Fires of Alexandria

by Thomas Carpenter

  Chapter Thirty

  The heavy stare of the afternoon sun descended on Agog, bringing a coating of sweat as he rode through the crowded streets. His furs had been replaced by cloth, but worn in the style of his lands, over the shoulder and loose around the legs.

  The oppressive heat reminded him that Egypt was not his home. He missed the cool embrace of the northern weather. Snow seemed a myth he'd once heard of.

  Agog thought about Heron and found himself smiling. The old man he'd chanced upon when he first came to Alexandria had been right about the miracle worker. Heron had no equal.

  The war machines were nearing completion. The first batches had been shipped.

  Agog could scarcely believe what Heron could convince simple iron, water and wood to do. If he didn't know better he would have thought it magic or divine power.

  The populous of Alexandria, however, didn't know better and had transformed the cursed miracle worker into a scion of the gods. The rumors had altered themselves until Agog barely recognized them himself and he'd started half of them.

  He'd heard only yesterday that Heron could make metal statues come to life just by breathing into their mouths. Another rumor had Heron matching wits with a pair of powerful djinns and defeating them, forcing them to pull his golden chariot for eternity.

  Agog laughed thinking about the battered steam wagon being called a golden chariot. The poor hunk of wood had barely made it back to the workshop before falling apart. Plutarch flushed with embarrassment when he saw how close the engine had come to explosion.

  The newer designs resembled chariots, though his coin had all but dried up in purchasing the war machines. He would find his way to new funds in short order.

  Agog rode around a fight between two men, a Gaul and a Thracian. A crowd gathered quickly. From his high position, Agog could see no Roman guards in sight.

  The Gaul made unbalanced lunges while the Thracian waited patiently for counterpunches. Agog moved on, content he knew the victor.

  His thoughts fell upon the black stone that had arrived at the workshop only days before. Word had reached his ears that Governor Flaccus had taken his troops from the city. He would be gone at least another fortnight. As expected , the letter from Lysimachus had angered the man.

  The remaining Roman soldiers could not handle a city that had been estimated at near a million souls and Agog doubted that estimate included the make-shift city surrounding the walled one.

  After avoiding an overturned cart and a man beating his slave senseless, Agog finally made it to the Museum. He tipped the stable boy a pair of ha'pennies and strolled through the entrance, passing a trio of blowhard scholars that only parroted the words they read in scrolls, trying to convince a rich, foolish noble to patronage them.

  Agog moved through the rooms easily now. Knowledge of the layout and less obvious clothing facilitated his ease. Though more than one scholar mistook him for a slave and commanded him to carry a heavy chest full of scrolls.

  He passed through the Hall of Foreign Curiosities, spying a headdress he recognized from a Vandal village near his home. But that item was the only one he knew. The other strange and wondrous objects that populated the Hall were of materials and shapes he'd never considered.

  A basket of carved demon masks sat near the exit. Supposedly they'd been sent back during Alexander the Great's conquest of the Far East. The masks had been painted in vibrant colors, but now were faded and chipped.

  The Conservatory was packed for a lecture about the power of condensing one's thoughts with mental exercises about counting lines on a woven octahedron. The exercises were claimed to increase mental potential.

  The lecturing scholar, a tall fellow who said his words in a distracting breathless manner, offered sale of the octahedrons for only a talent.

  Agog could hear Heron scold the man, "Astounding feats of the mind wither there, unless put into practice."

  He appreciated Heron's style. Agog kept the same counsel about his affairs in the north. Speaking about things did not make them so, only putting effort to action made them real.

  Agog recalled that Heron never lectured his daughter. Only gave her tasks which unerringly taught her valuable lessons.

  The way to his destination brought him through the Hall of Catalogs and around the Peripatos Garden. And though he'd passed through there numerous times, Agog marveled at the wealth of papyrus scrolls stacked in shelf upon shelf.

  Agog finally found himself in the Histories section and wound through the shelves and tables until he found Gnaeus in a side room seated by three scribblers.

  "Agog! My barbarian friend," said Gnaeus, holding his hands out in greeting. "I expected you some time ago."

  Agog ignored the chiding. "Delays. The streets are growing overfull."

  Gnaeus' eyes alighted with secrets as he motioned for Agog to join him in a nearby room.

  "I acquired the scribes to copy your document," he said.

  Agog frowned. "I thought there would be five."

  "No worries," Gnaeus said. "I hired the best. These three can do the work of five."

  "But do they know all the languages I requested?" Agog asked.

