Chapter Seven
The heat of the day drained out of Alexandria as the shadows rushed in. Even the foundry had cooled enough that the sweat didn't bead up on Punt's forehead each time he wiped it away.
The last of the day's work had been packed for shipment and the cupola fires had been spent. Punt ran his hand lovingly along the row of tools, touching each one as a mother touches her child. He would miss them while he was gone.
With a sack of supplies over his shoulder, Punt cut through the workshop so he could have one last word with Heron.
Candlelight dwindled around the hunched form at the desk. The quill, tip wet with ink, was still clutched in his hand. Heron snored lightly, almost like a cat purring.
His Master had been working day and night without sleep. The ornate box sat open near Heron's elbow, the pale violet dust almost gone. Punt sighed and flipped the lid closed.
The candle flame played softly across Heron's face, exposing gaunt features and hollow eyes. Heron had been working feverously on some project for a week now.
Punt examined the parchments on the desk. Various designs of moving statues filled each one. He couldn't understand the coiled ropes or s-curved levers beneath the statues, but that wasn't why he'd worked for Heron as long as he'd been in the city.
Though Punt never bothered to ponder on it, he knew he was unmatched in his craft. Other inventors had tried to lure him away, but he had turned down every request, even when the salary was triple what he earned under Heron.
Punt had never failed in bringing to life the sketchings of Alexandria's greatest living engineer. When Heron had asked for iron castings as thin as a finger and wide as a fan, Punt had delivered. When the job required forgings as complex as a Roman army and delicate as a butterfly, he completed his task without error.
He'd never shied from a challenge, nor failed at one. Plutarch often joked that Punt had been forged in Hephaestus's fires.
So Punt had been struck dumb at the thought that Heron would send him on an errand that would require nothing of his blacksmithing skills.
Before leaving, Punt retrieved a blanket from a woven basket in the corner beneath unused scaffolding. A pair of adopted cats had been sleeping in the blanket, so Punt sniffed it for urine before draping it around Heron's shoulders.
Punt blew out the candles and left Heron asleep at his desk. He would have carried him to his quarters had he thought he could have done so without waking the man, but he knew if Heron awoke, he would return right away to his sketchings.
Bare-chested and coated with a light skim of sweat, the night air refreshed Punt. The moon had hidden herself from the world, so the streets were dark. Only flickering candles from open windows or distant torch light gave him enough sight to avoid the sleeping dogs lying in doorways.
The faint rattle of his sack barely disturbed the near empty streets. Further away, hammers echoed like distant thunder. Punt traced the sound in his mind to Philo's foundry, lamenting that he himself was not still at work.
A hooded lantern came to life, showering him with light.
"Halt in the name of the Empire," said a rough voice in Latin.
"Ave," replied Punt, with the traditional Roman greeting.
Two soldiers dressed in walking gear, no shields but gladii at their sides, dark cloaks and a leather breastplate stamped with the Roman seal, considered him warily.
"What business is yours to be wandering the streets at night?" said the first soldier.
Punt gripped the end of the sack, choking the fabric beneath his fingers.
The second soldier held the lantern higher. "Answer him dung man."
Punt had heard this insult before, but never directed at him. It referenced the color of his skin and the propensity for Egyptians to burn dung fires. He flared his nostrils and flexed his massive arms in restraint. "I have labored long this day and seek my home to enjoy the company of my woman and break bread. And I did not know the streets were forbidden at night."
"Governor Flaccus has decreed that no non-Roman man shall walk the streets after dark unless that man has business of the Empire," said the first soldier.
Punt gripped the fabric tighter. "Apologies. The decree had not reached my ears this evening in the foundry."
The second soldier leaned closer, eyeing the bag suspiciously.
"What is the nature of the decree?" asked Punt, hoping to distract the soldiers.
"What do you mean 'the nature of the decree?'" asked the first soldier, clearly looking for a reason to be insulted.
Punt paused and thought through his answer carefully. He was not the skilled orator like Plutarch, who had been canvassing the city trying to lure new business to the shop. Nor could he think quickly like Heron, whose mind whirled faster than an aeolipile. Nor was his tongue as sharp as Sepharia, ever the viper, whose husband, should she ever choose to marry one, be pitied.
"Why does the honored Governor make this decree, so that I may determine if I am doing Roman business or not?" said Punt.
The two soldiers shared glances. Punt hoped they did not take his words as further insult.
