Anvil of Fate (Meridian Series)

by John Schettler

  Charles stood with his chieftains and retainers when the main attack finally came, his deep voice shoring up the will of his soldiers, his heavy battle axe always at the ready. Odo had been right, he thought. All the day long they have been playing with me here, rushing and feinting, and pricking my lines with their arrows. Now comes the charge he warned me of. Now come the heavy horsemen of Islam in a mighty charge. But we will stand as a wall of ice, cold and impenetrable, and we will not give way.

  When the enemy cavalry surged against his shieldwall, the long broadswords of his hardened infantry flashed and hewed, killing horse and man alike. Horses reared, nostrils flared and eyes wide with the terror of battle, their iron shod hooves beating upon the helmets of the Frankish soldiers. And down they crashed, when pierced with iron, yet others pressed behind them and leapt in the clash and din of battle. Many fell, on both sides in the chaos of those moments, but always Charles urged his men on, sending in reserves where he held them fast behind the front line. And when the enemy horsemen would fall back to reform and charge again, they would find new shields planted in the loamy soil of that bloodied hillock, and new hearts opposed.

  Again and again the Saracen horsemen came, until Charles looked out, wide-eyed, and saw a greater mass of armored cavalry bearing down upon his shieldwall, a sea of lances, surging forward like a great wave. They smashed through the outer wall and forged a deep wedge in his lines, bearing down on the place where he stood with his chieftains. And in all the chaos of the battle he had given no thought to Odo, the sulking Duke of Aquitaine where he waited on the far left flank, his light horsemen well concealed by the thick woods and brush. But now, as the Saracen horde plunged its lance deep into the heart of the Frankish defense, with eyes glazed and chastening alarm pulsing in his chest, Charles waved his frantic order, and sounded horns to call in this last reserve.

  His chieftains fought like demons, closing ranks around their captain and lord, and Charles himself was drawn into the fray, his heavy axe rising and falling as he struck down one dark warrior after another, but still they came, bent on taking his life and ending the battle with this final surge of arms.

  Off in the woodlands Odo had been chafing like a willful beast, brooding as he waited on the word of the Bastard Charles. He endured the long morning, held in check, watching with dismay as the Berbers harried Charles’ men with their archery. It was happening now as it had played out earlier this same year on the River Garonne. Charles the mighty, Charles the usurper, Charles the lord and master, who held him at bay, taking many daughters and children from his province of Aquitaine as hostages… Charles the coward.

  We shall see, he thought. When hard pressed, in the thick of battle; when the day grows old with blood and smoke, Charles will summon me at long last…But I will not answer, he smiled, for I will not be here!

  Odo listened to the sound of battle, the distant shouts of men at arms, the neigh of horses and the sharp clashing of iron on shields and helms. Three times, he had been tempted to take up his mount, the strong brown charger he had found at Tours when he arrived there, days ago. He still kept the old gray Arabian that had carried him here at hand, having forged an unaccountable bond with the beast. The Arabian was too old to carry the Duke into battle, but he tethered him near, walking over to him from time to time and stroking his mane and neck with soft words.

  “You are old and spent, and tied up here, even as I am,” he said. “Yet I may have one last ride yet, ere this sun is gone.”

  The battle was going just as he expected it might. The Berbers had been rushing in, firing their damnable arrows, hurling hard stones from their slings, and fleeing like the cowards they were. They were taunting the Franks, teasing them, trying to provoke them, as a man might poke a stick at a bear at bay. But Charles was adamant. He would not come down off his hill where he stood, and he stubbornly held his men back behind the line of their shieldwall.

  Odo paced restlessly about as the afternoon wore on. His wounded eye still pained him, but it was nothing compared to the dint in his honor, and the nobility of his house. The longer he waited, unsummoned, the more he broiled with resentment. “Why do I serve this bastard?” he said aloud. “I should leave him to his obstinate ways and flee now to salvage what I may of my homelands.”

