Anvil of Fate

Chapter 25

Nordhausen appeared in a blue frost, his eyes tightly closed, shoulders hunched and his face and head well shrouded by the hood of his cassock. He wanted to have all his wits about him when he manifested, in doubt as to what he would encounter. It was unnerving to be shifting into absolute uncertainty like this, without the slightest inkling as to where you would end up. Maeve’s story about the wolves was all too typical of this period, and 8th Century Gaul was a rough, uncultured, wild and dangerous place. He could be shifting anywhere, he thought.

To his great surprise, however, he found himself in a dimly lit room, facing a stone hearth where a hearty fire immediately chased the frost from the air and comforted with its warmth. He blinked, looking about, noting the smooth stone walls, high ceiling and the thick woolen carpet beneath his feet. Maeve’s last warning still echoed in his mind, and for a moment he seemed riveted to the ground, afraid that a single step would untether him from the world he knew forever. Before he could move, however, a quiet voice spoke from behind.

“Welcome, Mr. Nordhausen. So good of you to come!”

The English was perfect, so he immediately surmised that he was speaking with an Agent in Place, wherever he was. He turned, noting a short man, tonsured, but with a thick border of graying hair below his shaved head. His face was well rounded, ruddy cheeked, and his eyes were bright and intelligent.

“I am Emmerich, the Abbot of this place. And you have arrived safely, of sound mind and body I hope.”

“Indeed,” said Nordhausen. “And where exactly am I, if I may?”

“This is Marmoutier, known in your day as the Abbey of St. Martin at Tours, a monastery, actually. It is situated just north of the River Loire, which you may glimpse from the window there.” He gestured warmly, one hand fingering his prayer beads as he pointed. “We find it wise to welcome visitors of your sort after sunset—and oh, yes, this is the year 732, the month of October.”

“I see,” said the professor. “Well at least I know where my feet are planted. It’s a bit unnerving shifting out like this on a moment’s notice, without any idea of what I’m about.”

“My humble apologies, but it seems we have a situation on our hands concerning hostilities that will soon be engaged within a shout of this very room. We’ve nothing to worry about for the moment, but the Saracens are ravaging the land and bent on pillaging this place. They’ve burned nearly every church and monastery in Aquitaine and no doubt have their eyes set on this one as well.”

“You are the Agent in Place for this milieu?” Robert ventured.

“One such operative. You have made the acquaintance of another.”

“Rantgar, yes, an interesting fellow. We had every hope his intervention might make an end of this mess, but it seems it needs something more, in spite of Paul’s effort with Grimwald.”

“Operations informed me Rantgar would not be arriving,” said the Abbot. “There was a mishap. Oh, they tried to regenerate him from the pattern buffers, and did manage to get him back briefly, but he wouldn’t stick. I believe we’ve lost him, though he did manage to tell us enough to make our invitation. I am glad you have come.”

The Abbot smiled. “Well, not to be impolite, Mr. Nordhausen, but pleasantries aside, we have also learned that you are somewhat of a philologist.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We were told that you possess knowledge of the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Is that so?”

“Yes, I can read and translate that system, and I’m well versed in Greek and Latin as well.”

“Excellent, just what we hoped!” The Abbot walked to an oaken door, pushing it open. “I’d love to offer you refreshment, but this matter is somewhat urgent, to say the least. Perhaps we’d best get over to the scriptorium.”

“Then you’ve asked me to come here as a translator?” The professor walked with Abbot Emmerich, their shadows preceding them as they turned their backs on the hearth and started through an arched doorway that opened on a long hallway lit by candlelight. Robert noted the sturdy oak beams imbedded in the stone in the walls.

“Exactly,” said the Abbot. “A curious scroll has come into our possession, and it appears to be a rubbing on Papyrus, inked with indigo and depicting the old Egyptian writing that has confounded us over the millennia. How is it you can read this language, professor?”

“I had an interest from an early age, and apparently I was in a Nexus Point when the transformation at Rosetta occurred. My associates have explained it all to me, but I’m afraid the physics escapes me. All I know is that I can still read and decipher the glyphs. I’m surprised you cannot do so as well. Surely there must be someone from your time that has mastered this?”

“There may have been, but we’re living in the post-Palma world now, and it’s a tad uncomfortable. I’m sorry to say we had no one safe in a Nexus when this transformation occurred. In fact, it was your curiosity about the Rosetta Stone that first put us on to the scheme. Our adversaries can be rather ingenious at times. We’ve learned to respect their resourcefulness the hard way.”

They reached the scriptorium, a cavernous room off the hallway they were in, with heavy wood tables and chairs and musty racks of scrolls of papyrus and parchment. The tables were scattered with writing implements and old leather bound books, and Nordhausen was immediately curious, his disquiet concerning this mission well quashed by the amiable and erudite manner of the Abbot.

“So this is one of your bases of operation in this milieu?” The professor was already looking at copies of inked script. “You’re using uncial script. I’ve always had a fondness for it.”

“Indeed,” said the Abbot. “These monasteries and abbeys have been safe harbors for culture and history through many stormy seas, and perfect locations for our people operating on the Meridian here. But we’re losing them now. The Saracens are burning them to the ground as they come north. They have already ransacked the basilica of Saint Hilary outside Poitiers, though we got our people out safely before they arrived. The city itself they spared, probably because they lack proper engines of war, but they are surely bent on coming here as soon as they might.

