“What is the next city?” Flower asked worriedly. “Is it nice?”
Ember tried to put the best face on it. “It is across the river, a town that is expanding into a city. So there is room there for skilled artisans. It is called Ruma.”
“I don’t like it,” Flower decided.
Ember had to laugh. “None of us do. We all know that Veia is the jewel of Etruria. But perhaps we shall be able to help make this primitive foreign town into something better.”
In due course the boat set sail and moved away from the pier. The current took it, so that the oarsmen hardly had to strain. It moved smartly along. They watched the buildings of Veia pass to the rear. Then they went beyond the great outer wall. The city did not end there, of course; it had long since outgrown its walls, and there were more temples outside. But in time of war the populace would withdraw to the center city for safety.
“Practice your flute, dear,” Crystal suggested, to divert further questions.
The girl brought out her double flute and played. The harmony trilled, and soon the rowers were keeping time to the beat of it. The captain approached. “Maybe sell her to me, to be a mascot for the boat,” he said jovially.
“You couldn’t afford her,” Carver responded, smiling. “She eats too much.”
The captain shook his head with mock regret. “Too bad. My boat will go slower without her.”
They saw the salt road, which was the main route by which the precious salt that was the principal source of Veia’s wealth was transported. There was traffic there, as the wagons hauled the salt for export. Then there were the huge tunnels, used to divert the flow of the Tiber for irrigation and return water to the river for swamp drainage and protection against flooding. It was said that no other city had as fine or extensive underground water ducts, carved from solid rock. The irrigation enabled Veia to grow crops for a longer season than usual, because there could never be a true drought.
Ember sighed to herself. How could the wonders of Veia ever be matched in the cultural hinterlands? Yet they would have to make do.
How had they offended the local gods? For only a significant offense could account for the abrupt finality of their dismissal from their home city.
She had no answer. Troubled, but lulled by the gentle motions of the boat, she drifted into a lethargy.
The scene shifted. The outlines of the boat and men assumed preternatural brightness, being outlined in faint fire. The water of the river beyond glowed. The banks and trees became unnaturally clear, as if her old green eyes had sharply improved. Everything was beautiful.
Ember realized that she was having a vision. Sometimes it happened. She pounced on her opportunity, knowing better than to let it go to waste. O Aplu, how have we offended thee? she thought forcefully. For despite the word of the diviner, she was not at all sure that they weren’t in trouble with the gods.
A swirl of vapor appeared in the distance. It came toward the boat, then lifted to hover on the deck before her. No one else seemed to see it, but that was to be expected; it was her vision, not theirs.
The vapor remained, shimmering, whirling, but not otherwise active. It waited.
She realized that she could not simply sit and wait for it to communicate. She had to ask.
“O messenger of the god, how have we transgressed?”
The swirl remained, unresponsive. Apparently it would not speak to her in a human voice. She realized belatedly that this made sense; it was after all merely the stuff of clouds and fog. She had to address it in a manner that facilitated its response.
“O messenger, give me a signal. Can you answer yes?”
The vapor suddenly puffed out, becoming larger. Then the surplus mist flaked away, and the swirl was as it had been before.
That must be its way of saying yes! All she had to do was phrase her questions so that it could agree.
But that meant that she would have to become more specific. She would have to run through a list of possible transgressions, and that could take a long time. She wasn’t sure how soon the messenger would become impatient and depart.
So she tried for a quick simplification. “Have we transgressed?”
There was no response. That might mean that the god was not angry, or it might mean that she had not properly phrased the question. She needed to narrow it down quickly.
“Is the god happy with us?”
There was no response. Again, it might mean that she had asked the wrong question.
“Is there some purpose—something Aplu wishes of us?”
Now the flare. So it was neither anger nor pleasure on the part of the god, but a signal that something had to be done. Ember was relieved. She had thought that the family had lived a righteous life, but their sudden expulsion from Veia had shaken her certainty. Yet what could it be that the god wished of them?
“Does it have to do with our profession—metalworking?”
The vapor flared. Now she was getting somewhere. It wasn’t that they had erred, but that their expertise was needed elsewhere.
“They need bronze artistry in Ruma?”
There was no response, so she continued. “Gold? Silver? Tin? Copper?” Still no response.
Ember was at a loss. What other metal was there? Surely not—but she would have to ask. “Iron?”
It flared.
“But we don’t work in iron!” she protested. “It’s a crude metal, difficult to work, and it rusts. It is better suited for swords than artistry. The problems of procurement, transport, inferior malleability—”
But the messenger of the god had faded out. The scenery was back to normal. The vision was over.
“Oh, no,” Ember breathed, chagrined.
“What is it, Mother?” Crystal inquired.
“We must bring iron to Ruma,” Ember said heavily. “That is what the god wants of us.”
Crystal stared at her, horrified. So did Carver.
Only Flower was pleased. She put aside her flute. “Iron’s fun! It pulls things in.”
“It is pulling us in,” Ember agreed glumly.
