Solomon of Itil

[unmerged(109735)]

I find Solomon an extremely sympathetic character. A good and truly noble man who has compromised for the sake of retaining power -- and who sadly is tearing himself to pieces for this. He unfortunately tends to overlook that he has made far less compromises than others and power and especially what an immense force for good his benevolent, tolerant and enlightened rule has been for the vast majority of his subjects. That makes him a tragic and like I said sympathetic figure.

Excellent update once again.

 

[phargle]

In which Solomon is left with nothing.

Solomon of Itil
​

December 17th, 1086​

The arrival of an unseasonally frigid Winter has been unkind to Valencia. There is a chillness throughout the halls of my palace that no fire may banish. It is an intruder that forces its way into the recesses of my mind; its grip upon the bones in my hands is painful. I am cold, and the pen between my fingers wavers even now, the thin line of what I write as unfocused as the words passing from thought to parchment. It hurts to write, but it is something I force myself to do; there is no confessor in Christendom with wisdom equal to my suffering, and though the pages remain silent on the matter of my penitence, I have much to confess. The months I have spent in Valencia, indeed in the entirety of my Andalucian domain, have been purchased at a cost beyond my capacity to pay. It is not vulgar gold of which I write, but time, time and family, those two things I have in such abundance yet endure in such poverty. The reward could never have been equal to the price, for no ocean of dark Aldalucian faces could have equalled just one small smile from her, and yet it is an undertaking I pursued willingly. I struggled in Valencia so that these people might live, placing my desires on the altar as a sacrifice to their survival. The faces looking up from the courtyard are the faces of the hungry, and I find myself dwelling when I share their cold misery on thoughts over whether I did enough. If I am here, then, to confess, it must be to say that I have failed, my sacrifice spent before the Lord's angels could stay my hand. It falls to me, then, to excise from my character the flaws of failure. For people in Valencia to live, people in Valencia must also die. As my mind stumbles in dreadful anticipation toward this truth, I give silent thanks that I have exiled myself from Rosselló. The thought of her seeing me now is unbearable. S.

December 26th, 1086​

Shorthand for later trans. Christmas with B. de Barcelona-Urgell. Travels freq'ly to Rosseló. App'td spymaster. Twenty-four, five? At twenty-five was for him a doctor, for his father a gravedigger. How shall we regard one another in twenty years, this new spymaster and I? S.

December 26th, 1086 (cont)​

I find myself on this day considering St. Stephen, and see in the beardless face of this Jew, gazing back at me through the ages, my own restless image. If Stephen has a legacy surpassing mine in faith, a task made easier with each passing year, my power no doubt eclipses his, and the wonders I do among the people rival his own. What is it they say of me, then, when they speak in secret of my blasphemies? The irony of turning from Moses to Christ only to be judged by the Christian sanhedrin of Navarre has not been lost on me, and it is a hostility I regard with something approaching humor; within the coincidences of time there exists the handwriting of a joyful Creator, and I share in His mirth when I regard those who dare to pass judgment on me. When my heresies are reviewed, will they cast stones? Perhaps they shall break my crown as well, and perhaps on that day I will bend and break, but today, on this day, it is a reckoning my spirit anticipates with vigor. S.

