Steampunk!: An Anthology of Fantastically Rich and Strange Stories (46 page)

So once again, Crassus made his way to the workshop. His bodyguards, his lictors, went before him and pounded upon the door.

You delay too long!" Crassus said. "You wish me to fail!

But for once, Marcus Furius's gaze was placid. He said to Crassus, "I am ready. It is finished." He smiled and offered, "Would you like to see it?" He opened the door wide and allowed Crassus and the lictors to enter. Crassus entered and viewed the machine his money had funded.

We have descriptions of that first oracle engine, which differed in many particulars from those now used by our augurs.

It was, I am given to understand, a device contained in a vast bronze vat, which was round in shape and some sixteen feet high. On one side of this vat was impressed the face of the oracle at Delphi, and through its eyes, ears, and mouth one communicated with the male vestals, who sat inside, arranging pegs on a grid to mark the contours of the supplicant's problem. Much of the machinery within the vat consisted of the library of previous grids, the records of previous battles, all of them in stacks, which shuttled back and forth on tracks in accordance with the machine's mechanical investigations, determining probabilities. Projecting above the top of the vat were wooden cranes on swivels, each balanced by a counterweight, which drew the male vestals up and down within the vat, so they could make adjustments to the works. Each virgin was tied with rope, to his own crane, and when the machine was in operation, they leaped about its workings like anxious sparrows.

Crassus studied the machine, and then, no less, studied Marcus Furius's face. "I wish a proof of its accuracy," he said.

Marcus Furius agreed gladly. He indicated that Crassus should approach the oracle's face and recite the circumstances of the recent skirmish at Zenodotium, near Nicephorium, and the negotiations at other cities, concealing the outcomes, as if none of those events had happened yet. This way, these inquiries might confirm the
stochas-tikon's
predictions. Agreeing with this plan, Crassus described each situation as it had arisen and made as if he wished to decide whether to fight, parley, or retreat.

When he had recounted the facts to the youth hidden behind the face of the machine, his request for a judgment was placed in a bracket and a lever was pulled.

The
stochastikon
began its calculations. Pins dropped and determined the position of fixed pegs, kicking into place new inquiries. Battle trays rolled along tracks and were collated into new formations. The male vestals hopped about, weightless on their lines, checking to ensure that nothing jammed.

At last, there was a final click, and several trays representing an answer were deposited for the youth sitting by the mouth to interpret.

In each case, the
stochastikon
prophesied what had actually come to pass. It predicted that at Zenodotium, Crassus would lose a hundred men but would gain the town, which was correct; and it recommended that he should lead troops to the Syrian city of Hieropolis, for he would amass great wealth by raiding the temples there — and indeed, he had spent a few days previous counting out the gold from that very visit. In every respect, the oracle engine showed complete accuracy in its recommendations.

At this, Crassus showed his clear delight. He congratulated Marcus Furius on his genius and invited the inventor to celebrate in his tent.

In the general's tent, Crassus's servants had laid out a small dinner with various meats and fruits. He and Marcus Furius reclined, and servants came forward to offer sugared dainties and Mamertine wine, while three-legged tables carved with leonine paws clanked to and fro carrying rabbit and lamb.

Crassus said, "The night has come. I believe the king of Parthia has taken half his army to the north, into Armenia, and there is only a small force remaining to menace us. I would like to confront them in the desert tomorrow." He raised a glass. "So after dinner, we shall return to your workshop and ask the oracle if I should proceed immediately — or if I should remain encamped here in Zeugma. And if the machine responds favorably, we will go out into that desert, sixty thousand men, secure in the knowledge of our victory."

Marcus Furius, surrounded by these unfamiliar luxuries, remained watchful and silent. He drank and he ate. Crassus praised him highly for his ingenuity not simply in devising the operation of the mechanism but in conceiving it. He was impressed by Marcus Furius's boldness of thought and wondered where he came by it. Did his father work as an inventor? (Marcus Furius did not reply.) Had he always been intrigued by the workings of machinery, even as a child? What drew him to consider the workings of fate? On all these questions, Marcus Furius answered not at all, or in the shortest manner possible, watching his host carefully.