“I’m afraid most of my flock here is busy packing away our most vital scrolls and manuscripts. We sent two of our agents, Gratien and Aventinus, with a band of pilgrims heading for Rome, but they were waylaid by Saracen raiders on the road and slain.”

“You are speaking of Saints Gratien and Aventinus… Your Agents?” said Nordhausen.

“Indeed, who do you think the saints are, man? Most of them are our people, working out of the abbeys and monasteries to stand a watch on the history, and record it as well.”

Nordhausen raised an eyebrow, coming to a new appreciation of what ‘the Order’ was about in their war against the Assassins.

“Well,” the Abbot continued, “we got most of the important work safely off to the keeping of the Bishop at Maastricht. What you see here are the inconsequential remains. This Abbey has already stood for 360 years since it was built by St. Martin. It wasn’t supposed to suffer any serious threat until the year 853 when the Normans sacked it, a pox upon them. That’s over 480 years where it stands as a bulwark of Christendom, a growing cultural treasure, and a perfect base of operations here. Then this business took a sudden turn for the worst and it seems we could have a problem now, if we don’t get it sorted out. In a matter of hours.”

“I see,” said Nordhausen. “Then you’ve found the final Pushpoint? You know what needs to be done?”

“We have some ideas, but here,” the Abbot gestured to an open scroll lying on a table. “This is the item we’ve secured, and we believe it may hold the key to unraveling the remainder of this mystery.”

Nordhausen leaned in, moving a candle to get better light on the scroll. “I should have brought along my reading glasses,” he said quietly. “Ms. Linford would not hear if it. That woman can be insufferable at times, but I’m afraid we are much in her debt this time around.”

“The intervention she effected on St. Lambert was regrettable, but nonetheless astounding,” said Emmerich. “How did she manage it, we wonder?”

Robert immediately recognized the writing on the scroll. “Well it all seems to revolve around these lines here,” Nordhausen pointed at the scroll. “This is a rubbing from the stone that was uncovered at Rosetta—the altered stela. We believe it contains instructions concerning the events surrounding this battle. You see these characters? They are at times phonetic, and at other times symbolic. You may get an obvious correlation of a pictogram with some object, but they can also be used phonetically in combinations and with specific determinatives and rules. It’s this bit here…”

He ran his finger along a line of hieroglyphics, reading: “The weave undone… A loose twine… where horses were brought to gather… by the water’s edge.” That last phrase was not on the stela until Maeve began her intervention. Mr. Dorland and I returned to discover this, and sent the information on to Maeve.”

“The apple!” said the Abbot, smiling.

“Which reminds me…” Robert reached in his pocket and fished out the apple Maeve had handed him just before he left. “Compliments of Ms. Linford,” he said. “Yes. Our Maeve managed to sort it all out. That last line led her to the ferry site by the river where Lambert was slain. The riders gathered there by the river’s edge, and it was the simple act of loosening the twine that held the ferry in place that prevented Lambert’s safe escape over the Meuse. How she managed it amazes me as well.”

The Abbot was listening carefully, his brow knit with thought. “And this segment?”

“Let me see… Ah, it reads: ‘Hold them fast… those who drink the wind… lest they trample thy endeavor and the host is made to flee…’ We first believed this to be a reference to the horses the Arabs took while pillaging their way to the site of the battle. In fact, we had an intervention planned and reconnoitered the location we suspected these animals might be located. Our thought was that some sort of stampede or other commotion in Arab camp was instrumental in deciding the outcome of this battle. Yet, when Paul shifted in, there was no sign of a battle at all! Could we have selected the wrong date? Was it October 25 of this year?”

“Unfortunately, the site migrated north after the Assassins found a way to spare Lambert, and very near the Abbey here. Abdul Rahman did not approach via the old Roman road. So if you shifted there you would have seen nothing of interest. But all that has changed again after your intervention! At least that is what I am told through messages we have received in recent weeks. The battle will now be fought at Moussais, just south of this place on the road to Poitiers, on the eve of Ramadan, as our historians agree. If Mr. Dorland were to go and have a look now he would be right on target. Your interventions haven’t resolved the issue entirely yet, but you’ve given it a firm nudge in the right direction.” He smiled. “Anything that keeps those heathens from these hallowed walls is a most welcome reprieve. But what you have told me is very enlightening… Those who drink the wind? I don’t understand. What do you make of it?”

“Arabian horses,” said Nordhausen, “or at least a generic reference to horses. Note these three recurring symbols…” He explained the function of a cartouche, the indication of the name Kuhaylan with its meaning as one of the five primary breeds of Arabian horses.

The Abbot thought hard for a time, clearly impressed by the new information he was receiving. “And this last line?”

“It reads: ‘For the unseen one that comes in the dusk shall unseat all….” Robert concluded, folding his arms. “Given the earlier references to horses, I thought that might refer to Dodo on the night he was to kill the Bishop Lambert. Then I came to believe it was a reference to Maeve, riding at dusk to secure that steed and make her intervention, or even to Paul sneaking in to deal with Grimwald.”

“Steed? Our researchers do not mention this.”

“We made some assumptions,” said Robert. “Call them educated guesses, but they seemed reasonable at the time. The Chronicles placed Dodo at a banquet in a citadel on the day he was to murder Lambert at his villa in Leodium. We reasoned that citadel had to be at Heristal.”