May 2nd, 1087​

I must spell out, for the sake of clarity, this most critical dilemma in which I now find myself. The newly-appointed Bishop of Pamplona has threatened me with excommunication, a maneuver that has been so long expected that I have wondered at the king's faculties in failing to execute it earlier, but it is worse than that; aligned as well with Pedro is Bertram, Bishop of Barcelona and also newly arrived in his role. Thus do I know that Pedro Ramon has bent to the king's will, that the man I once served as vassal is a participant, perhaps an unwilling one, in the king's conspiracy. Even this constellation of enemies would be surmountable if not for the third cleric arrayed against me, for alongside the scrolls sent from the north there was a third, this one bearing a seal long imprinted on my memory. Sancho has turned the bishops of Navarre against me one by one, replacing them with priests loyal to his designs, but it is his reach in Rome that worries me most. The new pope supports Sancho, and this causes my mind to race for answers; can the king really be so powerful that he can select the Bishop of Rome and ensnare him in his Iberian plots? I am worried, but what worries me more is the indecision with which I am gripped, for in considering the prospects of all I have built falling apart, I find that it is a prospect that is not altogether unwelcome. From this paralyzing introspection, I have emerged sufficiently to dispatch Berengeur to Rome, Abraham to Navarre, and Kuddana to Barcelona. I expressed to them all my great faith in the success of their missions, but I can see in their eyes that they do not believe. S.

May 23th, 1087​

What has passed in the weeks since the papal letter arrived hardly seems possible. The palace of Valencia has crossed over from one Winter to another, so empty and quiet have been the halls since I sent my friends away, the gentle warmth of Spring having been driven out by the unpleasant void of solitude. I have walked these corridors like a ghost, enduring a reverie so potent that no servant dared disturb my thoughts, and it was during one of these Orphean sojourns that I heard a visitor arrive in the courtyard, the sounds of Aragonese horseshoes reverberating on the cobbled stone in a hauntingly familiar chatter. Even before I pulled open the doors, I knew it would be her, and there she was, small and distant, an ephemeral figure of white and light and gold. Much as I had so much I wanted to say, I dared not speak, and nor did she; instead, she presented to me a scroll, a reply from Rome. I stammered that this was not possible, that there simply had not been enough time for Berengeur to make the journey, but she silenced me and bade me open it. Only then did I learn that she had foreseen the events that precipitated the crisis in which I found myself, and that she had arrived in Rome scarcely days after the threats departed for Valencia. For the simple price of a handful of ducats, a sum not even equal to that which purchased my current state of misery, the pope's support for Sancho evaporated. When she said in a quiet voice that the pope had, since her departure from Rome, fallen ill, I felt an emotion for which I have no words, a feeling in which love and resolve war with terror and vertigo. It is a feeling that has not departed since Miraglia arrived in Valencia, not even in the darkest hours of the night when she and I are alone. S.

June 26th, 1087​

Miraglia left for Rosselló at dawn. I saw her in the courtyard, the rising Aldalucian summer sun shining in pale comparison against the furious light of her face. She pulled her horse into a sharp stop and turned back to see me. Her lips moved to form words, but I know not what she struggled to say. She called out, but the grunts and whineys of the horse drowned out all else. I wanted to hold her, to beg her to stay, but the moment passed; I did and said nothing. The stallion tossed its head again, and I saw in Miraglia's face only the barest hint of emotion, the hesitant biting of her lip and slightest flickering of her eyes, and then she was gone, riding for home, riding for somewhere that is not Valencia. I do not know how long I stood there; it was not until the tightness in my jaw became painful, so long it had formed a dam against emotion behind which I could hide, that I turned away. S.

 

[unmerged(59077)]

You're managing to make Andalucia sound really morose.

But were one Solomon, how could one see it otherwise? Vanity of vanities, and they make you pay for it too, pay and pay.

 

[unmerged(109735)]

You know how much I enjoy your writing in general and specifically your writing about Solomon, so I need not say much on the matter. You still continue to impress. I especially found these lines very beautiful and evocative:

There is a chillness throughout the halls of my palace that no fire may banish. It is an intruder that forces its way into the recesses of my mind; its grip upon the bones in my hands is painful. I am cold, and the pen between my fingers wavers even now, the thin line of what I write as unfocused as the words passing from thought to parchment.

Great, great work. I hope that Solomon will once agin find some joy in his life, though. He's such a decent guy, and it kinda hurts me to see him so depressed.

 

[Aat Jago]

Wow, just re-stumbled upon this AAR today, and imagine my surprise when I found that this AAR had been updated!

