Sicily, 397 BC – The Siege of Motya

The morning sun lit the sea like a bronze shield. From high in his watchtower, Anektos, a lean-eyed Syracusan artillery observer, squinted through the haze. Below him, the Phoenician stronghold of Motya bristled with archers and boiling pitch. But he wasn’t watching them — not yet.

He was watching the engineers.

Down on the beach, men sweated over a katapeltikon — a torsion-powered engine the size of a chariot. Thick skeins of twisted sinew creaked as they tightened. A stone the weight of a man's skull rested in its sling. Behind them, hundreds more waited — some packed with pitch-soaked cloth, ready to burn.

Anektos raised a red flag in one hand and a curved horn in the other.

“Wind's east,” he muttered. “Range is short. Adjust five paces forward. Elevate two.”

The engine crew below looked up, waiting.

Anektos blew two quick blasts, then dropped the red flag.

THWACK. The catapult let loose with a sound like a cracking tree. The stone screamed over the field — but missed its target, crashing into the wall short and low. Motyan defenders jeered and launched a return volley of arrows that clattered harmlessly off the tower’s wooden face.

He noted the arc while reaching for his yellow flag.

“Add ten. Fire when ready.”

Another blast of the horn.

THWACK.

This time the stone cleared the wall, landing in the heart of the city with a distant crunch of splintered wood and screaming men. Flames began to rise — the first of many.

Behind Anektos, the General himself — Dionysius of Syracuse — climbed the ladder.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked, brushing dust from his armor.

“Anektos, my lord.”

“You’re a quiet one. But you speak well with fire.”

The tyrant looked to the smoking city.

“Keep talking.”

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