Anvil of Fate

Chapter 28

The Emir reined his gray Arabian, standing beside his master the Wali, where he sat on his mount surveying the long columns of horsemen on the road. “We should not come here,” he said pointing to the lay of the land ahead. “It is a narrow place, where these two rivers meet ahead. We have scouted them and, though they are not wide and may be forded, their banks are steep, and grown over with thicket and wood. When battle is joined our horsemen will not be able to cross in a timely manner.”

He was Abdul Samah, who’s name meant ‘Servant of the Eternal,’ but today he was the servant of the new governor and Wali of all these newly conquered lands, commander of this the vast army that moved now on the road, Abdul Rahman.

The Wali did not seem concerned. “We will not be here long,” he said calmly. “It is only a byway to the city beyond. Thither I am bound, to the abbey the Christians dote over, just as you advise.“

You should have taken it yesterday,” the Emir pointed ahead with his leather riding crop.

“What? With the Berbers? Would I let them make off with such a prize? The heavy horse were not yet formed and ready. It was best that we wait until all my five Khamis have answered the call and I may then make the fist that will smash the infidel here, once and for all. Besides,” he pointed to the woodland ahead. “This forest affords us good cover for our encampment.”

The Wali surveyed his tents from where they covered the rolling fields just off the road. The camp occupied a large clearing, on a low rise, surrounded by dense woods and thickets of heather that should give it good protection. He would post a few skirmishers there to keep eyes on the woodland, but now his gaze was drawn further north where a gray mist still hung over the land on the chilled morning airs.

He was Abdul Rahman Ibn Abd al-Ghafiqi, from the proud tribal federation of the Kalbs, and new governor, and protector of al-Andalus, that land called Hispania by the infidels. The guardianship and authority were given unto him, though he gathered his many Emirs, listening to their wise council, and paid them the respect they were due as lords of their tribes.

Yet the grey one, Abdul Samah, had harried him unduly, he thought. The Emir had chafed in the saddle ever since they came to the abbey the heathen clergy had dedicated to their Saint Hilary to the south, wherein they hid much gold and finery. He had bristled under his charcoal brows and insisted that it be burned, even after his soldiers had long since gutted the place, carrying off everything of value they could find. One such prize they wisely brought to the Wali, a gilded chair embedded with gold and many jewels.

“This must be the seat of power,” he said. “Where the wrongly guided saint held forth in his administrations. Send it back,” the Emir had whispered. “Make it tribute to the Sultan of the African realms, and he will look kindly upon you.”

But Abdul Rahman would not hear this counsel. “No,” he said, drawing his sword. “I will not suffer the Sultan to sit where the heathen once took his repose!”

He struck the chair a hard blow, and then, removing his sword, bid his men to shatter it in many pieces, distributing all the jeweled fragments to the many captains of his army. This seemed only fitting.

The Ansar companions and Sabaha helpers of the Prophet had shown the way in earlier years, and he was a faithful disciple now, one of the elite Tabi’un, a religious aristocracy that guided the vast Umayyad empire that now covered half the known world. And rightly guided he was, for he was fast with the sons of Umar, the second ‘Rightly Guided Caliph.’ But he was not given this post simply because of his heritage, but rather for his piety, skill, fairness, bravery and the great bond he had forged with the soldiers of Islam, who favored him over all other pretenders.

As soon as he had taken the position, he immediately began to plan the campaign he was now pursuing with great valor and energy. The heathen lord, Odo of Aquitaine, had sullied the honor of the tribes by marrying his illegitimate daughter to one of his Emirs, Manuza, the fool and the betrayer. And so Abdul Rahman had gone east to punish Manuza first, satisfied at last when he received news that he had thrown himself from a high cliff and perished. Having his head, and the heathen bitch he had taken as wife, he would send these to the Caliph in Damascus as evidence of his industry here. That matter closed, the governor had traveled to Pamplona to survey the muster of his armies. Berber tribes, Arabs and Bedouins from the desert, stout men of the Atlas mountains, all gathered there, along with the Moors of the Catalan region, and joined by his incomparable horsemen, heavily armored and mounted on fierce Arabian steeds.

In a few short months he had crossed the high western passes into the land of the Basques, with whom he had reached accommodation through careful diplomatic maneuvers the previous year. His engines of war he sent by sea, from Taragona to Narbonne, for these he could not take through the high passes. They would be safe at Narbonne on the coast of the Middle Sea until he called for them later in the year.

