Chapter Fourteen
The guards beneath the gilded arch refused Agog entry into the gathering, nervously touching their swords. Heron had asked him to attend the evening's festivities at House Hortio, but now the guards weren't cooperating.
"I am expected by the master of the house and his guest of honor," grumbled Agog.
The soldier glanced to the unrolled papyrus in his hand. "You're not on the list."
"Yes—," he said through gritted teeth. "I've told you that already. I was to be added, verbally I assume."
The guard with the papyrus raised an eyebrow to his fellow guard. "Were you told anything?"
He shook his head and shrugged. "I took over for Legtis right before you got here."
Agog squeezed his hands, cracking knuckles loudly. The two guards took a step back and gripped their hilts. "Consider that your fellow guards did not pass along the message and one of you run off and confirm my attendance."
Agog silently cursed his decision to consult Gnaeus on the proper attire for a gathering of this kind. The acquisition of a Roman tunic of his size had proved more difficult than he thought possible.
He'd convinced the alchemist to shit gold with that trick of Heron's faster than it'd taken one Agog-sized tunic to be made. The delay had made him late. His only solace was the friendly attentions of the bath attendants while he waited for the tunic.
Neither guard had moved and Agog considered taking their weapons from them and knocking them out, but decided that would be a poor introduction to this friend of Heron's. He just wasn't used to waiting outside like a common peasant.
Before he could talk himself out of pummeling a guard, Plutarch appeared in a soft blue toga.
His eyes flickered with amusement at seeing the barbarian in the tunic, making Agog regret listening to Gnaeus once again.
"We've been wondering where you've been," said Plutarch, as he put a gentle hand on the guard's shoulder. They parted.
"For the sake of those guards, it's a good thing you showed up when you did," said Agog.
Plutarch tittered and led Agog to the rest of the party. The contrast to Heron's workshop was as an ox pulling a plow to a zebra dressed in silks.
The stone floors of the workshop had been made for dropping heavy objects, chipped and worn from the abuse. Soot burns along the walls made strange ideograms marking it as a place of fire and steel and muscle.
In contrast, the crimson and gold interconnected tiles of Hortio's dwelling formed a pattern around the shallow pool in the middle, flaunting the decadence of a wealthy man. Rose petals floated in the pool, while half-naked slaves of both genders carried trays of indulgences. The sounds of the party were soft and curved like the gentle wings of doves.
The attendees represented the Alexandrian upper class, though he'd overheard back in the workshop, they all had a distinct dislike for Rome and its Governor Flaccus. A useful group with which to rub elbows.
Agog wrestled with the black belt holding his tunic. Every step he took hitched the fabric around his stomach. He had no idea how they wore such confining garments.
Plutarch, who Agog saw as a competent and efficient foreman in the workshop, had taken on a different air as he led him through the party. The foreman floated ahead of him, slipping through the crowd like a whimsical ribbon.
For him, the party guests staggered away when he tried to pass, stunned by his size. The Roman tunic failed to hide his origins.
Plutarch slipped next to him and reading his thoughts, whispered, "It's your mane of hair. No proper Alexandrian wears such a dreadful mess, nor a knot on their heads."
Agog put a hand to the Suebian knot holding his unruly black hair and grunted. Gnaeus would pay for his ill-suited advice.
Holding court between two marble statues, Heron was recounting a tale to an enraptured audience including a man Agog first mistook to be a woman.
Agog quickly realized the effeminate man was Hortio based on his jeweled and sparkling attire. No Alexandrian would wear that many valuables that they would have to transport across the city after the party was over. Plus the crimson and gold theme matched the silks and banners of the party. It had to be the owner of the house.
His conclusion was rewarded when Plutarch sidled next to Hortio and whispered a few words. Heron had also noticed his arrival, but was in the middle of explaining a story about his experience with a Thracian whore.