Bravo, Phargle! I really love this story! Keep up the good work, mate!

 

[unmerged(175287)]

Your writing is among the best i've read here! Is not often I comment in the AAR section, but I do have to say it this time:
Keep up the awesome work! I'll be hoping the next update will be soon~

 

[phargle]

First, my apologies - this is feedback rather than an update.

I am sorry that I have not offered feedback on the comments. I intended at first just to post updates and stay away from the rest of the forum, but that increasingly felt like the wrong decision. This has been a month of surprises for me, both at the warm reception at the return of this AAR and at the award it earned for the character of Solomon. I am unaccustomed to such praise and attention when it comes to this story. For me, the AAR has always felt like a very private secret I share with one or two people while the bulk of my attention has been focused on something else (especially, for the longest time, the quite different Knuds.) I want to say thank you. Thank you.

The_Guiscard, we've talked privately about writing in general and about our respective AARs in particular. I am glad to have you as a reader, and I am glad that you see Solomon the way he is intended to be seen. You may be unique in this regard. Your comments remain treasures. As always, the broad spectrum of your insight is always welcome, whether it is to praise the writing or to find flaws in it. You're someone I trust as a writer. I especially like the way you work the storyline into the writing of your own AAR - you write from the game, a rare trick among narratives here. I am doing the same with Solomon, making you a valued reader among valued readers.

As far as the words touching you, I try to write until I feel touched myself - until the distance of the emotion in the words is far enough removed from my fingers that it feels real. It is heartening to hear, for at least one reader, that it has worked.

I also strive for writing that is beautiful and heart-felt, but sometimes think I stumble too far into the hedgerow of poetry and stray too far from this being a journal. Except I like that hedgerow.

Aat Jago, thank you for waiting. Thank you as well for noticing the humanity of the character and for noticing the love story. That this is a love story is very important to the writing, and I am not sure it comes through well enough on my part. I am glad you said something about it.

Llywelyn, your turn.

RGB, "utterly poetic as an update" is praise that is highly appreciated. As I mentioned to Guiscard, I am aiming for a poetic sort of prose with this writing, especially of late as Solomon's melancholy and difficulty grows. I am also grateful that you pointed out the mix of self-loathing with ambition. This is characteristic not of depression but of Solomon's (I'm giving something away here) basic selfishness.

I think I sent you a private message thanking you for the "vanity of vanities" quote, which was as lovely and appropropriate as anything I've managed to turn up here. If not: thank you.

Kingslanding, thank you for dropping by the AAR section. I am sorry that the pace of updates in this story is so sporadic. I write when I have time, when I feel right, and when I can cope with Solomon being in my head. I am not by nature a melancholy person, and there's almost some catharsis in infusing my head with Solomon's persona. I hope, at least, the previous updates are worth reading while you wait for the next one.

The_Archduke, stnylan, Murmurandus, General_BT, Daemon, demokratickid, and anyone I have carelessly missed, thank you all for sticking around during my long absence.

 

[aldriq]

Bravo, phargle! I committed myself to read this AAR after you won the Character of the Week award and I'm very glad I have. All the praise you've received is totally deserved and I fully subscribe to it. I especially agree on The_Guiscard's spot-on perception of Solomon's traits, which I'm sure you've worked very hard to convey. Every detail in the journal helps create something so unique and human as Solomon: his struggle, his guilt, his subtle Jewishness, his strength of will to do certain things, his weakness to do others, the tragedy of his choices and the tragedy of his full awareness and solitude.

I hope you keep Solomon a treasured character and maintain this AAR on a strict 2-3 updates a year basis if that is what it takes.

 

[phargle]

In which Huddan comes of age.

