The newer, bigger gunne was taking shape over days of hard work. This would shoot a ‘pea’ as big as a hen’s egg 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.