To Kill the Christ! - Chapter Twenty: Building a Kingdom

       The months slipped by far too hurriedly for Raphael. Messalina was every bit as attractive as she had appeared in the lamp's feeble light. Her literacy in three languages and fluency in four isolated her from the few women of the Greek community. The men would have bedded her every night, but she wanted intelligent companionship, not masculine accomplishments.

       Her interest in Greek ideals of manhood had perished when she married Nicholay, a man older than herself by half, but one who was gentle and intelligent, albeit a trader, the only offspring in his family. They had come to Camulodunum after successfully running the Corinthian office. His father ran the trading company from Athens while his uncle traded from Rome.

       When Nicholay had died of influenza two winters before, Messalina had no place to return to. Her parents were dead and there was no place for her in her husband's family as she was childless. She was Greek, but she had been raised in Crete.

       Her husband had made her a partner in all but the bargaining from the beginning, so she knew the business. But women did not bargain with traders. Nicholay's master servant performed that duty. He was barely competent for the task, but with Messalina operating behind the scenes, the business prospered.

       Even with her literacy and cosmopolitan outlook, she was deficient in many respects, particularly her belief in the numerous Greek gods. But Raphael pursued her shamelessly. He found his views changing. He wanted his wife to read and to talk with him about ideas and to share business problems with him. He envied the equal relationship that existed between Carl and Rebecca. With no man but Carl to share his ideas, no man of equal stature, Raphael turned to a woman. And he found a warm, generous, and intelligent helpmate.

       Messalina learned to respect and, perhaps, love Raphael for his mind and his love of her. She could see that he was a power in Nottingham, despite his crippled hand. She could do worse than to become his wife.

       Versed in glazing and firing pottery, she had designed her own lamps from an ancient Chinese lamp she had seen in an Athens shop. With Raphael directing, Ilios cut four pieces of glass, shaping them into a rectangular box which fit snugly over a small square bowl with indentations that served as air vents. Raphael fitted it with a long handle, a movable wick, and filled it with oil. It was a modified Coleman lantern.

       He trimmed the wick, lit it and slowly turned it higher in the lamp, all the time watching the expression on Messalina's face. It gave off more light than she had ever seen in such a small lamp. Her eyes sparkled as she sought to understand the principle of the lantern. She was intrigued by glass. Raphael said she must wait until they returned to Nottingham and there she could learn as much about glass and lantern making as she wanted. The years stretched pleasantly before his eyes. He loved and was loved. The First Century C.E. could be good.

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       Carl and Rebecca breakfasted on bacon and eggs, though she toyed with her food.

       "What's wrong?" he asked. "This is the first time we've had eggs cooked halfway decently. They're finally learning in the kitchen."

       "I know," she replied, "but I just don't feel like eating." Suddenly she pulled away from the table and ran outside where she threw up. Carl was right behind her. They looked at each other.

       "I think I'm pregnant," Rebecca said, then gave a weak grin through her distress.

       Carl gave a triumphant laugh, then sobered. "What will we do about medical facilities? There isn't a doctor here."

       Rebecca offered a wan smile. "I'll be all right. I know what to do, and we'll find a good midwife before anything happens. Babies are born around here everyday, so it's no big deal."

       But Carl was not so readily assuaged. It was good news, but having a child in the First Century was no easy thing for a woman. He had read that the death rate of mothers in childbirth was about fifty percent in some ancient societies, though he doubted the data were available for that kind of analysis. Still, they would have to make careful preparations.

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       Nottingham was busy. Carl rushed to and fro keeping an eye on the myriad projects he had set in motion, many under the direction of men who knew not what they were doing. It was the task of creating a new society and all of the economic, technological, and educational supports that such a structure needed. He was tired. So was Rebecca. She stayed active but began to give more and more responsibility to those she commanded.

       Shortly after the victory over the Viking marauders, for that's what he thought they were, Carl entered the experimental glass factory, which was now located in Long Reach. He carried a long, thin clay pipe. Attaching a dollop of molten glass to the end, and holding a heated piece of metal to the bottom of the glass, he gently blew into the pipe, slowly turning it and expanding it as the glass temperature fell.

       The first time he tried, the glob fell off. The second time, he blew too hard and sprayed molten glass around the room.

       Rebecca watched his futile efforts.