Solomon of Itil
​

December 1st, 1087​

At Chitrana in La Mancha, this day saw the restoration of a tile factory, a project over which the threat of Winter had long loomed. My satisfaction at walking with the priests among the finished buildings let me, for a moment, forget myself in my work. The clerics showed me the kilns by the roadside, two ancient structures adjacent to one another like huddled twins, the distinctive Moorish construction still managing to translate itself through the thin Christian overlay. Then there was the workshop, all fresh timber and straight lines, a low, narrow building with a broad facade of slender doorways. A shed abutted the workshop, with shelves and hooks for drying, all of self-assured workmanship. I was, somewhere in my thoughts, pleased at the completion of this endeavor, and pushed my senses from fog to light so that I might speak to the laborers regarding the benefits that would be accrued to Chitrana and the surrounding villages once the kilns began firing. Yet, soft jealousy whispered to me that this village was not where I wished to be. Lacking in the creation of these buildings was my own gentle signature, the subtle adjustments here and there that, while betraying nothing to the unsophisticated eye, ought to have strode from the craftsmanship like Minerva from the head of Jupiter to announce that I, Solomon, had been here, my hands sharing in shared work. The steady pace of labour in Valencia would have provided a welcome distraction to my insufficiently distracted mind. Minerva was a cruel goddess. I remind myself that she was also wise. S.

January 24th, 1088​

The wretched bishop of Barcelona has advanced beyond an intolerable threshold. In seeking to bring harm to me, Bertram has brought harm to my friends, arriving in Valencia not long after my own return to instruct me that the presence of heathens in my court would be accepted no longer. He spoke, of course, not of Muslims but of Jews, instructing me with long and tiresome oratory that my duty as a Catholic required me to hand my chancellor Abraham over to the Inquisition. I recalled that Abraham arrived at my court four years ago, fleeing religious persecution in France, and I have always seen something of myself in this gentle, scholarly Alan. He is a mirror, albeit an imperfect one, of my own religious vulnerability and fear. Even had this not been so, even if Abraham and I were as different from another as Solomon and Kuddana, my reply would have been unchanged. My calm formed only the shabbiest cloak to cover my anger as I told Bertram that I was first a Jew and then, only distantly, a servant of the Church. Contrary to what Bertram had ordered, I embraced the heathen and banished the priest. Indeed, I found that my voice continued of its own accord. As though watching a dream unfold over which I had no control, I heard myself banishing all such priests from my domain, from La Mancha to distant Rosselló and all the miserable localities in between. With that pronouncement, I rid myself of the wretched priest, thinking for only a moment, only long enough for horror to seep into the cracks of my mind, that I ought to be rid of him forever. It is an impulse that I must bury deeply beneath layers of masks and serenity, for if Miraglia detects the faintest desire of such a thing, what would happen may be beyond my capacity to endure. S.

March 22nd, 1088​

With the end of Winter come fresh delights. In the villa Perpinyà, far from the dank misery of Urgell or the corrupt miasma of Andalucia, my daughter has been born. Although many miles separate us, the words from Miraglia's letter seem to dance from the parchment, and I can see as though by some miracle the beautiful face of my newborn child. I have named her Rebekah, after the mother of Jacob. I wish that I could hold her, that I could replace with her warmth and laughter the smell of ink and the sight of Miraglia's delicate script that have substituted for her presence. This is not to say that I would wish away letters from Rosselló, for they have been most welcome intrusions into the darkness of my Winter. There is something else as well in the lines left by Miraglia's hand. Where there had been heaviness, where a weary and somber dirge had supplanted the aria of eros, there was now the barest hint of light. I am myself like a child, ignorant and afraid. In this condition, I am like Pandora, uncertain whether or not, at last, the lid should be shut. S.

July 24th, 1088​

In this latest letter from Rosselló, there come an excuse to travel north. I ought not refer to it as such. It is not an excuse, but a reason, for my eldest son has come of age. I wish to see for myself the sort of person Huddan has become. My sense was always that he would never be an eloquent man, but I know he possesses an ambitious mind joined to a sympathetic spirit. He will dream grand dreams. It is said by some that this merciful and adventurous young man resembles his father, and I find myself pleased with the comparison. When matters permit it, I will depart Valencia. S.

