Chapter Twelve
Punt hefted the sack over his shoulder, sighing regrettably. He'd only sold a third of the self-trimming lamps that Heron had given him. The coin in his pouch felt thin, like watered down soup.
Astrela lay in her bed. He dare not wake her after their arguments the night before. When the message had come to return to Heron's workshop, she begged him not to go, citing signs from her bones.
Furious at his wife already, Punt had shouted her down. In their sixteen years of marriage, he'd never done that before. But she'd been negotiating with Philo on his behalf without his knowledge.
Punt didn't want to work for the snake Philo. He would rather toil for a trinket merchant making children's toys than lend his strength and knowledge to Heron's greatest rival.
Punt spit into the dirt. It was painful to even consider that Philo was a rival. The man had clawed his way to the tops of the workshops through deceptions and bribery. His designs were clearly stolen from Heron.
Swinging the bag to the other shoulder, Punt jostled through the crowd. An errant elbow caught him in the ribs and someone stepped on his foot.
"Excuse me," mumbled Punt.
On the way to the workshop, Punt was stopped by a crowd too thick to pass through. Sliding around the side, he came upon a scene.
A minor trader from the deep southern lands, wearing colorful robes and a head scarf of golden fabric, had his arms waving in the air.
"I will not pay!" yelled the trader. "I cannot make profit this way."
The merchant shrugged. "Flaccus decrees, so I must collect. If I do not, he will shut me down."
The colorful trader stomped his feet in the dust. A young boy nearby, probably the trader's son, held the reins on a camel loaded with bags.
"This Flaccus cannot have my coin," said the trader. He spit in his hand and held it out. "We trade southern way, man to man. Not Roman one, like vulture on a carcass."
Gasps traveled through the crowd. A pair of Roman soldiers pushed their way through, until they came face to face with the trader. The merchant faded into the shadows of his awning.
"What were you saying about Romans?" sneered the first soldier.
The trader proudly held his ground. "I cannot pay tax. It too much. I will take trade east."
The first soldier glanced at the second. "Not paying taxes? Well, then...we can't have that on Roman soil." They moved toward the trader with one hand on their swords.
The trader stepped back once, his eyes wide. "No. No. We have no trade. No tax to take."
The soldier shook his head. "That's not what I heard. I heard that you weren't going to pay the coin owed to the generous Roman Empire that keeps your roads open so you may trade freely."
The second nodded agreeably. "That's what I heard too."
The trader looked like he wanted to run, but as he glanced at his son, he stayed. The soldiers grabbed the trader and led him away. When he began to struggle, they tripped him and beat him with their fists.
The crowd faded away from the scene, not wanting to be there in case more soldiers joined.
As Punt left, he noticed the trader's son, holding onto the reins of the camel, pull a knife from a pack. Punt made eye contact and shook his head. The boy narrowed his eyes and returned the knife to its hidden location.
The scene he'd left was not unfamiliar. The taxes cut cruelly into the population. Those subsisting on meager earnings sipping root soup, now found themselves with empty bellies most days.
The tax had prompted his wife to push for Philo's employment, but Punt hadn't wanted to hear any of it.
Dusty winds from the south brought heat almost as oppressive as the taxes, quickly dispersing the crowds. Punt wrapped a scarf around his face and leaned into the biting wind.
The rotating wind wheels above Heron's workshop brought a smile to his face, even though it meant gritty sand blowing into his mouth. Black smoke announced that the cupola had been fired. Shimmering heat wafted over the roofs, obfuscating the gleaming white Lighthouse in the distance.
Punt followed a load of timbers being carried into the courtyard in back. He returned smiles to familiar faces. It'd been a month since he'd been in the workshop. The sharp tang of burning metal put a hurry into his step.
Weaving through the warehouse, Punt noticed the head of Horus had been removed. Other projects they'd been working on before the Nekhbet disaster were missing as well.
Then Punt realized the workers all had weapons hanging by their sides. He increased his gait to reach Heron sooner. The implications worried him.
The first thing Punt saw when he neared his master's work area was the Northman. He reminded Punt of a great bear, seen in sketchings from the Library.
The Northman seemed to be supervising the workers, bellowing his voice at them to move barrels and tables. Already, construction on a project had begun. Punt wondered why Plutarch wasn't directing the workers.
Punt was so focused on the Northman, he didn't notice the contraption that Heron was strapped to, until he reached the desk.
"Master Heron—," Punt gasped.
Heron was bound to a vertical table. Bandages covered his knees and ankles. Punt hurried to his side.
"What happened?" he whispered.
"The Alabarch."
Punt found it hard to meet Heron's gaze. A mixture of pain and fury formed a potent cocktail in his master's eyes. A chill trickled down his spine.
Looking down, Punt surveyed the damage. The bandages weren't bloody, but the flesh beneath seemed swollen.
