by Ian Miller
"It's good to watch work," Gaius grinned, then he turned to Timothy and added, "Unless you have others slaving away, you've got to do it yourself!"
"And we wouldn't want that, would we?" Timothy countered dryly.
"Heavens, no!" Gaius laughed. "Far better to advance by the sweat of someone else's brow."
"Yes, I can see you're really committed to the idea of reducing other people's labour."
"Let me make an observation to you," Gaius smiled. "A press like that gets the same juice as ten treaders, and you don't even have dirty feet in the wine."
"So two people turning the lever produce as much as ten slaves," Timothy pointed out. "Now if that procedure could be replicated . . ."
"How many wine presses do you see?" Gaius interrupted.
"Eight. Why?"
"So instead of ten treaders, you have sixteen men using presses. The number of slaves has increased. The difference is, they make more juice, more quickly. So, the number of slaves actually increases. It's just that productivity also greatly increases, and the slave-owner gets richer. So guess what happens."
"What?"
"He can afford to buy more slaves!" Gaius said triumphantly. "So the device built to reduce the need for labour actually increases the demand for slaves."
"There is one small point wrong with your analysis," Timothy offered.
"Which is?"
"You don't need sixteen men on the presses. If you had watched a bit more carefully, there are six. A pair tighten one press, then move on to the next, and eventually come back to tighten it further."
"Shouldn't let it get loose," Gaius shrugged. "That's not efficient."
"It doesn't get loose!" The voice from the beer maid.
"It doesn't?" Gaius turned towards her, then added with a touch of contempt in his voice, "Then why are they tightening it from time to time?"
"When the juice comes out, the grapes need less space," she said, then shrunk back. She might be correct, but she was required to maintain silence. Then she looked up to see her overseer bearing down towards her. She shrunk back even further.
Gaius noticed her action, looked towards the overseer, then smiled at her and said, "Go and get me some more beer. I'll have a word with . . ."
"You! Back to your quarters. I'll . . ."
"Please?" Gaius said to the overseer. The word might have been polite, but the tone was that of a Claudian used to command.
"I'll see that she gets suitably . . ."
"Rewarded?" Gaius interrupted in the same superior tone.
"What?" The overseer was completely puzzled.
"I presume she was to be rewarded for good service," Gaius said coldly, and the menace of his tone could not be missed. "That was your intention, I presume?" he added, his voice now harsh and threatening.
"Well, yes, of course, illustrious . . ."
"Good! Make sure it is done. I shall check."
"Er, yes sir." The overseer backed away, then turned and made sure he was somewhere else.
"If you're going to be a slave," Timothy nodded wryly, "being young and pretty almost certainly gets you out of some trouble, if not into other trouble."
"If you're going to make an important observation," Gaius countered, "it helps to make it in front of someone who will appreciate it."
"You're going to claim you're taken with her brains?" Timothy asked curiously.
"I'm claiming nothing!" Gaius replied. "She gave me an idea, and I shall see she is rewarded, not punished. Timothy! Don't you see?"
"To be honest," the reply came back, "I'm not even sure what you're talking about."
"Wine presses!"
"I was afraid that was it," Timothy muttered. "So, what's this idea?"
"They press down, and apart from the juice coming out, the top plate exerts the same force."
"So?"
"It's a way of holding two plates together!"
"Aren't they held together by the frame on the sides?"
"They act as guides," Gaius continued, his voice now a little excited. "The plates, though, are held together by the force exerted by tightening the screw."
"Yes, so?"
"If you could make screws like that out of metal, you could join plates of metal together."
"Which would do?"
"It might be what's needed to make bigger things out of steel," Gaius shrugged. Then he laughed a little and added, "Get's more slaves down the coal mines that way."
Timothy gave a rueful smile. Fortunately the beer was good, the fruit delicious, and in this warmth it was hard not to be in a good mood.
As the wine pressing came to an end for the day, Gaius strolled over towards one of them. He wound one down, kept it clamped, and yes, it did stay where it was. And there was little doubt it could exert very high pressure and maintain it.
He remembered his thoughts on making steam do something useful. He was a long way off that, yet this looked like a solution to what he thought was by far the biggest problem. Was it really possible to make such a machine from iron? Maybe not even iron, but bronze? There were stories of metal men made by the Gods. Now that had never happened, but . . . If he made something that only the Gods could make . . ?
The prophecy came back to him. He would walk among the Gods. Is that what it meant? That he was destined to succeed?
No, he did not believe in prophecy, but still, if a prophecy was as good a one as this, why not?
* * *
A few days later, reality struck. The screw on the wine presses was very large, and carved out of wood. Two carvings had to be precisely complementary. The rod had ridges neatly carved which on each turn travelled exactly the same distance. It was geometry again. Like pulleys, the ratio by which the distance travelled was reduced was the same ratio that multiplied the force. So, to contain a huge force, you needed a fine pitch, where a revolution moved a very small distance. Making such a screw was not too difficult. The problem was what it went through, for here there were grooves that were exactly the correct width and which travelled exactly the same distance as each other and of the rod for each revolution. That required exact carving, and exact measurement. Difficult, if not impossible, to achieve with metal.
