Athene's Prophecy (Gaius Claudius Scaevola Trilogy)

by Ian Miller

  So, once the wheel turned, this task was completed. So, back to the beginning! A boiler, and pipes to take steam to the machine, whatever that was, and maybe a pipe to bring the hot water back? Suppose you did that, how would you get it back in? Perhaps that was not so important; water was easily available, except . . . If you had to stop the machine when you ran out of water, that would negate much of its value, and if there was a way to put water in while the machine was running, you might as well return the . . . the what? The water would come out of the machine as steam. So, condense the steam, after it had done whatever work it was going to do! Then it could stay in the machine, without exerting backpressure.

  And get the water back by forcing the water to a tank above the steam generator, close the access, let in steam from the boiler, and all the water would fall in when the pressure equalized.

  In principle, this looked like it could be done! The first thing to do was to draw a diagram of what it might look like, drawing boxes for the parts he was not so sure of, and see what he could get made.

  Even pipes were not that easy. Pipes were made of lead, but that would be too soft. What he needed was someone to make pipes for him, out of . . . Out of what? Copper? Bronze? It had to be something from which he could make long pieces of pipe. How long could pipe sections be made? He should find out, because that might determine how the layout of this device would be. There could be no point in drawing something that could not be made, simply because available pipes were too short.

  Then there was the question of how much pressure the system could take, safely, and how to control it. There was only one answer to that. He must get a boiler made, and gradually add weights to the valve and see what happened. And, remembering the problems of other scalded workers, watch from behind protection at a safe distance. Perhaps first get a bigger version of the little machine made. See how big they could make it?

  He would hire some workers.

  * * *

  Timothy began serving the meal. He had taken upon himself the task of overseeing food preparation because, as he pointed out, Gaius seemed to be too busy to take a proper interest in food. Gaius smiled at this: he felt the real reason was that Timothy wanted to eat as well as he could while Gaius was paying, but he accepted the situation because Timothy did seem to have a knack of finding sources of really interesting food, and also he had to admit that Timothy seemed to be able to acquire this food more cheaply than Gaius would ever have managed. Timothy certainly had this ability to find bargains. Timothy placed the plate in front of Gaius and asked, "So, have you finally decided to admit that Aristarchus was wrong?"

  Gaius looked up, grinned, and replied, "No!"

  "Hoping I'll die of old age before you'll admit it?"

  "I'm certainly not hoping you'll die in the reasonably near future," Gaius said. "I'm still thinking."

  "So where have you got to?"

  "This business of things coming to be and passing away. I think Aristotle, the Greek, was wrong, and I'm going to take the Roman view."

  "There is one?" Timothy gave a look of forced puzzlement.

  "According to Lucretius, no thing is ever produced by divine agency out of nothing," Gaius offered.

  "That view, of course, came from Democritus, a Greek," Timothy pointed out.

  "So, in a sense, I win a bet," Gaius said, and turned over a wax tablet on which was written, 'Timothy will point out that Democritus was a Greek.'

  "Glad to make your day," Timothy added sourly.

  "And you didn't offer to show anything coming from nothing, nor have you ever seen anything totally destroyed either."

  "How about wood burning?" Timothy asked.

  "As Aristotle correctly said," Gaius smiled, "the fire is an agent of change. I think Democritus was correct. Everything is made of atoms, and as Lucretius noted, what you see is how they are arranged. Air is presumably atoms with a lot of space in between them, so the atoms of wood are split apart by the fire and end up as air."

  "So?"

  "Suppose you say the same thing for energy? When you throw the stone in the air, suppose the energy doesn't pass away, but goes somewhere."

  "Well?"

  "If you think of lifting something, and the energy being stored somehow, then it must take so much more energy to lift the Sun from the Earth-centre than the Earth from the Sun-centre. That gives at least two problems."

  "Two?" Timothy asked in surprise.