"How fared your task?" asked Heron.
Punt had forgotten about the sack on his shoulder and set it on the ground, letting his eyes fall downcast.
"I'm sorry Master Heron, I failed you," said Punt. "I only sold a third of the lamps."
Heron laughed. A weak and broken laugh, but a laugh none the less. Agog's deep baritone joined his, and Punt followed, not understanding why.
"A third? Your dedication to every task honors me, friend Punt," said Heron. "Maybe I should put Plutarch in the foundry and you can be our mouthpiece."
"Oh, no! Please, I prefer the foundry," said Punt.
Heron smiled. "I jest. Plutarch would make me nothing but slag and I know it makes your heart sing to swing a hammer."
"Where is Plutarch?" asked Punt, still worried about his absence.
"On errands." Heron shared a glance with Agog and the Northman nodded.
Punt was surprised by the Northman's involvement. He'd been distant before. Had the attack from Lys convinced him to be more involved? Punt didn't mind the Northman, but he knew nothing about him either. They'd been betrayed once too often for him to trust anyone new.
"I have two favors to ask," said Heron.
Punt bowed at the waist. Though Heron was a slight, erudite Greek and Punt deeply Egyptian, who made a living with his hands, he loved Heron like a brother.
"The first is that I need to send a package to your house for safe keeping," said Heron. "The second is that I need you to make me some legs that I can use once the swelling goes down."
"Make legs?"
Heron handed him a papyrus with sketches of a leg harness on them. The apparatus attached to the knee had interlocking gears and a rod between the two lengths, appearing to provide support.
"What does this part do?" asked Punt. "This is a new design."
Heron rubbed his temples, probably warding off his frequent headaches.
"While laying in the entryway after Lefty dumped me there and before Sepharia found me, I saw in the depths of my pain, that design," said Heron. "I guess I have that much to thank Lys. I'd been racking my brain about a way to provide locomotion to automata and the Alabarch, through hobbling me, gave me the spark."
When Heron saw that Punt still didn't understand, he continued, "The round connection interlocks and allows the two rods to move freely, whil
e the small rod to the side, slides in and out of a sleeve, providing support and locomotion."
Punt stared at the papyrus until he understood.
"Making the interlocks rotate freely will be difficult," said Punt.
"Yes, I was stuck on that too, until our Northman friend suggested using sand to polish them smooth. We can bond sand to a stone and utilize the wind sail on the roof for power," said Heron.
Agog lifted a heavy timber as if he were wielding a stick. "If water can wear away a beach, then sand can wear metal." He flipped the timber easily in his hand. "And we use sand to knock the rust from our weapons."
Punt nodded, and left the bag of coins from his sales on the desk. He went to the foundry to begin work on the leg harnesses when he realized Agog had followed him. The big man had a light step and he had not heard him at first.
"I wish to watch the god of iron and fire work his trade," said Agog, bowing nimbly. It was unnatural that a man that big could move that delicately.
Punt squinted, drawing his lips thin.
"And I make an excellent assistant," said Agog.
The Northman had the strength to work the foundry, but he wasn't sure he wanted the help.
"Why?" Punt asked, simply.
"I'm making a great investment in the halls of Heron. After the attack, I decided I needed to take a more hands-on approach to his safety," he said.
"So the weapons were your doing?" asked Punt.
"Yes, though Plutarch agreed. Otherwise, your master would have ignored the suggestion." Agog's eyes sparkled with import. "I think we all know that not everyone in the city wishes for Heron's success."
"You suspect sabotage?" asked Punt.
"Better than the curse that supposedly hangs over his head."
"You don't believe in curses?"
Agog flexed his powerful arms, cracking his knuckles by squeezing his thumbs across his fingers. "I prefer dealing with men. They're easier to kill. Gods are a troublesome lot."
Punt agreed with the Northman's practical wisdom. "My wife counsels with bones that tell her the gods are affronted by Master Heron's reliance on human knowledge."
"And you believe her?"
Punt shook his head, picking up his smithing hammer. The weight felt comfortable in his hand.
"I believe in Master Heron."
Agog patted the smithy on the shoulder. "I do, too." The Northman hefted his bulk on top of a pile of timbers. For a big man, he was as graceful as the wind.
"I had other ideas for protecting the workshop and Master Heron, but he waved them off, saying he had other plans in the works," said Agog.
Punt could see where Agog was leading him. He hated to go against his master's wishes, but seeing Heron strapped to the table with useless legs burned at his heart.
"What are these ideas?" asked Punt.
Agog grinned and leapt down, sending up puffs of dust as he landed. He wrapped his arm around Punt's shoulder. Punt felt like the Northman's smile was going to engulf him.
"Have I got some ideas for you."
Fires of Alexandria Page 13