Agog had seen no evidence of a social life for Heron, so he doubted the story had any truth to it. But the crowd gathered around, clutching golden cups of wine and wearing the finest garb in Alexandria, were so enthralled by his tale, they did not detect the falseness.
Once the climax of the story had been reached, in words and in past deeds, laughter erupted.
"Enough you sycophants! Shoo! Shoo!" Hortio laughed and swept away the crowd with gentle limp-wristed motions.
As Heron's eyes fell upon him, Agog sensed a deeper emotion, but unlike the lies about the whore, he couldn't determine their source.
Hortio spread his arms wide, smiling and shaking his long blonde hair, distracting Agog from his insights about Heron. "This must be the dreaded barbarian from the North, disguised in the local attire."
The remaining members of the circle appraised him with interest as if he were an animal in a cage. Hortio pushed them away until it was only the four of them.
Agog bowed, putting one fist over his chest in a traditional salute. "Greetings."
"Oh! A custom of your people." Hortio widened his eyes in mock excitement. "We'll all be doing it before the week is out, if I have anything to say about it."
Agog wasn't sure if the host wasn't making sport of him, until he caught the glance from Heron.
Hortio hooked his braceleted arm around Plutarch's and Agog finally understood the change in the foreman. Plutarch ran his fingers through Hortio's hair and the two men shared intimate smiles.
Such men lived in the North, so Agog was accustomed to their ways and made no outward indication when the two kissed. Heron shrugged again, which was about all the man could do with his poles and leg harnesses.
When the two men were done kissing, Heron asked, "Have you decided if you can lend me those books?"
Hortio made an exaggerated sigh and wrinkled his nose distastefully. "Always business with you. When will I ever see Heron the whore slayer?"
Hortio, along with Plutarch, who'd taken on a very subdued role compared to his normal commanding presence in the workshop, laughed like naughty children.
"After the play," said Hortio. "If you've pleased me with your mechanics, then I will consider it."
Heron nodded solemnly. "Then I should go inform Punt that we'll be starting soon."
He limped away on his poles and harnesses. Agog was reminded of the creature they called the giraffe, when he'd seen one in a cage in Antioch.
Agog moved along side of Heron. "Why is Punt working it? Have your workers run off on you?"
Heron shook his head. "I had to send them away."
Agog staggered to a stop, putting his hand on Heron's pole. "Send them away? Then how will you complete my war machines?"
He said it louder than he had intended, drawing more stares than he'd already enjoyed.
"Hush," said Heron, whispering. "I had to. One of them is a spy, but since I do not know which, I had to send them all away. I haven't determined the power source in any case."
Agog put his hand to his temple. The troubles of his home land seemed simple compared to his dealings with Heron.
"How will any work get done?" he asked.
"I don't know," said Heron, shaking his head again. "But I couldn't let Lysimachus know what our plans are."
Agog grunted. "I could have questioned your workers for you and found the spy. I can be quite persuasive."
"I could not let you do that to them. I'm sure the one who is spying is only doing so because the A
labarch has blackmailed them or is threatening their family," said Heron.
"You're so naïve," growled Agog. "The tax man broke your legs, threatens your daughter, and is preparing to destroy all your hard work and you're letting your workers go without questioning them?"
"I have plans in the works," said Heron.
Before Agog could rebut, they came upon a curtained stage. Agog hadn't seen the statues in action, but given their immobility, he was prepared to be unimpressed.
Punt crawled from beneath the stage, sweat rolling from his bald head. Agog offered a hand and helped him to his feet.
"That you should be crawling beneath these wooden planks like a common worker is a crime," said Agog. "If you were in my country, your skills at the forge would have you revered as a god."
Punt looked embarrassed as he wrapped a rope around a pulley on the back of the stage.
"Are we ready?" asked Heron.
Punt nodded. "I double checked the connections. A wire was severed beneath the main actor, but I cobbled together a fix."
Heron nodded. "Seems I was right in sending all the workers away. I should have paid more attention to this curse business."
"The well pulleys need checking," mumbled Punt as he shuffled away.
