Fires of Alexandria

by Thomas Carpenter

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Heron hobbled upright around the steam wagon while Punt and Plutarch looked on. The ratio of length between the casings and the back axle seemed wrong.

  "The drive mechanism is bunched. The pistons will bind up," she said.

  She could feel Plutarch cringing from across the wagon.

  "The measurements on the drawing were off a smidge," he explained. "I had to make necessary adjustments."

  "The measurements were not," the last part she said in his high lilting voice, "off a smidge."

  Heron leaned against the wagon to take the weight from her back. She'd been hunched over using her poles so long, her back had forgotten how to hold her up since she'd gotten rid of them.

  "To leverage the proper force into the axle from the steam mechanic, the placement has to be exact. With your meddling, the steam wagon might rip apart from the bound forces and kill everyone on it."

  The devastation on Plutarch's face made her wish she could take it back.

  Her foreman looked dead on his feet. Black rings circled his eyes. She'd been pushing them hard for months without respite.

  Even Punt appeared exhausted. He'd been sleeping at the foundry so he could trade his travel time across the city for working the forge.

  The wagon wasn't as bad as she'd said. It might break apart when pushed to its limits, but she doubted it. She'd mostly been angry that Plutarch had tampered with her design, not an uncommon occurrence within the workshop and one which normally didn't bother her.

  "Apologies, Plutarch," she said. "I over spoke out of pettiness. The adjustment will be fine."

  Plutarch gave her a full bow. "The fault is all mine. I should have checked with you first before making such a crucial change."

  "I'll have none of that," she said. "You've been working yourselves to death for me. Plutarch you're looking like a collection of bones wrapped in loose skin. And Punt, you haven't seen your wife in a month."

  Plutarch raised an eyebrow playfully. "I get starved while Punt gets rewarded?"

  The joke snapped the tension between them. Heron hobbled over and clasped hands with them both.

  "I'm giving you both the next three days off with pay," she paused. "Make that with double pay. Triple."

  Their eyes went wide. "Master Heron," they said in unison.

  Plutarch continued. "There's so much to do right now. We cannot afford to stop."

  The stoic Punt nodded along with Plutarch.

  Heron put her hand upon Punt's shoulder. "I cannot afford to have my most important friends fall dead on their feet. And the workers are merely assembling more steam mechanics. A job they can perform in their sleep now."

  Plutarch opened his mouth, but Heron cut him off with a palm forward hand gesture. "I'll be gone the next ten days on an errand with the Northman, testing the steam wagon and investigating a lead."

  Plutarch and Punt shared glances. "A lead?"

  She shook her head, remembering they knew nothing about her investigation into the fires. "For our next project."

  "But who will take care of the workshop?" asked Plutarch.

  "Sepharia, whenever she returns from the book dealer," said Heron.

  Heron was suddenly reminded how late in the day it had gotten. Sepharia should have been back already.

  Heron checked the entrance hopefully and to her surprise, a shadow passed across the lantern, indicating a person about to enter the workshop.

  Her heart sunk when she saw Agog.

  Agog stopped. "Am I not wanted here? Even when I bring a gift?"

  He had a mischievous grin on his face.

  "I was expecting Sepharia," she said.

  Agog laughed. "My gift has been spoiled then. I brought her with me."

  Sepharia slipped past the Northman and seeing the worried look on Heron's face, ran to her.

  Heron embraced Sepharia, noting how much her niece had grown in recent months. She wouldn't be able to pass as a boy any more without binding her chest.

  "I was worried when the hour grew late," said Heron.

  "And worried you should be," said Agog, suddenly grim. "We found the book dealer dead."

  Sepharia nodded. "We couldn't find the book you wanted either. Though his hand lay on this one. I thought it might be important."

  Heron took the book, glancing at the title written in golden ink: Sumerian Myths. She threw it on her desk. All her dealings with the temples had made her an expert on religion, so she doubted she would need to read it.

  Heron gave Agog a sideways glance. "I didn’t realize I'd sent you along on the errand, too."

  Agog shrugged away her comment. "I was headed here and saw Sepharia, so I followed her a bit to make sure she was safe. When she went into the book dealer, I decided I would surprise her, only to find the place ransacked. After that, I guarded the door while she searched for your book."

  Sepharia had a shy smile on her face and out of the corner of her eye, she caught Agog's longing glance at her niece. Heron suspected Agog wasn't following her out of concern. Men of the north had their reputations. Another complication she wasn't ready to deal with.

  "Who killed the book dealer?" she asked absently, still thinking about her niece.

  "We don't know," said Agog. "But he'd been killed the day before, but not any longer than that."

  "Are you an expert on the state of the dead?" she asked.

  "I've made my fair share of them on the battlefield. When the dead are left to rot a few days, they get bloated and stink. His blood had dried, but no bloating," said Agog.

  "Was there anything else that you learned?" said Heron sarcastically.

  A flicker of amusement trickled across his lips. "Yes. The killers used curved blades and wear obsidian necklaces."

  Heron laughed. "Are you a seer now as well as a warlord and a scholar of the dead?"

  Agog threw an object to Heron. She caught it. It was a necklace with a simple obsidian crescent on it.

