Steel, gunpowder, and spellcasters

Chapter 135 "Roasting" and "Testing"

The first way that ancient people who ate raw meat and drank blood mastered to process food was undoubtedly "roasting".

Roasting and fire are inextricably linked; as long as there is fire, roasting is possible. Or rather, fire is obtained in order to roast.

For our ancestors, roasting meat was not only a way of processing food, but also had a ritualistic significance.

In Winters Montagne's time, cooking was considered the work of the lower classes, women. Men of status would not enter the kitchen, and families that could afford it would hire a maid to be in charge of cooking.

But in those "savage" tribes where ancient customs still remain, on the lands of the Hed and the Northlanders, slaughtering animals and roasting meat are the duties of men.

The distribution of meat represents the power of the clan leader, and only the tribal chief can wield the knife.

This understanding has even permeated language, passed down from ancient times to the present day. Exploring etymology, many words representing power today are closely related to slaughter and meat distribution.

A strong man standing before a bonfire sharing precious meat with others in the tribe is a scene symbolizing power and honor.

Understanding this makes it no wonder that Gerard Mitchell—the highest-ranking man in the entire estate—would personally oversee the roasting of the pig.

Gerard wasn't put in charge of the job because grilling meat was easy. It was because grilling meat was far more laborious than harvesting tobacco. It required a tremendous amount of effort, and only the strongest men could handle it.

Taking on more challenging work is not a punishment, but an honor.

If Winters knew the past of the Dussacs of Wolftown, he would be surprised to find that the old Dussacs who were now grilling meat with Gerard were all once the toughest and most valiant Dussacs.

Only Dusak, who had proven himself on the battlefield, was worthy to stand beside Gerard and help with the grilling.

Unconsciously, Gerard, Sergei, and Dussac also sanctified barbecue.

Because of the lack of air circulation, the charcoal fire burns smolderingly for most of the time. The sizzling sound of oil dripping from the grilled meat onto the charcoal fire is accompanied by fragrant wisps of smoke escaping from the gaps in the lid.

The whole process is more like smoking than baking.

This is indeed a tiring job. You can't add too much fuel at once, so the person in charge of grilling can't sleep and must keep a close eye on the pit to prevent the fire from going out.

That night, Winters and the old Dussacs tended the six roasting pits together, occasionally using shovels to fill the bottom with firewood and coal, lifting the lids to check the heat, turning the meat over, and sprinkling some salt and spices on the golden-brown meat.

When there was no need to add firewood, everyone would sit on small chairs next to the roasting pit, watching the flames leaping in the brazier, drinking and chatting.

The air was relaxed and comfortable, with a bit of a "boys' club" atmosphere. The old Dussacks happily reminisced about the past, told jokes, boasted, and shared a bottle of strong liquor.

The mendicant monk Red was surprisingly knowledgeable about the history of Dussac. He seamlessly blended into the conversation of the Dussacs, occasionally uttering a witty remark that made them burst into laughter.

Sitting by the fire waiting for the meat to slowly roast is a pleasant and wonderful thing: sweet wine, laughter, the warm fire, the wisps of smoke, the aroma of roasting meat, the crackling of the wood...

Winters was caught up in the atmosphere, and after the bottle was passed around in everyone's hands a few times, even the spellcaster, who rarely drank, became slightly tipsy.

Unbeknownst to him, the young Veneta man forgot for the first time that he was in a foreign land thousands of miles from home, and enjoyed everything just like an ordinary Wolf Town resident.

Time waits for no one, and the old Dussacs gradually began to doze off. Every now and then, some couldn't stay awake and slipped away to sleep on the grass not far away, while others would wake up and come back.

Others came and went, but only Gilard, Winters, and Brother Reid remained by the roasting pit.

Gerard enthusiastically shared his grilling tips with Winters, who listened attentively while occasionally asking his own questions.

“Why not just use a big fire? It would cook faster, wouldn’t it?” Winters asked.

Girard gestured as he explained, “You can use a high heat to roast small pieces of meat. If you roast a whole pig over a high heat, the outside will burn while the inside remains raw. So you only need to use a high heat at the beginning to sear the skin, and then use a low heat for the rest of the time.”

“Barbecuing meat isn’t as simple as just putting the meat on a fire. It’s not just about controlling the heat; the type of wood you use also matters.” The old monk showed no signs of drowsiness, his eyes shining brightly in the firelight. “Meat cooked with different types of wood will taste different.”

“Is that so?” Winters looked at Girard.

Girard picked up a piece of tree trunk that had been split in two and handed it to Winters: "Father Reid was right. This is walnut wood, smell it."

Winters took the firewood and held it to his nose; the wood core emitted a faint sweet smell.

“I smell a fragrance,” Winters said.

The old monk feigned anger: "Would I lie to you?"

