LULLABYE
During the autumn, for two glorious weeks, an enormous, temporary market was set up on the outskirts the Roman Fort of Camboglanna. Local Briton farmers brought their harvests, horses and handmade goods to sell. Foreign Merchants would arrive with exotic products that had traveled from all sides of the Roman Empire, traded and re-traded until it finally reached
They even allowed their Sarmatian conscripts some free time to spend their meager wages at the fair. Kay’s comment was that he suspected the Garrison Commander got a cut from the market’s sales, so the more money spent, the happier he was. Based on what Lancelot had learned of the Romans he did not doubt what Kay said.
This was the second market for most of the Sarmatian conscripts, so they already had plans for their limited funds. Tristan was searching for new leather gloves for handling that bird he had acquired in the spring. Tor chattered incessantly about the fruit tarts he had tasted the year before and how they melted over his tongue. Galahad was so afraid of being swindled like last year, that he made Gawain promise to stay by his side as they searched the markets for his purchase.
Unlike the other Sarmatians, Lancelot actually had a fair amount of coin to spend. Lancelot had taken quickly to the Roman games of chance. Despite being barely sixteen, he had also discovered rapidly which Romans he could cheat and which he could bribe. Those he could cheat were usually too drunk to notice during the game when he hid some of his winnings in a special pocket located in his tunic’s sleeve. Just before retiring for the night, he would deal with those he could bribe; the Romans sober enough to realize that he, a mere Sarmatian, had won a majority of the coins on the table. He would lose most of what he had in front of him to a few choice Romans. Fortunately, among those he was able to bribe was a rather large legionnaire named Pullo. Pullo had lost nearly every game he ever played until Lancelot came, so he was quite grateful for the much smaller Sarmatian. So grateful, that if any of the drunken Romans questioned Lancelot’s honesty after a game, they were apt to have a meeting with Pullo’s fist. This enabled Lancelot to retain most of his winnings, instead of being mugged and losing them on his way back to the Sarmatian barracks.
So, with his coin safely ensconced next to a sheathed knife, Lancelot had plans to purchase a special and . . . Ahem! perhaps unauthorized weapon for his personal protection. As he made his way toward the purveyors of said weapons, he had to pass through the hordes in the moveable feast of the farmers’ market. Since the Romans provided the Conscripts with the basics for life, Lancelot saw no need to waste his money in this section. Leave that to the foolish, like Bors or Tor or Percival who would purchase some proclaimed delicacy, eat it rapidly and then have nothing left.
Suddenly, near the stall of a spice and herb merchant, Lancelot stopped in his tracks. There was a fragrance in the air that jolted through his whole being. His heart rate quickened and blood rushed through veins. It was not the disgusting, sweet smell of that Roman favorite, Lavendula. No, it was the savory, pungent scent of the green Sarmatian grasslands. Of his family’s summer home. In a near panic, he turned to the booth and began his search. Looking among the pots and bins, he could smell it, but could not recognize the plant he had plucked every year of his childhood. He started hastily moving containers and plants out of his way. The Merchant hollered out a warning.
“Those are expensive products, boy. Best not drop anything or it’ll be taken out on your hide.”
“Where is it, then?” Lancelot complained in his frustration.
“Where is what?
“That smell!” Lancelot held his hands out and swirled them around in the air. “Where is it coming from?”
The Merchant calmly asked, “What is the name of the plant you are looking for and I’ll try to find it for you.”
“If I knew. . . It’s green with yellow flowers, from the Sarmatian plains. My mother used it sometimes when she baked bread.”
“Hmmm! Green and yellow.” The Merchant scrounges through his bins. “Here is mustard seed. Quite popular with the Gauls.” He holds some mustard seed out in his hand.
Lancelot sniffs, screws up his nose and states emphatically. “NO, that’s not it.”
“It is not a dent de lion, is it?”
“Of course not. Those Pissabeds stink and I can find them anywhere.”
The Merchant reaches in another box. “The only other item I have that fits that description is this . . . The Norse call it Dylla . . .to lull” He holds out some dill weed toward Lancelot.
Lancelot nearly melts with the scent. “That is it. How much?”
“Two Siliqua.” The Merchant knew it was worth one, but when he saw how much Lancelot desired them, he shrewdly raised the price. “It has traveled a long distance.”
“Then, it is old and not as strong as it once was. That price is too high.”
“Not so old and weak that your nose could not smell it.” The man closes the box’s lid.
