At the first light of dawn, several hours before the newcomer stepped out of the swamp, the city guards changed duty shifts at the Traveler’s Gate and the watchtowers. News and jests were exchanged, and a loaf of bread from the previous day, somewhat stale, was torn and shared.
By that time the bakers, cooks, and innkeepers of the city were already up, prodding children and apprentices who would rather be snug in their beds.
With a slice of bread in hand, the young ones blinked and stumbled to their duties.
As morning began to glow on the eastern horizon, wagons approached the city gate, the first few laden with sacks of flour from the mills. Next, carts groaned up the hill, filled with farm produce and craft-wares, bound for the
marketplace to sell to those who had coins in their pouches.
Many unskilled laborers, after a quick bowl of mush because they couldn’t afford bread, hoisted sacks and crates to their shoulders in the morning light.
Strong men unloaded an entire wagon at the large bakery on the edge of the marketplace.
The baker’s son shuffled loaves in and out of the oven, turning them when necessary, but part of his mind was elsewhere. As an apprentice scribe, he spent long hours working without pay to pursue his dream of someday living the upper-class life of Cobble Town.
The smell of burning bread brought him fully back to the present, and he found the neglected loaf in the back of the oven. He grinned sheepishly at his father and tossed the loaf into a box for the poorest of the people.
In a small stable near the bakery, a shaggy gray donkey squealed her complaint, but the stupid man was obviously not going to quit kicking her and calling her “Ka” until she got up. She had tried to tell him her real name, but like most people, he didn’t understand. With noises of protest, she got to her feet and allowed him to strap on the harness.
Soon her baskets were brimming with fresh loaves straight from the oven, and she began to follow her owner through the streets of Cobble Town. The hard surface quickly made her legs sore, but she ignored the pain and drifted into a daydream, imagining an owner who would speak kindly to her, learn her real name, and let her walk on the soft earth.
Soon after the sun rose, others made way for a noble-born woman who stepped up to the bakery. Her slave girl carried a big basket, soon filled with several loaves of the best bread and a large pie. The girl could smell the delicious pie as she followed her matron around the marketplace.
The noblewoman had plenty of money to spend, but managing her large household took constant attention all day long. Sometimes she glimpsed her two young slaves, late in the evening, when they had finished their duties and retired to their sleeping niche in the back of the kitchen. Laughing and joking, they made games and toys with bits of firewood and pebbles. She would slip
away, not letting them see her smile of longing.
At the Traveler’s Gate, a guard carefully wrote a few words on a piece of rough paper. He gestured to a young boy who stood nearby.
The boy instantly stood before the guard. Other boys watched, ready and willing if the one chosen was too slow or clumsy.
The guard handed him the note and three copper pieces, then looked him sternly in the eyes.
The boy swallowed and glanced at some slaves carrying heavy burdens through the gate, then nodded that he understood the price of failure.
A few minutes later, after dashing up Market Way, the boy handed the note and two of the copper pieces to the baker. He received a wooden shingle bearing six freshly-baked fruit tarts.
To get back to the city gate, the boy selected muddy streets and narrow alleyways of Rumble Town, his home turf, that were not too crowded, and not the regular haunts of thieves and rascals.
The high priest had been boring the king with a speech ever since breakfast. It had something to do with priests and monks being exempt from port taxes. Now the king had his chin in his hands, but alas, the speech continued.
At the first pause in the high priest’s words, one of the king’s advisors interrupted. “If your god is so all-powerful, why do you need special favors from the Court? Other people, even those without an all-powerful god, pay their taxes.”
The king lifted his chin. “Good point. I cannot exempt the religious orders from all material contributions to the realm. If the port taxes are becoming a burden, as you say, perhaps it is because your people are traveling too much.”
At that moment, a servant entered from the marketplace balancing a large platter of tarts, muffins, and a crock of fresh butter.
“Ahh!” the king breathed. “It is time for the Court to refresh itself.”
The high priest bowed low and left the audience hall, an appeasing smile on his face. Once he was outside the palace, the smile changed to a cold frown.
As the sun climbed over the hills and city walls on that bright spring morning, those rich enough to have cloaks began to remove them before finishing their breakfast of buttered bread, fruit tarts, or sweet muffins.
Those not so fortunate, still shivering from the morning cold, stood or walked in the golden rays as often as their work would allow, chewing whatever crusts and scraps they could find.
Deep Learning Notes
The map gives an aerial view of the medieval walled city. Several places important to the story are marked. Smaller sections of the map are given in later chapters so the reader won’t have to constantly turn back to this map, but sometimes seeing the whole helps to understand the parts better.
A theme runs through this chapter, a simple food that deeply affects everyone’s life, from slave to king. It is central, in some form, to every human culture. What is it?
In a medieval culture, a “child” is from birth to about five or six years of age.
With rare exceptions, working life begins at that point, on the farm, in a family shop, or as an apprentice.
Money consisted of useful or precious metals, and was therefore highly stable in value. Money as promises printed on paper had not been invented.
Today we seldom realize it, but bread is a pre-made, ready-to-eat “snack” food that already includes much labor. In a poor culture, many people cannot afford that luxury. Mush or gruel is a soup made from coarse flour and water.
If thicker and made from tasty grains like oats, it becomes porridge, ideally with milk and honey.
The baker’s son was trying to move from the tiny middle class to the even-
smaller upper-middle class. Doing so required an unpaid apprenticeship of seven to twelve years, at least some natural skill, and lots of hard work.
By glimpsing the thoughts and feelings of a donkey, the story steps outside normal human culture again, which would rarely pay any serious attention to such a creature, then or now.
The matron of an upper-class household would own slaves as a matter of course, just as we might own a washing machine or a lawn mower, and for the same purposes.
Earning pocket money was not easy, and the boy who fetched tarts for the soldiers risked slavery if he failed. To put it simply, a poor culture does not have the resources to protect children from risk and hardship.
Power struggles between church and state seem to be a fixture of every human culture, from cave-dwelling tribes to modern empires.
NEBADOR Book One: The Test 10