September 10th, 1088​

While resting in the courtyard of the Moorish palace in Valencia, where I sought a reprieve among the orange trees from the noise beyond the garden's high walls, young Ermengol sought an audience with me. As he spoke of matters military, I found myself realizing that he had become an adult. The boy with the club foot had become a man, strong and intelligent, and he had indeed done well in his appointed task of overseeing the church being built in Valencia. Ermengol spoke briefly of the construction, and then began to speak with some amount of passion about the reconquista. He discussed recent battles and talked of the Spanish Marche's role in the war, now much diminished since my return to Valencia. It was then that I realized what this man, with the light in his eyes and the edge in his voice, was asking. He meant to be appointed captain of my armies so that he could go forth against the Moors. Kuddana has held this role for many years, and with a wry sense of joy I am pleased with Kuddana's lack of talent for warfare, just as I am pleased that the levies of the Spanish Marche have long now been where I wish them to be, at home on their farms and in their cities. Yet, as Ermengol spoke, my mind drifted, passing into contemplation like the sun going behind a cloud. Here was this man, saved from death as a child by my skill as a doctor, who ought to have become count of Rosselló but instead became my ward. Was he perhaps angry not at the infidels in the west, but rather at the one standing before him in Valencia? With this, my imagination placed Ermengol where I had been, imagining him besieging Valencia or fighting at the walls of Al Ma-Ansha. In that horror, where Ermengol walked in the footsteps of Solomon, I saw faces beyond measure join the thousands dead by my hand. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, the faces had fled, and even the noise of the men working to build the church had ceased. Ermengol and I were alone in the garden, and I told him in that quiet that he could not be marshal. As he left, I knew that Kuddana could not do it either. The burden, as ever, is mine. S.

September 15th, 1088​

My work remains incomplete, but I can stay away no longer. Rosselló awaits. S.

 

[unmerged(59077)]

It is heartbreaking to see accepted meanings to past actions become impossible to maintain, especially if one has not slipped into total cynicism; where kindness is genuine and where it is an excuse become blurred and how can one not hate the uncertainty of his own morality?

So there was an usurpation, followed by an act of kindness. And now the boy has grown into a man and like all men he has ambitions, ambitions that will leave people dead if you indulge them.

So now he must be thwarted, and that is right, but also not fair. Solomon's own achievements rest on indulging his own ambition.

And now he'll see his son grown. I wonder if he will be surprised yet again.

 

[Deamon]

What a sad man.

 

[phargle]

Daemon, that is an interesting way to describe Solomon. Sad, perhaps. I've tried to play him not quite depressed, but he goes that way often. Thank you for reading.

RGB, that's, as always, a good assessment. Solomon isn't a cynic, not yet. A quick look at Huddan's traits will show off that he's not quite Solomon either... not yet. Solomon's ambition is certainly something that wars with the rest of his personality, and in a way that makes him believe that he himself is not ambitious. Anyway, thank you for reading.

I am not sure when the next update will appear, but I appreciate y'all reading this one.

 

[Murmurandus]

Oh, I almost missed this one... o

One can only applaud resurrections like this!

 

[The Kingmaker]

I'm very glad to see you're still writing this, phargle! Well written and entertaining.

 

[General_BT]

Solomon the Introspective has returned... and a welcome return it is.

 

[iain_a_wilson]

What you've done with your "tile factory" update is brilliant. You've been able to take what is a completely run of the mill event and turn it into an update that advances the story. Wonderful writing!

 

[aldriq]

Nice surprise, I wasn't expecting an update until June...

Solomon might not be always certain of what must be done, but at least he is certain of what mustn't.

 

[phargle]

In which Solomon is a witness to portents.