“When you smoke it over a low fire, the aroma of the wood will also seep into the meat.” Girard said admiringly to Father Reid, “I didn’t know you knew so much about grilling meat.”

“How would I know? I’ve just eaten quite a lot.” The old monk clapped his hands and laughed. He patted Winters on the shoulder and said, “Don’t underestimate roast meat. Mr. Mitchell’s roast meat is the best anywhere in the world. It would be the grand finale even on a royal table. It’s an honor to be able to taste such a delicacy.”

"No, no, you flatter me." Girard smiled broadly.

Sergei, who had just woken up, rubbed his eyes and walked over. He yawned and asked, "Is it ready?"

“No, it’s still early,” Girard replied.

Old Sergei rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a pipe, then sat down on a small chair and patiently filled the bowl with crushed tobacco leaves.

After stuffing and pressing the tobacco in, repeating this process three times, he pulled a burning stick from the brazier, lit the tobacco, and began to puff away.

"Haven't you had enough of the smell today?" Girard asked with a smile.

The tobacco curing barn was filled with a strong tobacco aroma, detectable even from a distance. Whether they smoked or not, everyone at Mitchell Estate indulged in a smoke today.

Sergei yawned again: "Otherwise I'll get sleepy."

Winters heard footsteps in the distance, and Vahika and Pierre came from the tobacco field.

Sergei asked his son, "You little rascal, are you slacking off?"

"No, I just came to check if the meat is cooked." Vahika said with a grin.

"It's early."

"Then we'll help watch the oven too."

Old Sergei chuckled: "You two lads are still too green to help out here. Get back to work and stop trying to slack off."

"Then give us some meat," Vahika pleaded.

Gerard stood up and gestured to the two young Dussacs to lift the lid of a roasting pit. He took out a knife and spun off two pieces of slightly charred pork skin from the roasting pork knuckle, dipped them in salt, and handed them to the two young Dussacs.

Then Girard cut a few more pieces of meat from his ribs, sprinkled them with salt, and handed them to the others.
Winters had never tasted such delicious roast meat before. The meat wrapped around the cartilage was juicy and melted in his mouth; although there was a lot of fat, it wasn't greasy at all. And Girard had only used a little salt as seasoning.

The two little Dusaks licked their fingers and asked for a few more pieces of meat before leaving, while Sergei, too sleepy to keep his eyelids open, yawned and went to sleep.

Only Gilard, Winters, and Brother Reid remained by the roasting pit.

The old monk was engrossed in conversation: "Lieutenant, do you know that more than two thousand years ago there was a great blind poet named Homer?"

“Although I never went to grammar school, I have read the Iliad and the Odyssey,” Winters said, both amused and exasperated.

"Do you know what Homer's heroes and demigods ate?" the mendicant asked himself, answering, "Roasted meat. When Odysseus visited Achilles, the latter served him pork and mutton. Meat was 'the food of the heroes favored by the gods,' while mortals lived on grains. The heroes in the epics tasted the same kind of food we taste. Just like the bright moon above us, it is the moonlight described by the ancients."

The old monk was spouting off his erudition, which Winters ignored, but Girard listened intently.

Seeing that Girard was interested, the half-drunk Reid began to recite long passages of the epic poem in a melodious and rhythmic style. The lieutenant had no idea where the old charlatan got his memory, but Girard grew more and more impressed as he listened.

"Epic demigods and heroes all personally roasted and shared the meat," the old monk laughed as he said to Gilard. "Mr. Mitchell's hospitality in treating us to this delicacy makes him a true hero among us..."

The mendicant monk, intoxicated by the drink, used a great deal of archaic grammar and pronunciation, regardless of whether others could understand him. Winters was completely bewildered, while Gilard just kept chuckling.

Winters suddenly realized, "Is this old man... just drunk and acting crazy?"

The elated old monk suddenly shut his mouth as he spoke, and Winters turned around to see another figure emerging from the night.

Mrs. Mitchell nodded and shook the bottle in her hand: "I've come to offer the gentlemen some drinks."

Girard quickly stood up: "Thank you, Mrs. Mitchell."

The couple remained very polite in their daily lives, addressing each other only as Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell.

Although Gerard Pleninovich Mitchell had a Dusak-like loud voice and impatient nature.

But Winters’ intuition told him that the true mistress of the Mitchell family was the gentle and virtuous Mrs. Mitchell, just as the true mistress of the Serbian family was Kosa.

After delivering the wine, Mrs. Mitchell didn't leave. Instead, she found a small chair and sat down. This caused not only Gerald and Brother Reid to become more respectful, but even Winters unconsciously behaved himself.

According to Winters, Ellen Mitchell was an outcast in Wolftown.

This is not to say she was unpopular; on the contrary, Mrs. Mitchell was extremely popular. Everyone in town loved her, but everyone was also more or less afraid of her.