  Indeed, many of his captains urged him to do exactly that. “You will never again see those taken by Charles alive,” they told him. “You are but a pawn to Charles now, and it is unseemly that you are thus debased, when all of Gaul should bow its head in thanks that it was by your endeavor the Saracens are challenged here this day.”

  Hearing this, a man stepped from the shadows of the wood, wearing the cassock of a monk. “They are heathen,” he agreed. “They have spoiled all the land, burned the abbeys and holy places, and the good lord Odo has stoutly shielded the abbey of Saint Martin while Charles dallied on the road. And he has suffered the worst of their misdeeds—even to the giving over of his daughter Lampegie to their brothels and harems.”

  “What is this you have said?” Odo drew his short sword and raised his heavy arm over the monk.

  “Forgive me, Lord, but this is what comes to us from men who have late escaped from the enemy camp! Three men, taken as slaves, crept away in the dark last night, and fled to the abbey you so ably defended yesterday, and there they spoke it that Abdul Rahman has brought many other captives hither from his conquests, and that among them Lampegie may be found, given to the harems of his Emirs! Strike me down, but as God is my witness, this I speak truly.”

  Odo stayed his hand, his eyes agleam with inner fire. It would satisfy his anger to kill this monk, yet he was merely a messenger. The enemy was elsewhere, and if what he said were true, it was one last grain of sand that set off the avalanche of wrath in his mind. It was not that he held any great love for the woman the monk spoke of, else why would he have given her to the heathen Manuza in the first place? No, but it was a point of honor. It was not seemly that she would be used this way, and yet one more insult he must endure. Now, with this spoken aloud, the eyes of his men would be on him with hidden shame as the sun fell and they listened to the brave Franks under Charles struggling and dying on the hillock above.

  His hand was tight on the hilt of his sword, and his cheeks red with anger, his eyes narrow as he considered what to do. He looked at his chieftains, speaking in a hard voice.

  “Yes, we fought, and failed in the summer when the enemy fell upon us in a place we had not thought they could come. Yet it is I who gave fair warning, and summoned Charles here to this place. Nor do I wait here upon his command as some might think!”

  It was a vain attempt to salve the wound, he thought. I should leave this place! Let Charles have his battle, and the glory he so covets. Headstrong and boastful, he hears no other counsel.

  At that moment there came a shout from above, and a great noise. Startled by the clash, the old gray Arabian leapt up, as if rearing for battle, and the rein that held him snapped. He beat his hooves upon the smoky cold airs, neighing loudly as his nostrils flared. Then, he settled hard, still driving his heavy hooves into the ground, pawing and digging with restless energy.

  Odo looked over his shoulder at the beast, saw how he chafed for battle, old but yet strong of heart, his shoulders taught with the fervor of his discontent. And Odo saw himself there, rearing up as well at the thought of battle so near but yet denied him, snapping the rein that held him in check, and riding out into the gathering dusk to have the vengeance he so rightly deserved.

  “I should have smashed the enemy camp days ago,” he breathed. “All that they hoard there has been stolen from my lands. I cannot bear it any longer. I will not bear it! And that one there,” he pointed at Kuhaylan, “that one knows the road to honor.” He called for his charger, and bid his men to take to their saddles as the sound of the battle raged on above them.

  Charles was heavily engaged, in the thick of battle, he thought, and the day grows old with blood and smoke. He will summon me at lo
ng last, thinking to use me as a hammer in time of greatest need, but by then it will be too late, because I will not answer.

  For I will not be here…

  “Come!” he shouted at his riders. “Mount now and come with me, and we will make our way with stealth and guile around the flank of the enemy and so come upon this camp the monk speaks of. Ride with me and avenge dishonor! Clean the stain from your shields and spill the blood of the enemy. We wait here no longer.”

  He spurred his mount and rode close by the gray stallion, whistling as he did, and the horse leapt up and followed in the wake of the young brown charger, eager to run. And so it was that Odo and his three thousand brothers in arms made their way along trails they knew well, having scouted all this land and ground for many days. They moved like the shadows of wraiths through the darkening woodland, a cold breath upon the land, yet with burning fire in their hearts.

