Fires of Alexandria Page 21

  Chapter Nineteen

  "It's all my fault," Punt said again, feeling his heart wanting to burst in his chest. He'd failed Heron.

  "What are you talking about?" Heron asked, gaze passing over him dismissively.

  He let his head sink low.

  "The pistons, Master Heron. I knew there was a slight bend in the one, but there wasn't enough time to get it out," said Punt. "I should have never put it on."

  He felt a warm hand on his shoulder. "It wasn't you," said Plutarch softly. "The distance between the aeolipile and the connecting device was too short, binding the pistons. I'd bound them to the platform a half a digit from true, causing the problem."

  Heron made an agitated noise. "Would you—"

  "No, Plutarch." He turned toward the foreman, crossing his arms again. "It was my mistake. The connectors were forged wrong. Too much slag metal made them weak. The fault is mine."

  "There's no—"

  Plutarch cut Heron off and responded with penance flooding his voice. "The fault is clearly mine. I deviated from Master Heron's drawings in my haste to complete the device."

  Punt was shaky from exhaustion and woozy from a lack of sleep, but he knew he'd been at fault. He raised his voice slightly in his response.

  "Look. The damned thing is destroyed now, just let me have the blame and let's get on with it," he said, his voice rising in volume as he spoke.

  Plutarch wiped his face with a rag, leaning heavily on a broken beam. "I will not let you have the blame. Master Heron must know who caused it so he can make sure we don't make the same mistake again."

  The two squared off.

  Then Heron shouted in a much higher voice than normal, "Will you two silence your bleating!"

  "May Poseidon drown you in puddle," Heron said exasperated. "You two are arguing about nothing while we have a workshop to rebuild."

  Heron's face was blotchy and red and he was clenching his fists. Then he pointed a finger at his chest, while balancing with one pole. "I. Me." He paused to let the words sink in. "I was the source of the failure."

  Heron looked back and forth between them, eyes scolding. "I calculated the speed of the rotation incorrectly. The number was off by at least a double. So it was my fault the workshop was destroyed."

  When Punt caught Plutarch's gaze, the foreman raised an eyebrow impishly.

  "Yes, Master Heron. It was all, clearly, your fault," said Plutarch with a straight face.

  Punt nodded. "I do agree. I was mistaken in taking the blame."

  Punt felt the grin rising to his face. While Plutarch kept his face neutral, Punt couldn't help but let the smile tease the corner of his lips upward.

  Heron eyed them both, lips in a thin white line, until he cracked as well and the three of them began laughing in earnest.

  Agog stood off to the side. "It is said that those that can laugh in the thick of battle have the strongest hearts." The big man looked to each of them. "And if this isn't the first skirmish of our coming battle, I don't know what is."

  The Northman snapped his head back and began heaving great belly laughs, his whole body was shaking, even the hair knot on his head.

  When at last the laughter died down, Heron motioned for them to come closer.

  Then, he glanced up at the holes in the ceiling, from which sunlight streamed through. It was the top of the day and though the heat was peaking, Punt barely felt it.

  "First. We need to make a new...," Heron paused and scratched his head. "A new what? What are we calling this thing?"

  Punt shrugged, while Plutarch spoke for the both of them. "You've always named your creations. We call them what you call them."

  Heron adopted a thoughtful pose and said after a few moments, "We'll call it a steam mechanical. For now. Until we determine a better name."

  Then Heron asked, "How quickly can we make another steam mechanical? Do we have another aeolipile of that size?"

  "Yes, but it has flaws in the metal and the steam could cause it to explode," said Punt.

  "No worries. The steam is escaping and so the pressure on the vessel is minimal. We'll just have to trust the metal," said Heron. "The rest I know we have duplicates of except for what Sepharia made."

  Agog wandered away from them and quickly returned with the bronze connector. He threw it to Heron who nearly fell trying to catch it.

  Heron shot Agog a spiteful look before he examined the bronze fittings. He gave a heavy sigh before pronouncing it functional. "If it wasn't okay, we'd be hung before we started. There are a few nicks, but I can buff those out while you recreate the steam mechanical."

  Back at his desk, Heron pulled out a papyrus, unrolled it and set it on the floor. They hovered around it. Punt recalled that the design didn't look like anything they'd ever made before.

  He wiped the sweat from his bald head. He couldn't understand why Heron was showing them this new design. They didn't have time to try new things.

  "It's a map of the workshop," said Agog after a while.

  "Very good," said Heron.

  "But what is it for?" asked Plutarch and Punt nodded along with him, the foreman speaking his thoughts as well.

  Heron looked to Agog, so the Northman spoke, "For our defenses tonight."

  "Have you two been scheming this when we haven't been watching?" accused Plutarch.

  "The maps we use for warfare are similar," said Agog. "Though I'll admit we've never used them to defend a building. But the idea is the same, so it was easy to see the purpose."

  Heron gave a quick rundown of the layout they would have to assemble. Punt shook his head. Rebuilding the steam mechanical and moving around the layout for the defenses wasn't going to be possible with the three of them.

  "Impossible," said Punt finally, when he couldn't stand it anymore. "There isn't enough time. Not unless we call back some of the workers."

  "We can't do that," said Plutarch. "As much as it pains me, we can't trust them. We can only trust ourselves."