On hearing that Marcus Furius claimed not to have received his gift for invention from his father, Crassus inquired who Marcus Furius's father was, and being informed in two words that the man was dead, Crassus said, "In that, you and I are alike, having lost our fathers when we were young. . . . Ah, men can scarcely judge the lessons we learn from fathers—not simply from what they say but through the example of their lives. For myself, I learned (when my father was executed) the importance of eliminating my enemies quickly. I grew wealthy destroying the men who'd applauded when my father was condemned. Revenge became my profession." A table walked to his side, and Crassus inspected the rabbit before refusing it and pushing the machine away. With much the same look he had lavished on the roasted rabbit, Crassus inspected his guest. Sharply he asked, "Why, engineer, did you bring this glorious invention to me, rather than to my rivals? They are younger. Some say their prospects are better, though I weaned them both."

There was, say some, a look of challenge in Marcus Furius's eyes as he lied, "I came to you, Consul, because I knew you were hesitating to set out on this campaign, and I wished to gain renown for the Republic."

"Then you know how very important to me it is that I achieve glory upon this field of battle and return to Rome amid triumphs and processions. You may imagine how I long for the satisfaction of cataclysm, so long as it swallows my enemies and rivals entirely."

Marcus Furius said knowingly that, yes, he could indeed imagine such a desire for cataclysm.

"Then you shall not find it surprising," said Crassus, "that it is of great importance to me that Pompey the Great and Julius Caesar can never build a machine like this themselves. You understand that I must ensure it is wholly mine to operate. No word of it can ever reach them."

Marcus Furius assented.

"Tomorrow, I hope, shall prove to both those cubs and to Rome itself that I am a commander to be reckoned with. I am eager for action. It is a tremendous night."

Full of secret glories, Marcus Furius agreed, "Tomorrow shall be a long-awaited victory for both of us."

Without pleasure, Crassus smiled. He said, "Now. You have done your work. What gift do you wish to ask of me?"

"There is nothing, Consul, that I require from you."

"Surely there is!" exclaimed his host. "You are not so wealthy that you do not need gold, I presume. That would be extraordinary, wealth such as that, for an orphan such as yourself— your family's wealth all reduced to slag."

At this, Marcus Furius started in surprise. "Consul?" he said. "What do you mean by that?"

Crassus replied, "An orphan raised by poor relations after the death of your parents in an unfortunate conflagration. Everything, as I recall, burned with them." When Marcus Furius, surprised at his knowledge, could not speak, Crassus regarded him with pity and disgust. He said to the inventor, "Did you not think, after you first presented yourself, that I wouldn't inquire into your history? I keep excellent accounts, Marcus Furius Medullinus Machinator, and when I discovered that your parents had died by fire, I made further inquiries and determined that I had been on hand and that they had refused my assistance."

"I did not know that you were aware of my parentage," admitted Marcus Furius quietly.

"I did not wish you to know until you had completed your machine."

"And now that I have completed my machine?"

"I expect you will wish to take your revenge somehow. I expect to see a plot come to fruition."

Marcus Furius looked down at the table. He asked sadly, "You have poisoned my dinner, haven't you?"

"Why would you suggest that, engineer?"

"You poisoned the rabbit."

Crassus admitted that he had. "As I said, my father's example taught me to eliminate my enemies." He beckoned the chafing dish with the rabbit. He lifted the dish from its tripod and smelled it, smiling, then put it down. Marcus Furius looked stunned and then informed his host that he could not yet feel the effects. "You will, presently," said Crassus, and excused him, if he wished to stand. Having received this permission, Marcus Furius did stand but found already there was a palsy upon him.

"Do not be too sorrowful," said Crassus. "I would have had you killed regardless of your parentage, to ensure that the machine's design remains solely with me."

Now the calculating calm that always characterized Marcus Furius failed: he looked at Crassus and began to call out curses and oaths. They rang throughout the tent. The lictors did not move to apprehend the raving engineer.

