The Powder of Death

by Julian Stockwin

  The lips curled in contempt. ‘No. I’m not paid to be anybody’s pageboy.’

  The eyes challenged him. Jared burnt with embarrassment and resentment. With these he was expected to change the world?

  ‘Well, and we must find some other,’ Sforza breezed. ‘Messer Peppin will have other duties, of course. So as I understand it, there will be no requirement for these gentlemen to be here until—’

  ‘I want six quartered here at all times for watch duty,’ Jared snapped in a sudden temper. ‘And Peppin to advise where he is at any time. Right?’

  ‘We’re not here to be poxy sentinels!’ growled one of the others. ‘Find another—’

  ‘You’re here to be gunners!’ Jared retorted. ‘I’m in charge and Peppin is my second. If you don’t like taking orders then you’ve lost your chance to be one. Stay – or go?’

  This time Peppin was the one to yield, which he did with exaggerated deference. ‘Very well, the capitano of gunners. And what are your orders, then?’

  CHAPTER 66

  There was now a pressing imperative to get to some level of skill with the language but at the same time Jared realised that he had to get the smiths to work without delay.

  He decided that Nina must teach him Italian. But he could not expect her to translate for him at the smithy in those conditions. Might she know another English speaker, he wondered forlornly.

  ‘Of course! My pleasure to be teacher to Il Pregiato Jared! You will work hard to be my learner and—’

  ‘Thank you, but until I have had your lessons I need one to tell my words to the forge men. Do you know …?’

  ‘Yes! When should he start?’

  Taken aback at the prompt response he heard that in her family was a young lad, Cesarino, who would be delighted at the chance to be in such exciting company.

  It was starting but there was so much to plan.

  Without delay he must set out to scale up the gunne from puny grape-sized gunne-balls to wall-shattering boulders. These would presumably consume scaled-up amounts of gunne-powder. If it was a few ounces for the smaller then at a hundred times the weight it must be many pounds of powder for the larger.

  Production should start immediately.

  What he was about could not be concealed. The building of the gunnes would be known and any getting hold of one could build it for themselves. But without the gunne-powder they were useless lumps of iron. He would therefore separate out the processes for making the powder so no single person would know all, and if necessary play the same trick that Wang had: keep the proportions secret.

  Training? This could not be started until the gunne was perfected and then it would take some thought to devise a fixed sequence of actions that would make it safe for rough and illiterate soldiers to handle the lethal powder and avoid the mule kick of the gunne.

  What else was there?

  CHAPTER 67

  Evening turned into night and he’d sent the manservant, Beppe, to bed before he turned in himself but thoughts kept coming as he lay in the dark trying to find sleep.

  He became vaguely aware there was a light outside his door and then a soft knock.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘I, Nina. You wish a caudle, help you sleep?’

  He levered himself up. ‘That’s kind of you.’

  She came in with a cup on a small tray, dressed in a linen chemise.

  The candlelight caught her long hair in myriad tiny lights and softly illuminated her face.

  Jared was uncomfortably aware of her female presence. ‘But you didn’t have to stay up yourself, Nina.’

  She gave Jared a look of great tenderness as she put the tray down.

  ‘I say I will take care for you.’

  The chemise fell to the floor and she stood naked for a long moment then eased into his bed.

  It seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘And tomorrow we learn words?’ she said innocently when their passion was spent.

  CHAPTER 68

  If gunne-powder was to be his secret its production and testing needed to be well guarded. The signore’s office was obliging, understanding immediately Jared’s pleading for privacy and a farm was swiftly emptied of its inhabitants and stock. He had his base. It solved as well the simmering resentment at the smithy – this would be safeguarded by the gunners themselves who would live there and had an interest in keeping it secure.

  At the smithy Cesarino, bright as a button and quick-witted, soon made himself popular, filling in boring interludes with acrobatics and singing. The head smith Alonzo presented him with his own leather apron and Jared solemnly gave him an official gunner’s cap complete with little bell.

  The big smith was no fool. He inspected Jared’s gunne and shrewdly pointed out where he could increase strength by ribbing the bands but Jared had no intention of staying with the design. They would be working on much bigger articles before long.

  The days passed agreeably, his Italian improving swiftly, for with a common technical basis for communication it didn’t take long to add the verbs and adjectives. And under Nina’s patient and enthusiastic teaching his competence grew even more.

  Jared realised that the smithy would not be where difficulties might arise. It would be the farm, the presidio as Peppin would have it. He would have to trust that his orders were carried out to the letter. And these would test the credibility of the most hardened veteran.

  Alonzo would help him to source charcoal and sulphur but the saltpetre was another matter. How was he to get the scrapings of tombs and stables in quantity? Cooking saltpetre was available but in quantities far too small and impure, so another way had to be found.

  Jared decided to simply let it be known that for reasons that need not be entered into, a sum in hard cash would be paid for any folk who presented an acceptable quantity. Human ingenuity would then seek it out.

