Chapter 2Rome, 197 BCE – Villa of Scipio Africanus, Rome
Father was in his study again, standing beside a wax tablet filled with scribbles I couldn't see from the doorway. His fingers were stained faintly with ink from reviewing scrolls, and the lines on his brow were deeper than usual. I didn't like to disturb him when he was focused like that, but today I had something important to ask.
"Father?"
He looked up, mild surprise in his expression quickly replaced by that calm, assessing gaze I was beginning to recognize as his way of switching from general to parent. "Lucius. Come in."
I stepped over the threshold and stood straight. My tunic still bunched slightly at the shoulders, but I kept my chin up. "May I speak to you about an idea?"
He nodded. "Of course."
"I want to do some experiments."
He folded his arms. "What kind of experiments?"
"I want to try making a new kind of writing surface. And a different kind of ink. Something cheaper and easier than papyrus or parchment. Something that we can make here, in Rome."
His eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger but curiosity. "Why?"
"Because it would help Rome. And it would help us," I said. "Right now, all our scrolls and records are expensive to make. The government spends a lot on papyrus from Egypt. If I can make something just as good or better from cheaper materials, it would save money. And if it works, we could sell it too."
He studied me for a moment, then walked around his desk and knelt so we were eye level. "You believe this is possible?"
I nodded earnestly. "Yes. I think I can figure it out. And if I can make ink that doesn't fade or smudge, we could keep records better. No more wax tablets that melt in the heat or smudge in the rain."
He placed a hand on my shoulder. "You want resources?"
I nodded again. "I'll need some bark, old rags, ashes, water, and a big vat. And a place where I can try it without being in the way."
He straightened up. "Tiro can help you collect what you need. Take one of the unused storerooms near the west wing. I'll have a servant clear it out."
I beamed. "Thank you, Father."
He looked amused. "And what will you do with the money if this works and you sell it?"
I tried to hide my smile. "Use it for other ventures."
"A business empire at three," he said, shaking his head with a chuckle. "Very well, Lucius. Let us see what you can make."
I ran out of the study and into the corridor. There was so much to do. I'm going to be filthy rich
—
I found Tiro near the courtyard, gathering laundry from a basket that one of the maids had left for sorting. He was humming something—an old marching tune, I think. When he saw me bounding toward him, he set the basket down and straightened with a grin.
"What has you charging around, dominus?"
"Father said you could help me with an experiment," I said quickly. "I need supplies. A lot of strange things."
He raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on his tunic. "Strange things, is it? All right then, let's hear it."
I took a breath. "First, I need bark. From mulberry trees if we have them, but other soft barks might work too. Then old rags, cotton or linen—ripped up. Ashes from the hearth. A large vat or basin, big enough to soak everything in water. A flat mesh or woven cloth, something I can drain liquid through. And heavy stones to press things flat."
Tiro blinked, then chuckled. "That's a list, all right. What in Jupiter's name are you trying to make?"
"A new kind of writing surface," I said. "Like parchment, but cheaper. I'll mash the bark and rags into a pulp, soak it, spread it thin, drain the water, press it, and dry it. If I get it right, it should come out flat and strong."
"And the ink?"
"Soot or lampblack mixed with water and something sticky to bind it—like gum from trees. I'll test if vinegar or wine helps preserve it."
He scratched his head and gave a low whistle. "All right, I'll gather what I can. Might take a few hours."
"Thank you, Tiro."
He tousled my hair. "Just don't blow up the villa, eh?"
"No promises," I grinned, then darted off again.
—
It took weeks. Days of soaking and mashing, of trial and error. Sometimes the pulp was too coarse, or the sheets tore as they dried. The ink bled, or it faded too fast. But every mistake got me closer and closer. And Tiro—gods bless him—never once complained, even when the storeroom stank of vinegar and smoke.
But today—today it worked.
We had laid the last batch of pressed pulp to dry under sun and stone. Tiro peeled one sheet off the cloth frame and held it to the light.
"It's... flat," he said.
"And strong," I added. I took the sheet, set it on the table, dipped a reed pen into our newest batch of ink—carbon soot, gum arabic, and just a touch of wine—and drew a line.
It didn't smudge. It didn't bleed.
Tiro leaned in. "By the gods... it holds."
I grinned. "We did it."
He let out a rare laugh, clapping me lightly on the back. "You did it, dominus."
I bolted from the storeroom, clutching the paper in one hand and the ink jar in the other.
They were in the garden, sitting beneath the fig trees. Mother reading a scroll, Father dictating something to a scribe. They looked up as I ran toward them.
"Look!" I shouted. "Look what I made!"
Mother set the scroll aside immediately. Father raised a brow, curious.
I laid the paper on the table, then uncorked the ink and dipped the pen again. I wrote their names. Aemilia. Publius. The lines were clear and dark.
"It doesn't fade," I said. "It dries quickly. It holds its shape. And we can make more of it for a far lower cost."
Father picked up the sheet, held it gently. "It feels sturdy."
Mother touched the inked names. "And this was your doing? All of it?"
I nodded. "Tiro helped. But yes."
Father smiled slowly. "Well done my son. Well done"
I can't think of anything that feels better than impressing THE Scipio Africanus.
"If we build dozens of large workshops, we could start producing the paper and ink in larger quantities, enough to supply the entire Republic," I said eagerly, sitting between them under the shade of the fig trees. "We'll need vats, presses, drying frames... and a good supply of clean water. If we had access to a water mill, it could help pulp the fibers faster."
Father stroked his chin, visibly intrigued. "You're thinking about scaling this already?"
"Yes. If we sell it for less than papyrus or parchment but make more of it and faster, everyone will want it. Scribes, merchants, magistrates... even the legions."
Mother laughed softly, brushing a curl of hair from my forehead. "My little senator, already planning Rome's economy."
I blushed and looked away. "Mother..."
She kissed my temple. "I'm only teasing. I'm proud of you. You are truly blessed by Minerva herself."
Father nodded thoughtfully. "Papyrus costs the Senate a fortune each year in imports from Egypt—at least 5 million sesterces annually, perhaps more. If your rag paper proves cheaper and as reliable, it could reduce that burden by a great margin. That alone would win support in the Senate—if the quality holds."
"It does," I said quickly. "I've tested it. Tiro and I can make dozens of sheets per day if we improve the process."
"And the ink?"
"The ingredients are simple and local. We can make jars of it with little expense. And it doesn't smudge."
Father looked to Mother. "He's not wrong. If this can be scaled, it would be incredibly lucrative."
"Then let's build the workshops," she said warmly. "And you—" she looked at me, smiling, "—must promise to let us know when you plan to revolutionize anything else."
I grinned. "You'll be the first to know."
The wheels in my head were already turning. There was more to do, much more.
But first—we'd make the best paper Rome had ever seen and make it rain while saving the republic a good amount of money as well as helping improve the Republic's efficiency in the process. It's three birds with one stone. Doesn't get better than that.