“Heristal? Well, it has been reinforced in places, but there are no real substantial fortifications there that could deter any determined assault. But that aside, your assumption was correct. The Lady Alpaida was holding forth there that year, and we had Agents in Place listening in on that banquet, but we were comforted that Dodo was determined to avenge the wrongs against his family. Oh, a whisper here and a rumor there helped in that. Stirring the pot, as it were.”

“Well,” the professor went on, “we asked ourselves how the other side could deter Dodo and fixated on a line from an Arabic source about a mishap he had on the road. Our thought was that he was injured in a fall from a horse—a willful beast described in that chronicle. It was said this horse could be known by his eye, and the fire of his hooves, and Maeve believe this referred to this particular breed of Arabian horse. Since the hieroglyphics mention the name Kuhaylan in places,“ he pointed, “we went looking for that horse.”

“Ingenious!” said the Abbot, “But Dodo’s mishap was that his horse came up lame on the road and he was delayed—at least before Ms. Lindford made her intervention. If your source was Arabic, all the rest of that story was probably fabricated by the writer, a fable to cast mythic light on the event, or possibly even deliberate disinformation seeded in the history by the other side. We believe the Assassins had something to do with enfeebling that horse, however, but that doesn’t make for much of a tale.”

“Well we assumed he would look for another mount,” said Nordhausen. “And we thought this temperamental Arabian might fill the bill nicely, suspiciously planted at a roadside farm by our adversaries, and the loose twine mentioned on the stela would be the rein on that horse.”

“Splendid!” said the Abbot, “but we scoured that road for any sign of mischief, and could not seem to locate anything that could possibly become a viable Pushpoint. We did suspect something was amiss on one of the farms near Lambert’s Villa. There was an uncharacteristic gathering of horses there, and we could not see that the farmer had sufficient wealth to afford them. Perhaps they were trying to round up anything Dodo could have secured as an alternate mount. As it reads now, Dodo did manage to find another horse. It was a simple solution for us. We just put a man on that road with a horse for him, and got him merrily on his way again. As a counter operation, our adversaries were planning to warn Lambert directly, and bring him fresh horses to make good his escape. That was risky, but it would have worked if not for Ms. Linford.”

“Yes, it seems we were wrong about Dodo,” said Robert. “Mr. Dorland and I returned to check on variations and could see no significant change after Maeve secured the horse in question. The push point wasn’t there… and so the meaning of that last line still escapes me… For the unseen one that comes in the dusk shall unseat all…. We thought this might refer to Dodo, coming to Lambert’s villa after dark that night, yet apparently not.”

The Abbott’s eyes were grave, but a light of excitement flickered in them, and he smiled. “Those who drink the wind… You say this is a reference to horses? Cavalry! Could this be so?”

“Yes,” said Nordhausen, “we made that correlation as well, but considered it no more than an admonishment to Abdul Rahman to keep a firm hold on his horsemen.”

“Such advice may be sound,” said the Abbot, “but Abdul Rahman will not be reading the rubbing here before us, even if he had knowledge of this writing. It was meant for the eyes of the Assassins, our enemies operating here in this milieu. It was great good fortune that we were able to secure it. So if guidance of this nature is to have any bearing on the outcome, it would have to mean the Assassins have a man placed very close to Abdul Rahman—an advisor perhaps.”

A sudden thought came to Nordhausen and he raised a finger. “No!” he beamed with excitement now. “Not his horsemen! It had to be the Frankish cavalry. Yes, it makes perfect sense now. Perfect sense!”

“I beg your pardon?” The Abbot was obviously eager to learn what the professor was thinking.

“I’m sorry,” Robert apologized. “But don’t you know the history? You don’t know what happened in this battle?”asked Nordhausen.

“Well…” The Abbot looked at him, hesitating, considering something before he spoke. “You may as well know,” he breathed. “We’ve lost communication with our primary Arch facility in the future. The messages we’ve been receiving of late have come from our hidden site, and they do not have a complete record of events there. The last message we received was very cryptic, and obviously written in great haste. It contained just two words, the last heavily underlined—not Charles, it read.” He reached into his pocket and showed the professor the message, scrawled in a very loose hand on old parchment. “Now what do you make of that?”

“Of course!” Robert’s eyes widened as he recalled all Paul had told him of this battle and fragments of the research began to assemble to an image in his mind.

“Well I can tell you what happens—or at least what’s supposed to happen on the Prime Meridian.”

He immediately had the Abbot’s undivided attention. “Do go on, dear professor,” he said.

“We thought it all had to do with Charles as well, the Hammer of God, eh? That’s what all the interventions were aimed at, weren’t they? The Assassins were trying to prevent the ascension of Charles as Mayor of the Palace. That’s why they wanted to spare Lambert and Grimwald,” he smiled.

“Well, now here’s a perfect illustration of the fact that history is written by the victors. Good old Charles Martel, the Hammer. Oh, he hammered upon his foes relentlessly, there’s no question about that. But the moniker is a bit of a misnomer when it comes to this battle as I see it now. He was more the anvil here than the hammer. The core of his most hardened soldiery stood as an implacable phalanx of steel behind their shieldwall, and it was Abdul Rahman who was hammering, all the long day against that anvil of fate. And his heavy cavalry were going to eventually break through, on this day or on the morrow. Our Mr. Dorland is certain of that. Charles commanded the infantry…” his eyes seemed to be searching as he spoke, looking for bits and pieces in narratives of old books that had come down through the ages, books that he doted over and loved so very much. And from the vault of his memory a line emerged, rearing up like a wayward stallion.

