Ring of Fire III (45 page)

It was both inspiring and humbling to watch Veraldi, Atwood decided. He had never personally worked that hard at anything, not even when he was in the air force orchestra with a solo in an upcoming concert tour. The only person he’d ever seen work as hard as Veraldi was one semester when he was an undergraduate—he’d had a friend who was a Ph.D. candidate who had both a dissertation defense and a doctoral level recital scheduled in the same semester. He swore the man lived on coffee that semester. He knew he lost enough weight that he looked unhealthy.

Veraldi didn’t seem to be losing any weight, but he was definitely burning the candle at both ends. Some days his eyes seemed to be peering out of tunnels bored deep into his skull.

* * *

Giouan counted his silver frequently, even though he knew to the pfennig how much he had. At least once each week he recalculated how long he could stay, how long he could continue learning, when he would have to leave.

That day finally came.

Giouan knew he had to leave. He didn’t want to, not by any stretch of his imagination. He wanted to stay at Master At’s feet until he had learned everything the master had to teach, and then stay some more just to work with the master. But it wasn’t possible. He had to leave, he had to get home to Venice, for only there could his knowledge create the reputation he needed, only there could he build the relationships that would help bring the new music to his land.

It didn’t take long to leave on Saturday. Giouan had already collected his letter of introduction from
Maestro
Carissimi. He packed his clothing that morning, and slid the instrument cases into the oilcloth bag he had had made for them.

He paid the hotel keeper for the last time. His horse was waiting for him when he arrived at the stable, where he tipped the stable boy generously for taking excellent care of his mount. He tied his packages onto the back of the saddle, then headed for the familiar house of his master.

* * *

“So,” Atwood said, “the day has arrived when you have to leave. I’m sorry to hear that, John.”

“I’m sorry to have to say it, Master At. But my money has dwindled to the point where I dare not stay any longer. I have enough to make it to Venice if I start now, but if I stay much longer I won’t.”

Atwood saw the resolution in his student’s eyes, so he didn’t try to argue. In truth, he was surprised Veraldi had stayed as long as he had.

“Do you have everything you want?”

“No. Nor do I have everything I need. But I have enough to begin. If God allows, I will return.”

Atwood held his hand out. “Good luck, John. Go with God. Write to me when you can, come back if you can.”

“I will, Master At.” Veraldi took his hand, then snatched him into a close embrace. A moment later, he was walking down the sidewalk.

* * *

Giouan swung up and settled his feet in the stirrups. He looked around one last time, felt a lump rise in his throat for Master Atwood, then reined the horse around and nudged it into motion.

* * *

Coda

From
The Fall of Fire: The Coming of Grantville and the Music of Europe

Charles William Battenberg, B.A., M.A., Fellow of the Royal Academy of Music, Schwarzberg Chair of Musicology, Oxford University

1979, Oxford University Press

Chapter Eleven—There Came Sweet Strings

Not all musical advancements from the knowledge of Grantville were made via the road to Magdeburg...the knowledge of the advanced mature instruments, as has already been noted, began to spread out very soon...

With the exception of the piano, no other stringed instrument made as great an impact as the banjo...considered a humble instrument by the up-timers, in the hands of Monteverdi and others it quickly joined the ranks of concert instruments along with the mandolin and guitar, which had supplanted the lute in much quicker fashion than it apparently did in the up-time...down-timers had no knowledge of the banjo, as it had been developed well after the Ring of Fire period of history...

The rise of the banjo was due in no little part to the efforts of one Giouan Battista Veraldi. Little is known of the man. By his name, musicologists assume that he was born in northern Italy, but exactly where has not been determined. It is known that he was a lutenist in the royal court of Sweden for some time. But he enters the Ring of Fire stage in 1634, when he became the student of Atwood Cochran. Therein began the partnership that lifted both the mature guitar and the unknown banjo...

