Solomon of Itil

Does it count as feedback if its eleven months later? I hope so. I do hope so.

Aldriq, the observations you offered in January meant, and still mean, a great deal to me. My writing is occasionally tortuous, so I cannot help but be pleased with your astute description of Solomon and the story he inhabits. In part, reading your old post was one of the things that pushed me over the edge to post another update. Calling Solomon "treasured" is perhaps more praise than he merits, but it is a fine comment, as was your willing acceptance to see a slow rate of updates rather than none. . . or rather than a lot, if it would worsen the tale. Thank you.

Iain Wilson, your observations on the tile factory update were simply awesome to read. They make my day every time I come back to this thread. Hopefully, the continued updates continue to merit such praise: it's a bit of the raison d'être of the narrative, and I have to hit that mark every time, or else what's the point? Thank you.

General_BT, your use of the word introspective reminds me of the difficulty in finding synyonms for the term. You're correct that it's a core component of Solomon's character. Hopefully, the expression of that introspection is not too burdensome. Thank you for being a reader.

AlexanderPrimus, I hope you're still around. Your comment in the spring was appreciated.

Rivus, it is wonderful to have you as a reader. Your own Eire AAR is delightful and fun to read. It hits all the right selling points for me. Hopefully, what is occasionally written here will be occasionally fun for you as well. Welcome to the story. I hope you like it, and hope the new updates are equal to the quality of the older ones.

Murmurandus, long time no type, fellah! It is good to see you here. Your attention and kind comments are appreciated, as they have always been. It was generous of you to call this AAR art. Thank you.

Putting up updates that are separated by seven months is not exactly the best way to retain readers, so I hope all of you know how grateful I am to have your companionship in this journey.

A little feedback before a chapter. I cannot say that I am entirely pleased with this offering, but I wanted to post something, so here it is.

aldriq, few things break through to our hero. I sometimes wonder if he is a reliable narrator. Certainly the things he experiences may or may not be correctly retold, but is he truthful about how he feels as well? I think so, but it's hard to say.

General_BT, I like your observation about Miraglia's critique. Part of why this current chapter is a bit forced to me is because it has so little of her in it. It sounds like your comments are about the earlier chapters, so I hope you like what eventually comes to pass between the two lovers.

AlexanderPrimus, thank you for the comments on the prose. I aim for beauty and poetry and hope that I occasionally hit my target.

Alfredian, Solomon sees in his son things he does not like, and they do have a future story in which those opposing views come to the fore. One thing I hope that the narrative conveys is that Solomon sees Huddan as having the heart of a murderous crusader, but he sees himself - an extraordinary warrior, a great general, and a killer of many - as something better. That's a contradiction.

RGB, Solomon is already a conquerer of sorts, but if I can get through the next three years of story, the rumbling preparation of the Sanchos and the Pedros and the Ramons, Solomon's place among conquerers will be defined most clearly. And then, when that story is told, it will be defined yet again in the story that follows. He has a third conquest, but it is a spiritual one, and perhaps will be the most important part of the story when this is finally done, if it is ever done.

Saithis, thank you for reading and commenting. I am sorry the story sometimes goes dark. I have to be in the right mood to tell it right, as you may be able to tell by the difference between the newest update after this post and what came before.

Iain Wilson, conflict perhaps, but perhaps not over this war. Solomon is closer, and has put in motion plans to finish the war before others can finish it for him.

Thank you all for reading. I treasure your insights, and count myself blessed that I have so many esteemed and observant authors among the readers of Solomon's tale.

In which Solomon has visions of the future.