“…With Christ’s help he overturned their tents!”

The Abbot looked at him, a question in his eyes.

“Well…” said Robert, smiling broadly as he looked at the hieroglyphics on the rubbing. “I think I know what happened now.”

Chapter 26

Odo clasped his hands over bloodied ears and lamented the wail of those unfortunate enough to remain in the city. Bordeaux was on fire this night, for brave though they were, his men could not hold back the Saracen horde that now came pouring over the high mountains to the south, a raging tide of Islam.

It was the second time they had come. Years ago, he faced the Moors alone when they had crossed the high passes in the east and invaded his lands, stubbornly fighting for his honor and the homesteads his family had held for decades past. The Ishmaelites first came to Toulouse in the year 721, laboring over the mountains and coming to Septimania, where they held the city of Narbonne as stronghold on the Mediterranean coast. Then up the road through Carcassonne they came, burning and looting every farm and town, and drawing behind them their massive engines of war. For this was holy Jihad, the coming of Islam in earnest to all the lands now held by a loose confederation of squabbling tribes and clans living in the shadow of the old Roman empire.

To the north, in Neustria, the New Lands, the Franks quarreled over the succession of Pippin, lately dead in the year 714. Charles the Bastard struggled to usurp the throne, while Pippin’s cunning widow, Plectrude, schemed to forestall him and seat instead her grandson Theodwald. To the east, in the land called Austrasia, the lords of many tribes became embroiled in this battle. And while they quarreled with one another the menace of Islam reared up like a great wave, casting its dark shadow over the mountains to the south. They were a fearsome race, Arabs, Berbers, Saracens, Moors, yet the empire they had forged now stretched from old Persia through the lands of the Turks, the Levant, old Egypt and all across north Africa. In the year 711 they had crossed the Straits of Gibraltar on borrowed ships and, in seven short years, had thrown down Roderick and destroyed the Visigothic Christian Kingdom of Hispania. Now, as they came over the mountains in force, they rode upon steeds of incomparable virtue, their warriors heavily armored, their banners snapping proudly in the wind. Against this leading edge of fearsome strength and power, the ragged bands and tribes of Gaul seemed primitive by comparison.

Odo held sway in Aquitaine, on the land of his ancestors, and it was his to feel the first blow of the enemy, here at Toulouse. When he first gazed upon the throng of enemy soldiers packed tightly among their siege engines, their horses chafing in the dim, smoky twilight, he could not imagine how he could possibly prevail against such a host. But the enemy had been heedless and full of pride. They had foolishly come between the city and the River Garonne, thinking the strength of the land was fast behind the walls of Toulouse. But Odo had come down from Aquitaine, with every sword and horseman he could gather, and with stealth and guile he sought to strike at the enemy where they were tightly massed in that narrow place.

Fortune was with him that day! Heavily mustered before the battlements of the city, intent to hammer upon the walls with their mighty siege engines, they were taken by surprise when Odo’s wild horsemen came riding, wielding long swords and axes soon wet with the blood of the enemy. A panic ensued, and thousands of the Saracens died, trampled by their own horsemen in the close quarters between the river and the city. The heavy armored cavalry of the Moors, a marvel to behold, could not form or maneuver, and Odo cut through the ranks of Saracen infantry like a scythe, carrying all before him. As they routed, they carried away the heavy horse of the enemy with them in a great panic.

The victory he won that day was never sung in the odes and chronicles of the wise, he brooded. It was he who had dared to strike the Ishmaelites, and turn back the invading horde. It was he who had spared the lands the wrath of Islam, though his name was never sung.

But he cared not for glory. He did not fight for the quarrelsome northmen of Neustria and Austrasia. He did not fight for Christendom, nor for popes clinging to the Holy See in Italy, nor for any notion that his was a culture and a way of life that must surely be preserved. Quite the contrary. The existence his people endured in the dark age that had befallen the West after Rome fell, was far inferior to the splendid and opulent reach of the Umayyad empire. No, Odo fought only for his honor, his family, his brothers and sons, and the land he would stubbornly defend against all comers, Aquitaine.

His victory had won him a measure of peace, but soon the contentious lords of Neustria had ended their quarrel with the ascension of the Bastard Charles as Mayor of the Palace. Now they came to his land, thinking to bring it under their thumb as well, and though Odo was better endowed with brawn than wit, he nonetheless could see in these incursions the harbinger of his own doom. How could he stand watch on his southern borders, wary of the Moors, while his strength was also drawn into conflict with Neustria to the north?

So it was that he schemed to make a truce, in the manner in which warring kingdoms so often reached accommodation. While the Caliph in Hispania sat in the opulence of Cordoba, his far flung Emirs were headstrong, much like Odo himself. To one of these men, Manuza, he gave his daughter in marriage, unmindful of the lamentations of priests, saints and clerics who condemned the marriage as an unholy alliance with the minions of Satan. It may have been such, but Odo was only concerned with his own wellbeing, and that of his family. The marriage promised to neutralize his foe to the south, and more, to create a new alliance in the middle ground between Neustria and Hispania. But when Abdul Rahman came to the Caliphate in Cordoba, he soon plotted to unweave the fabric of Odo’s cloth, and the loose twine which he pulled upon was Manuza.

In the year 731, when the upstart usurper Charles came to Odo’s lands to subdue him, the brawny chieftain rightfully called upon his in-laws to the south to come to his aid, but Manuza was said to be taken with a fit, fearful of the power and guile of Abdul Rahman, and in short order, Manuza was dead.