Reluctant to lose this small remnant of home, Lancelot quickly assessed that he could buy the Dylla and still have enough left to get some type of weapon, albeit not as nice a one as he had hoped. Lancelot handed the man two of his hoarded coins and grabbed the Dylla, box and all.
Incredulous, the Merchant asked, “She used it for bread, you say?”
“The best you have ever tasted.”
Lancelot rushed off with his treasure toward the metals’ vendors, hoping that the Knifemaker still had some decent daggers for a fair price.
The Herb Merchant spat on the ground, “Dylla in bread. Savages.” He did not know how fortunate he was that Lancelot never heard him.
Late that evening, in the barracks, the Sarmatians compared how they fared at the Markets. Kay had found the scariest knife with its double-sided, serrated edge and leather scabbard. One like Lancelot had wanted. Tor delighted in eating his last fruit tart, in front of Bors who had already finished his. Lancelot sat back and listened. He had shown them the short dirk he had purchased, but did not mention the Dylla, even when Agravain made a comment about “that awful smell”. Lancelot very nearly tried out his new dirk on Agravain for that comment, but tempered that desire by remembering that Agravain was not from a grassland tribe, but was a kinsman none the less.
Instead of chatting, as was normal for Lancelot, he was formulating a plan for making his Dylla bread. He wanted it to be a surprise for the few conscripts who had come from his part of
Executing his plan was not as difficult as it would seem. The elements could be gotten easily enough.
The flour and salt – well, Vanora and Bess, the other kitchen maid, were willing to risk punishment and sneak a portion out in their apron pockets, and all for a kiss which Lancelot was happy to provide.
Eggs, he knew of a few hidden chicken nests in the horses’ hay. A few crumbs of the Roman bread would get him under them.
Goat milk, Lancelot was relieved he didn’t have to milk a goat. The last time he tried, it kicked him on the cheek and not the one on his face. Trying to explain once why he was having trouble sitting on his horse was one time too many. He borrowed some fermented goat milk Galahad had set aside for his stomach. The baby! He would never notice the miniscule amount that was gone. Besides, Gal was a grassland Sarmatian on his mother’s side, so would likely appreciate a slice of the bread. Once it was made.
The dregs from the beer barrel provided a rising ingredient. Since they were surrounded by Romans, olive oil was always around; in fact they could drown in it, so some of that would never be missed from the kitchen. Then, an onion from the garden, a piece of Sarmatian cloth from his old tunic to wrap the dough in, and of course the Dylla.
Access to a place for baking bread would normally have been a problem, but having Pullo as an ally proved beneficial for that. During his guard shift, Pullo ignored the young Sarmatian when he slipped out of the barracks.
Lancelot traveled along the wall, a short distance from the fort. Earlier in the day, he had spotted a pit, no doubt dug by some animal. It was the perfect shape to make a bread oven like the one his mother had used. And in this area, he didn’t need to worry about a fire attracting attention as many Britons had campfires near the fort during Market days. Likely he should keep his eyes open for Woads, but he did not have the time to worry about that.
Lancelot placed a circle of stones around the inside of the pit; two of the largest were taken directly from the wall which pleased him to no end. There was a delightful irony in the fact that an object meant to entrap him was being used to give him a piece of home. Then, he started a circle of fire around the pit to heat the stones. Once that was done, it was time to mix the dough.
His mother always mixed the dough in the evening. He recalled laying in the tender comfort of his own bed, his baby brother softly snoring by his side, cook fire glowing, and his mother gently singing as she prepared the bread. Lancelot jerked himself away from the memory. This was getting him nowhere. His time was limited and he needed to get the bread finished and be back in the barracks before dawn.
He should remember how to do it. He had watched her often enough, even though he pretended to be asleep. She used a special polished stone she called her bread stone. While he didn’t have a bread stone, he was able to find a flat piece of slate that would do. The dry ingredients came first, except the Dylla as that must come last. The beer dregs, oil, goat milk and egg were slowly added in. He kneaded the dough together as he saw her do time and again. She would add little bits of flour, and then oil. He didn’t have that luxury. If the dough got too wet, he had no extra flour to add. As he pressed on the dough, he could envision her refined, yet strong hands as they lovingly worked the dough. His hands were so much like his Mother’s, as was his coloring. He was the male reflection of her. He had acquired his sense of humor from her, too. At that, he punched the dough once more, so hard he bruised his knuckles on the slate.