...Veraldi arrived in Venice with guitar and banjo in hand, and addressed himself to Maestro Monteverdi and to the masters of the Sellas family, foremost luthiers in Italy...saw the innovation immediately...Monteverdi’s “Sonatas for Banjo and Continuo” were published within the year, and swept through Italy and southern Germany almost by storm...The literature for banjo began to expand almost exponentially...Veraldi’s “Etudes for Solo Banjo” are part of the standard repertoire...

The Sellas family had received an almost incalculable advantage...samples of the mature instruments were in their hands for weeks as they measured...far in advance of the Voboams and other luthiers of France and Spain.

After a few years, Veraldi began returning to Grantville to visit his teacher. Before long, he was bringing other students with him...a school developed...students from all over, but especially from northern Italy...Master Cochran was the head, but
il primo
Veraldi was the driving force...The journals of several musicians who later became of note record seeing Master Cochran in his eighties playing together with Veraldi...loved a piece named
Dueling Banjos
, and played it with great glee...significance of the title is unknown, since by all accounts Master Cochran would play a guitar in these performances...unfortunately the music has been lost in the passage of time...

Stone Harvest

Karen Bergstralh

May 1635

Flagged iron stakes dotted the slope above the village of New Hope. Along a section of stone wall, red flags marched. Patterns of green and yellow flags flanked the wall and two lone white flags fluttered in the near distance.

“The red flags mark the walls we’ve found,” Mike Tyler said proudly. “Each yellow flag shows what we think is the interior of a separate room or structure. Green indicates open areas between structures.”

“What then do the white ones mark?” asked one of the men standing beside Mike. Ernst von Weferling’s face showed real interest. He had sought out Mike the week before, asking questions about up-time archaeology and about a tour of the dig. That’s when things started getting complicated.

To von Weferling’s right stood short, plump, and unhappy Oscar Clausnitzer. The man reminded Mike of a garden slug, oozing discontent in place of slime. Bruno Glasewaldt, as thin as Clausnitzer was plump, fidgeted next to Clausnitzer. Glasewaldt hadn’t said much this morning beyond complaining about how early the tour was.

Two days before, Glasewaldt and Clausnitzer had introduced themselves as antiquarians. Having heard about the upcoming tour they expressed their eagerness to join in. This morning, when Mike appeared with the hotel’s surrey instead of an up-time car, their enthusiasm had waned but they still insisted on coming along.

The fourth man, Leopold von Alvensleben, stood slightly apart, frowning. Despite his professing to be a collector of antiquities he looked, dressed, and acted more like a general surveying a battlefield. Mike knew nothing about the man beyond his polite request to join the group going to the site this morning.

“The white flags mark features we discovered but haven’t examined yet. So far we think that this site has been occupied by two distinct groups.” Mike walked to the nearest set of flags. This section of wall stood roughly two feet tall by six feet long. A wooden box sat on top. Mike took several potsherds from the box and presented them to his audience. “We found these here, in what was probably a kitchen. These red pieces might be Roman dinnerware. Expensive Roman dinnerware.” He held out half of a shattered bright red ceramic bowl to the men. “This site isn’t Roman, but it’s possible that a collector of curiosities lived here.”

“Not Roman?” von Alvensleben snarled. “Who would bother if it isn’t Roman?” He paused for a moment, peering intently into the excavation square. “Gold! You have information about coin hordes. Where are the coins?” He drew himself up, face flushed; the riding crop in his right hand beating a tattoo against his boot.

“We haven’t found any coins and I don’t think that we will,” Mike protested. “We’re digging here because no one knows who built these walls.”

“Do you think we are stupid? If this isn’t a Roman ruin,” Clausnitzer growled, “then the only reason to dig here is that you know of other valuable items buried here.” The little man glared at Mike and added, “Who do you mistake us for?”

“He mistakes us for fools,” Glasewaldt said. “To be taken in by a few pieces of broken pottery he’s picked up from a village’s trash pit. Show us what you’ve really found. If not coins, perhaps marble statues?”

Mike’s temper rose. Yesterday they had seemed to understand that archaeology was about knowledge, not finding treasure. These broken bits of pottery told him more about the inhabitants than a gold coin could. He fought to keep his voice even.