       "I know it'll work," he said. "I saw them do this on a television program. But it looked a lot easier when the craftsman knew what he was doing."

       He soon mastered, well, perhaps its more accurate to say conquered, the technique, and glass jars began to develop, roughly shaped by hot clay forms into which he blew the glass. They were reasonably clear, clean, smooth, and usually flat on the bottom. Rebecca again was with him when he turned the task over to Lituvi who already knew how to blow glass.

       "It's all yours, Lituvi. Get some of those young apprentices to working and perfecting the technique. If glass jars are unacceptable, put them back into the fire. We want to develop the skills necessary for making large numbers of jars, but they must be good."

       As they walked back to the mansion, Rebecca reminded him of the need for the jars. "I'll teach some of the women of the village how to cook and preserve vegetables and fruits in glass rather than clay. Glass won't carry flavors from one canning to the next."

       Carl shook his head. "I've been wondering, how will you seal them? It will take us time to develop jars with lids that can be screwed on."

       "We'll use wax. That will protect most fruits and vegetables. Then, when you develop jars with screw caps, or the clasp tops, we'll take the next step."

       "Good idea. Glass can be used in so many things we'll need to make a list. At last we'll have fruit during the winter rather than that dried stuff. People have never been able to save anything without drying or curing it."

       He put his arms around her shoulder and brushed her forehead with his lips. "We forget how important these simple developments were in changing the lifestyles of people."

       In addition to canning jars, glass lanterns with special clay pottery bases and metal holders were among the new products from the new factory. It was a large building, located outside of Long Reach, with thick wooden beams cut from the forest to span the shop area. A charcoal and coal shelter was created out of sight of the rest of the community. Rebecca reminded him that utility didn't have to be an eyesore. The chimney rose higher and higher into the sky, higher than needed for the furnace, but it would dispel smoke more effectively. Carl placed the factory near the Trent, to be convenient for future shipping. But it enabled airborne pollutants to drift largely to the east and away from his precious fortress and the rest of Long Reach.

       Factories, storehouses, granaries, waterwheels, and water conduits, even windmills. The list was unending and Carl fought to keep them all in his mind. The new iron factory was a problem. By using ingenious air pumps and coal, he was able to develop high temperatures for a long period, long enough to make cast iron, a major first step in steel making and a major breakthrough for the era. But making steel was difficult. Only experimentation could provide information, and the great furnace was being used for cast iron.

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       Marcus, who seldom visited Nottingham since removing to Long Reach, rode up to the little foundry built near the edge of the cliff above town and river. He had wondered how Carl got perfectly round metal balls. He had to see for himself. "This it?" he asked. He wasn't impressed.

       "Yes, it's the 'shot tower.' When you finish the guard towers at Fortress Long Reach, we'll shift production there."

       "How's it work?" It was just one of many techniques Marcus had not yet grasped.

       "We pour molten glass or lead, even wax, through different sized metal screens, which create different sized balls. Even though they are square holes, the individual pieces of metal form perfectly round balls by they time they hit the pond. They're cooled enough that they're not deformed by the impact with the water. Then they solidify as they lie in pans at the bottom. All we have to do is lift the pans out."

       Carl moved to the platform built out from the cliff so that molten metal or wax wouldn't hit the rocks. He knew the Roman engineer was interested in every detail. "This works really well for glass, wax, and lead, but iron and cast iron are too hot, so I have to use an intermediary step."

       Marcus cautiously looked over the edge. He wasn't afraid of heights, but this was high!

       They returned to the shop where Carl pointed to a table. "See those wax balls?" There were various sized balls of wax lying about in piles. He took eight perfectly shaped balls of wax of the same size, carefully jammed a small clay funnel into each, then turned them over to rest on top of the funnels in a shallow, narrow box. "Pass me that mud, will you?"

       "Mud?"

       "Clay, ready to pour around these balls to make forms."

       Marcus reached behind him to hoist a pot from the table. Carl was forever working in a clutter that the meticulous Roman was tempted to sweep into a dustbin. He couldn't work in such conditions.

       "After the clay is set, Grosnau will heat it, then tip it over and allow the wax to run out the funnels leaving a form. After the form is fire hardened we'll pour iron into each form, let it cure naturally, then break the form to release balls with funnels attached. We'll cut those off, burnish the metal, and lo and behold, we'll have ball bearings. That's how we made the bearings used in the wheelbarrows, though these are larger and will move the great doors of the fortress."