The second soldier nodded. "With the influx of vermin outside the city, building ramshackles and lean-tos, thieves have been thick lately. And Flaccus wishes to make sure the city is well behaved ahead of the new taxes."
When the first soldier knocked the second in the arm, Punt seized his opportunity and spoke, "I do indeed labor this evening on the Empire's behalf."
"Speak dung man, or feel the sword caress your belly," laughed the first soldier.
"I carry goods for Good Philo, my master, a great supporter of the Empire," said Punt, sliding a pair of coins from the pouch on his belt.
The soldier's eyes widened as Punt opened his hand revealing the two coins. Before the lantern light could fall upon them, Punt threw them high into the air, arcing over the two soldiers.
When the two soldiers spun around to catch the coins, Punt sprinted into the darkness, his short thick legs carrying him away in powerful strides.
Cries of alarm could be heard behind him and the bulls-eye lantern flashed across the buildings, searching. Punt disappeared into an alley, cursing the bag he carried, for it clanked and rattled as he ran. Clutching it in his arms silenced the worst of the noise.
With the bag quieted, Punt evaded the soldiers through the advantage of darkness. After a good run through the city, he slipped inside a doorway in a cluster of buildings.
The scents of bread filled the small kitchen. A woman in a colorful robe crouched on the floor, stirring spices into a bowl of broth.
"You're early good husband," said Astrela, peering over her shoulder. "And sweaty and out of breath. What is wrong?"
Astrela rose, and though she was no taller than Punt, and lithe, where he was built like a bull, she commanded the space like a general. His wife put her hand to her hip.
"There was no breeze tonight, so I made my own," said Punt cheerily, feeling flush with excitement for outwitting the soldiers.
Astrela narrowed her eyes and frowned. After studying Punt for a couple of breaths, she pointed to the backdoor. "Luckily for you, the bones told me much this evening, including that you would be early. A bucket of fresh water awaits. Food will be ready when you return," she said sternly.
Punt set the bag gently in the corner and went to the common courtyard in back. He washed himself silently, thinking about the encounter with the soldiers. Plutarch would be proud of his deception, throwing his disobedience to the halls of Heron's greatest rival, Philo.
His brief pride, however, faded when he thought of the new tax. Already the city groaned under the weight of oppressive taxes. How could the Romans dare add more?
When Punt returned, clay bowls and cups had been set upon the small table. Two bronze plates sat on either end. Punt breathed deeply, savoring the smells.
Astrela was pulling the bread from the oven. P
unt snuck up behind her and grabbed her around the middle.
His wife squeaked and dropped the bread. "Ra's children! Do not startle me with such."
Astrela scooped the bread from the stone floor, dusting away the grit.
"Think of your foolishness when you bite into a pebble," Astrela lectured.
Punt took the bread gently from her hands and set it upon the table. He took her hands in his own, squeezing them reassuringly.
"I merely wished to hug my wife, for I missed her dearly," he said.
Astrela looked away before nodding once. Punt pulled her into his arms and embraced her, inhaling the light perfume in her hair.
"If you missed me dearly then why do you stay at the workshop so much?" she whispered into his neck.
Punt sighed. "Without fire and hammer, I am not a man, only a spirit haunting my own body. And working for Heron gives me hope for the world."
Astrela shuddered in his arms. "Why you work for that cursed man makes no sense when Philo has offered you triple to work for him." His wife pulled away, her face resuming its stern form. "And just this morning the bones gave me grave news about your fortunes with Heron."
Punt put his fingers to Astrela's lips. "Do not speak this way before we have eaten. Let us sup and then talk."
Astrela nodded and the two took their places around the table. They dined upon fresh bread and perch preserved in salt brine and tepenen spiced chuba; drinking wine in full, not watered down. The end of the meal brought dates soaked in honey and cinnamon.
Sucking the spices from his fingers, Punt asked, "Why do you ply me with such a grand meal? Is something wrong?"
Astrela took a long drink from her wine cup. "The bones," she said, simply, the stern face from before being replaced by a concerned one.
"Do not speak of bones," said Punt, finding his mood loosened by the wine. "They portend the future as much as a flock of geese."
"Ra's children! Do you mock me, husband?" said Astrela.
"I mean no insult, wife," he said. "But you're always speaking of bones and curses and boons and signs. It tires my mind to hear these things. A hammer bends metal when it is hot, this much I know."
