

Now, therefore, I, Asto ben-Elram, in consideration of the said service, do hereby assign and convey the said Zopyros to the ownership of the supreme god, Baal Hammon (known in the Grecian tongue as Zeus), to serve the said god by righteous conduct as long as he shall live.

In witness whereof, I, Asto ben-Elram, have hereunto set my hand and seal this twentieth day of Ab, in the four hundred and eighteenth year after the founding of Carthage, and have caused the said Zopyros and six free Canaanites of Machanath to sign this document as witnesses, and have placed a copy thereof in the temple of Baal Hammon in Machanath, to remain there forever to confirm the fact of this emancipation.

Everybody signed. There were bows and murmurs of congratulation, and Asto passed a round of drinks of a heavy, sweet wine. After the witnesses had gone, Zopyros packed his scanty gear to leave. Asto asked:

"Have you money enough?"

"Thank you, I have. The money you let me earn by calculating for your friends will take me anywhere in Great Hellas."

"Then whither away? Back to work for Dionysios, the implacable foe of the Canaanitish people?"

"Nay. Even if he'd have me, I'd liefer toil for a less exacting employer. I think his enmity towards the Canaanites is half genuine only, the rest being but an actor's performance."

"What leads you to say that?"

"I've been thinking of that bribe he took to let Himilko escape. Had his true motive been to extirpate all Phoenician power from Sicily, he'd never have let the Carthaginian general depart. But many of his own people weary of his tyranny; they'd gladly toss him into the Ionian Sea and seize the rule themselves. Therefore he needs the Carthaginians as a bogey wherewith to frighten the men of Syracuse into continued submission."

"You may be right; you may be right. High politics have always been beyond my ken. But, if not to Syracuse, then whither?"

"First, I shall try to find my wife."

"The gods aid you in that quest! Evnos could help you."

"Then, I shall return to Taras, to my father's home, and resume my engineering practice. Farewell, Asto."

"The gods may someday bring us together again; who knows?" said Asto. They shook hands and embraced, and Zopyros walked off towards the waterfront.

Many years passed. Dionysios retained his grip on Syracuse, extended his rule over most of Sicily and southern Italy, built public works, patronized the arts, grew old, and died. In the month of Mounychion, in the first year of the one hundred and third Olympiad, when Nausigenes was Archon of Athens, Archytas, five times President of Taras, sat bent over his desk in his study.

Outside, a late spring rain pattered down on the red roof tiles. The room was cluttered with specimens and models of devices. Oblivious to his surroundings, Archytas scribbled figures and drew lines on a waxed tablet, for he was working out the laws of harmonic progression. Around his feet played four infants, two of them his own grandchildren and the other two the children of his servants. Archytas still retained his fondness for the very young. As these infants grew up, he would have them all educated at his own expense.

A servant came in. "O President! Master Zopyros is here with a friend!"

"Show them in at once! And not a word about our little surprise!" Archytas indicated the toddlers. "Take these little fellows back to their mothers."

Archytas rose heavily and waddled into the courtyard. Skirting the open center of the court, where the rain poured down, he walked around the colonnade towards the entrance vestibule. Halfway around, he encountered his visitors.

"Zopyros!"

"Archytas! You remember Platon of Athens, don't you?"

"Of course! I met him on his first visit to the West—let's see—that must be nearly two decades ago. In those days, people still called Platon by his natal name. Eh, Aristokles, old chap?"

The man addressed took off his dripping traveler's hat and shook the water from its brim. He was about sixty years old, of medium height, stocky, and muscular; stout, but not so gross as Archytas. A thick beard, nearly white, swept his chest. He smiled easily, laughed seldom, and spoke pure Attic in a high, reedy voice, with a delicate charm of manner.

"Good old Archytas!" he said. "Fatter than ever—though who am I to talk?"

"Come on in; get those wet cloaks off. My servants will show yours to your rooms. You're just in time for dinner."

"If we're not putting you out ..." said Platon.

"Not a bit, my dear fellow, not a bit. People are always dropping in about this time. But what brings you hither?" As they talked, they moved into the study. Servants brought spiced wine.

"The death of old Dionysios, as a matter of fact."

Archytas laughed. "Poor old Dionysios! All his life he struggled, not merely for empire, but also for literary distinction. Then, no sooner does he finally win the prize for tragedy at Athens than he takes sick and dies. How was that play of his, by the way?"

"Hector's Ransom? Not bad; but then, the competition was not very severe this season. They say in Athens that he hastened his end by wild dissipation as he celebrated his victory."

"I don't believe it. He was always abstemious, and it would have taken more than one debauch to kill a man of his physique. No, some disease laid hold of him; and that, together with age, did him in:

But you were saying, sir?"

"Yes. Old Dionysios' brother-in-law Dion wrote me, begging me to come to Syracuse, to try to make a philosopher out of the young Dionysios."