They reached the town of Ruma in the afternoon. Ember saw the wide expanse of cornfields on either side of the river; this was a fertile region. But indefensible: the land offered free approaches from every side. This would therefore never be a significant city, because the moment it developed any aspiration, another city’s army would march in and loot or destroy it. It did have a wall, but modern siege techniques would make short work of that. Ember had a notion of such things.
The boat came to the main pier, and they got off. They had to carry their own things, because of the loss of their slaves, and this town was evidently too primitive to have regular harbor slaves to serve the public need.
In due course they were in an inn. It wasn’t of the quality of those found at Veia, but of course nothing was, here. It was adequate, and at least they would get a meal and a night’s rest before the labors of finding a permanent residence.
Next day turned out better than Ember had expected. Though the majority of the residences were thatched mud huts, she discovered a fair number of quality stone dwellings, and more were being constructed. Ruma was not in Veia’s league, of course, but it was a large community, verging on a full city. In fact it had a king, Ancus Marcis, who had expanded the domain considerably. This might be a better place to set up a metalworking practice than she had thought. A growing community was good, because it lacked the entrenched upper class that dominated in an established, stable city.
They found a suitable new stone house by one of the main roads, excellent for its access to transport. Ember was able to obtain it for what she thought was a bargain price, until she realized that real estate values were of course lower in a region like this. In a few days they were moving in their belongings, and Flower pronounced it good, because there was a courtyard suitable for blossoms. The little girl was the one they had worried about, because she was less able to understand the disruptions of moving.
/> Carver began setting up his shop in the shed to the side. “I’ll start with copper and bronze,” he said. “It will take time to get into iron. I’ll need a hotter forge, and water for quenching, and an anvil. And a supply of iron bloom.”
Crystal checked her scribe notes. “There is no iron foundry in Ruma. We may have to smelt it here.”
“That is a more serious operation. I can do it, if I get the ore, but I’ll need more than a bronzeworking shed.”
“You shall have it,” Ember said. “Crystal, exactly where is the closest iron mine?”
Crystal checked again. “The Tolfa Hills, across the Tiber River. They are under the control of the city of Tarchna.”
“We have had dealings with Tarchna,” Ember said. “That’s a center for Etruscan bronze. I should be able to deal with them. The problem will be shipping the ore here.” She considered. “If we have to deal with an Etruscan city, I had better clear it with the king of Ruma first. I don’t want the natives to be suspicious of us.”
She wasted no time seeking an audience with the local king, Ancus Marcis, a Sabine. Ember had had dealings with Sabines, too; they were one of the Latin tribes of the inland regions. So she would address him in Latin.
But she ran into a complication. It seemed that women were not held in the same regard in backward Ruma as they were in civilized Veia and other Etruscan cities. When she requested an audience with the king, the clerk refused to schedule her. She had to haul Carver in and prime him on protocol. “Make sure you acquaint him with our potential usefulness to this region,” she said. “They probably don’t have the expertise for dental work, and their nobles should appreciate our capacity for false teeth carved from ivory and held in place by bridges of gold. Then there should be greater acceptance of our mission to bring ironworking here.”
In due course Carver had his audience with the king, who was indeed interested in the dental potential and welcomed his effort to bring iron to Ruma. Transporting the ore? A good wagon would be provided. But there was another complication: the heavy forests between Veia and the Tolfa Hills were viewed with superstitious dread by these folk. They would not go there. The king himself did not share this folly, but he was realistic about the capacities of his subjects. They would have to arrange their own transportation after all.
Ember sighed. Establishing an iron foundry was not the simplest of operations to begin with, and this was already getting more complicated.
They decided to divide the family for this purpose: Carver and Crystal would remain in Ruma to complete the establishment of the house and shop, preparing a sample artificial tooth and dental bridge, while Ember and Flower journeyed to Tarchna to arrange for the importation of iron bloom. That would give the little girl the thrill of more traveling, while leaving Crystal free to work effectively. It was no burden for Ember, who liked Flower, and often had greater rapport with her than Crystal did.
They arranged for passage on another trading boat going upriver to Veia. Flower was delighted to revisit her familiar home city, and Ember shared her feeling. How much nicer it would have been, if only they had been allowed to remain there! Ruma was just too crude in style, technology and attitude, with its hovel-like buildings and the way it treated its women like second-class citizens. It was a relief to get away from it for a time.
At Veia they rented a wagon with two strong horses. “You’ll need a slave with a strong arm to handle these,” the proprietor warned her. “They like to move.”
“We’ll manage,” Ember said. She took the reins herself, and guided the horses past the man’s dubious gaze.
The horses were indeed frisky, and Ember’s arms were soon tiring, holding them back. Fortunately she did not have far to go: she guided them to her former villa.
Kettle charged out. “Miss Ember!” he shouted as Flower leaped off the wagon to hug him. “You’ve come back!” In a moment all four were there.
“We’re only passing,” Ember explained. “I have business in Tarchna. But it’s not a trip for women alone. I wish to hire two men to handle the horses and wagon, and to guard us from brigands along the way.”