His aim now was to scour the land, bleed it of wealth and treasure for his armies, and assure himself that no further opposition could be mounted by the Franks. He had little doubt that they would cower in the few walled cities he might find. In time he would return to savage them all, but for now he swept north like a scouring wind, sweeping all before him.

The Duke of Aquitaine had thought to give battle before the city of Bordeaux. It was this same man who had surprised and defeated the clumsy advances of the Emir Al Samh some ten years earlier, and it was fitting the Emir should perish for his ignorance, there before the gates of Toulouse. But Abdul Rahman was no fool, and he would not repeat the mistakes of his predecessors. When the enemy sought to bar the way at the River Garonne, he fell upon him like a hammer, surging across the river shallows and smashing through the ranks of Odo’s men with his fierce, unstoppable cavalry.

The heathen was brave, but overmatched, and his men endured a fearsome slaughter there, until the river ran red with their blood. He had little doubt that Odo lay dead upon the field, but would waste no time to search the mounds of heathen corpses for him. Bordeaux would be sacked for the pleasure of his soldiery, and the promise of much more lay ahead in the rich, wooded lands of the Franks.

The ruthless advance of his columns followed soon after, burning farms, hamlets, and especially the places where heathen clergy would build. In this the grey one, Abdul Samah, had a firm hand. He had insisted that every monastery, abbey, church or basilica must laid waste and destroyed, the hidden wealth and treasure they held taken as plunder. These sites would be replaced in due course with the elegant architecture of mosque and minaret, he had argued. Soon the call of the Muezzin would summon the faithful to prayer, but they would not stand around their altars in their crude stone churches, Instead they would bend in submission, their heads pointed south to Mecca, and so it would be.

Abdul Rahman had consented, for was he not the sword of Islam? The work of the hammer and sword, was his now, hewing down the heathen places so that the true faith might root itself, and the words of the Prophet be spoken all throughout this land. For there was no God but God, and Allah was his name.

Throughout the summer, he let his men forage and feast off the land, fattening their bellies and filling their wagons with booty. In time, as the leaves began to turn, he came to the city of Poitiers, destroying the basilica and the small surrounding settlement that lay outside its walls. Then he moved on, bypassing the city, for his siege engines were still far to the south, and he would not storm the walls until he had secured the border lands further north.

Rumors of another general at large in the land came to him, a man called Charles, of which little was known. For months now, since he defeated Odo and his army in the south, there had been no opposition to speak of on his march. Yet now it was said the clans of the Franks were gathering under the banner of this man Charles, and it was rumored that he was skilled in the arts of war, and fierce in battle as well.

No matter. All this he would see with his own eyes, for he meant to ride north, destroying one precious abbey after another, until this man showed himself. If the Christians would not fight to preserve their own mosques, then they were little more than dogs, wolves, barbarians.

He assembled his army again and pushed north, over the River Vienne and into the narrow belt of farmsteads and woodland traversed by the old Roman Road. Scouts and raiders sent to locate the Abbey of St. Martin returned, saying that many horsemen scoured the lands there, and still more, tall, fell men of the north, were seen on the roads coming down from Orleans. The Grey one urged him to strike quickly, sending in his heavy horse to overrun the place before a defense could be made there. But Abdul Rahman was not hasty, nor would he allow his army to advance in many far-flung columns in the face of a gathering enemy threat. His men were heavily burdened with pillage, their carts and wagons strung out along all the roads to the south.

Instead he wisely decided to call back his raiding Berbers, the light horse of al Andalus, and draw up his troops in the traditional manner. He would make the fist of five Khamis, each a division at arms, with one to lead the way up this uncertain road, his Berber cavalry and many mounted archers. Following them, three parts of his army would make up the main body, the heavy horsemen that had carried all before them. And his lighter infantry he would leave behind, close by the long columns of wagons and supplies, guarding the families of his proud warriors, and their well deserved plunder.

