“But we have the serpent’s head within reach!” Karim pressed. “We take the head, and the rest of the body falls!”
“Not today, Karim. I am sorry.” He raised the horn to his lips and repeated the call to disengage. Across the field, Franks slowed their chase, closer men clutching at their fellows to turn them back to regroup.
Flushed, Karim booted his horse’s flanks and rode back to the ranks.
Roland threw the horn back to the red-faced trumpeter.
Not far away, Sulayman sagged in his saddle, his own saber blade dipping limply in his hand, soldiers rushing to support him.
The Franks and the Barcelonans reformed their ranks while before them the enemy beat for the south in a cloud of dust. Elation marked the faces of most, though some resented being fettered when they sensed victory in their grasp. The marchmen once again demonstrated their iron-willed discipline in gathering up their allies and tending the wounded without further question.
His immediate task complete, Roland searched through the wreckage of battle until he found Veillantif lording it over a cluster of other riderless horses. The knight approached the sweat-drenched steed, holding out his hand. Veillantif pressed his soft muzzle to the open palm.
“You did well, my friend,” Roland said. Across the carnage, a smudge rose into the sky, marking the passage of Marsilion’s host through the dry terrain. “But we’ve a long way yet to go.”
AOI
In the midst of the now-quiet battleground, a figure draped in a rippling cloak of heat-induced mirage stepped through the flapping and hopping crows. He stood, arms folded, amidst the dead—a silent sentinel awaiting the gruff call of sergeants bringing scurrying troopers to chase away the carrion and collect their comrades. William of the Breton March noted the stilled faces of those who had bled with him in battles long before and now had sacrificed one final time for his son.
The vigilant ravens edged closer, keeping wary eyes on the specter that living men were unable to see.
Seemingly satisfied, William turned and vanished. The crows took sudden wing, startling the less-seasoned warriors bending to their tasks. Some of the veterans could read the sign for what it was and crossed themselves reflexively.
The black birds lifted to the darkened sky and left the Frank dead to their own.
Barcelona’s camp bustled with activity. Troops dug in against the hour when Saragossa would test them again. Blancandrin rode toward the camp flanked by a detachment of marchmen, his hands bearing a lance topped with a white flag. Sentries stopped the party. Upon proper exchange of passwords they were released to continue on. They rode toward the command tents, through air torn with the horrifying sounds of men who faced surgeon’s tools. For these, the bone saw and subsequent infection were more feared than the lance.
They stopped in the circle of torches that surrounded Barcelona’s tent. Amid the groans and screams, Blancandrin kept his eyes fixed on the man who emerged. But a youth, he seemed set apart from the olive-skinned denizens of Barcelona by his wild blond locks and fair complexion. On the knight’s coat was embroidered a rampant wolf, which was also blazoned upon the standard that fluttered nearby. Yet this Frankish knight was no mere boy—his garments still bore more than a measure of blood from the recent engagement.
The leader of Blancandrin’s escort, who had introduced himself as Kennick, raised a grizzled hand. “My lord. This man rode in under a flag of truce.”
Blancandrin nudged his mount forward a pace.
The champion wiped his bloody hands on a cloth and sized up his visitor. “Your name, sir? And your purpose, if I may ask?”
“I am Blancandrin, general of the army of the emir of Saragossa. The emir has sent me on a sad errand.” His command of the Frank language at least stood him in good stead here. “I beg your indulgence.”
“Please continue.”
“Today the emir of Saragossa lost his son. I am here to retrieve the body.”
A man standing a few steps behind the champion laughed. “Better his body feed the worms.”
Blancandrin fought to keep his emotions from his face, for he recognized the voice of Marsilion’s own son Saleem.
The emir’s son continued. “My lord, drive this man from your camp. He means you no good.”
“Many sons were lost,” the Frank said. “But this son of the emir, what does he look like?”
Blancandrin bowed in the saddle. “You would know, my lord. You wear his blood on your garments.”
