circulos meos

In the year 214 BC, soon after the Romans had conquered the city of Syracuse, a soldier was ordered to apprehend its most well-known citizen, Archimedes, and escort him to the conquering general who wished to speak with this wise and venerable man.

When the soldier arrived at his home, he found Archimedes meditating upon a circular diagram depicted in the dirt floor. The soldier politely ordered the mathematician to accompany him to meet the general, but Archimedes, abstracted in his calculations, ignored the man. The soldier repeated the order. He continued to ignore him. Finally, the soldier unsheathed his sword and planted it in the center of the diagram, repeating the order for the last time.

                Archimedes flew into a rage. “Noli turbare circulos meos!” he exclaimed in the conqueror’s Latin.  “Don’t disturb my circles!”

                Latin was not his mother tongue and he was hardly a fluent speaker, yet this admonishment escaped him at an instant, clearly, and of a volition all its own.

                These men were merely a band of upstarts, fearsome in numbers, but individually weak. Little men. His circles, on the other hand, were big; they encompassed Archimedes, Syracuse, Magna Graecia, the soldiers and their nascent empire, the planet, the stars, and all which lied beyond. How could these little men possibly understand the meaning of these big circles? What was brute force in the presence of pure cogitation?

                At once, the soldier cut off Archimedes’ head, and quitting the dead man, began to meditate an alibi.

               The circles weren’t the least disturbed.