  "Sepharia found it," he said.

  Sepharia nodded proudly. "The merchant had it in his hand. He must have ripped it off during the struggle when they killed him."

  "And the curved blades?" she asked soberly. "Did they leave one as well?"

  "Battlefield knowledge," said Agog. "The cuts were from curved blades. They chopped up so many books and scrolls it was easy to know the shape."

  Heron paced around on her modified leg harnesses. A job more laborious than it was worth, but she couldn't quite stand still.

  She'd tracked down a book about the Carthaginians that had survived the destruction of their city from Rome. Supposedly, they'd formed a secret society bent on revenge through any means necessary. A scholar at the Library that she'd shared letters with had suggested it.

  Lost in her thoughts, she didn't realize they were all staring at her until she looked up.

  "Master Heron," said Plutarch. "Whatever this is, it seems very important to you. If you would like we can help you in whatever way we are capable of."

  Punt and Sepharia nodded along with Plutarch. Agog stood to the side, watching the exchange carefully.

  Her first instinct was to not tell them. She'd caused them enough pain with her debts to Lysimachus.

  But she realized that they were involved already. If the book dealer had been killed because of her investigation into the fires, it put all of them at risk. She had to tell them.

  Heron motioned to follow to her desk. Once there, she explained everything, including how she had received the job. The only part she hid from them was the size of the payment. Not out of greed, but of concern they would think it a scam.

  Except for the regular payments of coin, she might as well thought it a scam, but she'd made enough from the deal to help stem the tide of debt. It'd been a profitable venture, even if she never could determine the source of the fires.

  As she explained what she knew, she re
alized it was more than the payment driving her. The fires had been a great blow to civilization. The greatest of all blows.

  Her inventions had been built on the shoulders of giants before her. Aristotle. Archimedes. Geminus. Eratosthenes. Aristarchus. Pythagoras.

  She couldn't even imagine what she might have discovered by now had the Library not been partially destroyed.

  Finding out who caused the fires in the Great Library in Alexandria had become more than a job. She wanted to find out because if it'd been done by human hands, justice should be brought to them.

  After she finished, they stood around in silence, each to their own thoughts.

  Plutarch spoke first, "Does the murder implicate the Carthaginian secret society?"

  Heron shrugged. "Maybe. Without seeing the book I cannot know for certain."

  "What about the necklace I found," asked Sepharia. "What does it mean? Is it a temple's sign?"

  Plutarch shook his head. "There are probably two dozen temples that use the moon as their symbol. And even that does not help us. The killer might be associated with a temple without being from it."

  The Northman had been listening quietly, but when he spoke up, Heron could detect more than just curiosity.

  "Are there any suspects you've ruled out?"

  Heron thought for a while before speaking. "The Ptolemies. And Caesar, maybe." And after another pause. "That's it. I have ruled out almost nothing."

  The enormity of the task weighed on her. How could she dare solve a mystery a century old? It seemed foolish to try. Yet she knew she could not give up on it.

  "What clues lie outside the city?" asked Plutarch.

  Heron considered confiding her reasons for visiting Siwa. But she dared not explain this one, lest they believe her a fool.

  "This one I'll keep to myself, for now," she said.

  They seemed to accept her answer, all but Agog who studied her.

  "While you're gone, I can find out from the Magistrate what they learned of the book dealer's death," said Plutarch.

  "I thought I told you to rest? You look terrible," she said.

  A naughty grin rose to his face, transforming Plutarch from the stern foreman to someone else entirely.

  "I plan on visiting an old friend," he said. "He has the ear of the Magistrate."

  "Hortio?" she asked.

  Plutarch nodded playfully.

  "Fine. But don't overextend yourself," she said.

  Plutarch rolled his eyes.

  She noticed Punt straining to speak. "Yes, Punt?"

  "I will check with the temples of the city to find which has a crescent obsidian symbol," he said.

  She shook her head again and was prepared to forbid him, until she saw the look on his face. She sighed, exasperated.

  "Are you just going to walk up and ask them?" she asked, then switched into her best imitation of his deep voice. "Have any of your followers lost this necklace when they were murdering an innocent book dealer?"

  "No, Master Heron," he said. "I still have lamps to sell. I will make inquires with my eyes only."

  "Clever, Punt," she said, nodding appreciatively. Then to the others, "Never underestimate the gruff exterior of our master blacksmith. His intellect is as keen as the blades he fashions."

  "And me? What can I do?" asked Sepharia.

  "You're in charge of the workshop while we're all gone," said Heron.

  The pride welling up in her niece's eyes was worth all the nervousness she would feel while headed to Siwa. But she didn't dare let Sepharia know.

  Besides, she didn't have much choice.

  "Now that I've dragged you into my schemes, are we clear on what to do next?" she asked.

  They nodded.

  "Good. Start loading the steam wagon and harness the horses. We'll have to make it look like a regular wagon until we get out into the desert. Then we can see how it works."

  The others got to work immediately while Heron slumped onto her desk, desperate to take a quick nap before she and Agog left.

  But sleep eluded her. So she spent her time thinking about all the reasons she shouldn't be going to Siwa.