Recognition dawned in the Frank knight’s eyes. “Yes. Yes, I do know.” He waved Kennick and the guards off. “I’ll accompany this man myself. General, come with me.”
The two men warily crossed the battlefield, stepping between crushed bodies and broken weaponry. The cloud of crows circled overhead and discordantly protested the intrusion. They moved in a silence, but there were noises constantly about them. Frank and Barcelonan burial details plied the field, calling out to each other while they also searched among the dead for the wounded. The two, however, found Farad’s body nearly obscured by the deepening shadows and freed the corpse from the debris. Farad’s once-handsome face was smashed and grayed in death—caught in the moment that stripped him of youthful immortality. Blancandrin tenderly scooped the body into his arms, wet tracks tracing across the filth on his cheeks. He hefted the burden then placed it gingerly over his saddle and secured it for the trek back to the emir’s camp.
Only when this task was done did he speak.
“Your name, Frank,” he said, his voice low but firm. “What is your name?”
“I am named Roland, son of William, count of Breton March.”
Blancandrin mounted the horse behind the body. “You’ve earned the enmity of the emir,” he warned.
“This day I’ve earned the enmity of many fathers,” Roland replied.
“Allah has a way of repaying Christian arrogance.” The general balled up the reins in his fist as he tugged the horse toward Saragossa’s lines.
CHAPTER 16
Barcelona
The sun splashed fire across the mountains, a brilliant orange against the budding green clinging to the slopes. At their ancient feet, the pennants of Charles’s northern lords waved bravely above companies and battalions spreading out from the mouth of Roncevaux in a glimmering tapestry of martial splendor. Roland rode out with his small band of companions to greet the royal party. Outriders had already alerted Charles to Roland’s approach so that even before the champion could reach the clutch of bureaucrats enclosing him, the king cantered atop his finely groomed steed to greet him. As he drew close, he leaned from his saddle and clasped Roland’s hand in his.
“It’s good to see you, nephew,” he said.
“And you,” Roland replied with a wolfish grin. “We’ve supported Barcelona already against Saragossa.”
“Very good,” Charles beamed. “Very good indeed. Bring me your report.”
By evening a light wind billowed the canvas of Charles’s campaign headquarters, tugging the canvas while attendants set the last pegs in the shadow of the mountains. Even as the final support ropes stretched taut, couriers arrived from Francia with dispatches on everything from campaign supplies to holy festivals in Aachen to the spring tax collections. From just over the pass or from far-away Rome, all roads led to Charles’s court.
Within the canvas confines, thick carpets from far-off Persia blanketed the ground, hushing the slippered feet of clerics and functionaries—though the thin walls did little to muffle the noises beyond of men settling into their campaign routines. Roland ducked into the tent to find a young page who met him with a respectful bow. The youth then led him through the gaggle of courtiers who kept the machinery of the kingdom ever grinding forward. At the far end, the page opened a flap, gesturing for the champion to enter.
Within this portion of the tent, Charles sat at a worktable. He dru
mmed fingers stained black from signing documents on the desktop and gazed absently at the shadows of guards taking their stations outside the canvas partitions.
Roland cleared his throat and bowed.
“Oh, yes. Do come in,” Charles said, his attention snapping back.
“Something bothers you, Uncle?”
“It’s nothing,” Charles shuffled through the papers on his desk. “Nothing at all.”
“What is it?” Roland pressed. “You can tell me.”
Charles studied him for a long moment then slumped back in his chair.
“I am wondering about the truth of dreams and visions. You know, I’ve heard of such things, but until now I thought they were only the purview of holy men,” Charles whispered. “When kings have them—well, they don’t always work out so well. Look at Pharaoh who sought out Joseph. The fatted cattle were consumed most ungraciously.”
Roland grabbed a camp stool and pulled it up to the desk.