  In time they came to the enemy camp, seeing the white tents and smelling the fires of the early evening meals. Their mounted archers moved silently in the van, finding and silencing the outlying skirmishers of the Arab guards, and when they were very near the camp, the Duke Odo raised his hand, pausing while his horsemen gathered around him like a gray fog. Then they leapt forward as one, racing into the enemy camp at dusk, heedless of any danger, free and full of anger, and the great commotion they bestirred there came even to Abdul Rahman where he sat on his black Arabian mount, watching the heavy horse of his armored cavalry wheel and charge yet again.

  Seeing their master turn with alarm at the sound from the camp, a captain of a mounted ajinad regiment waved at his men to turn and settle the matter, for he was eager to please his general, and it was not fitting that he should suffer this distraction. He rode off with his troop of horse, and, seeing this, two other captains followed him, leading many other horsemen to follow.

  The tents were well fired, and thick black smoke rose on the noisome airs, marking the place where the Arab camp lay. Word of the attack on the camp seemed to spread like fire in dry grass. Minutes later, to his great surprise, Abdul Rahman saw many more regiments of his Berber horse peel away from the flanks of his armored riders, and ride to the rear.

  “Who gave that order?” he shouted. Yet even as he spoke he could hear the footmen shouting from behind that the tents were afire and all the plunder and pillage of many months was being set to the torch by their heathen enemies. Dismayed to see how the Berber horse had turned to flee, the commander of the heavy Saracen cavalry looked and saw his general off in the distance, his drawn sword pointing at the smoke from the burning camp. And seeing so many of his brothers turn and ride for the camp, he held up his final charge and turned as well, thinking it was the desire of his lord.

  “No!”came a voice close by the governor’s ear. “The heavy cavalry!”

  Abdul Rahman wheeled his horse about and saw the grey eyed Emir, Abdul Samad. “Did I not say it?” The Emir shouted at his general. “We should not fight here in this narrow place! Did I not warn you our tents were ill guarded? You must hold the reins tightly, my lord. Heed not these stirrings of unrest or the mighty host will flee, and many will die a martyr’s death on this gray road!” He pointed to the old stony road built by the Romans so many centuries ago.

  Abdul Rahman reddened with anger, and he spurred his horse, riding out with the fire of battle in his heart to rally his men and turn them back to the battle with the Franks. But seeing the enemy give way, and quickly surmising what was happening, the Frankish general shouted at his men to take up their shields where they had long been planted and dinted with the barbs of the enemy lances. His soldiers raised their long broadswords, wet with the blood of their enemies, and with one voice they called out as they charged, sweeping down the slope of the hill in the wake of the fleeing horsemen, carrying all before them as they came.

  Caught up in the swirl of battle, Abdul Rahman cried out, his curved scimitar raised high, when an arrow struck him full in the throat, choking off his voice and life. The sword of Islam had broken and died on the anvil of fate.

  Chapter 30

  Berkeley Arch Complex, Saturday, 11:10 A.M.

  Nordhausen was back, safely through the Arch and up in the lab now, where Paul and the others warmly greeted him. They were eager to hear his tale, and Kelly sat with one eye on the Golem monitors.

  “You barely made it,” he said. “The singularity has developed a pretty bad wobble on the spin now. But I managed to compensate and pull you through.”

  “In one piece, I hope,” said Robert, remembering what had happened to Rantgar. “Well, has it changed?” he asked, still somewhat breathless from the Time shift.

  “We don’t know yet,” said Kelly. “I’ve only just regained control of the Golems, and I’m putting them back to work as foragers. It may take a while before a weight of opinion forms and we can get some reliable data.”

  “Where did you go?” asked Paul.

  Nordhausen told them of the abbey and his host, and the rubbing he had been called upon to translate. “It was a rubbing from the stela unearthed at Rosetta,” he explained. “They thought it might be the last clue they needed to unravel the weave,” he said. “But things were very unsettled there. The Berbers had come within arrow shot of the abbey, and Emmerich, the Abbot, had been busy packing off anything he could save. The scriptorium was a near shambles when I arrived.”