October 15th, 1089​

The arrival of Spanish crusaders in Al-Djazaïr constucts a new Bakkah towards which all the vast treasure of Valencia must offer submission. Sancho is not an abrupt man, but surely the sanguine success of the Christians in Africa has turned his eye. Even now, his gaze must be wandering to the suddenly vulnerable Moorish strongholds of Madinat Mursiya and al-Mansa. Abutting Valencia as they do, it falls as always to Solomon to discern the minds of kings; in the cracks between the desolation of their dreams, the flesh and souls of peasants may yet be saved. I, and not Sancho, have been to Mursiya. I, and no king of Navarre, have seen the beauty birthed by the Segura. In the hands of a Sancho, the intricate canals that feed like capillaries the great and thirsty throng of Moors would be violently carved from artery and vein, leaving naught but meat behind in perverse testimony to Galen, the charnel city passing wealth from man to man beyond the ability of eyes to bear. Possessed within the heart of Sancho is the ruinious combination of killer and incapability, giving rise to a man who will carelessly order the slaughter of a multitude to conceal the impotent revulsion that manifests within him at the prospect of personally killing one. I suffer no such weakness of spirit, and my only foe is time. Would that Winter come quickly, and the churches now sprouting in the west burst forth in full bloom so that new construction may begin, and my children from Huddan to newborn Juame flee to fields both green and free, the awesome fate presaged in Al-Djazaïr patiently abating while Solomon builds his temples to war. O Lord, annoint in silence the verses of Jeremiah upon the lips of my vestal virgins. Give not these people over to the power of the sword. S.

February 1st, 1090​

With the fading transgressions of a sublime Winter giving way to lively Spring, with Solomon stepping in silence through the halls of this empty and haunted palace, I find my mind returning anew to the matter of my blessed children. One upon the other, they are miracles, the clear fingerprints of a loving God pressed upon the clay of my soul. A letter from Rosselló guides my thoughts. There is first Adah, beautiful and terrible, newly a woman at a merciless thirteen and assessed by the observant Maria as bearing the heart of a cruel aggressor. Is it not so for all who abandon youth for adulthood in this dark and dreary age? There is then Maria, the elder by four years, she who so broke my heart with her Miraglian face and her Solomonic mind. The girl wishes to be steward in Valencia, a wish I cannot grant, so strong is my devotion to that bent and jealous crone who guards my coffers; nor possesses she the mind for it, this cunning Alaness, this careless girl with sunlight in her eyes and tempests in her heart, this divine Diana for whom numbers are people and people mere numbers. In worlds beyond imagination, Maria stands like David, but ours is a kingdom with neither women nor dreams, and so it is to pursuits beyond war that her courage shall be turned. She tells me of gentle Saurn, charming and brilliant and beautiful Suarn, who would be but for Abraham my emissary to the world. But for Solomon, Saurn would be Solomon, a warrior only second but second to none. I shall invite them to Valencia and make them in my image. I shall place in their hands swords; I shall teach them not to kill. S.

March 28th, 1090​

The arrival of a new letter from the villa Perpinyà arranges the board according to my earlier anticipation. By word of Miraglia, Sancho is as I have predicted: small and suspicious, cowardly and gruff, a man upon whom smile neither the gods of war nor the gods of peace. With the dukes of Navarre chained to his will and leashed to his caution, I have been granted the years for which I wished, and I predict they are three; three to observe the crusader count of Tarragona deciding one moment to submit to Sancho and the next to remain apart; three to erect training grounds in Valencia and raise camps from the arid clay of al-Mansha; three to thwart Sancho by doing as Sancho wills. The increasing neglect bestowed upon Tarragona by its distant Scottish overlords will by necessity force the province into Navarre's hands, and in so passing grant to Sancho confidence enough to extend his kingdom southward. It will be soon, but not so soon that Solomon cannot prepare. Thus do I find myself riding for the Monte-Aragónes to bring about the completion of the churches built there, sparing not even a moment to rejoice at the official reason for Miraglia's message, the birth of my first grandson. I am told as I depart that there is suddenly poverty in the fields of Valencia, but for now my attention must be turned someplace else. S.

April 6th, 1090​

If there is irony in my quest, what mirth may be obtained by the thought of Solomon laying beatic mortar upon beatic brick is dismal mirth indeed. I sleep in fields and dream of soil beneath my nails and sweat upon my brow. I am Adam in my dreams, blessed by the Lord to be sent east of Eden, a land where they shall bury my corpse in clay and labor. My nails are hardened and my soul is light, and across both there runs a crack. The sunlight coming to rest on my arms and face warms the skin, drawing my unconscious thoughts not to the light but to the cold the contrast reveals. In this dream, I see glittering miracles one upon the other, golden motes birthing fire for mere seconds before vanishing forever into thought and memory, disappearing into those dark corners of the mind where they can be stored away in little jars on wooden shelves. When I waken at the dawn, I am alone, this Solomon of fifty years, and it is only through the routine and squallor of the morning's Hellenic calisthenics that I can both remember and forget. Through rigor and sweat, I win for myself the youth that never left her side. S.