This feeling is like that of an ugly mortal who feels ashamed in the face of a beautiful and holy angel.

The women of Dussa possessed a free and vibrant spirit; they would dance enthusiastically with the young men, roll up their sleeves to milk cows, whip livestock like men, and respond to flirtations with the crudest of words. But Mrs. Mitchell had the exact opposite temperament—Winters couldn't quite put her finger on it—a noble, reserved but not arrogant air that inspired awe and deterred any disrespect.

Even the most uncouth Dussac would take off his hat in front of Mrs. Mitchell, and the laziest farmhand would become well-behaved in front of her.

Mrs. Mitchell's tone was always gentle and warm, and her expression was always calm and composed. But the words that came from her mouth were more powerful than a hundred shouts from Gerard, making everyone willingly obey.

Tyrants and tycoons can have similar abilities, but Mrs. Mitchell did not rely on coercion or bribery; the people around her were impressed by her entirely out of respect.

Not only did the Dussacs respect her, but the farmers did too, and even the Protestants held her in the same esteem.

The respect stemmed from Mrs. Mitchell's impeccable manners and competence. Since moving into Mitchell Estate, Winters had never witnessed Mrs. Mitchell being impolite.

Mrs. Mitchell always had needlework at hand, even when looking at the ledgers; her back was always straight, as if she had never been born with a bent back; and her expression was always calm and composed, even when she heard the worst news.

Winters could sense that beneath Mrs. Mitchell's gentle exterior lay a steely resolve. Although Mrs. Mitchell was a woman, she inspired an innate sense of awe.

Winters would occasionally have a thought that would offend Girard: how could a Dussac marry such a noblewoman as Mrs. Mitchell?

"Second Lieutenant," Mrs. Mitchell nodded to Winters.

Winters quickly returned the greeting: "Madam."

“It just so happens that Father Reed is here as well.” Mrs. Mitchell nodded politely to the old monk. “My husband and I have a problem that is troubling us, and we hope to get your wisdom.”

Brother Reid, abandoning his usual nonchalant demeanor, said seriously, "Please speak."

Mrs. Mitchell looked at Girard and nodded slightly, then began to speak.

Mrs. Mitchell's biggest worry was none other than their only son, Pierre Gerardovich Mitchell.

The Mitchells had six children, but only three survived to adulthood.

Before Pierre, the Mitchell family had lost two boys and a girl—not uncommon in that era.

(Besides Pierre and Scarlett, the Mitchells also have an older daughter named Fanny, who is already married.)

So when Pierre was born, he received almost all of the Michelle couple's love.

The dignified and serene Mrs. Mitchell was full of love and tenderness when she treated her son, and Girard doted on him even more.

Neither of the couple could adopt a strict parental attitude in front of Pierre, which led to Pierre growing up almost uncontrollably.

Mrs. Mitchell certainly had higher expectations for her son than just him becoming a Dussac, but Pierre inherited more of his father's rough, savage, and irritable Dussac character.

This was evident from Pierre's very young age, much to Mrs. Mitchell's dismay. But Girard never took it to heart, always laughing as she picked up her son and praised him for having Dussac's blood flowing through his veins.

When Pierre was ten years old, Mrs. Mitchell wanted to send her son to the grammar school in the Château de la Royale, the capital of Palatine.

Young Dussac, of course, refused to comply, but this time Mrs. Mitchell took a parental stance and forcibly sent Pierre to the Castle of Kings.

Unexpectedly, just two months later, the grammar school sent little Pierre back, saying, "We can't manage or teach this child."

Because he was called a "Tartar," young Pierre injured several classmates, broke one of their arms, and eventually burned down a livestock pen.

Mrs. Mitchell scolded her son, but Girard secretly told him he did a good job.

And so, over the next few years, Pierre traveled to every grammar school in Palatour, and even attended theological and law schools.

But in as little as one or two months, sometimes as long as three or four months, little Dussac would be expelled and sent home. In the end, Pierre had no school to attend in the Republic of Palatine.

To Gerard, his son was a fine young man—a good rider, a brave man, a lively dancer, and a manly drinker—and he had no high expectations for him. But Mrs. Mitchell did not want her son to become a Dussac who only knew how to wield a saber.

As Pierre grew older, Girard gradually came to understand his wife's worries.

Dussac men are born with a lifelong duty to serve in the military. Girard knew the dangers of military service and the pain of serving in the military, unable to return home.

However, Dusak's lifelong military service was not related to the amount of property one possessed. Even if a family owned a lot of land and did not need to be granted land, male members would still be conscripted into the army when they reached the appropriate age.

The only way to avoid being conscripted was to obtain public office or clergy, but Pierre had nowhere else to go for further education.