       "I wondered how you would make those!" Marcus exclaimed. "I'm still stewing over how to set them in the door." He glanced around the primitive foundry, clutter and all. "It's so simple!"

       Carl smiled. "Yep! It really is. When I can make re-usable forms, it'll be even simpler."

       Marcus started out, only to pause beside a box filled with pellets. "What're these for?"

       "They're shotgun pellets or grenade fragments. Something I'm working on in the gunpowder factory."

       "These are made of iron! You said iron was too hot!"

       "It is, except for small pellets like these. Ball bearings, even the small ones, are too large to cool off before they hit the pond." He laughed. "It isn't as important that these are perfectly round."

       Marcus picked up a handful and let the pellets run through his fingers. And in a voice filled with wonder, he quietly said, "But they are."

       Rebecca's pregnancy could no longer be hid. She had weathered the summer heat and her scare in the German Sea. She had gotten pregnant in late May, if her missed periods were an indication.

       She spent many days in the fields and stables to help improve farming and agricultural practices. She and Carl designed plows with metal blades, moldboards and adjustable struts for planting and portable reapers for harvesting grain. Farmers still used wooden plows, oftentimes pushed and pulled by men and women, though the ox, that great, slow beast of burden, had been harnessed to the plow for its strength.

       "How can we get people to use them?" a weary Rebecca sighed.

       "We'll use them in our own fields first, and when the innovators see how much can be done so quickly, it won't take them long to want the same thing, if it will profit them."

       Her pregnancy was sapping her strength, but the enormous burden of developing inventions that could benefit the people was taking its toll, too.

       "I've thanked God many times that I bought those books," he continued, "but there are several others that I would rather have with us. Well, I guess there's no going back. . ." which is when he saw Rebecca's expression lighten. "That's just a manner of speaking."

       "That's what I once thought, too," and she was smiling, her old self restored.

       The breeze shifted to the north and increased, whipping up swirls of dust. They were spending more and more time in Long Reach, and a new home of kiln dried bricks was being built on the hill toward the west. The breeze stirred the fall grass on both sides of the Trent.

       Carl swept his arm across the horizon from forest to eastern escarpment. "That's unbroken soil because turning it requires too much power, man and animal. In two, maybe three years time, all of this that isn't under water will be planted to grain and other crops." Running his hand over the harness and kicking the plow with his foot, he added, "And all because of these simple devices. It's unbelievable that so little could do so much."

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       Several miles west of Long Reach, at the foot of rugged hills and cliffs, a series of workshops were constructed, hidden in the wilderness with only foot paths leading to them. The complex of buildings was Carl's gunpowder factory.

       Raphael had imported pure sulphur and Carl's smelly troughs of animal and vegetable waste were ready for their third build up, the first two having been emptied and concentrated for saltpeter. The residue was mixed with lime for fertilizer

       The saltpeter was removed in barrels to the gunpowder workshop where he and a few trusted men processed it until it was pure. All salts were removed because they absorbed moisture and degraded the gunpowder. Then the saltpeter was dried into cakes, ground into powder, and mixed with sulphur and charcoal.

       The first year's tubs of marinated waste produced a superb crop of saltpeter. The English savant Bacon had recommended 40 percent of the gunpowder be saltpeter, but later experiments showed a 70 percent mix of saltpeter was more explosive. Carl chose the latter.

       He was the only one to experiment with the mix of chemicals, though he had help in pounding the mix until it made a fine powder. To experiment with loaded cartridges he went deep into a cave, one that turned and twisted underground, offering natural baffles for the noise that resulted. In this way he kept the purpose of the powder a secret.

       By the end of the second season he was generating a powerful powder, though it wasn't nearly as powerful as the powder he had brought with him in his journey through time. The third year, which was upon them, they corned the powder, making it more powerful, lengthening its life, and keeping moisture from degrading the saltpeter.

       Only once had some of the powder caught fire during the grinding process, but the small amount of powder produced at any one time, since only he and Rebecca would use firearms in the foreseeable future, limited the damage to a flare up. Nevertheless, that was enough to keep two men from returning to the factory until their fears were allayed.

       The secrets of the gunpowder factory were carefully hidden from everybody but Rebecca and Raphael, Morius and Ort, the latter two considering it black magic. Those employed at the plant thought they were making fertilizer. Guards kept others away from the site. Now Carl began work on hand grenades and packets of explosives. They were weapons of last choice.