It was a few days later still that he saw an alternative. In the Great Library there were two pieces of metal held together. The bottom one had a hole the diameter such that a rod could pass neatly through it. The rod had wire soldered onto it like a helix, with a pitch slightly larger than the thickness of the bottom piece of metal. The screw tightened and held the two pieces of metal together.
What was needed was a thicker bottom piece, or even a third small bottom piece, with wire soldered on the inside of the hole. He would find a craftsman and get something made.
* * *
It took two weeks before he held his objects in his hands. In one hand he held the rod with the wire soldered as a helix on the outside, in the other a thick piece of metal with a hole and the wire soldered on the inside, and also a thin piece of metal with a hole the exact diameter of the rod without the wire. The rod also had a flat "head" while the second piece of metal had small lugs on the outside, so he could turn it. He found two pieces of metal with gaps, he inserted his primitive bolt and wound on the nut. It worked! It did not look much, but it did hold the two other pieces of metal together quite firmly. He ordered more. He also found a sheet of metal and used his bolt to fix the thin sheet to it. That also worked, but the pitch of the thread had to be sufficiently coarse that the screw could hold the thickness of the metal. Not so useful!
Timothy watched this activity with increasing interest.
"You must think this is a waste of time," Gaius said to him one morning, "or a waste of money."
"My first thought," Timothy admitted, "was that you've got plenty of money, so why not wa . . spend it."
"And your second thought?" Gaius smiled at the embarrassment Timothy was showing over his obvious correction.
"They're going to be far too expensive to be any
good."
"So you think I should give up?"
"No," Timothy shrugged, "but my third thought was that maybe if you ever get any of these made exactly right, you could try using them to make moulds and cast more out of bronze."
"Bronze is weaker than iron," Gaius frowned.
"But stronger than solder," Timothy countered.
"You could be right," Gaius said, after a moment's thought. It could be the answer! If he had a master that worked, he could use that to make moulds into which metal could be cast. Because the casts all came from the same starting object, all would be equivalent, well, more or less. He could make quite a lot of these objects. That depended, though on the castings being able to be used. Were they faithful enough to the original? There was only one way to find out. If they were, that would be one problem down!
At least he had something to do. If you had something that worked roughly, you could refine it. If you had nothing, there was nowhere to go.
Chapter 22
Three pieces of news arrived over the spring and early summer. The first letter was from his father: Tiberius was dead. In an almost predictable effort at one last joke in bad taste Tiberius had named Gaius Caesar and Tiberius Gemellus as joint Princeps. Now there were to be 'Two First Equals amongst Equals'. How that would work was anybody's guess. There followed family news, instructions regarding trade opportunities, but it passed right over him, as if it were not there. Only the news of Tiberius' death mattered. Where did that leave his military appointment?
As Gaius picked up the second letter, something caught his eye: it looked as if the seal had been opened and resealed. Someone had read this letter. He carefully opened it, and found it to be from one of those stuck-up fools from one of Rome's oldest houses, who would usually ignore him. Why he was writing was soon made obvious: Little Boots was described as a malicious short-sighted incompetent fool, and now was the time to restore the republic. He should return to Rome at once and persuade his father to vote in the senate to . . . Gaius threw the letter down in despair. This stupid fool could never organize bread deliveries from one of Rome's bakeries, let alone organize a government. All he was doing was to make Gaius a target for Little Boots. Well, then, Gaius thought, there was only one possible response.
He took a piece of papyrus, and wrote carefully.
Gaius Julius Caesar.
Greetings!
I salute the Senate of the People of Rome for their wise decision to recognize your ability and to make you Princeps, I offer my most sincere congratulations and I assure you of my unreserved loyalty. I enclose a message that was sent to me, which I find most distasteful. I am writing to my father to request that he fully support, without any reservation, that which Caesar wishes.
G. Claudius Scaevola.
When unpleasant effects were inevitable, it was infinitely preferable that these unpleasantries land on somebody else's head!
The third letter came later from Claudius, the stutterer, which was full of somewhat bewildering information about the state of Rome. Little Boots was now incredibly popular. He had begun with the crafty move of adopting Tiberius Gemellus and nominating him Princeps Inventatis, thus ensuring Gemellus was inferior in rank, and beholden to Little Boots. Little Boots had Tiberius's will declared null and void on grounds of insanity, he honoured his dead relatives, he publicly destroyed Tiberius' personal papers, which undoubtedly contained the means by which Tiberius controlled many of the Roman elite, and which also undoubtedly contained evidence of their complicity in Tiberius' killings, and he recalled exiles and reimbursed those wronged by Tiberius' taxes. As it happened, he, Claudius, knew that Caesar had kept copies of the papers he had publicly destroyed. He then accepted the powers of the Principate as conferred by the Senate, and he entered Rome amid scenes of wild rejoicing, the popularity being assisted by a lavish distribution of money from the treasury.
Then came the news Gaius dreaded: as Athene had predicted, Gaius Caesar had annulled all Tiberius' late appointments, including his military appointment. For several minutes, Gaius stared at nothing; unless Athene's further prediction came to be, his career was over before it began.