"Which is why you should let me worry about these things," she said. "The ways of gods and spirits are too much for you. Especially after you've labored long in the cursed halls of Heron's workshop."
Punt slapped his hand on the table, shaking the empty dishes. "Good Heron is not cursed. Unlucky maybe, but not cursed. His time will come."
"The bones tell me otherwise," said Astrela.
Punt sighed and put his hand to his forehead. "Bones, bones, bones. Tell me of these bones so I may not have to hear of them again."
Instead of launching into her tale, Astrela cleaned up the table and poured more wine for them. Punt was used to pale watered down wine and the second cup was already going to his head.
Astrela took a sip before speaking. "When I gathered the bones in my hand, I knew it was an important throw because both my palms itched. That has happened only once before, on the day I first met you."
Astrela smiled, briefly, before turning grim and continued. "But this was not a happy throw as that one. The bones tumbled into the sign of the crow, crossed with a resurrection staff, which means terrible things. Had the staff come first, crossed with the crow, all would be different, as the staff is a powerful totem. But it was the crow that fell and the staff that followed."
She shook her head.
"Speak wife, what does it mean?" Punt said.
"At the moment of the throw, I asked how fared the house of Heron, knowing the ill-luck that has plagued the man and with it the fortunes of my husband," she said.
"Our fortunes are fine," said Punt. "We have purpose and food on the table."
Astrela ignored his comment. "I threw the bones two more times, as the weight of the first throw demanded it. I will not bore you with the details of those throws, just say that they gathered momentum towards a dark and terrible place. The bones told me there will be a great accident in the house of Heron and from that accident, the pillars of this great city will be shaken and shaken so violently, even Rome will feel it."
Punt couldn't help but laugh, though he regretted it by the slashing gaze he received from his wife.
"If that's what the bones say, then I guess we cannot avoid it," said Punt.
Astrela shook her head, taking her husband's hands within her own. "But you can. Tomorrow will be the feast of Osiris, the resurrected one. If you go to the workshop tomorrow, and burn an offering of barley, and sacrifice a goat, taking care not to let its blood fall upon any shadows. And beg coin from Master Heron, to pay the Sumerian priests to chant on his behalf, and tithe to the gods Saturn and Inanna and Nu-Gan, and purchase a hair shirt—"
Punt soured at his wife's words. "You speak madness. Heron would never do these things. He does not believe in the gods, only the power of ideas and men."
Astrela made a warding sign with her crossed fingers. "Then that is the source of his curse. The gods mock him for not believing in them."
She gripped his hands tightly, gazing into his eyes. "You do not believe as he does? That the gods do not exist?"
Punt's shoulders slumped. "No," he said quietly. "But I'm not sure what purpose they serve, nor what they want."
"It is not them who serve us, it is we that serve them," said Astrela. "We serve the gods in their whims as they divine higher purposes than we can understand. Just as you serve Master Heron not truly knowing the purpose of his creations until they are made."
Astrela's eyes flit to the sack he'd left in the corner, reminding him of his business tomorrow. Her words hit him squarely in the gut. When Master Heron had told him what he wanted the blacksmith to do, he'd uncharacteristically argued. Punt's gifts were made for the foundry, not of the tongue. That was Plutarch's realm.
"You seem concerned about the contents of that bag, husband," said Astrela.
Punt rose and returned with the bag, pulling from it a brass lamp. A curved iron bar rose from the base in which a wick would be suspended. The clever mechanics were hidden inside the base along with the oil.
"Is that the self-trimming lamp? You've told me of its creation before. Quite magical, I would say," she said.
Punt nodded. "I've made scores of these lamps in the last week."
"Scores? Then why did you bring home a bag full of them?" she asked.
Punt set the lamp on the table, rubbing the side absently. Astrela's words about not understanding her master's purpose were made even more true by the contents of the bag.
Punt spoke, though the words sounded to him as if they were coming from someone else. "Good Master Heron wants me to go from shop to shop and sell these lamps to the shop keepers. I am not to return until I have sold every lamp."
Astrela mumbled something that could have been, "Ra's children!" and gathered the dishes up to wash them in the courtyard.
Alone with his thoughts, Punt stared at the lamp trying to figure out why his master would send him on such a foolish and ill-conceived errand.
No answers came.
Fires of Alexandria Page 7