Chapter 16: Into the Vineyards in Italy
I was being carried from the Mission on the hill most directly northward of the slow city of Almeria. The Levante Winds had been blowing in from North Africa for two days. Given how a storm will normally blow in after the winds have stopped blowing, it was important for our caravan to get moving. As Isa had saddled up and begun to lead the Caravan to the province of La Mancha so they could continue their process of converting Southern Spain to Islam. However, as they were departing, they spotted a man bearing the Granadan Coat of Arms.
“The Emir of Almeria has sent me here to enforce the Ordinance that the Sultan has most recently put in place,” the armored Mamuluk stated.
“Well spit it out then,” Isa irritably replied.
“Okay then. Due to the outbreak of war between the nations of Portugal and Granada with each of their respective allies, it is forbidden for a group of Missionaries to travel between the provinces of the Granadan Empire as to protect them from roaming hordes of Portuguese Mercenaries or standing armies.” read from the scroll, freshly printed in bold black ink/
“Bah, how do you suppose that we are to leave for La Mancha before the weather turns bad?”
“According to this ordinance, you won’t.” the Mamuluk replied.
“Who started this war anyway?” Isa inquired, subtly hinting that he was not happy.
“Seeing that the Portuguese were engaged with the Aragonese, the Sultan figured that he would be able to bypass the Aragonese warning by declaring war on Portugal.”
“You know quite a lot for being an ignorant soldier.” Isa said, studying the man over from head to toe.
“I have my sources,” the Mamuluk replied, smirking, “but now I must be on my way” he said, spurring on his horse to gallop off into the distance.
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Salim woke up from his dark sleep outside of the walls of Naples. In the backdrop, you could see the great towering walls, fully garrisoned with the peasant rabble that had recently been drafted to serve on the walls. Around Salim’s midsection was freshly wrapped tape that had been laid there hours before. Although there had been no fighting, somehow, Salim managed to receive a wound. Threatening an already tense situation, one of the poorly trained peasants had forgotten to unload his crossbow. So as he was toying with it, bored obviously, he accidently pulled the trigger, sending the jagged steel bolt flying. The bolt passed two heavily armed foot soldiers and hit Salim, being an archer, wearing light leather plates, was pierced through the chest. The sight of Salim falling to the ground enraged the army. The only thing that prevented the death of the surrendering army was the order of lowering of weapons delivered by the Bey of Tuscany. With a wave of pain, the world went black for Salim. As he took a walk to test his body’s capabilities, he noticed that many of the tents were being packed up.
“Why are packing our supplies, Naples has not yet fallen?” he asked as he approached a lowly servant dressed in rags that have been tattered and torn.
“Haven’t you heard,” the servant grunted, lifting up a heavy metal pole, “the Milanos from the North have called for a Jihad against us, so we signed a hasty truce with Naples as to avoid fighting.”
Salim gasped and fell to the ground, taxing too much of his brittle body, he passed out again.
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The past few days had been boring since they mainly consisted of moving things into the broken down monastery that Isa had had to use because the older, quainter monastery had been rented out by a wealthy noble from the area. I had also not been fed as much, since Isa had been tied up with “more important things” such as systematically destroying the pearly white marble altar and burning every aged Bible he could lay his hands on. Being fed up with not being adequately fed, I escaped my cage using the same tactic I had used five years before to visit the library, and then went hunting. After pouncing on and dismembering a grasshopper, I heard the sound of horses clip-clopping on a dusty trail a few hundred yards away. Deciding that there was nothing better to do, and seeing that there was nothing better to do, I approached the sounds of the horses. They had stopped at the same monastery that Isa had once occupied just days ago. But instead of being all dark and dreary as it had once been, it had been decorated as to appear festive, with a grand, magenta banner, with a gold outline, was strewn across the entrance. The inside was lined with the finest oil lamps, inviting even the most paranoid inside. I approached to get a better look. Turning the corner, I saw the most magnificent carriage that could rival any. But even more magnificent was that I recognized the carriage. The way the wheels were rounded, the slight discoloring off the right door, it all seemed so familiar, yet so foreign at the same time. Then it hit me, this was the carriage used by Yusurf III, I had seen it multiple times on the trips he would sometimes take me on, even though they did not last long. It was this that intrigued me the most, and it was this that forced me inside like a dog that can’t resist the smell of meat. Once I got to the main hall (well the ceiling), I recognized that this was not some gathering of nobles, it was feast, including the wealthiest nobles and the prettiest ladies of the land. The most prominent figure there was Muhammad VIII, who was sitting at the head of the table. The dinner conversation ranged from families, to solving the problem of how to keep the wells in Toledo clean. The purpose of the feast was made apparent at the toast, which was made by the Duke of Andalucía:
“First off, a toast to our beloved Muhammad VIII, who has arranged this spectacular event that has brought us together, to the armies of Granada, who have successfully seized the province of Algarve, and to ourselves, for without us, this country would be nothing.”
The sound of glasses clinked as the food was served, with the main course being Roast Pig spiced with cinnamon, salt, and other necessary spices for a lavish fest as this one. Casual conversation again reclaimed the focus of the feast throughout the evening until after the table had been cleared. After then, Muhammad VIII beckoned for his servant to bring over a map of Europe, painted on parchment crafted in Alexandria. On the way there, the servant tripped, demanding a severe reprimand from Muhammad as he handed the map to Muhammad. Seeing that he had not gathered the attention of all of his guests, he repeatedly hit his spoon on his crystal glass that had once contained wine, creating a ringing sound that demanded the attention of all who were attending.
“I have also called you here to discuss strategy for invading Milan.”
“Ah, you always have to include some sort of politics into the most fun event?” said a drunken noble, slurring his words.
“What, you think this has all been guaranteed to us, since we have conquered it? The entire Catholic World would like to see our name wiped off the map, and there is a rumor that the Pope has called for a crusade that would rival that of the ones that ravage the Levant centuries ago. Now is not the time to sit back and relax and watch the world pass us by, it our turn to seize the reins of fate and pull them into our favor. So raise your men, for there is glory to be had, and legends to be written, in the fertile land of Italy, where history will remember us for what we are; conquerors.”
“Italy, interesting, I could use a change of scenery.” I thought as I tried to reel in the magnitude of what this decision may mean.
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