  "Yes, two. The first is why doesn't Aristotle's system revert to the Aristarchus system, which seemingly needs less energy, and secondly, why does the amount of energy depend on how you look at the problem? That can't be right."

  "So," Timothy pointed out, "logic says your analysis must be wrong."

  "Not at all," Gaius countered. "The alternative is a premise might be wrong. The problem only arises because in Aristotle's system, the Earth is in a very special place for no good reason."

  "Aristarchus has the Sun in the centre," Timothy pointed out.

  "For the good reason that it's the biggest," Gaius pointed out. "Small falls around large, because with the same energy, light moves faster than heavy. The stars are so far away they're irrelevant to this discussion, and for all I know, they may have their own planets. The main point is, there's no reason for the Earth to be at the centre of anything, except it just seems so because we're on it. And there's more. The sun is so much more massive, and so far away, to give us our heat, it must be extremely hot."

  "So?"

  "Why doesn't it melt whatever its sphere is made of, or, if the spheres have holes, as you put it, why doesn't it melt and flow through those holes, or, if the spheres have no holes, why doesn't it just smear itself out along the sphere?"

  "I don't know," Timothy shrugged. "It just doesn't."

  "It just doesn't because everything's falling to the centre of it," Gaius pointed out, "and as Aristotle noted, it then has to be a sphere, which as far as we can tell, it is. No, Timothy, I do not concede. Everything I think of points to your being wrong. The only trouble is, I still can't see what's wrong with your one point."

  "You're taking this very seriously," Timothy said. "Maybe I shouldn't have . . ."

  "Not at all," Gaius slapped him on the shoulder. "This is much better than dealing with some of these Roman snobs around here, and I can't wait to see your face when I solve it! Now, how about a cup of wine?"

  Chapter 23

  His next move was to hire the staff of a metal workshop. He was fortunate to find one such foundry in temporary financial trouble. A quick bailout acquired willing and skilled workers, and, he found that by arranging for more of the local legion's work to be done there, he quickly recovered his investment. However, somehow nothing progressed the way it should. They built what they thought he wanted, but usually it was not. It was then he realized that to make progress he had to be around to explain what he wanted.

  He soon found that foundries were messy dirty places, and soon he began to dress more like the workers, at least on the site. He also needed somewhere else to assemble what he made, because while that was being done the foundry could be doing useful work, earning money, and keeping the workers employed.

  Progress seemed to take forever. It took over two months to make a small steam turbine with greater size, and another six months to make one that did not fly to pieces when extra weights were put on the safety valve. If nothing else, he learned a little about safety precautions, and the value of a safety wall. During this period Gaius also managed to have some bronze bearings made, and he assembled a wheel attached to a stationary axle through his new bearings, the wheel being turned through gears from a windmill, and made to lift a heavy weight. He tried various mixtures of olive oil, lime and fat until eventually he came up with a mixture that seemed to allow the bearings to last. Mixing oil, fat and lime made him really filthy, and to his general annoyance, it took a long time to clean up.

  Timothy watched these events with a mixture of admiration and dismay. The admiration w
as for the persistence, the dismay was because nothing seemed to be being built. But as Gaius told him in a tired voice one evening, if there were no solutions to certain problems, there was no point in continuing.

  By now the local social elite had ceased sending Gaius invitations to events, and he was gradually becoming an outcast. His explanation was that he did not have the time, but the real reason was he did not enjoy their company. Timothy suggested that he should make peace with Flaccus, and eventually Gaius gave in. He held an evening and he put on entertainment by some Egyptians he had come across. As he expected, this was something of a novelty to some of the Romans. As he remarked bitterly, they would live in a country for years, and they might as well have stayed at home.

  "They couldn't conquer everybody if they did that," Timothy remarked.

  "That lot didn't conquer anything," Gaius scowled. "Getting out of bed before noon is their challenge for the day!"

  "And Flaccus?"

  "I was polite, he was curious."

  "Curious?" Timothy asked.