So it was that he came to the undulating land between the Rivers Vienne and Clain and sought out suitable ground for the making of his camp. The enemy was clearly at hand, but had not yet shown his full strength. Both opposing armies had been at arms for many days now, the outriders on either side harrying one another in short, inconclusive skirmishes, but Abdul Rahman could sense that some greater force had come down from Orleans and the lands north, and he knew he had found the general so many had spoken of in these last weeks, Charles, the Mayor of the Palace of Neustria, and the last Christian Lord who might have any hope of defending the Frankish kingdoms.

His scouts and foragers learned yet another thing, that the Duke Odo of Aquitaine was here as well! Somehow he had escaped the carnage of the River Garonne, undoubtedly to flee here and seek aid from these others. It angered him to think that this man still remained a thorn in the side of Islam, for even in defeat, broken, his lands and holdings long since overrun, Odo had somehow managed to be the harbinger that gathered all these forces here together, compressed between the swift flowing waters of two rivers.

He breathed deeply as the dawn rose, smelling the wood fires of many camps, and knowing that this would be a fateful day. Yet the gray Emir at his side remained restless and worried.

“I do not like this place,” he fretted. “We should fight on open ground, where our horsemen might shift and wheel about as they might, and strike upon the enemy flank and rear. And our men are too much burdened with the spoils of conquest. We should have left these far behind, well guarded, and not brought these things so near at hand where they might tempt our enemies. And the wives and families have no place here either. They are a great and troublesome distraction.”

“You fret like a woman,” said the Wali. “The camp is well hidden. I will leave the tribal militias there, and it will be well guarded.”

When messengers came with the news that the way ahead was now barred and strongly defended, Abdul Rahman rode himself to look upon his foe. There he saw where they had arrayed themselves in the same manner as before, right astride the road he must take to the city of Tours, with a long wall of shields on a low rise. One flank, he saw, was very near the river Clain on his left, where the steep wooded banks would prevent any turning movement by his more mobile horsemen. The other flank was anchored flush against the thick woodlands that screened his own encampment from enemy eyes. And he noted that, even if he drove them from their line of defense, there was yet another woodland to the rear where his scouts had seen old Roman ruins, and a small stone tower.

This man Charles had chosen good ground, he thought. He was a master of defense, a hard iron anvil, and waited with patience behind the tall shields of his soldiery. Perhaps he might compel him to come down off his hill, by pricking him all the long day with arrows. He would soon test the mettle of this new general, and see what he was made of.

His jaw set, eyes darkening under his thin black brows, Abdul Rahman vowed that no man would live to flee through that distant wood behind the Frankish lines. The Emir’s counsel may have been wise, for the lay of the land would not allow him to turn the flanks of the enemy here. Instead he would harass them with the archers and slingers of his vanguard, testing their strength, then, at a time of his choosing, he would unleash the three Khamis of his main body, the well armored professional soldiers that had come from Syria and even as far away as Arabia, and he would ride the heathens down. All this was clear in his mind now as he surveyed the scene before him.

It was written.

Chapter 29

Abdul Rahman watched, all that morning, hearing the hoarse shouts of the Frankish chieftains as they exhorted their soldiers to stand firm while he rained one volley after another upon them. His light Berbers rushed in, stopping to fire and then dancing away, beyond the reach of the great broad swords and heavy battle axes of the enemy. On occasion he sent in mounted infantry to engage the Franks as well, but they were not able to make any impression on their heavy ranks, well protected as they were behind their shieldwall.

All day he bled them, punishing them for the insolence they showed him in barring his way forward. He worked it like a skilled blacksmith might beat upon the hard metal of a sword. Then, as the afternoon wore on, he judged it time for the final blow. He would take the sword and slay his foe.

Horn calls sounded as he summoned his heavy horse, leading them forward. He held them fast for a time, their long lances jabbing at the smoky sky; their armor and jeweled helms glinting in the waning sunlight. Then he set them loose. They would ride, like rolling thunder, into the narrowing gap between the river and the woods where Charles and his Franks stood stubbornly behind their shieldwall. Then they would fling their lighter javelins as one more hail of iron upon the enemy before the powerful charge of the lancers came crashing against the enemy line. Here at last the hammer of Islam would fall upon the anvil of fate, and the awful sound would ring down the hollows of Time itself, forever.

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 long 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

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 winked 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?”

“Right from the horse’s mouth,” said Kelly.

“No mention of Odo?”

