"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."