Lucius bowed his head, hiding the relief that flooded his chest at the noble's words.

  "I am honored by your assessment, sir," Lucius said, keeping his tone respectful. "Knowing that a man of your stature recognizes the value of this work is the greatest reward I could hope for."

  Titus Valerius nodded slightly, the gesture of someone accustomed to receiving praise as due tribute. He turned his attention back to the carpenter.

  "I will buy it," the patrician decreed bluntly. "How many of these units do you have ready for immediate delivery?"

  Marcus, barely able to contain the trembling in his hands from the excitement of the closed deal, stepped forward.

  "We have ten finished units in the back, noble lord. All built with the same rigor and quality as this model."

  "I will take them all," said Valerius, signaling to the quarry supervisor, who mentally noted the order. "The supervisor will handle payment and transport today."

  The noble then turned back to Lucius, ignoring the other two. His cold, analytical eyes swept the engineer from top to bottom.

  "You have talent, boy. And you have a mind that sees solutions where others see only the burden of the gods," Valerius said, stepping closer. "If you are able to show me something even more useful, something that proves your ingenuity was not just a stroke of luck, I may become your patron. You will receive a worthy house on my lands, far from the filth where you likely live, and a stipend in gold."

  Lucius felt his heart race. It was the way out he so desired. Security, money, a life far from loan sharks.

  "It would be an unimaginable honor to serve you, sir," Lucius replied, his voice choked with hope.

  "However," Valerius interrupted, raising a finger adorned with a ruby ring, "there is a condition. Emperor Marcus Aurelius is gathering the legions. A new campaign in the North approaches, against the barbarian tribes that dare test our borders. I will accompany the Emperor as a logistical advisor and tribune. I will need a capable assistant, someone who understands mechanics and structures for camps and siege engines. You will come with me as an apprentice."

  Lucius's blood ran cold. The North. The Germanic frontier. Wars, cold, disease, and furious barbarians. Had he just escaped death by cancer in his other life only to be sent into the wolf's mouth in an ancient war? He thought of refusing, but looked at Valerius's impassive face. Refusing a patrician, after demonstrating such skill, was not an option. He had no choice.

  "I understand, sir," Lucius said, swallowing hard. "But... I have a wife and a small daughter. If I leave for the North, who will care for them? Who will protect them?"

  Valerius pondered for a moment, smoothing the fold of his toga.

  "They can stay at my urban villa," the noble decided with practical indifference. "My wife always needs more servants for weaving or the kitchen. Obviously, they will receive a wage and a roof. They will be under my protection as long as you serve me well."

  It was the perfect solution to the loan sharks. No one would touch a senator's household staff. But now came the final part of the test.

  "But before we seal this fate," Valerius said, crossing his arms, "show me. Prove now that your mind is a well of resources and not a shallow puddle. I fear a wheelbarrow may not be enough to justify such an investment in your life."

  Lucius felt the crushing pressure. He needed an idea, and fast. His mind wandered, seeking something simple yet impactful. He remembered Selena the night before, her hands red and swollen from wringing out heavy wool tunics after washing them in the river. It was brutal, time-consuming work that destroyed women's hands.

  "Marcus," Lucius called, turning to his friend. "Please, bring me the board and charcoal again."

  As the carpenter ran to fetch the materials, Lucius formulated the design in his mind. It was simple. Two cylinders. Pressure.

  When Marcus returned, Lucius rested the board on the workbench. The noble approached, observing with curiosity. With quick, firm strokes, Lucius drew the structure: two solid wooden rollers, mounted vertically one above the other, with a crank connected to the lower roller's axle and a system of wooden screws at the top to adjust pressure on the upper roller.

  He wrote the captions in Latin beside it, describing the parts and function. His hand moved with surprising agility, the handwriting coming out elegant and precise, as if he had been born with a stylus in his hand.

  In a few minutes, it was ready. He turned the board to Valerius.

  "This, sir," Lucius explained, pointing to the drawing, "is a device for laundry and weaving. Women spend hours and much physical strength wringing wet fabric to dry it. With this, the fabric passes between the two rollers. The pressure, adjusted by these screws, squeezes the water out uniformly and quickly, without damaging the fibers and without excessive effort."

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  Titus Valerius took the board, holding it up to the light. He read the notes silently, his eyes scanning the lines of the drawing.

  "Firstly," said the noble, without taking his eyes off the wood, "your handwriting and your stroke are impeccable. Worthy of an imperial scribe. It is rare to see such clarity in a sketch."

  He then lowered the board and looked at Lucius, a slow, genuine smile forming on his thin lips.

  "As for the ingenuity... I understand perfectly," Valerius said, shaking his head in disbelief. "It is so obvious. Two rotating cylinders, water being expelled by pressure... Why, in the name of Jupiter, did no one think of this before? This would save half the drying time in legion laundries and bathhouses."

  "I appreciate the compliment, sir," Lucius said, releasing the breath he was holding. "Often, the simplest solutions are the ones hidden in plain sight."

  "And what is it called?" asked Valerius, pointing to the drawing.

  "It doesn't have a name yet, sir," admitted Lucius.

  The noble returned the board to Marcus but kept his gaze fixed on Lucius, satisfied with his new acquisition.

  "Very well," said Titus Valerius with a definitive tone. "You may put your own name on it too, Lucius. Since the idea is yours, let the glory be yours. You are now my apprentice; I will ensure the necessary documents are sent to this establishment. You still have time before the military campaigns on the Kalends of September, two months from now."