Odo stood alone against the assembled might of Charles, who had come in anger, bent on breaking Odo’s alliance with the Moors. In this Abdul Rahman was his unknowing ally. By striking down Manuza, Odo was isolated and defeated by Charles. He was soon a gelded and embittered warlord who suffered the humiliation of being forced to kneel before the Neustrian Mayor, and ignominiously pledge his fealty.

So it was that his strength was bled white by Charles, though Odo festered and chafed at the reins the Mayor had bridled him with. He remained a willful and unruly beast, secretly plotting to regain his independence and find yet another way to free himself from Charles domination.

The following summer, however, Odo’s greatest nemesis returned, only this time the Saracen horde took the westernmost passes over the mountains, surprising Odo, who had gathered his army to watch the eastern passes, and the Road to Toulouse, where Manuza had once held them safe as his ally and father-in-law. Through Bayonne they came, then up through Dax to Bordeaux. It was here, again on the River Garonne, that Odo sought to stay their advance. Years ago, he had righteously spilled the blood of the Saracens where this same river flowed east to Toulouse. Now he sought to hold the line again here in the west at Bordeaux, only this time the foe he faced was beyond his strength to impede.

Abdul Rahman had come with a mighty host. All the Emirs of Andalus had joined with him, and his hardened legion of swarthy Saracens swept all before them. Odo formed his men on the banks of the river, their shieldwall at the water’s edge where the enemy sought to cross. He fought as Charles had done when he bested Odo the previous year. So Odo, weakened and with no means of matching the marvelous Moorish cavalry, had stood like an anvil on the River Garonne, and he was hammered to near death by the fierce might of Abdul Rahman. So great was the slaughter of his loyals, that the river was said to run red with the blood of Odo’s men for days after, and none could count the dead.

Barely escaping, with only his chosen comitatus guards at hand, Odo fled to a low hill overlooking Bordeaux, his eye and ears bloodied by the hacking swords of his enemy. There, wounded but alive, he listened to the wail of Bordeaux as it burned in the night, and he wept.

It was a miracle that Odo escaped at all that night. Unhorsed, with few retainers left to guard him, he made his way on foot through the dusky woods, hoping to confound pursuit by hiding himself in the forest. A pack of wolves took up the scent of his blood, and they stalked him warily as he labored up the hill and into a glen where he came upon a small farm site.

There, tethered to a post, he found an old plow horse, a pale stallion that was near the end of life, as Odo was himself. The horse shied away when Odo came, smelling blood and fear. But Odo sang to him, noting the dark circle around the horse’s eye. “Thine eye is bruised and blackened as is mine, he whispered. And we are both old warriors, long past our prime.”

Odo stroked the short cropped mane of the horse, feeling the strength that still burgeoned in the horses shoulders. “Oh no,” he whispered. “You were never meant for the harness and plow. It was yours to run and roam free!” He untethered the horse, calming the beast as he made ready to mount.

“Carry me this night,” he breathed. “I beg of you, for these legs can run no further…”

Odo did not know it then, but the horse he had found was once a young and willful beast, even as he was, and was the very steed Maeve had come upon, 27 long years ago, at a small farm on the road between Heristal and Leodium. Kuhaylan had bolted off into the night when Maeve had dismounted quickly, slapping his hind quarters in farewell. He had run free, for many years thereafter until, in time, he had been caught and harnessed by men again, and driven into service as a war horse. Over the years he had seen many battles, and heard the deep throated cries of many riders, the din of swords falling on many helms. Yet, like all old warriors, he grew weary, his strength slowly ebbing away, and he was put out to pasture, fated to spend the remainder of his days as an old plow horse. Yet this night he was a warrior once again. This night his nostrils flared wide with the smell of fresh blood, and he heard again the jangle of sword and iron studded leather; felt the firm, steady pressure of Odo’s greaves in his flanks.

So it was that Odo was able to make his way north through his family lands, riding on the old Roman road that led to Poitiers. He had little doubt that the Saracen horde would soon be at his back. I was a fool, he thought. I should never have given battle in the manner of Charles.

Yet it was north to the Franks that he rode now, for he had no choice but to throw himself upon the mercy of Charles the Bastard, and beg him to bring his men at arms to the battle that would surely decide the fate of every kingdom and fiefdom in all these lands.

Odo rode north in the night, as fast as Kuhaylan could take him. As he went, a few men gathered to his side, joining the elite core of his comitatus, and word was sent out before him that great peril was riding at his heels. Messengers reached Charles, again warring with rival Frisian lords to the east, intent on bringing all under his heel.

When he first heard the news Charles did not seem overly concerned. The year before, other riders came with news that yet another Saracen fleet had come to land at Narbonne, and that these men now unloaded siege engines and other machines of war. Their outriders had already come up the coast of the Middle Sea to Nimes and Avignon, and raided north up the Rhone valley as well to Lyon, and further, to Chalons. Yet Charles ignored them, being more concerned with potential rivals in Austrasia and Frisia to the north. Not even when the old Roman center of Autun fell would he bestir himself to intervene. Then, having sufficient booty and captives for their harems and slave labor, the Arabs migrated south again for the winter.

Odo bristled over the fact that Charles had dared to cross the Lyon River and attack his lands, using his alliance in marriage with Manuza as a pretext. This while he left the whole of Burgundy and Septimania prostrate before the Muslim raiders! And now, in the year 732, they had returned in force.