  He told them of his long conversation with Emmerich, and how he had learned of that last note received from allies in the future. “They seemed to be in some difficulty,” he concluded. “But the note was very pointed. Just two words: Not Charles! It was then that I began to remember everything we had uncovered and discussed about the battle, and I made some rather alarming conclusions.”

  When he had shared his thesis, Paul nodded his head. “Militarily, what you propose would make perfect sense. There is nothing Odo could have done by simply throwing in his lighter horsemen to reinforce Charles at a critical moment in the battle. How would they get through the throng? That sort of Cavalry is best used to surprise the enemy at the flank or rear, and unhinge the main attack by an indirect means.” He looked at Maeve, waiting for her to weigh in before he said anything more.

  “It sounds reasonable to me,” she said. “But my god, the layers and layers of meaning in those lines from the stela are confounding! Every time we read them we were able to bend the words to fit the scenario we had concocted. They seemed to make perfect sense.”

  “Motivation defines perception,” said Kelly. “We saw what we wanted to see, and perhaps that was all there was to it.”

  “I’m not so sure,” said Paul. “It’s clear from what Robert has told us that the other side had no inkling that Odo might be the lynchpin here. They were bending all their resources at preventing Charles from taking power. Yet, in each intervention we made, the phrases from that stela did indeed make a good fit. This scribe Kelly told us about, Hamza, may have known more than we think if he carved them. My guess is that there was no single Pushpoint that could move an event of this magnitude. It took intervention at many places on the Meridian, the operation in 705 against Lambert, then in 714 involving Grimwald, and finally here at the battle in 732. It’s as if they were trying to bring down a building, and needed to blow the supports out on the lower floors first. Simply flying an airplane into it in a single operation wouldn’t do the job.”

  Maeve considered things for a moment. “The horses gathered at the farm, at the ferry, and were gathered as well by Odo at the battle.”

  “Loose twine everywhere!” said Robert. “And what about that last line on the stela? I remember it now, ‘For the unseen one that comes in the dusk shall unseat all....’ First we thought it was Dodo, riding at dusk to kill the Bishop Lambert. Then we drop the ‘D’ and it’s Odo, coming at dusk upon the enemy camp.”

  “Possibly,” said Maeve. “But it could just as easily have been referring to a certain Professor Nordhausen, coming at dusk to the Abbey of Marmoutier!” She wi
nked at him.

  “Well, that’s an encouraging spin on the history,” said Robert with a smile.

  “Speaking of that…” Kelly was pulling data from the Golem file now. “We’re getting some early returns. What was the name of that Chronicle you cited about this battle?”

  “Try the Chronicles of Fredegar,” said Robert, and Kelly had a file up in a few minutes.

  “Here’s a passage describing the first charge of the Muslims when they tried to break through to Charles…. ’The Muslim horsemen dashed fierce and frequent forward against the battalions of the Franks, who resisted manfully, and many fell dead on either side… The men of the North …a sea of arms that could not be moved…a wall; and drawn up in a band around their chief…with great blows of their swords they hewed down their enemy. Their tireless hands drove their swords down to the breasts of the foe.”

  “Sounds like Charles’ personal guard was holding the line,” said Maeve.

  “There’s more,” said Kelly. “Charles boldly drew up his battle line against them and the Warriors rush in… With Christ’s help he overturned the tents—“

  “That line there!” said Robert. “That was the line I recalled when I was with the Abbot. The Continuator of the Chronicles here was buttering up the history a bit, at least I believed as much. How could Charles have overthrown the tents if he was locked in mortal combat with the Saracen heavy horsemen?”

  “Right,” said Paul. The writer was ascribing the victory to Charles, and therefore every aspect of the battle was presented as his doing.”

  “You’ve got that right,” said Kelly, reading again. “And Charles hastened to battle and grind them small in slaughter. The King, Abdul, having been killed, he destroyed them, driving forth the army, and he fought and won. Thus did the victor triumph over his enemies!”

  “Then we did it!” Robert folded his arms, satisfied. “The Franks win the battle now! That’s from the Golems?”