“Well, I’ve heard tell the pope anointed you emperor,” he began. “God’s servant on earth, giving you right to more than most kings. I suppose it wouldn’t be unusual for God to want you to know something.”
Charles smiled wanly at his nephew. “Yes, yes. Thank you, Roland. But I’d have told you anyway, without the reminder.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Beware a priest bearing a crown. Well, where to begin? This dream—in it, I saw the gates of a fortified city and our men dying before them. And the heavens, they opened up fire and brimstone. Suddenly I stood amidst the apocalypse, more horrific than anything written by John, beloved of Christ. What could it mean?”
Roland hesitated. He had only expected Charles to debate dreams in some general sense, not to actually tell him of a vision. “I’m sorry, Uncle,” Roland hedged. “I’m a soldier who can barely read and write my own name. Such things as this, well, I am not the one to interpret them.”
Charles nodded, tapping his fingers on the side of his chair.
“Neither am I, for such things must be of God,” he mused. “And we need to talk of things that concern men.”
Roland nodded. “Our scouts have reached Barcelona,” he reported. “As we feared, the walls have been repaired.”
“That will raise the price to take the city.”
“It will unless we nullify that advantage,” Roland agreed. “The emir’s son Karim has been helpful. I’ve a way to enter the city.”
Charles studied him carefully and reached out to pat Roland’s hand.
“Pray God brings success to your plan.”
Roland’s eyes glinted with confidence. “He will not abandon us.”
AOI
Over the next two weeks, the Franks marched westward along the southern verge of the Pyrenees in a determined reach for Sulayman’s home enclave at Barcelona. Not only for shoring up the morale of their ally did they desire the city—it boasted a port capable of landing supplies from Massilia so vital in prosecuting the campaign to bring Saragossa to his knees. Minor skirmishes were all that marked that journey, raids by small scouting parties testing strengths and probing for weaknesses as Marsilion’s army sought for advantage after their defeat on the plains. But these pinpricks did nothing to slow the inexorable advance of the Franks. Within days of their arrival about the city’s walls, they entrenched firmly, just beyond bowshot of the Saragossan occupiers on the battlements. Troopers broke out rations and prepared for the call to the first assault.
The siege had begun.
Ganelon perched on a rock among the men of Tournai like a predatory bird, his helmet, weapons, and shield stacked nearby. He tore into a stale biscuit and choked it down with a gulp from a water skin. His crag-faced uncle Guinemer hunched over his own kit, rubbing intently at a splotch of rust on the armor with oil and stone.
Not far away among the retainers, Julian cleaned and stacked weapons and armor, joking with his peers. Yet even focused on his tasks, he kept a half an eye on Ganelon and another out for Roland.
A knight in Charles’s livery approached on horseback.
“Take your position!” he shouted. “Await the signal!”
Ganelon waved in affirmation, and the man rode on to the next unit down the line.
“So, Charles really does mean to lay siege to the city,” Ganelon growled low enough for only his uncle to hear. “And the other half of our army sits on its arse in the Saxon March. The man’s a damned fool.”
Guinemer buckled his weapons about his waist and set his helmet onto his head. His gap-toothed mouth split into a wicked grin.
“Some say the vixen warming his bed has driven him mad,” he spat. “Brought down a curse from God!”
“One well-placed stroke, Uncle, and the kingdom will fall. Then the madness will end. Only then.”
Guinemer leaned in, lowering his voice even further. He glanced about for prying eyes—and ears.
“When is the time?”
Ganelon laughed and slapped his uncle on the back. “When is it ever the time to kill a king?” He scrambled from the rock, tossing his ration bag to a squire. “On your feet,” he roared to the men. “We’ve the king’s business to be about!”