Solomon of Itil
​

October 6th, 1088​

My arrival in Rosselló brought to a surreal end the recent days of introspective solitude in which my only companion has been the dumb and faithful horse on which I rode. Faces that were to me the visages of strangers called out my name in friendly greeting, an experience from which my mind endeavored a swift retreat. There were people there whose countenances bordered on the trembling edge of familiarity, much as a corpse unsettles the gut once its features are lightly tugged by decay. Smiling companions long forgotten reached to touch their fingers to mine as though for the first time, and on the face of each I saw a newness unfilled by my treacherous imagination: here, the look of a woman I had forgotten was beautiful; there, the candle-worn eyes of a sage I had forgotten was wise. I urged my horse onward through this sea of misremembered friends, smiling and nodding as if I knew them, now and then leaning from the saddle so that my ears might cling to the words of those whom my drowning mind had not misplaced. Near the end of this well-intentioned gauntlet there stood a youth, and my concealed embarrassment multiplied when I saw behind his clear greeting and Christian armaments the remains of my first child. I saw in his adult eyes the Ermengolen gleam. I heard from his adult lips the voice of Sancho. What Mnemosyne crystallizes, experience smothers. The world felt close in that moment, the edges of my vision reduced to an oblivion of shades and specters until there was only Huddan. I have erred; this I now know. When later I came to her, amidst the gold and warmth and light that burned away the cold ghosts that had haunted me since morning, the months between us cast her as a vision in a dream; and then, sunny fields. Feet that dared not tread on holy ground slipped from my sandals and I offered her my submission. Like the strangers at the gate, I comprehended Miraglia anew. She remains a revelation, everlasting as the dawn and beautiful as the night. She has not changed. Therefore, I must. She sleeps softly and I lie awake, my world enrobed in icy winds and ebon blues. I think of the morning's disorientation, and with a wry smile recall my faithful Andulucian. How can it be that my mind recognizes as familiar a horse and nothing more? S.

December 18th, 1088​

A Turk has fled to Navarre. Orhan is his name, and I learned while briefly speaking with him that he shares the faith of my forefathers. For certain, Miraglia can benefit from the warrior skill of this man-at-arms from the east; my eyes observed as much when I witnessed them engaged in expert discussion while in council, their hands unfurling maps, their eyes consuming knowledge. And yet I find myself troubled that he chose Rosselló and not Valencia as his residence. This cruel and aggressive creature may scarcely be called a man, but within him I see the essence of that which was once Solomon. I see as well the essence of that which Solomon has become. S.

January 24th, 1089​

This day has seen the marriage of my eldest child, and it has been as with all such days an occasion for both sorrow and joy. Huddan, the count of Urgell and the son of Solomon, was wed to a lady-of-the-court from nearby Léon. Her name is Ide, and though she is a Frank from Germany, she speaks the languages of Iberia with a fluency born of long residence. Upon her face there is the beauty shared by all young brides, and as I watched her dance there emerged behind my public face a moment of happy reflection. I have done with Huddan only what I could, and now our journeys will begin to take us each along different paths. When I saw during the ceremony my son smiling, I smiled as well, rejoicing with a sincerity that was like sustenance for a hungry soul. Huddan has grown as I forsaw he would, for he is healthy and strong, trained equally in war and peace. When then I noticed Orhan, I recalled my vow to raise Huddan as though he shared my faith, and with this memory I darkened. Considering when it comes to Solomon what passes for faith, the boy may be fortunate. S.

February 15th, 1089​

Word has reached the villa Perpinyà that Spanish crusaders have torn Al-Djazaïr from the Moors. Huddan received the news with an enthusiasm that was grotesque, but I, who know so much more of what this portends, fear that the time has come for Solomon to return to Valencia. I must be close to this bloodshed if I am to keep it far away. S.

 

[Rivus]

Such a beautifully written AAR! Subscribed!

 

[Murmurandus]

What a surprise! I thought this piece of art was dead!

Thanks for the update.

Oh, and you're updating at a speed of a true writer...