"The well?" Agog raised an eyebrow in question.
"The play is powered by a heavy stone falling down a well, yanking a series of pulleys," Heron explained.
"A play?"
Heron indicated for Agog to return to the main room.
Heron climbed upon a bench and cleared his throat loudly. "Good citizens of Alexandria! May I have your attention?"
The gentle clatter of the party quieted to a murmur. Once they had assembled before him, Heron began to speak again.
"Tonight we gather together to witness my newest mechanical play," said Heron to a light applause, who waited until it died down before continuing again. "But this time I did not script the actors."
A point of surprise carried through the assembled, whispering guesses as to who might be the author. Heron waited until their lots had been cast.
"I am pleased to announce that your gracious host, Hortio, did the honors!"
The party goers cheered, holding up their goblets of wine, whistling and clapping as Hortio ran to the front of the crowd, holding up his hands like a victor of a gladiatorial match. Hortio bowed deeply, exaggerating the flip of his blonde hair upon returning upright.
Heron carefully climbed off the bench and signaled for Hortio to pull the golden tasseled rope that hung from the edge of the stage.
Hortio gathered Plutarch into his arms, giving him a gentle kiss before skipping to the rope, eliciting much laughter from the crowd.
Everyone's faces were lit like sunbeams, shining at their host who stood poised before them, ready to start the mechanical play.
Everyone but Heron.
Agog had been intrigued by the idea of a mechanical play. During the long sunless winters, his soldiers and their women amused themselves in his great hall telling tales and acting them out before a blazing fire.
But Heron looked as if he were attending a funeral.
The pull of the golden rope elicited a great thunderclap. The crowd shrieked.
Trickles of laughter came after, especially when Hortio yelled, "I told him to put that in!"
Agog's eyes were drawn to the stage immediately to determine the source of Heron's concern. Upon the platform were four bronze statues, clearly Roman senators by their elaborate dress togas.
A fifth statue sat on a great throne on the left side of the stage with a laurelled head and a great receding hairline. Whispers of Caesar's name carried through the room.
On the right side of the stage was a miniature Lighthouse of Pharos. The top of the Lighthouse flared with an internal fire that Agog could determine no source.
The four senators began moving back and forth, bowing and raising their hands in adulation. The movements were smoother and suggested the human form more than Philo's water spitting statue in the square.
Caesar seemed to be waiting, his head bobbing listlessly, almost bored by the senators. Though the play was silent, minus the thunderclap to announce the beginning, Agog found himself drawn in by the lifelike movements.
The only portion of the statues that did not evoke humanness were the bases, thick poles that moved in slots upon the stage.
As the play continued, Caesar slammed his hand on the arm of his throne and the senators grew more agitated.
Agog sensed the mood of the story by the reaction of the party goers. Caesar was clearly a hated figure. Agog himself admired the man, even though he'd killed his forbearers upon the fields of Elyusia.
As Caesar began to react more violently to the approach of the senators, the Lighthouse flared in return. Agog checked for Heron, only to find the man at the back of the crowd, as if he were planning on leaving.
Agog needed to talk to Heron, but wanted to watch the conclusion of the play. Agog edged around while keeping his eyes on the stage.
A steady drumbeat rumbled up from beneath the stage. The attendees surged forward, drawn by the escalating performance.
When the play seemed to be approaching a climax, the Lighthouse flashed red, three times. As the senators slinked closer to Caesar, he raised his fist skyward. With all eyes on Caesar, no one saw the front of the Lighthouse open up, no one but Agog, for his agile eyes never missed a thing.
Their excited screams were immaculate as the figure of Alexander the Great, strutted across the stage on two mechanical legs, to stab Caesar with his spear.
When the curtains came down around the stage, the audience cheered wildly and lifted Hortio onto their shoulders. Agog followed Heron easily, due to his condition, into a wide room filled with scrolls and books on every side.
Fires of Alexandria Page 16