  "As I expected he has seen the letters with the Imperial seals," Gaius said, then added with a superior grin, "and I don't think any have been addressed to him."

  "That would annoy him," Timothy agreed.

  "Maybe not," Gaius shrugged. "Caesar is supposed to renew or replace appointments, and from what I gather he is doing that in a number of places, but he seems to have forgotten about Flaccus, which gives Flaccus more time to collect bribes."

  "That's encouraging," Timothy muttered.

  * * *

  After seven months in which little news came from Rome, a further letter came from Claudius. This news was depressing. After six months of relatively benign and even enlightened rule, Little Boots had fallen ill. At first there was polite consternation for the Princeps, but as Little Boots became progressively more ill, members of the elite families began discussing what would happen after Little Boots died. This could bring a return to the republic, although Claudius noted with obvious disgust, most of the senators seemed to be more interested in advancing their own cause. In principle, civil war could erupt.

  Then, praise the Gods, Little Boots survived. However the man that survived was not filled with joy and good will at having done so. While he was ill, two men had made public pledges. Afranius Potitus had sworn to offer his life if Caesar lived, while Atianus Secundus had offered to fight as a gladiator. Caesar was repelled by such ostentatious displays, so he calmly informed them that their offers were accepted. Potitus was wreathed as if as a sacrifice and was then pitched off the Tarpeian rock. Atianus was forced to fight, and when he won, he had to grovel for his life. Then Caesar became aware of the senatorial discussions. He was livid: there was no need for such discussions, so they must be plotting.

  "But Caesar," someone protested, "there has to be someone in charge?"

  "And why not Tiberius Gemellus?" Little Boots had spat back.

  Now, Little Boots decided that this senator was plotting. The senator had no way of proving that he wasn't, which was hardly surprising because in truth Little Boots was as near enough to being correct as made little difference. The senator had not actually done anything, but that was largely because of sloth and fear. Had he wanted to kill Little Boots, the time to do so was when he was so ill he was not expected to survive.

  So, Little Boots decided to absolutely humiliate the senator. In front of his face, some of the guard had their way with his wife, and Little Boots himself deflowered his daughters. Then he told the senator that only a massive amount of gold would save him from a fate worse than death. When he asked how much, the senator was told to guess. The senator paid an immense amount, and then was told that service in Tunisia might be a good idea. The senator went immediately.

  Which brought the problem to a head. Nobody had any faith in Tiberius Gemellus, who had concentrated his efforts on some ineffective efforts at administration. At the same time Little Boots had concentrated on securing the services of the Praetorian Prefect Quintus Sutorius Macro to provide the muscle he required to further his own ambitions.

  It was during this period that Little Boots invited Tiberius Gemellus for a meal worthy of his being joint Princeps. The boy was in poor health, and when he came to dine with Caesar, he took some cough mixture. Caesar was furious, and accused him of taking a poison antidote. Did he not trust Caesar? Caesar obviously did not think so, so he ordered Macro to kill him. Macro did so promptly.

  Little Boots' arrogance had increased. His own father-in-law had offered advice on some point, to which Little Boots suggested they go for a journey to sea together. His father-in-law declined because he was a bad sailor and hated the sea, so Little Boots decided that he must have feared he would be killed. If he feared he would be killed, why, he must have a guilty conscience so he would be killed. He ordered him to commit suicide.

  Little Boots now began to suspect that everybody was plotting. The problem was, his actions looked like making this true. One day Macro suggested that he . . . Little Boots was furious. How dare he, a mere guardsman, tell the Princeps what he should and should not do. Macro was ordered to immediately go and kill his own wife Ennia, then commit suicide. He, Claudius, suspected that this was in part because once Macro began thinking, he may well think that if he could kill one Princeps he could kill two. He must have been given a fairly terrible alternative, because that evening both died.

  The message was clear: do not give advice to Caesar. That meant, of course, that the combined wisdom of Rome was now unavailable.