  Punt pointed to the half-finished Horus head. "The layout shows that over in this corner, with modifications. It would take me the rest of the day to do just that." He threw his arms in the air. "And there are at least another ten jobs like that!"

  Surprised at the volume of his own voice, Punt put a hand up to indicate his apology.

  Heron accepted it with a gesture of his own, but otherwise remained clear eyed and aloof, not rising to the discussion.

  Agog scratched his head and adjusted his top knot. As he smoothed the tail of hair through his fingers, Punt was surprised by the streaks of gray within.

  "And your defenses require two more people to properly function," said Agog, pointing to various places on the map. "We can't be in more than one place at the same time."

  "You are absolutely right," Heron said slowly and deliberately, pointing his pole at Punt. "There is no way we can get all of that done with just the four of us. Three since you can't count me."

  Punt kept his mouth shut. He knew when Heron was in a mood. The grim lips and mischievous sparkle to his eyes were warning enough.

  Usually when the Master got like that, they were struggling to get a miracle to work and had been arguing amongst themselves. Heron would step up, with that look firmly planted on his face, and draw just enough of the solution that they had to figure the rest out themselves.

  But that was for a miracle that would be performed in a temple, under ideal conditions. With the threat of Lys looming over them, Heron's expression took on a darker meaning.

  Heron turned to Plutarch indicating him with the pole. "And you are right, too. We can't bring in any of the workers. We can't trust them."

  Heron faced Agog. "Northman," he said simply, bowing slightly toward him with only his head. "You deduce our defenses correctly. We require six to defend as I have laid out."

  Punt, along with Plutarch and Agog, stared at Heron questioningly. He
couldn't figure out what Heron was getting at, though it wouldn't be the first time. Nor would it be the last, providing they got through the night.

  Heron looked up to the holes in the ceiling and clapped his hands. Clouds had moved in from the sea, dimming the workshop, and bringing with them the threat of rain.

  "Plato have pity, it seems the gods do favor us after all," said Heron.

  Punt almost fell over from shock. "But—You...you don't believe in the gods?"

  Heron shrugged in a playful manner. "Maybe they believe in me."

  And though all odds seemed arrayed against them, and nothing made sense, Punt saw the lightness in Heron's demeanor and decided that everything would be all right, even if he didn't understand.

  Heron glanced once more at the holes in the ceiling. "Plato have pity, no more room to explain. Plutarch, begin construction on the new steam mechanic. Punt, I'll need you to start on the Horus head. Agog, I'll need you for a special favor."

  Punt spoke up before Heron could get too far. "But—Master Heron?"

  "Yes," said Heron over his shoulder.

  "It'll take me all day just to do the Horus head," he explained.

  Heron thought a moment and said simply. "Then I guess you'd better get it done in a fourth of that time." After a pause, Heron continued. "Don't worry, Punt. You'll think of something. You always do."

  Heron let a small smile light his face. One that spoke of warmth and friendship. And then he turned and wandered off with Agog. The two began conferring in hushed tones and he overheard Heron speaking of vinegar and chicken's blood before they moved out of hearing range.

  Punt examined the papyrus, rubbing his head and thinking about how he was going to accomplish what Heron requested. It seemed impossible, but he'd trusted Heron in the past. Why shouldn't he continue to trust the man?

  Feeling the weight of his eyelids, he shook his head. He hadn't slept in days nor seen his wife in a week, except for a brief stop to pick up the bronze connector from Sepharia.

  Punt let his gaze linger on Heron's ornate box. He dared not start down that path. Sheer will would have to do.

  Looking over the papyrus, he noticed his name written to the side. Beneath it was a note in Greek. He could barely read Greek, but the words were familiar enough he could decipher the message.

  "When they reach Horus, make the crow fly over until they stumble into the staff."

  Punt visibly shuddered as the words of his wife's reading came back to him. She had seen the signs of the crow and staff; and had said that after a great accident in the workshop, that the very walls of Rome would be shaken.

  The destruction from the steam mechanic had to be the great accident she spoke of. The holes in the wall and ceiling were terrible and they'd almost all been killed when it had fallen apart.

  But he didn't know how it shook the walls of Rome. It'd shaken their walls. Put holes in them, in fact.

  Stranger things had happened under the watchful gaze of the gods. Punt shook his head trying dislodge the thought. They were his wife's words, not his, spoken time and again.

  But he wasn't sure either.

  Were the gods watching them? Punt had never been religious. He assumed his wife was religious enough for the both of them.

  Astrela claimed that Heron was routinely punished because he mocked the gods. Just as he'd done once again just moments ago.

  Before, Punt had been buoyed by Heron's surety and calm. The Master of Miracles seemed poised to bring forth another miracle, this time saving them from Lys the Cruel.

  Now with his wife's premonition rolling through his head, Punt wondered if she was right and that the gods would seek retribution for being mocked.

  The two thoughts warred in his head until at last, Punt shook them both off. What was he thinking? He was not a man of gods or philosophy. He was a blacksmith. A practical man who used his fists and his thoughts to bring form out of the earth.

  Punt stood, dusted himself off, and got to work. Either way, in a battle between Heron and the gods, or Heron and the Alabarch, he was on Heron's side. And that was enough for him.