He continued reading. Little Boots had then announced a return to the Augustan ideals, which included the promise of much better cooperation with the Senate and the lowering of taxes and of tithes, all of which was extremely popular with both the masses and the upper classes. But there was more good news. Little Boots had made him, Claudius, co-consul. While Gaius Caesar was in good spirits, he, Claudius, had mentioned his, Gaius', name. Gaius Caesar had nodded, and said he had not forgotten, but before you get a military position you must remain in Alexandria and prove you are worth supporting. According to Little Boots, Tiberius was correct in one respect: Rome needed leaders who could do something else besides blindly wield a sword.
So, with an imperial command, albeit an indirect one, there was little alternative but to remain. The problem was, when Little Boots told Claudius that, he would have known about that other letter. He had to hope that his letter would convince Caesar he was not involved in such plots, otherwise his future was bleak.
* * *
Because of his rank, he was sometimes invited to certain social events. Flaccus, the most powerful man in Egypt, had tried probing him, but Gaius remained obtusely indifferent to the hints. Finally, Flaccus tried the more direct approach, in front of several other members of society.
"You should be in the army!"
"I seem to recall that Caesar makes those appointments," Gaius replied dryly.
"Perhaps he needs reminding that you're still interested," came the broad hint.
"I thank you for your interest. I am sure Caesar will let me know of your concern."
Later, he admitted this was not the most politic of responses, but it had a strange effect for as many other Romans in the room knew, Flaccus had no contact with Caesar at all. Under Tiberius' instructions, Flaccus had prosecuted Agrippina, Little Boots' mother. With little choice, Little Boots accepted this while Tiberius was alive, but that did not mean he had forgotten or forgiven. Caesar's ignoring Flaccus might be the best Flaccus could hope for.
Finally a letter came, with Caesar's seal. At least this would give that wretched Flaccus something to think about! Gaius held it up and stared at it, his hands trembling. This was his career! However, when he opened it, he found it was not. Caesar thanked him for his letter, but he suspected Gaius realized that Caesar was well aware of these pathetic efforts. He should recall what he had once swore to Caesar, and fulfil his pledge. He should remain in Alexandria, and contemplate other ways to serve Rome in line with Tiberius' orders. Other ways! Gaius stared at the letter, and realized he had no option but to accept Caesar's orders. He would acknowledge the letter immediately, then . . .
To take his mind off his problems, he devoted so much of his energies to his machine that Timothy believed it was becoming an obsession. As time progressed Gaius' mood became darker, he ate less, he slept less, and his failure to make progress seemed to make his mood even darker. All he knew was that he would continue until he succeeded. The Gods, or so it was believed, had imparted power to metal objects to do things that men could not. That must be his task and if the prophecy was correct, he must succeed.
Of course, he sometimes reflected when in a more than usually depressed mood, the prophecy also predicted military victories, and so far there was little sign that he would even make it to the army.
Succeeding with the invention was also easier said than done. Nobody else could do it, there was nothing like this anywhere. He should give up, and enjoy life. Why did he think it could be done?
Nobody else had succeeded because nobody else had tried hard enough.
All of which was irrelevant. He would not stop until he had succeeded. He did not believe in Gods, but that was more than a dream. Athene may or may not have been a goddess, but she was like nothing he had experienced. Her message had to mean something, and he felt strangely convinced by
her assertion that he would die miserably if he did not succeed.
What would success look like? What was the most basic thing it could do? Presumably move up and down, or turn a wheel, which were essentially the same thing, as a hinged lever attached to the circumference of a wheel would convert one to the other. So the little toy that turned a paddlewheel was an engine. The problem was, it was not powerful enough to do anything.
How to make it more powerful? Use more steam! To do that, he needed a bigger fire, and a bigger tank of water. That meant that everything would be bigger.
What were the problems? The little machine was soldered together, but that might not be strong enough for a larger machine. So he needed a better way of joining large pieces of metal together. Now, in principle, he knew there were at least three answers. The first was the bolt. Nobody else had seemed to appreciate what a bolt could do, probably because nobody knew how to make them strong enough. The second way was fire-welding: pieces to be joined were heated in a forge until the edges became almost liquid, sometimes with a thin piece of another metal in between, then the two pieces could be fused/hammered together. Provided the temperature was correct, and an appropriate flux was used to stop the metal from forming corrosion products, the metal would join. Even iron could be welded, if you could find someone skilled enough to do it. The third was the rivet. If you left holes, and if you fire-welded, the joints could be strengthened with rivets, hammered down over copper washers to make a seal. So he had made progress. All he had to do was to keep at it. Persistence! That was the way to success!
Then suppose he had steam going into something and he could turn a wheel. If such a machine were to be useful, there would be huge forces on the joints. Surfaces that should move had to slip, not graunch. Perhaps metal that had to slide over another piece, such as where a rod joined a wheel, should have a lining of soft metal, like solder. Maybe a bit stronger than solder, perhaps more like a soft bronze, but with something to make them slippery. It was then he recalled that there was something made from fat and lime that was put around the axles of heavy cartwheels. Yes, there was a solution to that problem.