Bastions
Chapter Forty Seven: Gathering an Army
Part 2
Prelude:
November 17th, 1383 marked an important turning point for the peoples of the Persian Gulf. It was on that day, after a siege that had lasted nearly six years, the last Qurati fortress on mainland Arabia fell to the Muslims. The Qurati were left with only Bahrain and those left on the mainland were scattered to the winds. Some would eventually arrive in Bahrain, but they found the island small and cramped. Internal strife was everywhere and disease and plagues from all around the world ravaged the people. The centuries-old dynasty started by Duke Trpimir was faltering. In Qatar, where many Qurati lived, life was harsh under the rule of the Arabs. The age-old enemy sought vengeance for diplomatic insults both real and imagined. The Edessan Church did little to help assuage the pain. Modern scholars note that there was little for the religious leaders to do. It was unlikely that any call for a crusade would even reach the ears of the diasporas of Qurati around Arabia and the Indian Ocean. It would have been even more unlikely for the Edessan's cry for help to provoke any sense of unity amongst the Roman and Prussian Patriarchies. The best they could do was to go on living as prisoners of their own pride. Many fled Bahrain, expecting the end to be near. India was a popular destination. But records also show that Qurati traders turned up in all sorts of far-off and exotic places like Java, Hong Kong, Siam and even Japan. In a way, the Qurati were to Asia what the Jews were to Europe. Their family connections and small, tight-knit communities made them excellent traders and bankers. But their allegiance to a foreign king (the Edessan Catholic Pope) made them suspects and easy targets for purges and finger pointing. For those who chose to stay in Bahrain, the next few centuries would be marked by civil war and a looming fear of the mainland powers. The tiny island was ripe for conflict and strife. And soon would begin the so-called "Age of Street Kings", named for low-born commoners taking up arms and either installing their favorite noble as King or even one of their own.
September 20th, 1381
"What is this place?" Mathas asked. Werna just smiled as he continued to lead the boys deeper into the woods.
"When I was young, like you boys, I often came here to read and sketch where my dad could not find me. In fact, if we were to keep going, we'd eventually find my father's farm."
"Does he still live there?" Ian asked, "Is the Green Lady still there?"
Father Werna shook his head, "I have no idea if my father is still alive." He gave no mention of the Green Lady. The priest set down his sack and sat down on one of the many monoliths that lie randomly about at the feet of those that remained standing. Ian placed his hand on one of the standing stones and looked at all the carvings; some seemed as old as the rocks themselves. "These are spirit stones, built by the ancients to honor the pagan gods. The one is dedicated to Okopirmas the king of the pagan gods."
"What happened to the pagans?" Kristjan asked.
"They were converted to the true God and to Christ. They left these temples, forgot about Romuva, the great pagan temple, and settled down alongside the Christian Saxons. These stones would once host great celebrations and bonfires as they prayed to the trees and the heavens for good crops and long lives."
"So there are no more pagans?"
"There are some, or so I am told. They live deep in the forests and don't interact much with anyone outside of their tribes."
"Do you really believe that?" Ian asked, "I was told that pagan women became witches and they steal the souls of good Christian men."
"And that might be true too," Werna said.
"Have you ever met a witch?" Mathas prodded.
"Once," Werna answered.
"Was she old and gross? With hairy warts and a nasty black cat with her?"
Werna laughed, "No. I actually met her right here. She was very beautiful with long, wavy red hair and green eyes. She hadn't noticed me coming; she was so busy speaking with her gods and spirits. I tried not to disturb her and just watched."
"Was she angry?"
"Did she turn you into a newt?"
"Did she try to steal your soul?"
"Did you fight her and then slay her after she turned into a dragon?"
The questions were rapid fire and Werna was quickly overwhelmed, "No, no, no... When she was done she finally stood up and noticed me. She was very scared of me, then she ran off and I never saw her again."
"Well... that isn't very exciting!" Ian exclaimed.
"Not everything is, Ian. Sometimes you let the witch go."
"Did she every kill anyone?"
"Did they find her and burn her?"
"How long ago was this?"
"No, no and maybe five or six years ago."
"Right before you joined the monastery?" Mathas asked.
Werna tried to hide a heavy sigh, "Yeah... right about then. Anyway, we came out here for a reason... when we lef..."
"How old are you Father Werna?" Ian asked.
"I... uh... why is that important?"
"You aren't nearly as old as the other Fathers. You are so much younger, I think that is why they stick you with us... they are too important for us..."
"I am twenty-one... but they stick you with me because I am the one who takes care of young boys. Not because they are too important. Anyway, when we left off Ælle had made it to Bordeaux where he was recognized for his great military prowess and religious zeal..."