The summer was red with fire and blood in all of Gaul while the thick, raiding columns of Abdul Rahman pressed farther north, yet no other army of the Franks came to challenge them. Odo thought to make a stand at Poitiers, thinking to buy time until Charles could come, but with just a few thousand light horsemen, he wisely decided to fall back on Tours and wait.

The summer gave way to the cold winds of autumn while the Moors looted and pillaged all the lands to the south. Odo chafed restlessly at Tours, his bruised eye long in healing, his pride wounded even more so. He could do nothing on his own, and he brooded, until word finally came to him that the Saracens had come at last to Poitiers, burning the great basilica of Saint Hilary, which lay outside its fortified walls. The priests and monks had begged him to fight, but he knew he had not the strength to contest the foe until Charles came.

“I will not waste the last of my horsemen to save your altars,” he raged. “When Charles comes, then we will fight and settle the matter once and for all.”

And that night Charles finally came, leading the strength of his battle hardened heavy men at arms, and many levies he had gathered from the provinces of Austrasia and Neustria. Odo was summoned to the council of war at his camp near Ballan-Miré, and he meant to tell all he knew of this fearsome enemy host and, in so doing, decide the outcome of the battle that would soon be fought. But Charles the Bastard was proud, and would not hear him.

“If the enemy has so many horsemen, as you say, then we cannot hope to array ourselves on the field in open order,” Charles had said. “He will be too fast, and too quick to turn our flanks.”

“But if we can strike them in a narrow place, as I did at Toulouse,” said Odo, “then we may press them back upon their own ranks and trample them beneath our feet! It is only by such guile that we may prevail here, Charles. So we must find a place where our flanks may be well protected. The rivers to the south, not far from here, will serve that purpose well. The ruin of the old Roman mansio is in that area. There is an abandoned amphitheatre, and a tower. Let us make as if to stand there, but give back, as in much dismay. Then, when our enemy advances, ever compressed in the place where the waters meet, I shall strike him from the rear with all our horsemen, as I did at Toulouse!”

It was the only great victory Odo could claim, unsung as it was, and it was all he knew then of the making of war, for standing as he did behind his shieldwall on the River Garonne, had brought him nothing but defeat and dishonor.

“We will find this narrow place,” Charles pointed at him, standing up boldly, his shoulders square, his blue eyes bright with the fire of battle under locks of fair blonde hair. “And yes, Odo, I will stand there. But we will not feign retreat in the manner of the Visigoths. It did them little good in Hispania, eh? My scouts have already selected the place for battle, astride the Old Roman road on a low hill. There I will take the main strength of this army, and we will dig a trench and plant our shields deep. One flank, on our right, we anchor on the river, the other against heavy woodland to the east.”

“They have archers!” Odo argued still. “The will tease and rush in, and unleash volley after volley upon your infantry. And many will die. When you are sufficiently bled, then the main attack will be made, like a mailed fist, for their host will array themselves in five parts. One shall ride in the van, and another to the rear. But the heavy horse he will hold in three parts in the center.”

“Our men are well armored,” said Charles, unconcerned. “Their helms are strong and their tunics are laced with iron and thick leather. We will endure, and if their archers will not cause us to flee, then the enemy must send in his horsemen, in as many parts as he may desire. We will let them come and hew them down behind our shieldwall.”

“They are heavy horse,” said Odo. “You have not seen their like in any of your feuds to the north. They will come with barbed lances, throwing javelins and wielding their cruel curved swords. You cannot endure such a charge with the numbers they bring! I fought in this manner on the River Garonne, and it went ill.”

“We will endure,” said Charles. “Let them come and we will stand. They will break upon the ranks of my chieftains and strong men at arms, and then, when the moment is right, I will sound the horn call to summon your cavalry.”

“You will summon me? Will I not be already embroiled in the fight?”

“You will stand on my left flank, lying in wait by the woods and making certain the enemy footmen do not use it to infiltrate and threaten our rear. Send out scouts and harriers as well, for the enemy is heavily laden with booty. They carry with them all they have pillaged in coming to this place. Their camp must be close at hand.”

“Yes,” said Odo, his face reddening with anger. “They have taken the fat of Aquitaine, horses, livestock, wives and children to be pressed into slavery. They will make a great camp, blotting the land with their tents! There I should strike them, and bring just retribution upon them for the crimes they have committed.”

“You will not,” shouted Charles. “Harry them, yes, prick at them, nip at their heels, but you will not commit the main body of your horsemen until I give the order.”

Odo shook his head, willful and obstinate, but Charles pointed a thick, gloved finger at him and fixed him with heavy eyes. “You will do this, or you may go, Odo. You have sworn fealty to me and my Palace. Hostages were taken to stiffen your pledge, and I command here, or would you have me lead this army away, and face the enemy yourself? Disobey and those we hold in keeping will all be slain. And then, when I have broken these Saracen heathens, I will turn my men upon your house and burn every living thing to the ground should you betray me now!”

Odo looked at him, squinting in the torchlight, his wounded eye puckered and still swollen, his brow lined and sweaty with the heat of argument. He had but three thousand horsemen, if even that. Charles commanded fifteen thousand heavy infantry, and thousands more in levies he commandeered from every town and hamlet as he marched to this place.

The other lords and chieftains closed ranks about Charles, and they would stand with him, come what may. Odo was alone again, isolated, a wounded old war horse, saddled and bridled, destined to plow the fields at Charles’ whim.

