Tim Severin - The Book of Dreams

Carolus arrived a week later at our camp outside Zaragoza’s walls, leading an army that was weary and much reduced in size. Many of his levies had returned to Frankia, having completed their days of service. Others had deserted. The great baggage train had dwindled to less than a hundred ox carts and the accompanying herd of cattle no longer existed. The troops had eaten every last animal and were now living off the land like locusts.

The king lost no time in summoning a council of war. It was held in the same royal pavilion, its bright colours now faded by sun and rain, and once again Hroudland required Berenger and me to attend him.

This time, as I entered the great tent, I saw Ganelon. He was dressed in exactly the same clothes he had been wearing at the first banquet in Aachen. Apart from a deep tan on his bearded face he appeared to have changed not at all since he rode off with Gerin to negotiate with — or rather betray — the Wali of Barcelona. I quietly took my usual place in the outer circle of attendants and stood watching him, waiting for his reaction when he noticed me. Halfway through a conversation with his neighbour, he happened to look up and saw me. His eyes widened and for a fraction of a moment he froze. Then he recovered himself and glanced briefly towards Hroudland. If he was busy calculating whether or not the count knew of the plot to discredit him, it did not show on his face. Without the slightest change of expression he turned back to continue his conversation with his companion. At that moment Carolus appeared from behind the velvet curtain.

In just a few months, the king looked as though he had aged by ten years. He no longer walked with quite the same confident stride, and his face was more deeply lined than I remembered. His long moustache, once straw-yellow, held flecks of grey and he looked tired. As usual he was dressed in the ordinary cross-gartered leggings, tunic and trousers of a well-to-do Frankish noble, though, as a concession to the heat of Hispanian summer, the cloth was now of light linen rather than heavy wool. In his right hand he carried a mace of dark wood, gnarled and polished and banded with gold. I imagined it was some sort of sceptre.

He walked across to his portable gilded throne and took his seat. His attendants had already set up the trestle table with the map of tiles, and Carolus looked across it at the assembled company. His gaze was the same as ever, the grey eyes shrewd and penetrating, knowing each and every one of the people before him. Despite myself I held my breath and stood straighter as I waited for his pronouncement.

‘I have summoned you to council,’ he began, ‘to hear your advice on how we should proceed with the campaign. As you are aware, our allies are in disarray. The Emir of Cordoba has defeated the Wali of Huesca in battle. The Wali of Barcelona was unable to offer us the help he promised. Our original plan for Hispania must now be modified.’

The king’s words made me realize how little I knew of the overall progress of the campaign. Evidently the Falcon of Cordoba had moved decisively against the rebellious Saracen governors before the Franks had arrived.

‘We now find ourselves in front of Zaragoza, whose governor is the third of our so-called allies,’ Carolus continued. ‘He has closed its gates to us. I await your suggestions as to what we should do next.’

There was a long awkward silence. I sensed the Frankish nobles trying to gauge the king’s frame of mind. None of them wanted to speak up and risk the king’s wrath by making an unwelcome proposal. It was the ever-cautious and practical Eggihard who spoke first.

‘Your Majesty, we are running low on supplies. The army cannot keep in the field for more than a few weeks.’

Carolus toyed with his wooden sceptre, stroking the polished surface.

‘So how do we put those few weeks to good use?’

‘We teach the Saracens a lesson they will remember so they never cross into Frankia again,’ called out a swarthy, heavily built nobleman I did not recognize.

‘How?’ grunted the king.

‘We’ve already dealt with the Wali of Barcelona as he deserved. Now we should do the same to the Wali of Zaragoza. Take his city, and hold him to account.’

The man looked around for the support of his fellows. Most of them avoided his gaze and stared instead at the map table. The mood of the meeting was decidedly pessimistic, even sombre.

To my surprise, it was the normally aggressive Hroudland who urged caution.

‘I have seen the walls of Zaragoza,’ he said. ‘Believe me, without large siege engines we cannot take the city in less than six months.’

‘Then our engineers must build siege engines,’ insisted the swarthy nobleman. He scowled angrily at Hroudland. The man was evidently another of the margrave’s rivals at court.

‘It will take far too long to construct heavy siege engines,’ argued Eggihard. ‘By the time they are ready, our supplies will be finished.’

There was another long interval as no one else spoke. The king stirred restlessly on the wooden throne. Close to me someone coughed nervously. I was aware of the faint, musty smell of mildew; the canvas of the great royal tent had begun to rot. It occurred to me that this decay symbolized the threadbare, worn-out state of the Frankish army.

Finally Hroudland again spoke. He raised his voice so everyone could hear him clearly, and his words were delivered with a confident flourish.

‘I suggest, Your Majesty, that instead of laying siege to Zaragoza, we extract its wealth like honey from the hive, and leave the city so impoverished that it will be unable to trouble us in the future.’

‘And how do we keep the bees at bay?’ demanded his uncle. I could see a glint of interest, even affection, in the gaze he turned on Hroudland.

‘We have the Wali of Barcelona as our prisoner. He is both the brother-in-law and the close ally of the Wali of Zaragoza,’ the count answered. ‘I’m told that there is a strong bond between the two men. I propose that we demand a very great ransom for the release of the Wali of Barcelona plus an additional sum to recompense the expenses for bringing the army into Hispania.’

Like a shaft of sunlight suddenly lighting up gloomy countryside, his words lifted the atmosphere in the pavilion. Noblemen exchanged knowing glances. Most of them had come to Hispania for loot, not to stay and settle. There was a mutter of excitement; they could carry back the spoils without having to fight for them.

‘Is there enough wealth in Zaragoza to meet such a heavy demand?’ the king asked Hroudland mildly.

‘Your Majesty, Zaragoza is one of the richest cities in Hispania. The wali has enormous personal wealth,’ Hroudland assured him.

A low rumble of approval greeted his announcement.

By now I knew this was the way of the Frankish world. The naked greed of the Franks was unpleasant to observe but, however distasteful I found it, I had to accept that I had committed myself to helping satisfy their craving for riches when I rode into Hispania as a loyal member of Hroudland’s entourage.

‘And how do we persuade the wali Husayn to part with his wealth?’ asked the king.

With a sinking heart I anticipated what Hroudland would say next.

‘I have just the man to act as a go-between. He will know how best to present our demand,’ answered the count. He looked in my direction.

The king followed his glance and there was a flicker of recognition as his shrewd, grey eyes came to rest on me.

Unexpectedly Ganelon spoke up. His voice was measured and serious, with no hint that he was raising an objection. He was too clever for that.

‘Your Majesty, the noble margrave’s plan is admirable, but it may come to nothing unless we can provide the wali with some sort of surety of our good faith.’