Archytas said: "Man, you have your work cut out for you! I know that young ne'er-do-well. He's a mere playboy. If he holds his father's empire together for five years, I shall be surprised."

"So Zopyros tells me. But I couldn't very well turn Dion clown, when I've been preaching so long about the need for rulers to be philosophers, now could I?"

"I wish you luck, although I fear you've undertaken a Sisyphean task," said Archytas. "I should think your experience with old Dionysios would have disillusioned you."

"The old ruffian was already set in his ways, whereas the young one—I hope—will prove more plastic. As to that, you seem to have clone pretty well as a philosophical ruler yourself. Your Taras proves that an honest, enlightened, constitutional republic is possible."

Archytas smiled. "Thanks, O Platon; but it's not really true."

"I low do you mean? Are you about to confess some chicanery?"

"No. What I mean is this: I can get up and make a jolly good speech to the Tarentines. I crack jokes. I declaim eloquent passages. Thus I convince them that I'm an honest, wise, able, unselfish leader. However, it is just their good luck that I also happen to possess those qualities. Another man—the late Dionysios, say—can make as good a speech and get elected, though he were at heart a self-seeking adventurer. When I'm gone, how do we know whether the Tarentines will choose another Archytas or another Dionysios?"

"As to that, you must limit the franchise to the better sort of people, excluding base mechanics."

"Like me?" said Zopyros tartly.

"Oh, no, no," said Platon. "I count you as a thinker and therefore one of the elite, despite your crassly materialistic interests."

"Thanks."

Archytas said: "When you limit power to the rich—your so-called 'best people'—you still have not solved the problem. For the gentry, as soon as they have power to do so, oppress and exploit the vulgus until the latter revolt. And I needn't tell you how frightful class warfare can be."

"As an Athenian," said Platon, "I have of course had firsthand experience with the breakdown of democracy. But it surprises me that you, the world's leading democratic leader, should take so grim a view of democratic government. What government do you, then, deem good?"

"Oh, I am not hopeless about democracy. But it's a new thing in the world. Only the Hellenes, the Phoenicians, and the Romans have experimented with it. It's like one of Zopyros' engines. He may have told you of the struggles he went through to make the first catapult work. The same with a new form of government: it never works as you think it will, and it takes much cutting and trying and sawing and filing to make it work at all."

"How would you saw and file the machinery of democracy to improve it?"

"For one thing, I think the many—your 'base mechanics'—need to be much better educated. People ask me why I bother to educate the children of my slaves. Well, in Taras, we have a liberal policy with manumission and citizenship; many of these infants will someday be voting citizens. It's better for the city if they are well-educated citizens."

Platon gave an aristocratic sniff. "You really think the vulgar herd can be made good and wise enough to rule themselves?"

Archytas shrugged. "I don't know, but I'm trying to find out. The trouble with you, my friend, is that you think such questions can be answered by pure reason. If you'd ever been an engineer, you would know that one practical experiment is worth a score of theories." He turned to Zopyros with a curious, secretive smile. "I say, old boy, how's military engineering in Old Hellas?"

"Oh, I made my expenses with something left over," said Zopyros. He was still a tall, lean man, although his hair had thinned on top and his beard had turned iron-gray. "I got as far east as Rhodes and as far north as Pella. My biggest contract was building a pair of heavy stone-throwing catapults for the Athenians. So Megabyzos' Sons will stagger along for a while."

Archytas said to Platon: "When Zopyros says his firm will stagger along, he means he's drowning in drachmai." He sighed. "Sometimes I wish I'd gone into partnership with Zopyros and his brother when they offered me the chance, many years ago. If I had stuck to engineering, instead of this footling politics, I should have been rich."

Platon laughed. "Just a pair of base mechanics at heart, the twain of you!"

"I heard something that will interest you, old friend," said Zopyros to Archytas. "Do you remember that cad Alexis, who built the four- and five-bank ships for old Dionysios?"

"Shall I ever forget him?" said Archytas. "A few other powers of the Inner Sea tried such ships. They were never very successful, considering their cost."

"Ah, but a Phoenician shipbuilder in Cyprus has made a further advance, which renders larger ships practical. He uses but a single bank of oars. These are much larger than normal galley oars, and the shipbuilder sets four or five men to pulling each oar. It works like a charm."

"Plague!" cried Archytas. "Why didn't we think of that, when we were in the business? By the way, what's that clumsy object bound in cloth, which your man carried in with your baggage? Some new device?"

"That's my new portable catapult, which I used for demonstrations on this voyage. Would you like to see how it works?"

"I certainly should!"

Archytas gave a command to a servant, who presently placed the odd-shaped bundle on the mosaic floor before Zopyros and helped him to unwrap it. It contained a catapult about six feet long, designed to be shot while held in the hands. The bundle also contained several foot-long iron darts for the miniature catapult and a six-foot wooden dart for a catapult of normal size. Zopyros picked up the large dart.

