"How?" I said.
"Look. Diades gives the standard formula for dart throwers: the length of the dart should be nine times the diameter of the skeins. Then he gives all these other proportions.
"All right so far, but I don't see how we can ever get beyond the present ranges with these same proportions; we can only change the size of the missile. What I propose is to use the same frame as in the Eros class, but with a longer trough, a longer recoiler, longer throwing arms, and a dart only two cubits long or less. That's still heavy enough to go through the best armor at extreme ranges ..."
We passed the afternoon in designing the new machines and calculating weights and proportions. Out on the mole Phaon, commanding the skeleton crews in Bias' absence, kept watch towards the south. But Demetrios made no move.
Another ten-day passed. With the departure of winter, anemones again bloomed scarlet on the slopes of the akropolis. Demetrios' huge triple palisade of timber crept around his camp. Everywhere, in Rhodes and in the Antigonian camp, sounded the buzz and clangor of the tools of the mason, the carpenter, and the smith, the clatter of weapons, and the shouts of drillmasters. Even my father, who was in the inactive reserve, turned out for drill with the other middle-aged tribesmen.
Nor were the unseen powers neglected. The altars of the gods ran red with the blood of sacrificed animals. The official soothsayers studied the omens and pronounced Rhodes unconquerable.
Meanwhile, despite new laws against their activities, our host of wizards and witches and necromancers sought clues to the future of individuals in the cracks of a burnt shoulder blade, or in the ripples of water in a basin, or by the squeaks of spirits summoned from the lands of the dead. I suspected Berosos of doing a thriving business of this sort.
Amazing rumors ran the rounds. The most extravagant was that Demetrios was building an engine of war the like of which had never been seen. It was as big as Souphis' pyramid, it ran either on land or in the water, and it was propelled by some magical source of power furnished by an Egyptian wizard who sat in an armored control chamber and muttered mystical spells.
I trotted to and fro between the armory and Bias' shop while his workmen sawed and planed the structural members of the first of the new catapults. Once, on my way to the foundry with a sack of wooden patterns from which to cast the bronze fittings for the dart thrower, I was stopped by a mournful procession. Here went several hundred men, women, and children, many in rich oriental robes, prodded along by Rhodian spears. They were the aliens who would neither fight nor make arms, together with their families.
I played truant long enough to watch the outcome. South through the winding streets filed the sad parade until it reached the wall. Up the steps it went. At the top, rope ladders dangled from the crenelations of the parapet.
Before me lay the suburb, from which a pall of dust arose as Demetrios' men demolished the houses. Now and then a rumble and a crash told of the fall of another dwelling. A few idle Antigonian soldiers stood beyond bowshot and shouted taunts at the city.
At the sight of the ladders, the shirkers wailed and tore their hair and beards, beseeching the Rhodians to have pity. Indeed, the spectacle brought tears to the eyes of many onlookers. But these foreigners, mostly Phoenician, Syrian, and Anatolian tradesmen who had become too fat and soft for anything strenuous, had had their chance and failed it. At spear point they lowered themselves over the parapet, crying that they would fall and be dashed to pieces. All, however, safely made the descent.
For a while they huddled in a moaning mass at the foot of the wall. When our officers threatened to drop stones upon them, they straggled off. Demetrios' soldiers pounced upon them as soon as they were out of bowshot, and led them off to the slavers. Those too old for such disposal they sworded to death on the spot.
Seeing Glôs the engraver nearby, I hailed him. Some misguided recruiting officer had assigned him to the infantry. As no cuirass in town would fit his girth, he was wearing one much too small, with wide gaps showing at the sides between its back and breastplates.
I pointed towards the section of the suburb where lay Protogenes' house. "What has become of the president of our guild?" I asked. "I haven't seen him since the siege began. I hope he is not so mad as to stay outside the wall."
"That's exactly what he has done," replied Glôs.
"Dear Herakles! Why?"
"When Demetrios' fleet appeared, and somebody shouted to Protogenes to snatch up his valuables and run for the gate, he pointed to the painting of Ialysos and asked: 'How could anybody snatch up that?' He was, he said, nearly finished with it, and he would not abandon his life's masterpiece to the caprices of a naughty boy with delusions of being a king."
"Has he been killed?"
"No. The embassy that made the agreement on prisoners also asked Demetrios to protect Protogenes and his paintings, as, whoever won the war, the king would not wish to be known as a wanton destroyer of art. Demetrios replied that he would rather burn the portrait that Apelles made of Antigonos than harm Protogenes' masterpiece. He posted a guard over the house to make sure that nobody molested the painter."
When I reached the foundry, I found my father grimy from toil and red-eyed from long hours. We talked in a businesslike way of the casting of the parts for the new engine. Then he cleared his throat in embarrassment.
"Er—Chares," he said, "I've been talking with my friend Genetor again."
"Yes?" said I, my scalp prickling with apprehension. Of all times, I thought, to put pressure on me to wed!
"He hopes you will not be too put out if he asks that your wedding be postponed."
"Oh?" Hope sprang to life anew in my breast.
"The reason is this new sumptuary legislation, forbidding all big displays and entertainments as long as the siege shall last. This includes weddings. Of course we could make our sacrifices, get the blessing of a priest, and sign our contracts before a magistrate, and you would be legally wed. But Genetor and I consider that our social position demands a proper wedding with a feast and procession. We hope you will understand—"
I repressed a grin. "Tell him I understand perfectly, Father."
My father looked at me with a faint smile of his own.
"I will. And don't think I do not understand you, too, you rascal!"
The pilot model of the new catapult began to take shape. Once I asked Bias:
"Why make just one? Why not a dozen? This seems to me a waste of time."
"Son," he said, "when you've had more experience, you'll know that no machine works like you think it will. By making just one, we can correct the mistakes in the design in the rest of the lot. But if we made the whole dozen at the beginning and they all had the same bad fault, we'd be in a fix."
Then Captain Damophilos bustled into the armory. "O Bias!" he cried. "I want the Talos and her crew aboard the Halia by sunset."
Bias cursed. "I need these boys! Go take another engine."
"No. They served with me before, and I know them. Besides, they are the straightest shooters in your whole battery."
"What do you want them for?"
"We shall raid Demetrios' anchorages south of his camp. Hundreds of small ships are drawn up there, and we can burn and wreck scores before the heavy warships can sally out to stop us."
A long and stubborn argument resulted in the calling in, first of our battalion commander, then of Kallias, and finally of Admiral Exekestos. Damophilos won.