***
November 1st, 1136
All Saints Day was a day momentarily put the Crusade on hold. Ælle and the other Danish solders listen to a sermon from their chaplain while around them Pamplona burned. The air was thick with the scent of human flesh. In the distance an argument was breaking out between two French nobles over control of the city. The chaplain was becoming visibly agitated, but his kind demeanor kept him from saying anything. It was Ælle who eventually stood up and walked over. He punched the first noble and while the other was still in shock, hit him in the nose with his elbow. "This is a fucking house of God," he said referring to the charred and gutted remains of the church the Danish had adopted for the rest. "Act like it."
The Danes seemed pleased, but the French men not so much. "This place? Full of north men? This is no church... it is brothel with too few patrons," the first Frenchman said, spitting out a wad of phlegm, blood and a tooth. With his remark many of the Danes stood up and began groping for their swords. Ælle just puffed out his chest and cracked his knuckles
"We'd be happy to service you, you're pretty... but your friend's nose is all busted up... we don't let uglies in around here." Ælle knew an insult was powerless if you made it your own. "So why don't you hike up your skirt and bend over?" The two nobles dusted themselves off and tried to walk off acting dignified.
"Bloody Frenchmen, wouldn't know the difference between a sword and their own pricks if it weren't for us barbarians," Olaf said, now standing beside Ælle. He patted the Saxon on the back and then went to rejoin the Danes. But Ælle didn't, he stepped through where the walls once stood and watched the two Frenchmen continue their fight elsewhere.
"They'll lose the city," Ælle stated in a very matter-of-fact tone. "I've been listening to the local Arab traders and they are certain a large enemy army is on the way here." When he turned around he noticed that Olaf had his hands up and the other Danes had neither sat down nor sheathed their weapons. "What?" Ælle asked.
No one seemed to answer, but he knew what was going on. No one could take a joke anymore, Ælle thought. "Ælle, I am thinking you should leave," Olaf said.
"You too, sodomite," said one soldier.
Olaf pointed to himself and then looked back at Ælle, who seemed uncaring. "Fine!" Olaf shouted in defeat. He grabbed their bags and the two men headed off.
Once outside of earshot Olaf began yelling at Ælle, who remained placated. Olaf yelled about honor and piety and family and all sorts of things that had little or nothing to do with the true point of a Crusade.
Finally Ælle had enough and turned, grabbing Olaf's shoulders, "Don't you get it?! It isn't about God, or Jesus, or the Virgin, or honor, or anything fucking like that. This isn't a fucking just thing. Seriously, look around you! You think this is the will of a just and loving Christ? You think a babe without a breast to feed from because their mother was raped to death is just? Or Christian? Or even human? This is the work of wolves, not men. And you are an idiot to think otherwise. They aren't here to regain anything for Christendom. And the Pope knows it. That is secondary for these people. They are here to rape, they are here to pillage and they are here to leave fat and rich. I've seen men twice my age in bed with girls half the age of my sons. Open your eyes, Olaf."
"Well... what are we going to do then?"
"We find shelter for the night and tomorrow we watch the city burn."
"What? Why?"
"Because that army is out there."
"How do you know?"
"I speak Arabic."
"No, why do you believe them?"
"How many men were defending Pamplona?"
"I don't know, maybe about a thousand."
"And how many men could the ruler of these lands call up?"
"Probably about ten tho... O."
"Yeah, Pamplona is a trap. And tonight, while all those rapists sleep, the Caliph is going to slaughter them all," Ælle said, "And personally, I am not interested in being here when he shows up."
"So you were going to desert us?"
"No," Ælle answered honestly, "I was going to die with you and be done with it."
***
September 20th, 1381
"Aw? Why'd we have to end so soon?" Mathas asked.
"Because you asked so many questions. Plus, we need enough time to make the walk back home before dark!" Werna ruffled Mathas' hair in a sign of appreciation and no hard feelings. Suddenly nervous about being caught in the woods in the dark, the boys excitedly got up and started running off along the path they had taken to the shrine. Werna smiled and shook his head as he packed up.
"It was good to see you again," a voice from the woods called. Werna stopped, thinking he had imagined it. Picking his head up and looking around he saw no one around. Instead, only feet from where he had been sitting, there lay a curled up parchment, delicately tied shut with an old pressed rose. Werna recognized the rose and pulling the scroll lose he opened it. He recognized his own handy work of the pagan princess dancing in the embrace of autumn's leaves. She had long red hair and wore a dress the color of summer leaves.