  There were barns and pigsties in the presidio ready to serve as preparation rooms. Each would have its own process: the boiling reduction of sulphur, the messier refining of the saltpetre, the grinding and packing. And an outhouse of his own where the final mixing would be done. He listed down the workers he’d need. There would be no second chance.

  His presidio hands were wary and unsure but they were put to work straight away, cleaning and preparing.

  It was happening!

  The iron arrived from Pisa and he and Alonzo inspected it closely. Its quality was reasonable with mercifully few whorls and slag inclusions, which would have to be painfully beaten out.

  Time to get to work.

  The forge was raised from cherry-red to a violet-flamed roar and the plate brought to working temperature. Alonzo took the lead but Jared snatched an apron and acted as his partner at the anvil, quickly falling in with the harsh rhythm of strikes as the edge was worked round.

  They exchanged positions and Jared’s now ruddy face grinned at the ruination of his clothes.

  They rested at noon, and joined by Cesarino, sat down to a bite of food.

  ‘You’re good – for a foreigner,’ grunted Alonzo, throwing a keen look at Jared. He cut a piece off a long dried sausage, and laid out bread and cheese.

  ‘What’s this called?’ he asked through a mouthful of a chunk of the deliciously flavoured meat.

  ‘Finocchiona,’ piped up Cesarino. ‘Alonzo say is why he so strong!’

  To Jared this was good, plain and tasty fare, much to be preferred to feasting.

  ‘Why you come to Arezzo doing this work?’ The capo blacksmith was quick, smarter than he looked.

  ‘It’s the best place to make money with these gunnes.’

  ‘You go with the signore, you take care – evil men there,’ Alonzo said, tapping his nose knowingly.

  Jared warmed to the big man and wondered just how much he knew about what went on at the palazzo.

  CHAPTER 69

  The newer, bigger gunne was taking shape over days of hard work. This would shoot a ‘pea’ as big as a hen’s e
gg and could probably batter its way through the gates of a small town. Reluctantly, Jared left it to Alonzo while he checked on the gunne-powder.

  Fine-ground charcoal was piling up nicely and the sulphur – freely gathered from volcanoes in the south – was of gratifying purity.

  But the saltpetre was another matter. It seemed that the townsfolk weren’t prepared to make the journey out to the farm, doubting that anyone would pay good coin for such. There was only one answer to that: he would set up a collecting shop in Arezzo itself.

  At the smithy progress was good. He and Alonzo completed the heroic task of bringing the thick plate together and fire-welding the seam, but Jared had his concerns about its strength and they worked on making bands in imitation of wine barrels.

  The big man often jovially sparred with Jared in low Italian and they laughed as they worked.

  One evening Alonzo put down his hammer and wiped his hands. ‘I’m supposing you’re too dandified to sup with a maniscalco,’ he grumbled. ‘Wife’s curious, wants to set eyes on you for some reason. I’ll catch it if you don’t come.’

  The plump, beady-eyed woman was overjoyed to see Jared, throwing her arms around and kissing him with a torrent of Tuscan vernacular.

  It was an uproarious time, wide-eyed bambinos brought to meet the strange Englishman, helpless mirth at his attempts at Italian jokes and respectful attention when after the wine he sang some of the old English folk songs he’d learnt at his mother’s knee.

  Alonzo was much taken with his guest and regaled him with tales and mysteries of old Arezzo, once bringing out a treasured ancient blood-red stone with baffling characters deeply incised on it. He went on to tell of how before the rise of powerful families the communes had taken care of them, and things had been less fearful.

  Jared knew then that here was the friend he could call on if matters took a dark turn.

  CHAPTER 70

  ‘Alonzo say you have to come,’ Cesarino announced importantly.

  Jared emerged from the outbuilding to see his friend, battered cap in hand, respectfully stood before a richly dressed young man. Closer to, he could see that this was Corso Ezzolino. This was the ambitious young noble pointed out to him at the feast.

  ‘Buongiorno, Messer Jared,’ Ezzolino said with a flourish. ‘I did not wish to disturb your work, but curiosity does so drive me.’

  ‘Saluti,’ Jared replied, carefully avoiding the question of whether he was in fact being disturbed. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d be much obliged if you’d tell me more of your fine invention. You must be very proud!’

  Alonzo slipped away.

  ‘It’s not yet finished, signore.’

  ‘I understand. I’m much interested in its capabilities. How far away can it strike down a man? Is it—?’

  ‘The gunne I am working on is not intended to slay men, but castles.’ He hadn’t intended to talk about it but pride drove him on. ‘I’m bringing it up to a size that will shoot a ball as big as that from a mangonel but instead of hurling it high in the sky, it will direct it straight against the wall with a violence nothing can resist.’

  ‘I see.’ Ezzolino said, stroking his chin. ‘And the force that throws it I’ve heard is naught but farmyard dung. I find this hard to believe, Messer Jared.’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that. Perhaps one day I can tell you more. When I’m not so busy,’ he added pointedly.

  ‘Oh, yes. Well, I can see great things for such an engine and you can count me as one of your admirers. If there’s anything that I can do to assist you …?’

  ‘Thank you, signore, but nothing at the moment.’

