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.