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       He drove his officers hard. They trained their men with the new weapons, such as bow and stirrups, and honed their fighting skills. One by one, and two by two, men rode into Nottingham to serve under the standard of a white horse in a green field. Carl had chosen the symbol because of his cavalry and because of Rebecca's white horse, which he finally had found for her, though she seldom rode it now, preferring a small, spring-suspended carriage.

       While the army was trained for conventional warfare, Carl was busy training an "elite" group of warriors to serve as commandos. "Fast strike in silence" was their motto, and he led them personally because he had studied this aspect of fighting most intently. Each man was a superior physical specimen, skilled in horsemanship, sword play, archery, and close combat with a knife. Each moved through the woods silently, blending in the shadows. And each was ruthless.

       "Those men have spent most of their lives in the woods or on the river," he told Rebecca, "I'm just showing them why what they know and do instinctively is the thing to do." He shook his head. "I don't have to teach them most skills, except discipline. They're the fastest learners I've ever seen."

       "Let's hope you never have to use them," she responded. "I don't like the idea of you leading men on guerilla raids. What happens if you get caught or killed?" She touched his arm. "What happens to me if you disappear?"

       His expression softened. "I've thought of that. I can't tell the future, but I don't think I'll need to lead them very long. Two or three men are leaders and with a little experience, they'll be ready to take over, especially Pember. He's a natural leader of men and can disappear in the forest. He just needs seasoning."

       There were only sixty men, but they were the best, and he made sure everyone in the army knew it. They wore berets as a symbol of their specialty.

       Coritani villages made battle equipment when their people were not working in the fields or on personal household needs. They earned cash, which promoted a cash economy so they could buy lanterns and glass jars for canning.

       One small group of Nottingham artisans were busy with bow and arrows, keeping children hunting for the best woods, which, with horn, were seasoned, glued, and shaped into Rebecca's composite recurve bows. The greatest problem was making a string that remained taut and neither burst nor sagged. A fiber was tightly wound that seemed to remain taut even when it rained.

       "This will have to do," Rebecca told Carl, "until we can find a better fiber. We need a large supply on hand. An archer with a broken string is worthless."

       Carl grunted. "Raphael will trade for something more effective. The Syrians are great bowmen, maybe he can buy what they use. Just so it stands up to moisture."

       "We haven't heard from Raphael for a while. Since he married Messalina he's been busy at night, when he usually wrote." She smiled at the thought. "It's good he has a wife, and one he admires. I can tell from his letters he's deeply in love."

       "Yes, and it should make for a much happier Raphael when he returns to Nottingham."

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       Raphael and Messalina had set up house in a large mansion on the east edge of Camulodunum, not far from the trading district, it still required a horse ride to the trading rooms at the dock each day. Messalina had dickered with her former father-in-law in Athens to buy back the firm. She offered an attractive inducement, an opportunity to import glass blown lanterns, which Nottingham now was manufacturing, a new word she had learned. Her former father-in-law could put Greek-designed ceramic bowls under the glass chimneys and sell them as Greek lamps. A wedding gift from Nicholay's father had sealed the deal. It was a large silver plate intricately designed, and it arrived with his blessing. He would miss the good business sense of his former daughter-in-law, but she could still help him as the wife of an influential man, even in a backwater island like Britannia.

       Carl and Rebecca earlier had sent their blessings and a trunk full of drinking glasses made from a rose colored glass Lituvi had developed. They were not for sale nor were they to be used for making contracts. They were to use them in their household. Included in the trunk were four glass lanterns which Carl had personally blown. That they weren't perfectly shaped, as he carefully pointed out, made them more personal. A silver serving set, part of the compensation given by the Belgae, completed the wedding gift. The Belgae had stolen it from someone else.

       Gaio was living by himself in a large dwelling in the city. He was gathering a large retinue because of his teaching and the practice of inoculation. His success with inoculation was very high.

       He did not fear to enter where smallpox raged, which gave him greater credence among the sorcerers and physicians, though a few accused him of black sorcery. Smallpox would become a greater scourge when cities developed and more people lived in close proximity.