“There certainly won’t be any mention of the upstart Duke,” said Maeve. “It wouldn’t be kosher. After all, Odo had gone so far as to ally himself with the enemy at one point, and remained an embittered opponent of Charles until his death three years later.”

“Damn,” said Nordhausen… “Then we’ll never know what the Abbot did, or what Odo did to change this battle. We’ll never have anything more than an assumption, an educated guess.”

“History is written by the victors and the gray priesthood of scribes they keep,” said Paul. “I’d say most of everything that ever really happened remains unknown. All we hear about is what the local powers that be decided to write down. And, as we have seen, it can often have many interpretations.”

Nordhausen knew this as well, perhaps better than any of them. He had been a member of that gray priesthood himself, devoting most of his life to the study of history, ancient languages, and long forgotten cultures. He sighed, imagining Odo where he must have sat that day, restless at the edge of the woods where his horsemen waited in reserve.

“Well, we did it,” he said again with great relief. “Or the Abbot did it, or Odo did it in the end! The only thing that matters is that the Franks win the battle. That should change everything back again, right?”

Kelly was watching the chart, noting the progression of green. It had been stuck so long on the year 732, but was now bleeding into the yellow and migrating down the Meridian. “Things are looking much better,” he said. “I think Charles is going to have his grandson Charlemagne after all!”

“Then we get it all back?” said Robert. “Christendom prevails? Columbus discovers America? We get a city called San Francisco here?”

Kelly watched as the weight of opinion from the Golem searches registered on his screen and, as he moved right to scan the centuries, the line returned to a comforting warm green, deepening in color as it went. “Looks like smooth sailing,” he said. “The Renaissance, the Reformation… It’s all clearing up. We own it all again, the good and the bad. We’ve still got Shakespeare, but Hitler shows up as well. The whole cast of characters is safe behind the curtain of history.”

“How much fuel do we have left?” asked Paul.

“What?” Kelly looked at him. “Well it looks like we’ve just got that last bit you fed into the number one backup generator. But what difference does it make now?”

“Because we still have one little problem to solve,” Paul said quietly.

Robert looked at him, unhappy. “Oh, don’t start brooding over the physics, Paul,” he said. “Give it a rest! We should go out and celebrate!”

“Oh?” said Paul flatly. “Go out where? Have you forgotten the world we came from when we arrived here last night, Robert?”

The professor frowned. “You mean to say… You’re saying—”

“Palma,” Paul finished, looking at Maeve now. “What we’ve accomplished here hasn’t changed anything on that score at all. We merely prevented the changes we saw forming in the Golem reports concerning Tours. The Heisenberg Wave emerging as a result of the Tours interventions just dissipated, that’s all. We stopped the change from rippling forward on the Meridian, but we’ve done nothing about Palma, and that means that in about an hour…” He looked at Kelly, who turned from his monitor with sudden realization.

“Crap,” he said eloquently. “I don’t have a ticket to this show.” He looked at Maeve, more worried for her than he seemed for himself. She averted her eyes, thinking.

Robert gave him a deflated look. “Paradox? But I thought you said Palma didn’t matter anymore.”

”In the face of the Grand Transformation at Tours that was true,” said Paul. “We’ve settled accounts on that matter, but that will still leave us with Palma here on this Meridian. We’ve done nothing to reverse that. The only thing different now is that we have Kelly back.”

“Yes, but for how long?” said Robert. “He was supposed to die if Palma happens. There’s no place in this Meridian for him now. Sorry, Kelly. Damn it Paul, I warned you about this!”

“Calm down, Robert,” Paul placated the professor. “What you say may be correct,” he went on. “But perhaps not. We’re assuming Kelly was essential to preventing Palma because the action we took on that first mission needed his participation to succeed. Mr. Graves came back to prevent his accident, and our team therefore remained intact. Instead of mourning Kelly, and settling for my little robotic probe later that night, we resolved to do something about Palma. And since we could do something about it with the Arch at our disposal, we entered one of those tunnels I told you about earlier. We created an Absolute Certainty with the combined force of our will power. Yet it’s now quite possible that the Assassins have found some other way to instigate and carry off the attack that caused the Cumbre Vieja volcano to erupt and collapse into the sea.”

“They were counter-operating!” Maeve was quick to grasp at any straw that might mean Kelly’s life was still viable here, though her inner judgment was in a real struggle now with her love. But Paul was quick to reinforce her.