The dough needed to rest while he cut the seasoning. Chopping the onion with his new dirk was more difficult than it would seem. He could not cut it quite as fine as his mother had. Finally, he just gave up on that. The onion chunks would have to be bigger. Now, the Dylla! He pulled the precious green weed from its box. Holding it against his nose, he took a deep breath.
Visions of running through summer warmed fields with his Mother, sister and brother filled his mind. The delight his sister showed the first time she spotted the delicate yellow flowers before he did was a memory so strong, it could have happened yesterday. It was a game they had played every summer. With sadness and regret, he moved the weed away from his face and with a shaky hand began chopping it up with dirk. A few drops of salty tears began to drip down his face. He had seen this happen to his mother, too. It must have something to do with the onion. A swipe of his tunic sleeve across his face took care of that.
Just before mixing the Dylla with the onion, he stopped for a moment. The portion looked too big. His mother surely did not use that large amount. It would produce an overwhelming flavor and turn the bread green. How much had she used? For some reason, this was the point when he usually felt drowsy and he could not remember as much. She would sing her song, her prayer for peace, protection, and rest, and then.
That’s right! She would add one pinch of the Dylla for each member of the family. She would say their name with each pinch, Father, Mother, Lancelot, Amiran, Deme and one for the brother or sister he does not know. So, six pinches. Six, which was the same number of Sarmatians from the grassland tribes, if you included him. He was relieved that no one else was around when he added the Dylla. Whether because of tradition, sentiment, or the desire to protect, Lancelot felt compelled to sing his mother’s song and repeat a name of a grassland knight with each pinch of Dylla he added to the onions. The rest of the herb, he carefully scraped together, not wanting to lose a single leaf and put back in the box.
The fire was dying back as he had hoped. Perfect timing. He blended the onion and Dylla mix into the dough. It looked like a big, goopy mess, not like the oval loaf his Mother produced. He shaped it the best he could and carefully wrapped it in the cloth. He had never watched this part, because the bread oven was outside of their yurt. But, he had witnessed his Mother retrieving the loaf from the hole in the morning. He spit on the stones in the hole. When they sizzled, he knew they were hot enough. Not wanting to get burned, he took great care to place the wrapped dough in the pit’s center. The stones would bake the bread, but only if kept hot enough. He took off his leather jerkin. It was an old one anyway. He proceeded to use it to push wood ash over the stones and bread.
Though the bread needed to bake for a few hours, Lancelot did not want to sleep out of fear that he would oversleep and not make it back to the fort in time for morning Assembly. While Lancelot tried to get away with whatever freedoms he could, he did not wish to be foolish. Early on, he received the punishment for a late arrival at Assembly. The marks were on his back for weeks and he did not care to repeat the experience.
With no clouds obscuring them, the stars shone so bright. Lancelot stared up at the sky, trying to entertain his mind by locating the patterns that he had known so well in the Sarmatian sky. He wondered if his mother had looked at those same stars on this night. Even more, Lancelot wondered if she still added a pinch of Dylla to her bread for him.
Despite his desire to stay awake, the smell of the baking bread and the memories of home made counting the stars the equivalent of counting sheep. The next time Lancelot was aware; the warning notes of the song thrush were heralding the dawn. He awoke with a start to unfamiliar surroundings. It took him a moment to get his bearings. As soon as he did, he was digging through the ash to find the buried bread. When his hand hit the cloth, he pulled as hard as he could, to release the bread from the pit. Clutching it to his chest, he ran for the barracks.
Other than the puzzled and amused look Pullo gave him, the ash covered Lancelot was able to slip into the barracks without notice. Lancelot figured it might be for the best if Pullo’s winnings were multiplied in their next game of chance. In the bunk room, Lancelot was relieved to see that no one had stirred from their night’s slumber. Well, all except for Tristan, but he did not count as human in Lancelot’s estimation.
Lancelot carried the package to his bed, set it down and carefully removed the cloth. The loaf was not smooth like his mother’s. In fact, it was quite lumpy. But, the smell was perfect. Lancelot pulled out his dirk and sliced into the crust. Crispy, yet tender inside. It was more than he could have expected with its light brown grain and flawless speckling of green Dylla. Suddenly, Lancelot realized he was not alone. Five teenage boys surrounded him; the other grassland Sarmatians, his brothers smelling the familiar scent of home, family and childhood.
Dylla - is the Norse name for Dill Weed and meant Lull or Soothe. One of the places Dill originated was Western Asia and the
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