  Then on top of that, Caesar's sister, Drusilla, who had provided an effective restraining force on Little Boots, had died. Little Boots now became totally distraught, and was now beyond restraint.

  * * *

  Gaius' social position took an even greater turn for the worse. It had all started when Timothy had been discussing something with a Greek slave. The slave's master appeared and seeing the slave talking, he brought out a whip and lashed out. The slave yelled, and was lashed again. Timothy tried to reason with the man, and was rewarded with a lash across his side. It was at this moment that Gaius came around a corner.

  "Put that down, you little pail of shit!" Gaius roared imperiously.

  Without thinking, the master turned, saw Gaius dressed in the rather tatty and non-descript clothing he wore when going to visit the foundry, swore something about teaching manners, then he lashed out at Gaius.

  Gaius felt the searing pain across his side, then as he saw the whip come back for a repeat, he leaped back. He noticed an older man with a walking staff, so he grabbed it. "I'm just borrowing it," he muttered, then grabbing the staff he advanced on the man with the whip. As the whip came over, he dodged and managed to get the whip to wrap around the staff. Grasping the staff with both hands close to the tangled whip, he pulled with everything he had. The now furious owner lurched forward, and as he did Gaius stepped forward and kicked with everything he had at the man's groin. His kick first glanced the leg, then struck, and the rather large man gave out a dreadful scream, and lay writhing on the ground.

  "You don't know who I am," the man rasped. "I'll have you flogged to death for that."

  "You probably don't know who I am," Gaius replied coldly, as he drove the staff into the man's midriff, then after smashing it across the man's back he added haughtily, "You may call me Claudius. From your knees!"

  There was a sudden stare of fear.

  "I see you're starting to understand," Gaius muttered. "You want to flog me, you'll have to do it yourself," he spat, then brought the staff down around his victim's backside. There was a yell of pain, and Gaius struck again and again. He smashed the staff into both arms as the man cowered in terror.

  "Please! I'm s sorry!"

  "You'd better be!" Gaius leaned over and spat right in the man's eye. "You stay down, and whatever that was all about to start with, the man I saw you strike was also a personal friend of Tiberius. Think very carefully before you do whatever he told you not to."
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  With that he turned and handed back the staff, then added a couple of denarii. The older man looked at the coins, nodded thanks, and shuffled away.

  Eventually the other side of this story spread amongst the Romans present in Alexandria. Beating a known bully did Gaius' reputation no harm, but having been seen dressed as little better than a foundry worker did. Even worse, word got around that Gaius personally used tools, and was behaving almost like a craftsman. This was definitely not the person to be seen with in polite society. One of Flaccus' aides suggested that the bully should appeal to the Princeps, and have Gaius put in his place.

  As Timothy noted, the ideals of the early republic, where Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus could be taken from his farm work, made absolute dictator of the Roman forces so that he could lead the armies to defeat the enemies of Rome and save a Roman army, then give up all power to return to work on his small farm and be admired by all for it, were gone.

  Gaius then refused to have any dealings with the family of that man he had beaten. Some of the other Romans began to more actively ostracise him, so he retaliated. His family was the biggest single shipper of goods to Rome, and they owned the majority of the ships coming to Egypt. By refusing to deal with such people, and by refusing access to the family ships, he made enemies, but he made a point. Oddly, he did not suffer, because there were many Egyptians and Libyans only too pleased to fill the gap.

  A letter came with the Imperial seal, which Gaius again opened in anticipation, only to find that the man he had beaten had had sent a complaint to Caesar. Caesar's response was terse: 'When you see this whining piece of shit again, please thrash him more thoroughly this time'. As Gaius remarked later, he did not know whether to laugh or cry.

  Another letter also came from Claudius. Little Boots was planning some quite enormous public works, which led to far more bitter disputes with the Senate, in part because the Senate were unimaginative, while Caesar's imagination sometimes seemed to be getting the better of him. In the end, the state of the Treasury tended to persuade Little Boots not to continue.