  As soon as Noble Titus Valerius's carriage disappeared around the bend of the busy street, taking with it the suffocating tension that hung in the air, a collective sigh escaped the lungs of the three men. The atmosphere in the workshop changed instantly, from reverent silence to contained euphoria.

  Marcus let out a loud laugh, slapping his hands on the workbench.

  "We did it! By the gods, we did it!" exclaimed the carpenter, his eyes shining. "He bought everything. Everything! And ordered more."

  Flavio, still wearing the fine tunic that looked tight on his broad shoulders, smiled, but soon his expression turned thoughtful as he looked at his artisan friend.

  "Yes, my dear friend, you're going to swim in denarii. But your worried look is back. What is it now?"

  Marcus stopped laughing and ran a hand over his face, looking at the scattered tools and the raw wood in the corner.

  "The money is a blessing, don't get me wrong. But the production..." Marcus sighed, the reality of the trade weighing on him. "Making ten carts already cost me sleepless nights. Making dozens, maintaining the quality the patrician demands, and fast? It will be difficult. Swollen ankles and calloused hands don't work at the speed nobles desire. The bow lathe is slow; I have to stop every instant to reposition the bow."

  Flavio turned to Lucius, who was observing the environment attentively.

  "You heard the man, Lucius. Your head seems like a bottomless chest of ideas. Is there something in there to help poor Marcus not die of exhaustion?"

  Lucius frowned, thoughtful.

  "I don't know..." he murmured, walking to the corner of the workshop where Marcus's current equipment stood. He pointed to the tool. "This is a bow lathe, correct?"

  "Yes," Marcus explained, approaching. "I hold the chisel with one hand and move the bow with the other to make the wood spin. Or Caius pulls the rope for me. Either way, it's slow and imprecise if the hand trembles."

  Lucius observed the primitive mechanics. One hand occupied generating force, the other trying to sculpt. It was inefficient. He remembered history of technology classes and medieval fairs he had attended in his other life. There was an elegant solution that would emerge centuries later, but was perfectly possible with the materials present there.

  "I have a better alternative," said Lucius, returning to the workbench where the drawing board lay. "Marcus, give me the charcoal again."

  Under the watchful gaze of the two Romans, Lucius began to draw the Treadle Lathe.

  He traced a simple, robust wooden frame. On the floor, he drew a wooden pedal. A rope rose from this pedal, wrapped around the piece of wood to be worked, and continued up to the ceiling, where it was tied to the tip of a flexible rod or a green, elastic branch fixed horizontally.

  Marcus leaned over the drawing, analyzing the lines with his trained eye.

  "This..." the carpenter began, surprise coloring his voice again. "How would this work, Lucius? I see the rope, I see the rod on the ceiling... but the logic escapes me."

  Lucius pointed to the pedal in the drawing.

  "It's simple, Marcus. Look: you step on the pedal. As your foot goes down, the rope pulls the wood, making it spin toward you. That is the moment you apply the chisel and cut."

  He moved his finger up, indicating the flexible rod.

  "When the pedal reaches the floor, you lift your foot. The flexible rod on the ceiling, which was bent by your leg's force, tries to return to its original position. It pulls the rope up, spinning the wood in reverse and lifting the pedal for the next cycle."

  Lucius looked into Marcus's eyes to emphasize the "trick," the true revolution of that mechanism.

  "The most important thing is this: your feet generate the force. This frees up both your hands to hold the tool. With two hands on the chisel, you have more steadiness, more precision, and much more speed. You don't need to stop. Step, cut. Release, return. It's a continuous rhythm."

  Marcus stood motionless for a long moment, visualizing the operation in his mind. He looked at his own hands and then at the workshop ceiling.

  "By Minerva..." whispered Marcus, invoking the goddess of wisdom and artisans. "Both hands free... I'll be able to work the wood as if it were clay. The speed will double. No, triple!"

  He looked at Lucius with almost religious reverence.

  "This will help a lot. More than you imagine. I will build this structure this very day. Lucius, you were certainly blessed by Minerva. No common man would have such visions without the breath of divinity in his ear."

  Lucius just smiled, accepting the divine praise as the safest explanation for his anachronistic science.

  "I'm happy to help, friend."

  Flavio, who watched the exchange with a proud smile, cleared his throat, calling attention to himself. His face, however, assumed a more serious and determined expression.

  "I'm also impressed, as always," said the giant. "But we need to talk about something else."

  He crossed his massive arms over his chest.

  "I've decided. I'm going to join the army too."

  Lucius looked at him, surprised.

  "Flavio... you don't have to do that. The patrician forced me; it's part of the deal. But you are free."

  "Exactly why," Flavio retorted firmly. "I am free to choose not to let my friend go alone into the midst of barbarians and snow. The North is dangerous, my dear friend. You have a sharp mind, but in a battle, you need someone to watch your back with a shield and a sword. I will be that man."

  Lucius felt a wave of genuine gratitude. The loyalty of this man, who barely knew him in the "new version," was moving. He knew his chances of survival would increase drastically with Flavio by his side.

  Lucius laughed, a light sound that dissipated the gravity of the moment.

  "Alright, my friend. If it is your will, I won't stop you. But please," Lucius said, looking seriously at his companion, "be careful and try not to die on my account."