       Slowly the concept of inoculation began to spread throughout the medical community, many of whom were no more than barbers capable of using leeches for bloodletting. Since there was neither hospital nor medical school, Gaio's dwelling became a teaching and practicing hospital of a very limited sort. He actively spread his fame among the lords and ladies of Camulodunum, and his seed among the mistresses of towns and villages around the city.

       One late fall day, with the clouds close to the earth and rain driving before a strong northwest wind, Raphael sat bargaining with a leading member of the minuscule Jewish community, a merchant named Mordecai. Raphael had finally relented on his opposition to working with Jews, thanks to Messalina's proding. They had successfully concluded their business when Raphael asked if he knew Aaron the Trader, who lived on the southern coast.

       "Of course, of course. We're old friends. Had dealings with him?"

       "Some. We traveled with him for a short period onetime when he was hauling furs and grain from the north."

       "Ah," Mordecai said, "so you were with Aaron on that trip." Then he looked closely at Raphael. "Is this Gaio the Physician with you? You know, the one who makes such a big noise about himself throughout Camulodunum. The one some call a sorcerer?"

       Raphael laughed. "Gaio is a good physician. He has learned a great deal from Rebecca, Carl's wife, and he should do well indeed if he stays in Camulodunum."

       Mordecai expressed surprise. "Camulodunum? Won't he return with you to Nottingham? He's a slave, isn't he?"

       Raphael frowned. "No. King Carl set him free two years ago, and he can go wherever he pleases. Whether he stays or returns to Nottingham is up to him. We want him back for he would be a great help, especially in battle. But he's building a following here. I'm sure he'll remain."

       Mordecai looked away and smiled. "I think not," he said. "He will either return with you to Nottingham to learn more from this Rebecca of whom you speak, or he will return to Aaron the Trader."

       He grew thoughtful. "How I wish I had a slave like Aaron's slave. What a great gift to the people of the community."

       Raphael hid his surprise and buried the words in his memory. Aaron's gift to Carl wasn't a gift after all. So much duplicity in the world! He could see it around him every day, as he tried to hedge in those with whom he traded. Each person sought advantage over the other, and contracts weren't worth the vellum on which they were written. A common law of trade needed to be developed, but then, where would impartial judges come from?

       That night Raphael and Messalina lay awake late, talking over the need for laws and impartial judges and watching a full moon break through the scattered clouds, the storm had passed. He had installed a small glass skylight in their bedroom. Messalina knew something of Roman trade law and proposed it as a model. Their low conversation was interrupted by a noise in the hallway. Someone had bumped into a pot, scraping it against the wall.

       Raphael had not bolted the door into the bedroom since no servant entered unless bidden.

       "Quiet," he whispered, and slipped from the specially made sheets to search for the pistol in the dresser, checking by feel to see that it was loaded and safety released. Messalina pulled a small dagger from a vase and crouched on the bed. She would protect her cripple-handed husband as best she could. He did not have even a knife to ward off intruders.

       Raphael quietly slipped to the door, but heavy breathing on the other side caused him to retreat quickly to the bed, knocking Messalina to the floor with his shoulder. He knelt on his left knee, anchored his elbow on his right and steadied the pistol with both hands. He had enough strength in his right hand to pull the trigger. Two men came through the door, large knives faintly gleaming from the weak moonlight, and moved stealthily toward the bed, not seeing Raphael kneeling against the side.

       Raphael's vision was better. He fired and the first thief died almost instantly, with a bullet in the chest, the sound of the pistol reverberating in the room. The second thief, bewildered and frightened, started to back out. Raphael fired again, hitting him in the stomach, but the thief refused to go down. He yelled and turned to flee when Raphael's third shot hit him in the neck. He died as he fell through the doorway into the hall.

       The crack of the pistol had echoed through the house, and two black cloaked figures raced down the hallway to the front door. Raphael cautiously stepped through the bedroom door and peered into the darkness. A flash of silver plate glimmered near the doorway, reflecting the faint light from the windows. Aiming with both hands, he fired again. One figure staggered then collapsed against the door, the other frantically trying to open the door over the moaning lump of clay at his feet. Before Raphael could fire again, two guards from the stables forced their way in and stabbed the robber with their swords. Both thieves died at their feet.

       Raphael turned to the captain. "Remove those riffraff from the bedroom so the servants can clean up. Post a man on this door for the remainder of the night and plan to guard this building from now on. Camulodunum isn't as safe as I thought."