“Yes, Maeve,” and we have yet to discover what it is they may have done to re-instate Palma. Their operation may have had nothing whatsoever to do with Ra’id Husan Al Din this time, which means our little visit with Lawrence of Arabia would have been rendered entirely null. We were trying to reverse Palma by eliminating the terrorist from the Meridian—striking at his ancestor, Mousaui. But if the Assassins have found some other way to collapse that volcano, some other nefarious outcast we’ve yet to learn about, all that is meaningless. In that case Kelly would not be involved either, nor would he be exposed to Paradox. We’re on another Meridian now if this is true. The only fact we have is that Palma happened. That could mean that Kelly’s death prevented our intervention, but it could also have happened as a result of an entirely new operation run by the Assassins. Look how complex this last mission was!”

“Then why are we wasting time here congratulating ourselves?” Robert waved his arm. “We’ve got to finish the job. How much longer can we keep the Arch spinning?”

“Do you realize what you’re saying?” said Maeve. “It took us six hours, multiple time shifts, and considerable help from god knows when to execute our first intervention against Palma. And look at what we just went through with this mission.”

“I hate to say it,” said Paul, “but I’m afraid she’s correct. We’ll need research, fuel, and time to plan a counter-operation against Palma now. I don’t think we’ll be receiving any more apples with notes in them either. If what the Abbot says is true, our allies in the future are having a rough time of it there. We’ve prevented the catastrophe a defeat at Tours would have unleashed, but the Order is still operating under the negative effects of Palma. We’ve all been at this for hours, with little sleep or food, and on top of that we’re all suffering residual effects of time shift disorientation.”

“Then what are you saying, that we do nothing?” The professor was still flush with his victory at Tours, and ready for battle.

“I’m saying we’ve done all we can for the moment,” said Paul.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to second that,” said Kelly. “The singularity has gone into a severe wobble pattern now. It’s dissipating. I can’t hold the spin. It will be all I can do to use the remaining power we have to assure a safe closure. Let’s face it, people, we aren’t doing any more Time travel this morning. We’ve reached the end of our resources here, and we’ll just have to stand and face the day—however it manifests out there after we shut things down.”

Nordhausen wanted to argue it further, but the lack of reliable quantum fuel was his undoing. Even if they somehow managed to isolate a new variation in the Meridian that could be responsible for Palma, and assuming they could coax the Golem supercloud to produce accurate calculations for a mission, they were out of quantum fuel, not to mention plain old petroleum. That thought took him back to his earlier argument with Paul when they were in the City having dinner in Chinatown.

“Christ,” he ran his hand over his brow. “I’ve been to the 8th century and back twice since I last had a good meal. But if we have to shut down now I guarantee you we’ll soon be wishing we had that gasoline back in your Honda, Paul. Things are falling apart out there, slowly but surely. We were forced to use our backup generators so the main power grid to the East Bay must have been down all night.”

“Right,” said Paul. “Then we’ll have to make fuel replenishment our first order of business.”

“And food!” said Kelly. “I’m famished.”

“Once we’ve secure fuel I can re-start the quantum matrix and generate a new singularity, but we’ll be very vulnerable until we can get the Arch up and running again, and establish a safe Nexus Point here.

“And then there’s the issue of growing civil unrest out there,” said Robert. “The system may not hold together much longer. Things were getting really bad down south in LA before Paul and I went into the City last night. The national guard is on the streets there, but hell, the whole damn U.S. army couldn’t lock down Baghdad during that war. It’s only going to deteriorate from this point on.”

He suddenly remembered something the Abbot had said to him just before he shifted back. “And another thing,” he said. “our lives may be in jeopardy now. The Abbot said we must be very wary, stealthy was the word he used. The Assassins have operatives all through the Meridian, and undoubtedly they have men posted to this milieu as well.”

“Right,” said Paul. “We talked about this before. We’ve been sloppy and careless after we thought we lost Kelly here, and we just can’t allow that to ever happen again. This is war now, and for better or for ill we’ve got to take a side, just as Rantgar said. We haven’t the resources to stand in the middle between them any longer, and given what we’ve just seen, the calamity they are willing to bring upon the world, I no longer have any doubt as to where I stand on this.”