“We’ll do it!” Kettle exclaimed.
But Pot was more restrained. “We’re free now, Miss Ember. What do you offer for hire?”
Ember brought out two fine bronze weapons, a sword and a long dagger, and held them out to take. “You remember when Carver made these? Use them in our service, and when we return they are yours to keep.”
“Oh, no, Miss Ember!” Pot protested. “One of them would be more than our service is worth.”
“This is not kitchen work,” she replied grimly. “We shall be hauling iron, which is heavy. And while I am old and worthless, my granddaughter is not. I would not want her to fall into the hands of rough men.”
“What rough men?” Kettle demanded, taking the sword and lifting it threateningly.
“Put that thing away before you lop off someone’s nose!” Pot snapped at his son. Then, looking at Ember, he nodded, and took the dagger. “We will guard her—and you—with our lives, Miss Ember.”
“I am sure you will,” Ember said, smiling. The thing about hiring these men was that she knew them well, and could trust them; she and Flower would be able to sleep without fearing their guards as much as their enemies.
They spent the night at the villa, and started off early next morning. Pot drove the horses, with Ember riding beside him to give directions, for he had never been away from Veia before. Kettle and Flower rode behind, pretending that the wagon was a ship and the landscape was a fabulous sea; each hill was a big wave they had to navigate.
The road wended up and down, but mostly up, for they were going into the hills. On occasion they encountered a wagon going the other way; then they had to pull to the side at a wide place to let it by, exchanging greetings with the other drivers. But mostly they were alone, passing through the crop fields of the city.
Then they entered the forest. Large oak, elm and beech trees crowded close to the trail, and the land was deeply shaded. This was the region that the Rumans feared, perhaps because they lacked the protection of the Etruscan gods. Ember wasn’t worried about the supernatural, because she was here, really, by the directive of a god: to bring iron to the hinterland. It was only man she had to fear, and her concern had been alleviated when she hired Pot and Kettle.
As they climbed higher, the oaks gave way to pines, and the forest closed in even more tightly. There was an odd quietness about such a forest; perhaps the pine needles damped out the sound. Pot and Kettle began to look around nervously. They would not admit to the kind of primitive fear that uncivilized folk had of deep wilderness, but they nevertheless felt awe in the ambience of this somber region. That began to get on Ember’s nerves, though she was no superstitious barbarian either. “Flower, why don’t you play your flute?” she suggested.
The girl, getting bored with scenery no matter how novel, was glad to oblige. She brought out her double flute and practiced the scales. Then she played melodies, and the harmonies went out through the trees of the forest and became enhanced. Flower would one day be a fine musician; she was already quite good with the flute.
When the child tired of playing, Ember filled in with a story. It was of course familiar to them all, but that was part of the point: its familiarity was comforting. It reminded them all that the gods were in charge and would not allow civilized folk to come to harm here.
Long ago, Ember explained, the people lived close to the land. They planted wheat, made wine, herded swine, and enjoyed sex, much as has been the case since. But they had one significant flaw: the gods were a mystery to them. They were unable to read the true signs, or to interpret the true omens. Thus they were blind to the fundamental nature of existence. They did not understand destiny. They did not know greatness. So they suffered for their ignorance, thinking that floods and droughts and fires were random events that they could do nothing about.
But the gods were tolerant of this naivete,
and in due course gave the people a chance to learn the truth. After all, even as a child grows and learns, so does a primitive people mature and gain wisdom. The gods decided on a region, and then on a man in that region: he would be the one they first contacted directly. His name was Tarchon, and he was until this moment an ordinary farmer.
One day Tarchon was plowing his field when his plow suddenly cut deep into the earth. Startled by this mishap, he tried to right his plow, but it dug deeper yet. So he halted his ox and stared down into the furrow, thinking that perhaps he had run afoul of some nether root.
He found no root. Instead there seemed to be some sort of opening in the bottom of the furrow. From this something was emerging. It was round and hairy. Amazed, the farmer sought to brush the dirt off it so that he could see what it was. It seemed to be some kind of ball.
Tarchon’s amazement expanded into shock. On the ball was a face. It was a human head! In fact it was a small child, emerging from the cleft of the furrow like a baby from the cleft of a woman. The earth was giving birth!
“Well, don’t just gawk, Tarchon,” the child said, spying the farmer. “Help me get out of my mother.”
Numb with astonishment, Tarchon put his hands carefully on the child’s head and pulled him up. The little body slid out with a sucking sound, and the earth closed up somewhat beneath him, still leaving a deep furrow. The farmer set him on the turf beside the furrow, and fetched water to wash the mud off. He turned out to be a handsome boy looking about two years old.
Tarchon cried out with this miracle so loudly that his wife and children came to investigate. They too were astonished when the farmer explained how he had found the lad. “But who is he?” the wife asked. “Surely his mother misses him.”
“No, I remain close to my mother,” the boy said, patting the ground. “It is my father who sent me to you. Now don’t waste time; bring your lauchumar here so I can educate them.”
Isle of Woman (Geodyssey) Page 33