"Behold the arrow of Herakles! I tried to sell the Spartans some catapults, but King Archidamos took one look at this and cried in horror: 'O Herakles, the valor of man is extinguished!' "

"Perhaps it is," said Platon. "You told me on the ship of the Cumacan Sibyl's message, many years ago, about her vision of your shooting Herakles' bow and smashing the world. Old Dionysios started something when he hired men to invent weapons to his order. God alone knows where it will end. Someday one of your engineering colleagues will devise an engine to destroy the world."

"The world, luckily, is too large for mere mortals to shatter," said Zopyros. "However, I admit I sometimes brood about it. As far as my own work is concerned, I'm sure the divine Pythagoras would not approve. The trouble is, I'm known everywhere as the leading military engineer of the Inner Sea. Hence the only contracts I receive are military: catapults, rams, fortifications, and the like. I must eat, as Protagoras once reminded your master Sokrates when Sokrates twitted him about charging fees for his lectures."

"Tell him about our screw," said Archytas.

"Yes," continued Zopyros. "Archytas and I worked out a most elegant invention, which we call a screw. You cut a helical groove in a cyclindrical rod—anyway, it has many possible applications, all perfectly peaceful. But we can't get anybody to take an interest in it."

"Show me how the hand catapult works," said Archytas. "I don't want to spoil your plaster—"

"Don't worry. Shoot at that African shield of elephant hide."

Zopyros stood up and put the end of the slide of the catapult against the shield, which hung on the wall. He placed the curved bar on the after end of the trough against his chest, and leaned forward. The slide slid back, telescoping into the trough and bending the bow as it did so. The pawls on the sides of the crosshead rode over the racks with a rapid clicking sound. When Zopyros straightened up, the engine was cocked. He placed an iron dart, a foot long, in the groove.

"Here goes!" he said.

With his left hand supporting the engine, and the curved butt plate resting against his chest, he tweaked the lever on the crosshead. The bowstring twanged. The bolt slammed into the shield.

Archytas whistled; Platon peered behind the shield. "At least," said Platon, "you needn't worry about the shield's falling off the wall. It's solidly nailed in place, now."

Zopyros continued: "I meant the thing only for demonstrations. But on this journey I went all the way to Macedonia. The Macedonians stood around like dumb oxen as I demonstrated—all but their Prince Philip. Although he's still a boy, he took a keen interest in my devices. He swore that someday he'd have a whole company armed with these portable catapults, which he calls crossbows. What have you been working on, Archytas?"

"Oh, mostly mathematics. But here's an amusing device." Archytas indicated a post that stood on a base. A bellows on a low table was connected with the bottom of the post by a tube made of a crane's windpipe. From the top of the post, another tube extended out horizontally for two feet. On the end of this tube was mounted a little wooden model of a bird on the wing.

Archytas stooped, grasped the handles of the bellows, drew them apart, and then closed the bellows with a mighty downward push on the upper handle. There was a hiss of air. The bird moved. Bird and tube whirled round and round like the spoke of a wheel, while the bird's wings fluttered. As the hiss died away, the bird slowed and stopped.

"Zeus on Olympos!" cried Zopyros. "That's clever, Archytas! Let's see—the air travels up the post, and goes along the tube, and is expelled from this hole in the bird ... We should be able to find some practical application. How would it be to have a galley whose rowers, instead of pulling oars, pump bellows—"

"Good gods, what's that?" cried Platon, starting. A mournful toot sounded from the mass of jars and tubes at one side of the study.

"That means dinnertime," said Archytas. He explained the automatic signal he had developed for the elder Dionysios. Platon said:

"I could use one of those, to signal the start of my classes. You must give mc a drawing and a description, so I can have one made to spur the laggard student." As they went in to dinner, Platon continued: "Speaking of students, I wish that young chap from Stageira, that Aristoteles, were here. He's keen to know everything and classify everything, even machinery."

"You mean that skinny young know-it-all?" said Zopyros. "The one who thpeakth with a lithp?"

"That's the one. I left him studying under some of my colleagues. He swears to become a philosopher himself someday, albeit I doubt if he has the needed spiritual insight." Platon swung his feet up on his dining couch and rested his elbow on the cushion. As the servants began filing through with platters, he said: "OH I see you still do yourself well, Archytas."

"A man must have at least one vice, and gluttony is the least harmful to one's fellow mortals."

Platon dug into the repast piled up on his individual table. When hunger had been somewhat allayed, he said: "May I make a request, Archytas?"

"What, best one? Ask and you shall receive."

"Traveling hither, Zopyros told me some of his early adventures, when you and he worked for old Dionysios. May I ask that he continue? You, Zopyros, had just reached the place where that Phoenician sea captain had freed you from slavery."