  Gnaeus' face screwed up like he'd smelled a fart. "The charakitai do not care what language they copy. They're trained to scribe the exact copy of the original. Knowing what they were writing might invite editorial copying."

  Agog hadn't known that. He nodded, agreeing with the wisdom of the Library.

  "Do you really mean to go through with it? To make—"

  "Silence, scholar," said Agog, slicing the air with a hand gesture. "I'd prefer to keep my council private."

  Gnaeus rolled his eyes. "Then scheming with Hortio was the wrong way to go about it. The man has a looser tongue than Caligula."

  "Speaking of him," Agog said. "How fare his efforts among the people?"

  "You mean Heron's automata plays? A smashing success. The other workshops duplicated it quite thoroughly. Alexander has been killing Caesar nightly in the Juden Quarter, the Old Egyptian noble houses and in the lesser places of the Rhakotis District."

  Agog rubbed his hand across his chin. He almost felt bad for having the automata play remade in another workshop. Heron would be quite cross with him, he was sure, but then again, Heron probably wouldn't approve of the plan either.

  "And my letters?" he asked absently while still deep in thought. "Have you received replies yet?"

  Gnaeus pulled a roll of papyrus from his toga and handed it over with a curious eyebrow raised.

  "They left Tyre as soon as your message reached them. They wait for you as directed," he said.

  Agog unrolled the papyrus and laughed when he saw the crude drawing on its inside.

  "Is it a secret signal of some kind?" Gnaeus asked.

  Agog was still laughing as he patted the scholar on the back. "Grimm made a drawing of me fucking a goat. Or at least that's what I think it's supposed to be. He's not so great an artist."

  "Why would he do a thing as this? Are you not his king?" asked Gnaeus in horror.

  Agog stooped down to Gnaeus' level and stared deeply into the scholar's eyes. "In my lands, we don't powder our noses before we shove them up someone's ass. And kings aren't fragile vases to be kept on a shelf." Agog paused. "In fact, it's probably a reminder from Grimm that I'd better not forget where I'm from."

  The Northman straightened, keeping his hand resting on Gnaeus' shoulder. Agog realized then when Gnaeus actually met his kinsmen, assuming the plan went well, their actual behavior compared to what he'd read in his scrolls was going to break his little mind.

  "So this Grimm then," Gnaeus asked tentatively. "He can read and write?"

  Agog bellowed a laugh. "Freya's frigid tits, no. He's as illiterate as a stump. My horse can read and write better than he can. Smells better, too."

  "What about the rest?" he asked. "Can they?"

/>   "Most of the men cannot read or write but a few simple words. The women are a different story all together." Agog paused, considering. "And I suppose we'll probably pay for that little imbalance one day."

  "So how did they read your message then?" Gnaeus asked.

  "Quadi can read. He's my scholar of the North," explained Agog, thinking about the man and his affection for the color purple.

  "Enough of them. Your scribblers need to get to work."

  He handed Gnaeus a papyrus of his own. The scholar unrolled it and read the words quickly.

  "Your Latin is quite lovely for a barbarian," Gnaeus mused.

  Agog decided he would have to help Gnaeus learn new terms for his people. Agnar of all of them could be quite prideful and he didn't want to upset his allies.

  Gnaeus rolled the papyrus up and slapped it against his hand. "I'll get them working on it right away."

  Agog patted Gnaeus on the shoulder again. "Do not release them until you've been given the signal."

  He left the scholar giving directions to his scribblers. The way back through the Museum did not distract him as it had on the way in. His mind only wheeled upon his plans, picking apart each decision and wondering if it had been the right move.

  As he walked down the steps of the Great Library, Agog tried to shake off his doubts, even though he knew there was no time for second guessing. His actions would place his head firmly into the Empire's mouth.

  Agog wondered if his hesitance came from Aurinia and the desire to claim her weregild. But he knew that wasn't it. Aurinia would have admired his boldness. Even though that same boldness had gotten her killed.

  Then, he thought back to Heron's workshop. He hadn't properly said goodbye. Maybe it was a guilty conscience for what was to come for them.

  He felt a fondness for them as if they were his own people. Although he'd thrown them into battle without a second thought, he wasn't sure why his thoughts lingered on Heron and his friends. They were essentially hired help.

  But Agog knew it was more than that. His people knew what they were getting into when they followed him. Heron knew nothing of the sort.

  In fact, Heron was probably patting himself on the back for finally climbing out from beneath his debt, without a clue that those efforts would be for nothing. The world, and of more immediate concern, the streets of Alexandria, were going to change forever.

  And for Heron, things were going to get a lot worse before they got better.