John Schettler - Anvil of Fate

“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.”

Odo clasped his handsover 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.