A few years later, when Pierre turned twenty, he would have to leave Mitchell Estate to serve his first six-year term of military service.

After explaining the situation, Mrs. Mitchell asked hesitantly, "Lieutenant Montagne, please forgive my intrusion... do you think Pierre is suitable to attend the Army Officer School?"

Mrs. Mitchell's attitude toward knowledge and culture confirmed Winters' intuition: Ellen Mitchell was not from Dussa. Pierre was not a name from Dussa, and Ellen was certainly not.

Although he had a non-Dussac name, Pierre was still a Dussac at heart.

Winters sighed and replied sincerely, "Madam, it's probably a bit too late for Pierre to apply to the Army Officer School now. Most officer cadets start their studies at the Army Junior School at the age of nine."

Winters then spoke frankly and thoroughly, explaining in detail the Army's educational and promotion system, as well as the difficulty of external admissions.

These things are not a secret to those who know them, but to those who don't, they are like something locked in an iron cabinet.

As Winters explained, Mrs. Mitchell's expression grew increasingly somber.

“[Selica’s words] Parents always have the same heart.” The old monk also sighed and said to the Mitchells, “If you two want Pierre to go to seminary, I can recommend him. But clergy must take three oaths of poverty, purity, and obedience, and cannot have legitimate offspring… I can help, but you two must think it through, and Mr. Mitchell himself must be willing.”

Mrs. Mitchell looked somber. She thanked Winters and Brother Reid politely, then left somewhat dejectedly.

This was the first time Winters had ever seen Mrs. Mitchell so shaken. He and the old monk exchanged a glance and sighed in unison.

Girard also became silent and sad, but forced himself to continue tending to the roasting pit.

The night continues.

The whole pig, which had been smoked all night, was not taken out of the oven until the next morning.

The pork skin was roasted to a beautiful orange-yellow color with a touch of char. The juicy, fatty meat had separated easily from the bone, and the pork hock could be easily removed from the whole pig, with the ribs and spine sliding out of the meat on their own.

As Sergei said, not only the people working at Mitchell Estate, but also people from other estates came to enjoy the food.

Besides the barbecue, Mitchell Estate also offers unlimited pickles, fresh fruits and vegetables, sweet beer, and bread.

People either wrap chopped minced meat and pickles in flatbread or eat it with beans and vegetables alongside large chunks of pork. Everyone has their own way of eating it, and everyone who tastes the grilled meat praises it highly.

Catholics, Protestants, and Dussacs—people who hated each other—set aside their identities and religious differences and sat down together to share a meal.

For those who haven't personally experienced this scene, it's simply unimaginable.

Girard leaned against a tree, sipping his sweet beer and watching the crowd enjoying their barbecue, a look of pure satisfaction on his face.

Not only Gerard, but Winters also felt a sense of satisfaction and pride when he saw people happily enjoying the fruits of his and Dussacs' labor all night long.

After everyone has eaten and drunk their fill, the tobacco harvest season continues.

Winters returned to his room feeling like he'd only slept for a short time before being woken up again. He looked out the window; the sun was already setting.

Miss Little Cher was timidly knocking on the door: "Mr. Montagne! Someone wants to see you!"

He tidied himself up and followed Ms. Michal to the main gate of the manor, where a troop of cavalry was waiting.

The newcomer wasn't wearing Veneta's uniform. Winters instinctively reached for his waist, but there was nothing there—his sword was still in the blacksmith's shop.

The lead rider, dressed in a sergeant's uniform, saw Winters and spurred his horse to meet him.

"So you're the officer stationed in Langtun Town?" The officer's tone was very unfriendly.

“That’s right,” Winters replied neither humbly nor arrogantly.

Without saying a word, the officer lashed the lieutenant's left shoulder with a whip.

With a sharp "smack," Winters, caught off guard, stumbled and Ms. Little Cher couldn't help but scream.

The officer lashed out with his whip at the lieutenant in front of him, but the whip slipped from his grasp the next second.

Winters gripped the whip tightly and with a sudden burst of strength, yanked the riding whip from the officer's hand.

"What do you want to do?" Lieutenant Montagne's eyes were practically spitting fire; he could no longer suppress his anger.

At that moment, a crazy idea flashed through his mind: kill all the cavalrymen in front of him, seize their horses, and escape back to Veneta.

"Ha, you've got some temper." The officer flicked his wrist and asked with a sneer, "What's your punishment for allowing smugglers to roam freely within the defense zone?"

Thank you to all the readers who have consistently voted for this book.
Thank you to the readers Calm Gray, Yellow Rabbit from the Flower Country, Ami, Kamen Rider Fan, Moonlit Edge, Jiang Xue Diao Weng, Reader 20191007064305842, and Sky Lens for the recommendation votes. Thank you everyone. (Heart emoji)
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(End of this chapter)