Zopyros sighed. "After I left Asto, I spent three years searching for Korinna, stopping betimes to earn a little money by engineering. But I never did find her. Evnos the ransomer also searched vainly on my behalf. By the way, Archytas, have you seen the old fellow lately?"

"Yes; he came through Taras but a few days ago."

"How is he?"

"As usual, he swears that each ransoming journey will be his last. If he ever docs retire, he won't know what to do with himself. You and I, O Platon, write noble philosophical treatises on how to improve this cruel and wicked world; but Evnos actually does something about it."

"I should like to hear more of Zopyros' tale, if you please," said Platon.

"Well," said Zopyros, "the boy—my stepson—did turn up."

"Where?" asked Platon.

"In his father's home in Carthage. When he was sold after the fall of Messana, the slave dealer asked him who he was. The child—he's clever, you know—said he was the son of Elazar the building contractor in Carthage. The dealer, knowing a good thing when he saw it, got in touch with Elazar and squeezed a stiff ransom out of him."

"Then what befell the lad?"

"He grew up, married, served in the Carthaginian army, and inherited Elazar's business when the old man died. If he'd been reared in Hellas, he'd have become a famous athlete. He has the body for it. But in the Phoenician lands they consider outdoor games and sports childish."

"Barbarians!" muttered Platon.

"There's something to be said on their side, too. Anyway, I've seen Ahiram—he went back to his Phoenician name—a couple of times when business took me to Carthage. He's gracious to his stepfather but has practically forgotten our adventures with the witch and the slavers. lie's almost forgotten his mother, too."

"Then your daring abduction of the boy accomplished nothing, after all?"

"I wouldn't say that. If he'd been living with his father during the Carthaginian civil war that followed the siege of Syracuse, he might well have been passed through the fire to Baal Hammon. As it was, he was safe in the slave dealer's hands at that time and, when next his people offered such sacrifices, he was old enough to escape that fate. Perhaps the gods have a plan for human lives after all."

"How about the rest of your wife's family?" asked Platon.

"Her father Xanthos died of overexertion in belatedly trying to flee Messana, while Glaukos was slain in fighting the Carthaginians. Korinna's mother Eirene was separated from her daughter in the flight. She found refuge with kinsmen but died soon afterwards—of a broken heart, they told me. It was Xanthos' fault for trusting that oracle rather than his common sense. Nearly all the Messanians who had fled the city earlier survived. It was my fault, too, for not having taken Archytas' advice and quit Dionysios' service before that last campaign."

"And Korinna's fault for going back to Messana," said Archytas, "and Dionysios' fault for starting the war, and Himilko's fault for capturing Messana, and so on. It's an endless and useless philosophical exercise to try to pin the blame for any one event on one particular person."

"And have you never married again?" said Platon.

"No. I've never really given up hope of finding her, although I admit it's not logical."

Platon clucked. "You're positively un-Hellenic! The superior man should not allow such a sentimental attachment to interfere with his civic duty of begetting legitimate children—"

"Is that so?" snapped Zopyros in a sudden flare of irritation. "How about your Archeanassa? You preach for years and years on the beauty of a pure, spiritual love between man and man, and then you yourself fall madly in love with a middle-aged hetaira ..."

Zopyros broke off when he perceived that Platon was becoming angry. Archytas deftly turned the conversation to his mathematical discoveries. As the servants washed and dried the diners' hands, Zopyros gave Archytas a searching look and said:

"Old boy, you're hiding something from me."

"I don't know what you mean!"

"Oh yes, you do! I can tell by the way you try to cover up your smiles. I haven't known you forty-odd years for nothing. Now out with it!"

Archytas sighed. "I never could conceal anything from you! Indeed, I do have a surprise for you." He whispered into a servant's ear.

Soon the door from the women's apartment opened. Korinna entered, followed by Archytas' wife Klea. Although Korinna's hair was gray, she was still shapely and handsome. Archytas and Klea had spared no effort to fit her out. A stole of thin yellow byssus covered her gown of fine purple linen, and a starry silver tiara sat on her hair. Zopyros rose slowly, his mouth open. Archytas, hugging himself with glee, explained:

"Evnos located her at last, plying a loom in a rich man's house in Cyprus. He left her here on his way to Syracuse, to await your coming ...

He stopped when he saw that no one was listening. Man and wife walked slowly towards each other, hands out and tears running down their faces.

"Korinna—"

"Zopyros—"

"It's been a long, long time."

"Nearly thirty years!"

"We still have some time left."

"Yes, darling."

"Let's go home!"

Hand in hand, they walked out. Klea bowed to Platon and returned to the women's quarters. Archytas brushed away a tear and turned to Platon, who stood pensively stroking his beard. "Now, as I was saying about the ratios that underlie the notes of the chromatic scale ..."