The Raid
A distinct chill lingered in the Tunisian Night. During the daylight, the sun blazed endlessly, enveloping the armies of the European invaders with a suffocating heat. French knights, laden with pounds of armor and weapons which suddenly seemed like lead in their hands, wasted away in the heat, their flesh melting beneath the ceaselessly beating sun. One by one, they, like so many before them, Norwegians, Scots, Germans, Italians, Normans and Irish, a hundred nations had stood before the walls of Tunisia since the declaration of the crusade almost a decade and a half ago, and not one had claimed the castle as their own for longer than a few months. The Zirids, at war constantly since they were brought to the Pope’s attention, had grown able and dexterous. When the Europeans first came, splendid and righteous on their boats, banners waving briskly in the wind and spirits riding high, they faded into the desert, a small contingent left to man the walls of Tunis itself for the almost routine siege to follow. And so it would begin. In the first few days, trumpets would taunt the Zirids, daring them to come out of their keep and meet their fate at the hands of the Christian God. The Zirids gave no reply, smugly grinning t the horde surrounding them, quite content to let them have their fun. They had ruled Tunisia since they seized it from the Vandals, and no amount of barbarian pomp would persuade them to leave. Besides, they knew the way of these things. The Europeans, united at first by their crusading zeal, would soon remember their differences and unable to enjoy quick success at Tunis, venture outward to the other provinces, where the armies of the Zirid Kingdom, diminished as they were by years of constant strife, would await them, and, as they divided into ever smaller units of individual counts and lords, annihilate them, leaving their bones to bleach in the desert with those of their brothers from years before. And so it went with countless expeditions.
Alberto knew all of this as he gazed at the keep, the chill of the Tunisian night enveloping him. He’d ventured to the very edge of the ring of fortifications surrounding it tonight, perhaps out of boredom, to get look that elusive prize so near to being within his grasp, and yet it seemed so very distant from his conquest. The current expedition to Tunisia had proved little exception to the rule the Zirids proposed. The French King, newly installed upon his throne and little inclined to invest much effort in any expedition beyond his own borders, yet fearing the label impious be attached to his newly won Kingship, piled Alberto with plaudits, praising his expedition against the Mallorcans as the very model of what he hoped to accomplish in Tunisia. Yet Alberto knew the type, the smug smile, the hearty slap on the back, the feigned confidence of a usurper. He never expected that the French support of his expedition would prove enduring, yet he also knew that he could not hope to conquer Tunisia without a bit of help. His own armies, one from each of the four islands he ruled, scarcely equaled that of the splendid troops from the Ile-de-France alone. He knew that the French enlisted him solely to provide a more convenient target for the Zirids when they inevitably retreated, one much closer to Tunisia than France. He knew that if he failed in Tunisia, the Zirids would follow him to Corsica, to Sardinia, to Mallorca and Menorca, and that that he would be reduced from being even the Pauper Duke to being the exiled and titular beggar Duke, his family at his side, vagabonds in alien courts, begging for the support of foreign lords to restore him to his rights. Yet even Alberto was surprised by how swiftly the King and his splendid men from Ile-de-France departed, claiming urgent need to attend to matters in Medjerda. Fortunately, however, not all of the French departed with their liege lord. The Count of Amiens, Narbonne, and several others who lost family members in previous expeditions remained, grimly determined to t last take and hold this infernal city, this piece of sand. Amongst them, they elected Alberto to lead the siege with in Guillaume’s ‘temporary’ absence.