“There aren’t any statues or gold coins or anything of monetary value here. If there ever was anything like that. Anything valuable was taken when this place was abandoned.”

“Don’t think that you can fool us. Herr Clausnitzer has the right of it. Either this place is Roman or there is something of value hidden here. You must have secret knowledge about this place,” von Alvensleben snapped. “I see nothing more than a pile of rocks pulled from the fields. An old house or barn, perhaps. What sources do you have? How did you know that there was Roman treasure hidden here?” The whip continued its staccato beat on his boot.

“I said it
isn’t
Roman. The stone work on the remaining walls does look like Roman work, but we’re well outside the area that the Romans controlled. The original builders might have had some contacts with the Romans.” Mike offered the red bowl again. “This Roman pottery indicates that at some point there was contact or trade with the Romans.”

“Trash! You’ve shown us nothing but bits of worthless trash!” Von Alvensleben reached out and knocked the remains of the bowl to the ground. His booted foot smashed down on it, shattering it into tiny pieces.

“Get the hell off my site,” Mike snarled. His temper rose and his hands curled into fists. Inside he was amazed at himself. He knew that he’d grown over the last three years—from the smallest boy in his classes to one of the tallest—and that work in his mother’s garden and on this dig had widened his shoulders and added muscle but...Memories of being repeatedly pounded into the ground by the Colburn twins made him avoid fights. Looking at von Alvensleben Mike realized that he topped the man by two inches and at least twenty pounds. At this moment he wanted nothing more than to wipe the sneer off the man’s face. Red-faced, von Alvensleben stared at Mike, then whirled and strode off toward the hotel surrey. Clausnitzer and Glasewaldt exchanged glances and hurried after him. Ernst von Weferling stood calmly, looking slightly amused.

The surrey’s driver frowned at Mike. Five men had ridden out from the hotel and he was expecting four to ride back. He was probably hoping for additional tips. Unhappy passengers were unlikely tippers.

“Sir,” Mike addressed von Weferling politely. “Do you wish to go back, too?”

“Certainly there is a horse I can rent in the village.” Von Weferling smiled tightly. He waved the surrey away and watched as it moved off. He turnd back and said, “I’d like to have you explain more about this archaeological site without the extraneous commentary from the ignorant and ill-informed. Clausnitzer and Glasewaldt have little learning and less Latin. Alvensleben is a complete fraud.” Von Weferling paused and looked around. “How certain are you that this isn’t a Roman villa? Their writings indicate that they were hundreds of miles from here but if you’ve found Roman pottery...”

“The style of stonework looks like pictures I’ve seen of Roman walls and I’m pretty sure that the red pottery is Roman. However, as you said, there aren’t any records that show Roman settlements in this area. It could have been built years or centuries after the Romans. The Roman bowl might have been traded for or part of a collection of curiosities. Ask me again in a couple of years and I might have an answer.” Mike shrugged. There was so much that he didn’t know, so much information that had been lost. So much had to be relearned.

“Up-time,” he continued, “they could figure out who had lived in a place at different times from the pottery.”

“My researchers tell me that you have only bits and pieces of archaeological knowledge. I’ve read a précis of the theory of identifying pottery but I understood that there are only a few pictures of identified pottery in the library.”

“Yes, sir. But we lucked out on the Roman stuff. Back up-time, one of my girlfriend’s cousins visited Germany. She toured a well documented excavation—a Roman
villa rustica
.” Mike grinned widely. “It had been partly restored as a museum. Lannie picked up a couple of brochures and saved them. Along with pictures of the stonework there were pictures of Roman pottery. We have to rebuild the pottery databases but we aren’t starting completely from scratch. At least not for the Roman stuff. For now we save every pottery sherd, document where it came from, measure it and try to match it to other sherds to see if we can figure out what the whole piece looked like. If it comes out of the same level or is close to a piece that we think is Roman, we mark it as possibly Roman. Or at least possibly from the Roman period. Someday someone will know if we’ve gotten the designations right. For now, your guess as to who built this place is as good as mine. Ten, twenty, or a hundred years from now someone may figure it out from the pottery.”