“As you wish,” he said unhappily. There was nothing more he could do, and he turned and left the council, his cheeks hot and the blood high on his neck.

“As you wish,” he said to himself in the cold night airs outside. “But we shall see who stands or falls when the battle is joined, bastard usurper. We shall see.”

Chapter 27

“Yes,” said Nordhausen. “I remember the line now… With Christ’s help he overturned their tents! The Continuator of the Chronicles of Fredegar wrote it. He was speaking of Charles, but it wasn’t Charles at all! The tents would have been well to the rear, in a clearing or on a small hill. Paul shifted in to scout out the area where we thought they might be located, but saw nothing at all—not even a battle underway. But that was on another Meridian!”

He had a grasp on something now, pulling his thoughts together quickly. “Maeve changed things. Lambert and Grimwald die as they should, and Charles wins the power struggle with Plectrude. And so now the battle is where we thought it would be, and the horses… They aren’t livestock taken as pillage by the Moors, no! It’s Odo and his cavalry!”

“Odo? You mean the Duke of Aquitaine?”

“Precisely!” Robert was shaken with the clarity and simplicity of it now. “The Pushpoint lies with him. It was Odo and his light horsemen that Charles thought to hold in reserve for an opportune moment. I can’t blame the man. Paul explained it all to me. The Franks are badly outnumbered when it comes to cavalry in this battle. Charles wanted Odo on his left rear flank, which he considered his weakest point given the firmness of the ground there. But Odo had other ideas. He was headstrong and quite stubborn, stolidly independent. Why, he had even gone so far as to ally himself with the Moors at one point so he could quiet his southernmost front and better confront the incursions of the Austrasians and Neustrians to the north. He was the willful beast! Not the damn horse!”

The Abbot was following along as best he could, at once excited yet still somewhat confused.

“Yes,” said Robert. “Odo was to be held in reserve behind Charles and his Infantry. But I’ll reckon he was most unhappy.”

The Abbot was truly surprised as the professor rambled on, speaking more to himself now.

“And here we thought it was Dodo all along—All we had to do was drop one letter to land on the real culprit. Curious how the accounts of these events are so rife with double meaning,” he said. “No my dear Abbot, the willful beast is the Duke Odo of Aquitaine. He’s was quite the rogue from what we know in the history.”

“Odo, and not the horse?” Emmerich was uncertain. “Yet your sources describe the Arabian steed, the eye, the fire of his hooves. Then something seemed to occur to the Abbot and he shrugged, “Well I suppose it could refer to Odo’s eye as well.“

“What that?” Nordhausen cocked his head to one side, curious. “Odo’s eye?”

“He was wounded,” said the Abbot. “Took a few hard blows upon his helm when he tried to stop the Saracens earlier this year. Some say he’s gone daft in the head, and his eye is still blackened from his earlier defeat on the River Garonne. It’s been slow to heal.”

“You’re certain of this?” said Nordhausen.

“Of course we are,” said the Abbot. “Because Odo is here, at this very moment. Right here in the city. He was waiting here for Charles to arrive with the main Frankish infantry, and he arrived some days ago, just in time to repulse the Saracen rush to take this place. Abdul Rahman has correctly assessed that he may have more in front of him than a few stubborn men at arms now, and he appears to be waiting while he gathers the full strength of his army before proceeding further. The two sides have been skirmishing for several days.”

“Then the final battle is drawing near?”

“On the morrow,” said the Abbot. “Charles moved his main body up this evening, past the old Roman mansio on the road south. He’s setting up his shieldwall, and planning the defense even as we speak. God be with him, for all Christendom and the fate of the West hangs upon the outcome here.”

“Yes,” said Nordhausen, “But Charles was only the anvil in this battle—the stubborn defense. He was certainly essential to the victory here, but he is not the one who decides the issue. It was Odo! Odo and his few thousand light cavalry! They were the horses referred to on the stela. And you shall know him by his eye, and the fire of his hooves! Even the Arab source writes about him. That line has a double meaning as well! It was Odo and his cavalry. That was the commotion in the enemy camp. He must have staged a raid on the camp as the long day’s battle waned— right at dusk. Fearing the loss of all their plunder, this caused the Saracen horde to break off their attack and flee to the defense of their tents. This must be the solution,” he said at last. “It was Odo! The Pushpoint lies with him.”

The Abbot blinked nervously, his eyes ever on a great wooden box that sat at the far end of the Scriptorium. They had been speaking for some time, now, and Emmerich eyed the candles with growing anxiety.

“Lord, guide me,” he whispered. Then looked firmly at Robert, resolved. “Be very careful now,” he said. “Are you certain of this?”

“The line from Fredegar’s Chronicle is clear in my mind,” said Robert. “I have no doubt about that. But the writer obviously flattered Charles because he retains power and goes on to hammer at the Saracens until he drives them out completely. Odo dies three years after this, unheralded and bitter to the end.”

“Then you believe it is Odo that causes the confusion in the enemy camp?”

