The Field of Swords. Conn IgguldenЧитать онлайн книгу.
for the first four days. While it charred, he showed them his ore furnace and lectured them on washing the rough rocks before sealing them with the charcoal to burn clean.
They were all men who loved their craft and by the end of the fifth day they were filled with excited anticipation as Cavallo brought a lump of iron bloom to his furnace and poured it molten into clay racks, finally turning out heavy bars of the metal onto a workbench for them to examine.
‘The alder wood burns cooler than most and slows the changes. It makes a harder metal as more of it takes the charcoal, but that is only part of it,’ he told them, thrusting one of the bars into the bright yellow heat of his forge. There was barely enough room to heat two pieces at a time, so they clustered around the second, copying every move and instruction he gave them. The cramped workshop could not hold all of them, so they took turns coming in and out of the cooling night air. Only Renius stayed throughout as an observer and he poured with enough sweat to blind him, silently noting each stage of the process.
He too was fascinated. Though he had used swords for all his adult life, he had never watched them being made and it gave him an appreciation for the skills of the dour men who worked earth into shining blades.
Cavallo used a hammer to beat the bar into the shape of a sword, reheating it again and again until the spike looked like a black gladius, crusted with impurities. Part of the skill came in judging the temperature by the colour as it came out of the forge. Each time the sword was at the right heat, Cavallo held it up for them to see the shade of yellow before it faded. He filed and beat the soft metal as his own sweat sizzled on it, falling in fat drops to vanish on contact.
Their own bar was matched to his at every point and as the moon rose, he nodded to the Romans, satisfied. His sons had lit a low pan of charcoal as long as a man and before its metal cover was removed, it glowed as brightly as his forge. While his sword heated again, Cavallo signalled to a row of leather aprons on pegs. They were clumsy things to wear, thick and stiff with age. They covered the whole body from neck to feet, leaving only the arms bare. He smiled as they pulled them on, used by now to following his instructions without question.
‘You will need the protection,’ he told them as they struggled to move against the constricting coverings. At his signal, his sons used tongs to lift the cover from the charcoal pan and Cavallo pulled the yellow blade from the furnace with a flourish. The Roman smiths crowded closer, knowing they were seeing a stage of the process they did not recognise. Renius had to step back from the sudden wave of heat and craned to watch what was going on.
In the white heat of the charcoal, Cavallo hammered the blade again, sending sparks and whirring pieces of fire into the air. One landed in his hair and he patted the flame out automatically. Over and over he turned the blade, his hammer working it up and down without the force of his first blows. The ringing sound was almost gentle, but they could all see the charcoal sticking to the metal in dark crusts.
‘It has to be fast here. It must not cool too far before the quenching. Watch the colour … now!’
Cavallo’s voice had softened, his eyes filled with love for the metal. As the redness darkened, he lifted his tongs and jammed the sword into a bucket of water in a roar of steam that filled the little workshop.
‘Then back into the heat. The most important stage. If you misjudge the colour now, the sword will be brittle and useless. You must learn the shade, or everything I have taught you has been wasted. For me, it is the colour of day-old blood, but you must find your own memory and fix it in your minds.’
The second sword was ready and he repeated the beating in the charcoal bed, once again scattering embers into the air. It was clear enough by then why they wore the leathers. One Roman grunted in pain as a fiery chip settled on his arm before he could pluck it away.
The swords were reheated and shoved into the charcoal four more times before Cavallo finally nodded. They were all sweating and practically blind from the moisture-laden fog in the workshop. Only the blades cut through the steam, the air burning away from their heat in clear trails.
Dawn lit the mountains outside, though they could not see the light. They had all stared into the furnace for so long that wherever they looked was darkness.
Cavallo’s sons covered the tray and dragged it back to the wall. As the Romans breathed and wiped sweat from their eyes, Cavallo shut up his forge and removed the bellows from the air-holes, hanging them neatly on hooks ready to be used again. The heat was still oppressive, but there was a sense of it all coming to an end as he faced them, holding a black blade in each hand, his fingers wrapped around a narrow tang that would be encased in a hilt before use.
The blades were matt and rough-looking. Though he had hammered each using only his eye, they were identical in length and width and when they were cool enough to be handed around, the Roman smiths felt the same balance in each. They nodded at the skill, no longer resentful of the time they had spent away from their own forges. Each of them realised they had been given something of value and they smiled like children as they hefted the bare blades.
Renius took his turn with them, though he lacked the experience to be able to judge the weight without a hilt. The blades had been taken from the earth of Spain and he stroked a finger along the rough metal, hoping he would be able to make Julius understand the glory of the moment.
‘The charcoal bed gives them the hard skin over a softer core. These blades will not snap in battle, unless you leave impurities within, or quench them at the wrong colour. Let me show you,’ Cavallo said, his voice stiff with pride. He took the blades from the Roman smiths and gestured them to stand back. Then he rapped each one hard onto the edge of his forge, causing a deep tone as if a bell sounded the dawn. The swords remained whole and he breathed slowly in satisfaction.
‘They will kill men, these ones. They will make an art of death.’ He spoke with reverence and they understood him. ‘The new day begins, gentlemen. Your charcoal will be ready by noon and you will return to your own forges to make examples of the new swords. I will want to see them, from all of you, in say … three days. Leave them without a hilt and I will craft those with you. Now, I am going to bed.’
The grizzled Roman smiths murmured their thanks and trooped out of the workshop, looking back longingly at the blades they had made that night.
Pompey and Crassus rose from their seats in the shade to acknowledge the crowd. The racegoers of the Circus Maximus cheered their consuls in a wave of sound and excitement that echoed and crashed around the packed seating. Pompey raised a hand to them and Crassus smiled slightly, enjoying the attention. He deserved it, he thought, after the gold it had cost him. Each clay entry token was stamped with the names of the two consuls and, though they were freely given out, Crassus had heard the tokens were as good as currency in the weeks leading up to the event. Many of those who sat waiting for the first race had paid well for the privilege. It never ceased to please him how his people could turn even gifts into an opportunity for profit.
The weather was fine and only the lightest wisps of clouds drifted across the long track as the crowds settled and shouted bets to each other. There was an air of excitement in the benches and Crassus noted how few families there were. It was a sad fact of life that the races were often marred by fights in the cheaper seats, as men argued over losses. Only a month before, the circus had to be cleared by legionaries called in to restore order. Five men had been killed in a minor riot after the favourite had lost in the final race of the day.
Crassus frowned at the thought, hoping it would not happen again. He stretched up in his seat to note the positions of Pompey’s soldiers on the gates and main walkways. Enough to intimidate all but the most foolhardy, he hoped. He did not want the memory of his consular year associated with civil unrest. As things stood, his endorsement of the candidates in the coming elections would still be worth a great deal. Even with more than half his term to serve, the factions in the Senate were shifting as those who