Later comes Cicero to Syracuse, hunting evidence against Verres, who had, as pro-consul, robbed the city of all the treasures Marcellus had spared, and the great lawyer takes time from his examination of witnesses to look out Archimedes’ resting place. He finds it overgrown with thistles and brambles, but recognizes it by the sphere and cylinder, and sets it once more in order.
“So Tully paused, amid the wrecks of time,
On the rude stone to trace the truth sublime,
Where at his feet in honoured dust disclosed
The immortal Sage of Syracuse reposed.”
“You cribbed that from one of the guide-books,” jeered Jane.
“Of course I did,” admitted Peripatetica with calm unblushingness. “Do you imagine I go around with samples of formal Eighteenth Century Pope-ry concealed about my person?”
They are on their way to the theatre, passing by the ancient site of the Forum, which site is now a mere dusty, down-at-heels field where goats browse and donkeys graze, and where squads of awkward recruits are being trained to take cover behind a couple of grass blades, to fire their empty rifles with some pretence at unanimity.
The road winds between walled orange and lemon groves, in which contadini are drying and packing miles of pungent golden peel for transportation to French and English confectioners. The air is redolent with it.