It still didn't sound like her brother. He'd never been inclined to either drinking or talking, and he'd never had any close friends. She tried to think of a question that would catch Marcus in a lie, but at that moment there was a quick rap on the house door.
Marcus opened it, and Archimedes stumbled in, smelling of wine.
He had not stayed at the Arethusa for the inevitable conclusion of the evening. His father's impending death had shriveled up desire, and whatever their other talents, the Arethusa's flute girls hadn't played the flute very well. It had set his teeth on edge to listen to them. In another situation, he might have offered to play himself and let them just dance, but to have made the offer then would have invited the lewdest of ribaldry. So he had done calculations until his companions were provided for, then excused himself with apologies, paid the reckoning, and come home.
"Can you fetch me a light?" he asked Marcus breathlessly, pushing the flute girls' wreath of wilted parsley farther back onto his head. "I need to write something down."
Philyra jumped up and hugged him, but he shook her off hastily. "Careful!" he exclaimed. "You'll smear it!"
Marcus gave a snort and hurried off.
"Smear what?" she demanded.
"Some calculations I was doing. Marcus! Is there anything to write with?"
"You were doing calculations?" Philyra asked in bewilderment.
He nodded; the gesture was revealed by the sudden glow of the lamp Marcus had just returned with. Archimedes held his left arm toward the light: it was covered with figures sketched in lampblack.
"Medion!" exclaimed Philyra in horror. "It's gone all over your new cloak!"
"Don't worry," he said reassuringly, "I can still read it."
Since Marcus had not brought anything to write with, Archimedes picked up the laundry board, found a lump of chalk, and began to copy the figures from his arm. "I'm going to have to correct most of these when I can look at a smaller catapult," he told the other two, busily writing. "I couldn't remember most of the dimensions to scale them up. But this should be close enough to let me order the wood, which will speed things up."
"You got the job," observed Marcus with satisfaction, and Archimedes nodded absently, frowning at his chalked calculations.
"I thought the man you were seeing tonight was just a soldier!" exclaimed Philyra.
"Oh," said her brother vaguely, "yes. But he asked about who I should talk to and his captain wanted to see me. They really do want engineers. I'm to build stone-hurlers, starting with a one-talent machine."
"What's the pay?" demanded Marcus.
"Uh? To be arranged. Nothing, until the first catapult is complete. But there doesn't seem to be anyone else in the city at the minute who can build big stone-hurlers, and the captain said that they're what the tyrant wants most, so I think it will be good. I'm seeing Leptines the Regent about it tomorrow morning."
"Oh, Medion!" cried Philyra, torn between delight and exasperation. "You must give me your cloak at once. You can't go see the regent all covered in lampblack!"
"You can't start doing laundry at this time of night!" protested Marcus.
Archimedes glanced up, finally realized that his sister had been waiting for him, and blinked. "Philyrion darling," he said firmly, "you should be in bed." Then he noticed the kithara she was clutching and added, "It's too late for music, too. But tomorrow night we can have a concert."
"To celebrate your new job!" said Philyra, happily dismissing the state of his cloak. "Mama and Papa will be so pleased!"
The following morning Archimedes reported his success to his parents; they were, as his sister had expected, pleased. After the first unanswerable questions about pay, however, Phidias asked wistfully, "And will it leave you much time for study?"
"I don't know," replied Archimedes awkwardly. He did not want to admit to his father that he foresaw scholarship squeezed to the edges of his life. "I think- I think not right at the moment, Papa. Because of the war. I will do everything I can to make sure I still have time to talk with you."
"Oi moi, the war!" sighed Phidias. "I pray that our king finds some way to get us out of it soon. It will be a bad war, my Archimedion, a very bad war. Our lovely city is like a dove in the pit with two fighting cocks. I am glad that I at least won't have to see what happens to her. My dear boy, you must look after your mother and your sister for me!"
Archimedes took his father's trembling hand. "I will," he promised solemnly. "But I hope, Papa, that King Hieron does find some way out of the war. They say he's a wise man: he may yet bring peace."
"He's ruled well," Phidias conceded- reluctantly, for he had always supported the city's turbulent longings for democracy. Even Hieron's enemies, however, had to admit that he had ruled well. He had come to power eleven years before in a bloodless military coup, and had since governed with moderation, humanity, and a strict regard for the law- much to the surprise of the citizens, who did not expect such behavior from a tyrant.
"Yes, I pray you're right," Phidias went on, then smiled at his son. "I am glad you're back," he said tenderly. "I was afraid to think what would happen to the house, left headless while the city was at war. You go devise some weapon to destroy our enemies, child. And make sure you get a good price for it!"
"Yes, Papa." Archimedes kissed his father's cheek, kissed his mother, who was attending the sick man, then went out into the courtyard.
Philyra was there, trying to clean his cloak. She had brushed it, beaten it, and poured boiling water on it, and had succeeded only in spreading the oily lampblack more widely. She rolled her eyes at her brother distractedly. "You're going to have to wear something else," she told him.
"It's too hot for a cloak anyway," he replied.
Marcus appeared at the foot of the stairs, carrying an old cloak of plain Egyptian linen. "That has wine stains on it!" snapped Philyra impatiently.
"But you can fold the edge over so they don't show," Marcus replied, suiting action to words.
Archimedes groaned, but spread out his arms and allowed his sister and his slave to drape the linen cloak around him, insisting only that the drape go under rather than over his right arm- "It's more dignified worn over both shoulders!" protested Philyra; "It's also hotter!" replied Archimedes. The other two stood back, assessing whether he looked fit to be presented to the king's father-in-law. Archimedes, however, looked at Marcus thoughtfully.
He had been debating whether to take Marcus along to help with the catapult-making. Marcus could undoubtedly be useful at it. He'd helped with the water-snails and with dozens of less successful machines: he knew how to follow technical instructions. He was strong, quick, and handy with a saw or a hammer. On the other hand- on the other hand, Marcus clearly still had some loyalties to the people the catapults were to be employed against. And the catapult-making would take him in and out of the military workshops and the arsenal- the most vulnerable and strategically important buildings in Syracuse. If someone lit a fire in them…
"Marcus," said Archimedes, "I want you to stay here and see if my mother wants anything done around the house."
The slave's face went blank. He had foreseen this problem, but he hadn't expected his master to have foreseen it as well. "You don't want me to come with you, sir?"
Archimedes shook his head. "You're not Samnite," he explained quietly.
Marcus stood for a moment frowning at him. He was not sure whether he felt relieved, because he was not required to construct devices that might injure his own people, or hurt, because his master thought him capable of treachery. He could feel Philyra's eyes on him, full of shocked accusation: did she really believe he'd be happy to see her city fall to Rome, her brother killed, and herself raped and enslaved? At last he said, "Sir, I swear that I would never do anything to injure this city or this house. May the gods destroy me in the worst way if I'm lying!"