Indeed, Alberto thought as he looked at the city before him, foreign and beautiful minarets soaring into the night, walls gleaming with torches to ward off ny enemy encroachments under the cover of nightfall, he had n opportunity here. If he could seize Tunis, it would give him a foothold on the mainland, a base from whih to expand his domain and his realm. If there was a Kingdom of the Zirids in Africa, why not a Kingdom of the Corsicans? He silenced these thoughts, concentrating on the objective at hand. The Zirids, his spies informed him, were near offering peace, they were likely to offer him land elsewhere, as Guillaume on his way to Medjerda had despite himself stumbled upon and severely damaged their primary army, leaving them with few forces to relieve the siege. Alberto thought a few provinces would sate his appetite, he lacked the zeal to slaughter the infidels that some of his companions, nursing blood feuds and more religious inclined, possessed. His spies, though he never before this day used anything as evolved as the spy system he employed now, the usefulness of its intelligence continued to astound him. Demetrio, with all his cunning, proved an adept weaver of these sorts of webs. He had overcome Alberto’s initial objections that their employ lacked honor, assuring his father that in a war with the infidels different methods must be employed. Indeed, his zeal sometimes frightened Alberto, there was a callousness with regard to the life of these spies in his sons actions which disquieted him, indeed, he rarely asked for details about Demetrio’s methods, which always delivered precisely the right piece of information at precisely the right moment…he only hoped that he and Margherita’s affection in the last few years lessened the rage in the boys heart. The last few years brought a smile to his lips, fond memories all, Margherita brilliant and smiling t his side, his daughters nurturing and playful. Young Vittorio such a blessing, and so very like Chiano. Demetrio often seemed to engage them, yet Alberto still sensed a distance from the boy, now a young man and lord in his own right, which he hoped the years would chill. If Demetrio’s ruthless effectiveness stunned him, Germano’s contributions to the siege, such as they were, dismayed him. He arrived from Menorca leader in name only, his Marshal commanding his men, operating on orders from his wife. He hardly recognized his father, and a guard kept him shut in his tent at all hours of the day, lest his madness infect the rest of the army. In the years since his departure for Menorca he seemed to have decayed even further, occasionally and much to Alberto’s frustration declaring himself a son of Zeus. Alberto continued to visit him, always hopeful that he could still salvage the boy, that the happy boy he picked up from his foster parents so many years ago yet lingered beneath the surface. All I can do is continue to try, he thought, Germano is my sin, and I must bear it. He owed many thanks to Elvira, whose care for Germano kept him alive, profound debt indeed, he thought. As he aged, he thought often of the dreams of his youth, and though he had not succeeded to the heights of his most delirious ambitions, he found himself lrgely content with his life. With his wife, his children. The spring in his step that once carried him up many Corsican hillsides seemed to be slipping, but he took solace in the fact that he had risen in the world, and known love. If all things were not perfect, he hoped history would remember him for his triumphs. As he gazed at the walls of Tunis in the chilled night air, he saw a vision of hope, for his dynasty, a tremendous future. Tunis was a center of trade, a grand city, it dwarfed Ajaccio. Here, in a new world, in a new land, his heirs could build a firm foundation.
Alberto’s thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of horses. He averted his eyes from the walls for a moment and peered at the darkness before him, where he saw shadows moving. Raiders, he thought, and began to run from the edge of the fortress, striking the night guard beside him sharply so that he too would raise the alarm. Demetrio even today had informed him that the Zirids would attempt a sortie before being forced to kill their horses, as usual, it seemed Demetrio’s sources had been proved correct. His cries began to rouse the camp, torches came on and men began streaming to the defenses’, groggy but prepared for a fight- the long siege left them restless and eager, and the sun’s absence was a merciful blessing. The horses were upon him now, having jumped the small wall, Alberto turned to face them, drawing his sword and setting his feet. They were dressed all in black, the better to blend with the knight, scimitars glistening softly in the moonlight. One bore down on him, and Alberto knew that they would grapple soon. The rider let out a yelp and charged, covering the distance between them quickly. As he approached, Alberto lunged with his sword and ducked low, hoping to catch the horse’s knees in his blade. The rider, prepared for the maneuver, ably stopped his horse, drawing it to him and raising its legs in the in the air above Alberto’s blade. Alberto cursed under his breath and rose to his feet, well aware that the scimitar even now lashed out at him, as he turned to meet the blade he felt a sudden warm in his shoulder, and felt his arm go slack, his blade falling from his hands and one refused to comply. As his torso completed the turn he realized that the Zirid’s scimitar lay firmly embedded in his shoulder. The warmth, he thought quite abstractly, is my blood. It seemed everywhere, now on his chest, sliding down to his waist. He saw the Zirid raise his arm, drawing the scimitar from his shoulder and preparing a finishing blow. He felt himself fall to his knees, his lone able arm grasping the sand in an effort to keep himself upright. The Zirid stood ready, and began his downward stroke. Margherita, he thought quietly, forgive me for not coming home to you. Forgive me all of you. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Zzirid freeze, his eyes wide in surprise as an arrow lodged firmly in his chest. The horseman slumped into his saddle, his blade falling harmlessly to the ground, his horse trotting away from Alberto in disinterest. Alberto heard the rallying cry of the rapidly arriving reinforcements behind him. Corsicans, he thought, recognizing the accent. Always for Corsica…then the world began to blur, and Alberto fell.