“It had to be,” said Robert. “Charles was heavily engaged with the main body of the enemy cavalry. How could he be responsible? Odo had the only force mobile enough to pull off a raid on the Saracen camp. He commanded the Frankish Cavalry. Yes, he was held in reserve, but it’s clear that he had every reason to launch an attack like this. He comes to Tours after being roundly defeated by Abdul Rahman, and suffers the humiliation of having to beg his rival and enemy, Charles, for aid and succor. He’s bristling to restore his honor. The only victory he can really claim was won by just such a raid, striking the enemy flank at Toulouse while they were heavily engaged at the walls of the city. It’s exactly the sort of maneuver he would plan. In fact, it’s the only thing he could do given the circumstances. Odo’s raid causes a segment of Abdul Rahman’s army to retreat to secure their camp, most likely his undisciplined Berbers. Then the whole thing falls apart, and when Abdul tries to rally his men, he is killed. Only then does Charles launch his counterattack, just like the garrison of Toulouse sortied out when Odo won that battle. It’s Odo. I’m sure of it.”

“So how can the Assassins prevent his maneuver, short of killing the man outright? That would be difficult, given that Odo is much on guard now, and surrounded by the last remnant of his comitatus guard.”

“Don’t you understand?” said Nordhausen. “They haven’t figured any of this out either—the other side is as much in the dark as you are, as we all were! Every intervention the Assassins have been running has been aimed at Charles. They tried to prevent his ascension and put Grimwald in his place, but we’ve stopped them. They think it all has to do with Charles, but they’re wrong, and I’m right, by God. And that’s the end of it.”

The Abbot bit his lip, hesitating, an inkling of fear in his eyes, and much anxiety evident on his face.

“This is maddening,” said Nordhausen. “You mean to say that even given all your resources in the future, whatever year it is that you have come here from, your people cannot find the Pushpoint?”

“All our resources?” The Abbot gave him a wry smile. “We had two Arch complexes left operational after the Heisenberg Wave generated by Palma struck home. Exactly two. They are most likely still protected by Nexus fields until the outcome of these events, but they have limited capabilities, even as you operate within the limits of available petrol and quantum fuel in your era. And they were focusing most of their effort at solving the threat of Palma. We’ve only just been warned about the danger here at Tours. The remainder of all our assets, Agents, Supervisors, Controllers, Messengers, are scattered throughout the history, and at grave risk now. This abbey, for example, is now in jeopardy, and in like manner the remainder of our forces will be harried, hunted down and eliminated, throughout the whole of the Meridian if we fail to stop Abdul Rahman and his Saracens here.”

“So you fear your people are in no condition to assist you further?”

“You saw the message. Did you note the scrawled hand? It was obviously written in great haste. It could be that it originated at one of our Arch complexes, and was hastily sent through just before it failed. Perhaps that explains why I have received nothing further these last few hours.”

Nordhausen nodded, understanding. “I have seen you eying that box for some time. And you have opened it twice. The messages come though at that location?”

“Yes, they shift things into the chest there, but I have had nothing for hours,” said the Abbot. “Well,” he sighed, deciding. “I have nothing else to go on, and this information is most unsettling. I must put men on it immediately. The enemy may come round to this as well, and they could be hatching a new plot against Odo even as we speak.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Robert. “This is all new, you see. I suppose it’s another throw of the dice here after all these interventions. On the Prime Meridian Odo makes his raid, but this is new… Odo must be a what Paul calls a Free Radical. It is his choice that decides this battle, so it could go either way now. What will you do?” he finished.

“I have no real idea yet,” said the Abbot, “but at the very least I can put a watch on Odo and assure his safety tonight. The Assassins got that name for a reason, eh? If they come round to this same line of reasoning, and key on Odo as the Primary Lever, then they may be desperate enough to take bold and direct action. After all, his sons are already living and he does nothing of any further significance in the years ahead. If what you suggest is true, however, eliminating him now could decide the outcome of the battle. This is the consummate moment of his life where this one choice decides all. The stakes are enormous! So I have little time to waste now. I must put every man I have on this.”

He started for the door, tugging at the sleeve of the professor’s cassock. “And your candle is burning low as well.” He pointed a fat finger at the professor, smiling wanly.

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re going back soon,” Emmerich gestured to the candle. “See where it burns low? Your retraction scheme will initiate soon. In fact, I think it best we make our way back to the reception room. I will have to carry on here without you, but I must tell you that your intervention here could be absolutely decisive. I am much in your debt, professor.”

“But what will you do?”

“Oh, let me think of something. In the extreme, if I receive no further instructions from Research, I will send monks to Odo where he lies in wait, and have it said that Abdul Rahman has brought the Duke’s Daughter with him to this place, she who was given in marriage to Manuza. We will whisper that she is kept in a harem, with other slaves, violated and shamed in the Saracen camp. If that doesn’t light a fire under the man, and compel him to initiate his raid, then nothing will.”

“Good idea,” said the professor. “And we still have the Arch running, at least I hope we do. We have the computers to sift the history as well. Can you give me the exact space-time coordinates of this place—of that box, for example. And we will do what we can back home. Perhaps we can send through a message that could be of further assistance.”

“You are too kind,” said the Abbot. “But you already have the coordinates—it’s what brought you here, my good man. That spot will do nicely should you discover anything more. In the meantime, I must warn you as well. Be wary! Be stealthy! The enemy is everywhere. Their agents and assassins stalk all the Meridians of Time as well—even in your day. Once safe in a Nexus, you have little to fear, but absent that, you are at grave risk as well.”

“I see,” said Nordhausen when they had returned to the reception hall. He looked for his place on the carpet, arranging his cassock as before to prepare for the retraction shift.” It was not long in coming.

“Go with God,” he heard the Abbot say and the eerie tingling sensation and feather lightness of being swept over him.

A moment later he was gone.