Crassus said, "I am pleased that there was time for you to train the Minervan Virgins in the operation of the machine. We shall not need you now."

Marcus Furius reached for a knife and dashed toward the table. He was restrained by the lictors, who threw him down upon the floor. He made some attempt to claw his way to the consul and do the man violence, but his body was involved in spasms now, as if a spirit tormented him. Crassus, it is said, rose and left the tent.

Marcus Furius died upon the floor, surrounded by the lictors, who made no move to help him.

Thus was the end, trivial and sudden, of he who is renowned for countless small inventions and one great one: a machine which could predict the future, but which did not warn him of his own. Some maintain that Marcus Furius knew that his doom would soon engulf him, and that, tired of life, he submitted to it and embraced it. Indeed, otherwise, we might ask: How may any of us know our end when Rome's greatest servant of prophesy met death through unexpected poison and betrayal?

Meanwhile, Crassus walked directly to the inventor's workshop, where he bade the Minervan Virgins prepare themselves for prophesy.

For half an hour, he described the military situation to the youth in the bronze tub—the heat of the desert and its lack of features behind which an army could hide, the proposed strength of the Parthian forces, the primitive state of their weaponry by all accounts. He spoke of the sacrifices he had made upon the altars at Rome and offered to make sacrifices upon the altars at Zeugma, either to Roman or to foreign gods. He asked for guidance: should he go to battle in the desert on the morrow, and if he did, would the outcome be felicitous?

The youth applied the pegs to the grid. He arose to feed the question to the engine.

But at that moment, Crassus stopped him.

"No," said the consul. "Halt. All of you stop what you are doing. Do not submit the question yet. Cease your adjustments. I am no fool." He held up his hand. "Marcus Furius will have tampered with the mechanism. I am certain that to protect himself he inserted some irregularity in the workings of the machine, some trap to ensure that if I operated it without him, it would produce a false answer that would lead to my doom."

And so he bid them to examine the machine for the next four hours, at which time he would return; and he informed them that if any of them had doubts as to the seriousness of this endeavor, they should know that Marcus Furius himself was not present because he lay dead, poisoned to stop up his mouth from spreading the secrets of the oracle engine too liberally.

With that, he left.

For the next four hours, Crassus circulated in the camp, spreading word that the army might set out for the desert the next day and that all should be in preparation against that possibility.

While he spoke to his troops, the youths within the bronze tub bounded and scurried up and down the mechanism, terrified, seeking sabotage.

When the fourth hour was over, Crassus returned, surrounded by his lictors and torchbearers.

He demanded of the engineers, "Have you found anything?"

One of the boys nodded. "Yes, Consul," said he.

"And what did you find?"

"Sabotage, as you predicted, your excellency. It appears Marcus Furius shoved this into the works so that one of the pins could not fall. It's lucky we found it. The prophesy calculations would have been faulty. Disastrously."

The youth held forth an object that sparkled in the torchlight: the trinket that had jammed the machine was a single silver coin, one denarius, worn as if through years of rubbing.

We cannot know when we touch an object what it has meant to another. A patina acquired when a gift has been clutched continuously for years looks, to someone else, merely like tarnish.

"That was clever of Marcus Furius. So he meant revenge," said Crassus."

He examined the coin, little aware that he had held it once before. He shrugged, said, "It is my machine. So I suppose it is my coin." He dropped it in his money bag. This obstacle being removed, he said, "Now! Apply my question.
Shall we venture into the desert tomorrow? What will be the outcome of a confrontation with half the Parthian army?"

The youths nodded, pulled on their ropes, and bounded back up over the lip of the tub. They went to work; they fixed the plate with the question in its bracket and engaged the lever.

Once again, the oracle engine performed its calculations, stacked up statistics on fear and glory and the nature of man, and pins dropped, and pegs stopped them, and plates slid, and metal fingers traced the lines of each mechanical
decumanus
and
cardo,
and abacus beads rattled, and tiles dropped into place one by one — and the
sto-chastikon
ground to a halt.