He looked at the others, and they nodded agreement. There was too much at stake now for quibbling over who was right or wrong here. The Assassins had proved themselves to be merciless, and relentless. And they had to be stopped.

“So for us, if we’re going to do anything further with the Arch in the short run, it’s going to be all about food, fuel, and freedom when the Nexus dissipates here. We’ll have to bend all our energies to securing those three things.”

Maeve remained silent, sullen though resigned to these inevitable facts. Her gaze was ever drawn to Kelly, who sat near the History module running his hand through his thick, brown hair.

“Alright, I’ll go along with that,” she said at last. “But what’s our plan now?”

“There’s something Rantgar told us that stuck in my mind,” said Robert. “When Paul asked him how the Assassins were managing to get through Palma’s Shadow, he suggested they may have a facility, similar to the Well of Souls we found, and that they are using it as a relay station. If we could find and destroy that site it might take the pressure off of us.”

“Good point,” said Paul, “We could try and locate it and take it out somehow… unless they are shifting men in to a date in our immediate past, last Thursday, for example. We could destroy it today, but be unable to touch it last Thursday, so it may be fruitless. In fact, they may even be using the Well of Souls we found in this manner.”

“But Rasil and his men destroyed the Well of Souls,” said Robert.

“Right, but that was two weeks ago. Suppose they shift in three weeks ago, before you and I ever found it?” He thought for a moment. “But you’ve got the right idea,” he said. “They’ve had us on the defensive this whole mission, but the best defense is a good offense. It’s time we hit back, and hard!”

“Well we won’t be able to do anything now,” said Kelly. “I think the quantum matrix is resolving safely. We may as well shut this baby down now and use the remaining power to regenerate the singularity. But after we do, and before we do anything else, I want something to eat.”

They all just looked at him, and Maeve’s eyes began to glaze over with tears. She went to him, with a longing expression on her face, knowing that he could vanish again, swept over the edge of eternity by Paradox.

Paul was at his side now as well, and Robert walked over, putting his hand on Kelly’s shoulder. None of them spoke a whisper of the possibility that Kelly was only minutes away from annihilation. Instead they just gathered round him, like the captains and chieftains had closed ranks about Charles to secure his life during that final climactic charge of the Saracen cavalry. All they could hope for now was that, somewhere, Time had another Odo circling round the flank of this moment, ready to strike home at the enemy camp, and that Paul’s speculation that Palma may no longer require the sacrifice of Kelly’s life was indeed a real possibility. They had a 50-50 chance.

After a long silence, Paul cleared his throat, obviously weary, and struggling with the emotion of what he had to say. “Alright then, let’s test my theory and hope for the best… I suppose I should be the one to shut this thing down,” he fidgeted.

“Oh, no mister!” Kelly waved his hand away from the main power toggle. “This is my call tonight.”

Before anyone could say another word, he pulled hard on the lever and shut off the last fitful labors of the backup generator. The main lab lights immediately went dark, and he felt Maeve’s hand at his neck, softly reassuring.

“It will take a few moments for the singularity to fail and the Nexus to dissipate,” said Paul as the battery operated emergency lighting painted the room a pale blue.

The mission was over.

They waited in a silence that seemed endless, each one holding their thoughts safely within, unspoken, unknown to all but themselves. This was the greatest part of all human experience, Paul knew—to stand here, befuddled, beset with doubt, bewildered, and yet still hold on with love, hope, and the promise of yet another day.

Then Kelly moved and Paul thought he was reaching for something in his pocket, but he was clasping his breast, as if testing to see if he was still there.

He was.

He still had a head on his shoulders, and when the lights flickered on again he smiled with it, and breathed a heavy sigh. “Looks like P. G& E is back on line,” he said, his hand moving to his belly, still testing to see if he was all there.

“Well, I want a damn hamburger!” he said at last. “And a good brew or two… And another thing—I want my Giants baseball cap! Where is the damn thing? I’ve been looking for it all night.”

Robert laughed heartily, “We’ll find your baseball cap,” he said. “The hamburger and beer may take some doing, but you’ve got it, my friend, you’ve got it.”

Paul looked around, up at the lights and the equipment and the computer screens of the Arch complex, quietly humming back to life. The screen indicated the Nexus had closed, and Kelly was still alive!

“Well, we have a lot to get done,” he said, smiling broadly. “Let’s get busy!”