​Charley Brindley

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Tapaz left the other silver work to her father as she began on the armor for Rocrainum.

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She began with the wrist guards, getting a feel of how she wanted the artwork to look.

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Three engraved plates were tossed to the dirt, one after the other.

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Calogo picked them up and dropped them into the smelting pot to be melted and reused.

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“This one is very nice, Tappy.” Calogo picked up a fourth piece of engraved silver. “What kind of dog is that?”

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“Very funny, little brother. That’s a horse.”

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“Oh.” He dropped it into the bubbling pot of silver.

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“Make the next plate thicker,” she said.

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Calogo made a new clay mold, then pulled the stone plug at the bottom of the flume to pour the orange-hot liquid metal into the mold. Using a clay spoon, he dipped off the slag. After the orange glow cooled to ashen white, he tipped it out of the mold and onto a wood plank.

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Using thick squares of leather, he lifted the new block of silver and placed it on Tapaz’s work table.

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She tapped the new plate with her small mallet, listening to the ping.

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Calogo watched her tilt her head, bringing her ear closer.

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She tapped it again and smiled. “Perfect.”

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“I’ll make another for you, Tappy.”

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Ten days after starting on the wrist guard, she had the engraving of her sixth attempt almost finished. The metal plate was still flat; she would warm it after completing the artwork to curve it to fit Rocrainum’s wrist. Then she’d make a matching second one.

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“There he is,” Calogo whispered from near the fire.

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Tapaz glanced up to see the officer striding across the market square, coming toward her.

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She pulled her long, curly hair back and tied it into a knot behind her neck, then wiped the sweat from her face.

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After rubbing her hands on her thighs, she leaned over her work; carving a curling filigree along the edge of the metal. She tried to calm her pounding heart.

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“What do you have there?” Rocrainum was just on the other side of her table.

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“A shoe for a donkey. What does it look like?” She glanced up at him, twisting her face into a scowl, but she felt her cheeks flush.

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He tilted his head to the side, looking closer. “Well, that donkey will be quite happy with such a beautiful shoe.”

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She struggled to think of a retort.

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“Perhaps,” he said, “it could be curved into a shin guard for him.”

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“Maybe. Why are you in Carthage?”

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“I came to the slave market.”

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“To buy a wife?”

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“Maybe.”

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She reached for her onglette chisel. “Most men court ladies before asking for their hands in marriage.” She tapped the chisel, cutting a fine, deep line.

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“I never learned to court.” He picked up her midsized mallet to examine it.

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“I thought it came naturally…to normal men.”

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“Those of us who are not normal, purchase a woman, then woo, then marry.”

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“A bought woman would make a caustic housemate.”

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“If not charming, then obedient,” he said.

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“Sounds like you want to marry a dog, or better a cow. Then you would have obedience and milk for your breakfast.”

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 “But not much of a bedmate.”

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Calogo giggled. When they looked his way, he bent down to stoke the fire.

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“Try to buy a deaf mute woman. Then you would have an obedient bedmate without idle conversation.” She reached for the mallet in his hand. “Or backtalk. I have work to do.”

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“Yes.” He let go of the mallet. “The donkey is probably impatient for his shoes.”

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“He comes braying at me almost every day.”

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“Does that make you work faster?”

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“No. I don’t mind the braying; it’s the smell that ruins my day.”

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He made to leave but then turned back. “You’re going to make someone a wonderful wife.”

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“I know.” She tapped on the chisel. “The donkey. He promised to bathe before our wedding night.”

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“How thoughtful.” He turned away. “I’ll be back at the next full moon.”

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“So soon?”

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She folded her arms, watching his back for a moment. “Oh, how I hate that man,” she whispered.

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“Really, Tappy?” Calogo tipped another plate from his mold. “We could have a donkey?”

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