October 19th, 1090​

The man whose father I buried half a lifetime ago is spymaster for Valencia, and so my daughter cannot take his place. Yet do I wonder if Berenguer is merely a shield against the past. Were he to not exist, my spymaster would again be my beloved; my beloved would again be the devil. S.

In which Solomon prepares for Sancho's war.

June 25th, 1091​

For greater than a year now, my mind has been possessed by nothing more than thoughts of war. The conclusion of Winter coincided with the completion of the training-grounds in Valencia, a project I pursued with an urgency made greater by the news coming from Al-Djazaïr. The Christian warriors there have through bloody means acquired the greater part of that country's coast, and even now press into the desert towards the Muslim stronghold of Tibeskert. It is with only the slimmest measure of guilt that I smile at their slow and onerous progress, and this unbecoming pleasure drives me to greater determination. For Solomon and not Sancho to stand before the walls of Granada, for Solomon and not Sancho to lead the armies of Christendom against Seville, for Solomon and not Sancho to make the decisions that will save the lives of multitudes, there is much I must yet do. With my work in Valencia complete, I ride tomorrow for my western provinces, where I am to survey the varied and impoverished levies of my own Muslim subjects. On these forces, I must rely when war arrives. These are the thoughts on which my mind has focused: levy tallies in the morning; logistics and supply lines in the afternoon; paymaster ledgers in the evening; ancient texts of military strategy until sleep overwhelms me; dreams throughout the night of empty fields on which battles may play out. Day and night, the regimented racket and clang of practicing armies has been all the music my world contains. Thus was I pleased to escape from this permanent cycle when a letter from Urgell arrived, informing me that I am a grandfather a second time, for my son and heir Huddan has fathered a young girl. He has named her Almodis, which means she who will be gregarious and lively. This makes me think of Miraglia, and I smile; that the thought makes me happy pleases me that much more. Huddan tells me that Alfons, his younger brother, grows more like Adah with each passing day, but that thought prompts no dark contemplation in a mind that has turned to sunlit visions. S.

February 19th, 1092​

It is as though the cock has crowed a second time, and shall sound again only when it is too late. Tibeskert, called Biskra by the crusaders who besieged it, has fallen to the Christian world. I receive this regretful news in the dusty fields of al-Mansha. Stripped of my armor, I depart on horse once more, heading alone on the road to Valencia. Filthy faces of would-be soldiers pause from their lessons; they watch me as I depart, and I wonder if they can see their doom reflected in my haste. S.

March 5th, 1093​

Berenguer and I spoke for hours today as we walked the paths of my orange groves. We must surely have presented a clashing sight, with him clad in a burgundy surcoat and me wearing robes befitting a Moorish emir. As we spoke on matters related to the coming war with Seville, I found my mind drawn to thoughts of Ramon's father, the man whom I had once served as physician and counselor, and contemplated the places fate had led us. Had Gausfred lived, would we be now standing in Valencia as conquerers, or would we be here as captives? Would Berenguer now be count, supplanting his club-footed brother, with Solomon as his trusted aide? Would these senseless eyes regard me as I now regard them, as windows into a soul stripped of talent and purpose until naught but cringing incapability survived? I recall nearly thirty years past dedicating myself to this one, realizing that I had already lost any chance of saving his brothers. It is thus that I regard Berenguer as among my many failures, and yet I find I cannot bring myself to dismiss him when his brother Ramon asks for his position. Berenguer may be a coward, and may be less capable than even the wretched Ramon, but Ramon is a cruel man, and I cannot abide cruelty. So Berenguer and I speak of the war, he providing me with no information I do not already have, and me telling him nothing he is too naïve to understand. Berenguer is still a decent man, and I must witness the face of a decent man when I speak of what I intend to do. S.