  Alonzo was subdued. ‘He gave me coin to see you. I couldn’t stop him anyway, but why was he so anxious to say hello? I mislike his interest.’

  Jared merely grunted. There was much more to concern him: the testing of the larger gunne. He was only a month or so into his work but Malatesta would want to see results very soon.

  The saltpetre was at last being produced at the presidio. Insisting on a triple-boiling condensate the result was promising, white crystals with not a trace of salt in them.

  He collected his implements and in his gunne-powder outhouse set to grinding and mixing.

  The testing place was in a cleared area with a hill conveniently behind to take the ‘pea’.

  The trial was important but straightforward, merely a stepping up of what had been successful before, so Jared didn’t send away the spectators who came to watch: Peppin and the gunners, the saltpetre workers, guards, women from the kitchen.

  The first thing was to see if range was effected by the heavier ball.

  A scaled-up amount of gunne-powder would probably translate to a much louder sound; better he shooed the spectators back before carefully readying the gunne.

  He set the target up at the same distance; if it did maintain range he could always move it further out.

  The taper lowered to the small grey pile at the fire-passage—

  There was a deafening detonation and a sheet of flame washed over his face. The blast sent him staggering back to fall to all fours.

  Stupefied Jared tried to make sense of it through his ringing head and pain of the burns on his face – mercifully he’d had his eyes closed in a flinch when the gunne had let go.

  The gunne was in a ruined state, split open, the iron contemptuously peeled apart and thrown clear of its block.

  Ignoring the screams of alarm from the spectators Jared crawled nearer. There was no doubt of it: for reasons he couldn’t even guess at, the raging force of the gunne-powder had multiplied much faster than the increase of bore size and even the thickest iron plate couldn’t take it.

  Peppin arrived, hanging back fearfully. ‘What’s this, your gunne torn asunder? Why did it—?’

  ‘I made a mistake,’ Jared replied, trying to make light of the event so as not to panic the gunners. ‘Too much gunne-powder. Pay no mind to it, Master Peppin. The gunne you’ll be using will be well tested, never fear.’

  But this was a big setback. He’d carefully worked it out, knowing the weight of the original ‘pea’ and the gunne-powder it required, to a straight increase of powder in proportion to the new weight of ball.

  In the next days, with goose-grease on his burns and burnt eyebrows he tried to reason the best way forward and resolved to try again but in smaller steps.

  Another gunne was made with still more reinforcing. This time he’d start with the same measure of gunne-powder for this large ball as for the smaller.

  The results were as expected, dismal. Then, by small steps, the powder charge was increased and as Jared hoped, the ball flew with increasing venom and range.

  But after another increase of powder charge the gunne split again, with smoke issuing ominously from a long fissure.

  It hit him like a blow. He was only a little over a third into the stepped increases and the whole idea of scaling up from a pea-shooter to a castle-wrecking monster was now looking increasingly like a dream.

  He’d used the hardest and toughest material known to him – wrought iron – and even this had not been enough to contain the ferocity of the gunne-powder as it swelled against the greater-sized ball, even if only a hen’s egg in size. If he was ever to move to a point where he was dealing with, for instance, head-sized balls, he would need a gunne with iron far thicker than any that could be worked at the anvil.

  He nearly wept. There was no solution. The thickest forged iron was not enough – it must be a peashooter or nothing.

  What would Malatesta say – or more to the point Rosamunde, who had trusted him and laid out her own coin at his word?

  CHAPTER 71

  The irritable Malatesta was in fact puzzled why he was wasting time on such foolishness when he’d asked for fifty man-slayers. Just when would these be ready?

  Jared kept the harsh discovery of the problem of the thickness of the iron to himself and told the concerned Alonzo that he’d been told to step up p
roduction of a smaller kind. The capo gave him a curious look and Jared suspected that he’d come to the same conclusion but was saying nothing.

  However the man-slayers would bring in revenue and pay back Rosamunde. He would get on with the project.

  But it was not a matter simply of making dozens of his original gunne. It was far too heavy and awkward. If this was to be a military weapon, it had to be rugged and transportable.

  The wooden block would have to go. But how could he manage the kick without it? And at the same time protect the gunner from the gout of flame from the fire-passage? He’d noticed that the fiery breath of the powder quickly heated the iron to uncomfortable levels.

  Eventually Jared came up with an answer: to secure the iron to a projecting tiller of wood that butted into the ground. The weight would then be taken by a yoke rest. The gunner was relieved of the weight and removed from the fire-passage but that brought the problem of how to bring the taper to the powder. Was a candle the right way to go?

  A good blacksmithing solution suggested itself: iron wire, heated red in a brazier; long, and with a crook in the end to safely lower on to the powder.

  And regrettably, a ‘pea’ no bigger than a grape.

  With testing, he would soon be in a position to bring out the first real weapons.

  CHAPTER 72

  Nina set down her sewing. ‘You’ve never talked about your home, back in England, Jared. Will you be returning there after you’ve finished your gunnes?’

  ‘Who knows what the future will bring, mia cara,’ he said.

  ‘A man must have a place to call home, my sweet.’