Night lengthened the shadows that stretched across the earth from Barcelona’s walls. Wearing the darkness like a shroud, Frank troopers hauled siege engines into place. Around those machines, companies of troopers scrambled forward to critical points in the ravaged remains of houses and shops surrounding the fortifications. Those men remained ever vigilant against defenders that might attempt to sally from their bastions to disrupt the tightening Frank cordon. From those emerging Frank lines, two figures crept through the shadows and worked their way through the burned-out buildings. Close under the dizzying citadel wall, they entered a blackened building and scurried deep within to a staircase. Pressing against the fractured walls, they then navigated shattered steps upward to the skeletal rafters.
Roland tested the strength of one jutting timber. Satisfied it would hold, he skittered across to the tiled crenellations overlooking Barcelona behind her recently rebuilt walls. Karim followed along behind him.
From their perch in the building, they scanned the city’s upper ramparts for movement.
“Saragossa has troops throughout the city,” Roland observed. “You’re certain your people will be able to deliver the signal?”
Karim chuckled. “Of course. I thought your book taught you to have faith, Christian.”
“It does,” the knight replied. “But how is it you speak of faith? You’re an infidel.”
“No, you’re the infidel.”
Both men laughed.
“We are a people of faith,” Karim explained. “My friend, I believe in God as do you. Sons of Judah call him Elohim, and we know him as Allah. And Mohammed is his prophet. I’ve read your book, Christian—that and many others. We encourage education among my people. Better is the warrior who thinks beyond the battlefield.”
“We’ve clergy who do the reading,” Roland said after a moment’s pause. “Soldiers do the work of war. That is the order of things ordained by God. Though one day I’ll put my words on a page.”
Karim feigned surprise.
“And what would you write?” he asked. “Of glorious battles and great heroes dying in far-off lands? Those tales have already been written, my friend!”
“Written words can speak of the heart,” Roland said, averting his eyes to Barcelona’s dark walls.
“Oh! You’ve a woman to send words to!” Karim appeared scandalized. His eyes crinkled with humor. “And here I thought you cared only for your men and that nag you call a horse! What would you write, soldier-bard?”
Roland jabbed him in the ribs. “Those words would be hers alone.”
Just then a bucketful of smoldering embers dropped from the top of the wall. The cinders flared briefly as they struck the ground before going out
in a feeble puff of smoke.
“Our signal?” asked Roland.
“Now, my friend,” Karim replied, “is the changing of the guard. Hurry!”
They carefully navigated through the ruined attic and back to the ground. They rushed across the debris-strewn street, quickly pressing their bodies against the city wall by the ash pile. Karim patted at the stones until he felt a dark rope clinging to the heights above.
He tugged on it.
“After you, my Christian friend,” he offered.
“I’m thinking,” Roland observed, “that my face shouldn’t be the first over the wall. Or you might find it greeting you on its way back down.”
Karim knotted the rope around his hand.
“As you wish!” He laughed.
Agile as a squirrel, Karim crawled hand over hand up the wall. Roland jumped, catching the rope, and clambered up behind him, his boots slipping against the dusty stones. At the top, rough hands reached out to haul each of them in turn over the parapet to the catwalk where a silent clutch of partisans crowded in close, throwing robes and cloaks over them. In hushed tones, they urged the two toward a sliver of light shining from the door of a nearby tower. Once inside, they stepped over the torn bodies of Saragossan guards. The partisans whisked their charges down the stairs to the tower entrance where more bodies slouched inside the door to the street. There the entire group pulled their hoods over their heads.
“Move!” one of the partisans urged, pushing Roland to step more quickly. Above them, doors opened, and voices cried out as the relief guard discovered what had happened. Alarms rang out from the walls. Sentries’ horns blared over the tiled roofs and echoed through the alleys.
The partisans hurried through back byways until they reached a building deep in a ramshackle district of the city far from the agitated city troops. They crowded through an open door into a small room lit only by the faintest of starlight filtering through a single shuttered window. Roland edged to one wall, stepping carefully to avoid stumbling over some scrap of junk and giving away their position.
The partisans sucking in stale air remained the only sound punctuating the darkness.
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