May 5th, 1093​

A message from the villa Perpinyà arrived in Valencia today. I opened it with great excitement, but found it only contained news of happenings in Tarrogona. Miraglia informs me that Donald Dunkeld, the exiled prince of Scotland who rules the province, has sworn fealty to King Sancho. Although I dearly needed this information, for now I know that war will come within weeks, not months, I had hoped that Miraglia would say more, that she would say anything, but she speaks only of one other matter on which I shall not write until I have thought on it more. The single-minded focus demanded by the past three years of preparation has caused me to forget the darkness that was once my existence, a darkness prompted by the receding of her light. It was today that I became gradually aware that it has been years since I rode north to the villa Perpinyà, to her, to bask in the sun that circle my world. The scope of my being wants to take the fastest horse from my stables and ride the trails north to Rosselló, and yet I stay. What kind of man would I become if I turned away now? In the light hand betrayed by the letters on the page, I sense much of Miraglia's mood, and mine darkens to match hers. My knowledge of what Sancho will accomplish in Madinat Mursiya and al-Mansa should I abandon my quest binds me to Valencia. As I prepare to ride to their salvation, I find myself trembling for any Muslim army that causes me delay. S.

May 5th, 1093 (cont.)​

The other matter on which Miraglia wrote was regarding the passing of Pedro Ramon, the son of the man whom I once served. He is seven years my younger, and his death means his own son Guifre will become duke in Barcelona. It makes little difference. The ascension of the charitable and soldierly Guifre could have changed the course of events had Pedro died years ago, but now, mere days before what I am certain will be the outbreak of war, the installment of this newly-titled duke will only presage his own corruption and death. In Navarre, the charitable and responsible are extinguished by the bloody wind heralding King Sancho's will. S.

June 14th, 1093​

The arrival in my courtyard of a horse clad in crimson means Sancho's war has come. I take the message from the rider in the early hours, and though he repeats the words his lord bade him memorize, I care not for what he has to say. I only care for what I am about to do. S.

Aye, it's been a year. Is it still feedback if I'm giving it a year late? This is the second time it's gone a year between updates, heh. The next one should come sooner. In any case, here goes.

Saithis, I had also mostly forgotten what was going on, except that I knew Solomon was preparing for a war, and might have been at odds with his wife Miraglia. I think perhaps he wasn't, and had somewhat reconciled with her again, but the stresses of his preparation for battle help make sense of this. So I went back and re-read a few of the previous updates, and despaired a bit to keep up that level of intensity. Thank you for stopping by to read; this was always a small AAR, and it's going to be smaller now that CKII is out, so I want you to know that I appreciate your presence.

RGB, so, a year ago you made some insightful observations, and it still sits with me (and I contemplated it regularly while writing other things) that you pulled out "a kingdom with no women or dreams" as a sense of the paragraph. It is dense, too dense in places, too ... clogged with prose, perhaps. Solomon does fret, and seems to fret until he has a single purpose in front of him -- if that purpose is war. I am not sure he would be pleased to confront his psychology so directly and so specifically. You are write that Solomon does not grasp the limits of his power; or rather, he believes he has power, and seeks to use it to right every wrong that he can, even if he causes wrongs -- sometimes terrible wrongs -- in the process. Thank you, as always, for being such a good reader. It is easier to do this knowing you are reading along.

Murmurandus, I hope you're still out there. Solomon does have a lot on his mind, and won't approach clarity for another several years. Something big is approaching. Thank you for reading, all the way back to the beginning!

Iain Wilson, I hope you're still around too. Thank you for the kind comments about the writing; I have my doubts now and then, and come and go as a writer (not just literally, but literarily as well.) As for the little events, personal relationships matter to Solomon and to this AAR, so I have to make them matter in the text. Thanks for reading. Hopefully, it can stay good and can update it faster than once a year if I'm ever to end it.

Alfredian, aye, that's true, and even his most talented children have flaws or fall short of his ability. It will get worse before it gets better, if it ever gets better; when the story finally reaches the real story, and Solomon sets out on his real quest, the gap will become startlingly apparent. Thank you for reading. I hope to get there some day, and hope y'all are still around when the story reaches that juncture.

General_BT, thank you for the kind assessment of the writing. Sancho's ambitions continue to be breathtaking in many senses of the word, and I hope as you see Solomon run one step ahead of Sancho in the coming months that the writing continues to do justice to the story.

AlexanderPrimus, and thank you for echoing what General_BT said. Surpassed for certain, beautiful maybe, but I am very, very grateful for your "Poet LAAuReate" comment. Poetry is a first love of mine, and while I am not particularly good at it, it is where my writing has been focused for the past half-year or so. I try to make the language here beautiful and poetic as well, and am glad you pointed it out. Thank you, and thank you for reading.