“Well, now here’s a perfect illustration of the fact that history is written by the victors. Good old Charles Martel, the Hammer. Oh, he hammered upon his foes relentlessly, there’s no question about that. But the moniker is a bit of a misnomer when it comes to this battle as I see it now. He was more the anvil here than the hammer. The core of his most hardened soldiery stood as an implacable phalanx of steel behind their shieldwall, and it was Abdul Rahman who was hammering, all the long day against that anvil of fate. And his heavy cavalry were going to eventually break through, on this day or on the morrow. Our Mr. Dorland is certain of that. Charles commanded the infantry…” his eyes seemed to be searching as he spoke, looking for bits and pieces in narratives of old books that had come down through the ages, books that he doted over and loved so very much. And from the vault of his memory a line emerged, rearing up like a wayward stallion.
“…With Christ’s help he overturned their tents!”
The Abbot looked at him, a question in his eyes.
“Well…” said Robert, smiling broadly as he looked at the hieroglyphics on the rubbing. “I think I know what happened now.”
Chapter 26
Odo clasped his hands over bloodied ears and lamented the wail of those unfortunate enough to remain in the city. Bordeaux was on fire this night, for brave though they were, his men could not hold back the Saracen horde that now came pouring over the high mountains to the south, a raging tide of Islam.
It was the second time they had come. Years ago, he faced the Moors alone when they had crossed the high passes in the east and invaded his lands, stubbornly fighting for his honor and the homesteads his family had held for decades past. The Ishmaelites first came to Toulouse in the year 721, laboring over the mountains and coming to Septimania, where they held the city of Narbonne as stronghold on the Mediterranean coast. Then up the road through Carcassonne they came, burning and looting every farm and town, and drawing behind them their massive engines of war. For this was holy Jihad, the coming of Islam in earnest to all the lands now held by a loose confederation of squabbling tribes and clans living in the shadow of the old Roman empire.
To the north, in Neustria, the New Lands, the Franks quarreled over the succession of Pippin, lately dead in the year 714. Charles the Bastard struggled to usurp the throne, while Pippin’s cunning widow, Plectrude, schemed to forestall him and seat instead her grandson Theodwald. To the east, in the land called Austrasia, the lords of many tribes became embroiled in this battle. And while they quarreled with one another the menace of Islam reared up like a great wave, casting its dark shadow over the mountains to the south. They were a fearsome race, Arabs, Berbers, Saracens, Moors, yet the empire they had forged now stretched from old Persia through the lands of the Turks, the Levant, old Egypt and all across north Africa. In the year 711 they had crossed the Straits of Gibraltar on borrowed ships and, in seven short years, had thrown down Roderick and destroyed the Visigothic Christian Kingdom of Hispania. Now, as they came over the mountains in force, they rode upon steeds of incomparable virtue, their warriors heavily armored, their banners snapping proudly in the wind. Against this leading edge of fearsome strength and power, the ragged bands and tribes of Gaul seemed primitive by comparison.
Odo held sway in Aquitaine, on the land of his ancestors, and it was his to feel the first blow of the enemy, here at Toulouse. When he first gazed upon the throng of enemy soldiers packed tightly among their siege engines, their horses chafing in the dim, smoky twilight, he could not imagine how he could possibly prevail against such a host. But the enemy had been heedless and full of pride. They had foolishly come between the city and the River Garonne, thinking the strength of the land was fast behind the walls of Toulouse. But Odo had come down from Aquitaine, with every sword and horseman he could gather, and with stealth and guile he sought to strike at the enemy where they were tightly massed in that narrow place.
Fortune was with him that day! Heavily mustered before the battlements of the city, intent to hammer upon the walls with their mighty siege engines, they were taken by surprise when Odo’s wild horsemen came riding, wielding long swords and axes soon wet with the blood of the enemy. A panic ensued, and thousands of the Saracens died, trampled by their own horsemen in the close quarters between the river and the city. The heavy armored cavalry of the Moors, a marvel to behold, could not form or maneuver, and Odo cut through the ranks of Saracen infantry like a scythe, carrying all before him. As they routed, they carried away the heavy horse of the enemy with them in a great panic.
The victory he won that day was never sung in the odes and chronicles of the wise, he brooded. It was he who had dared to strike the Ishmaelites, and turn back the invading horde. It was he who had spared the lands the wrath of Islam, though his name was never sung.
But he cared not for glory. He did not fight for the quarrelsome northmen of Neustria and Austrasia. He did not fight for Christendom, nor for popes clinging to the Holy See in Italy, nor for any notion that his was a culture and a way of life that must surely be preserved. Quite the contrary. The existence his people endured in the dark age that had befallen the West after Rome fell, was far inferior to the splendid and opulent reach of the Umayyad empire. No, Odo fought only for his honor, his family, his brothers and sons, and the land he would stubbornly defend against all comers, Aquitaine.
His victory had won him a measure of peace, but soon the contentious lords of Neustria had ended their quarrel with the ascension of the Bastard Charles as Mayor of the Palace. Now they came to his land, thinking to bring it under their thumb as well, and though Odo was better endowed with brawn than wit, he nonetheless could see in these incursions the harbinger of his own doom. How could he stand watch on his southern borders, wary of the Moors, while his strength was also drawn into conflict with Neustria to the north?
So it was that he schemed to make a truce, in the manner in which warring kingdoms so often reached accommodation. While the Caliph in Hispania sat in the opulence of Cordoba, his far flung Emirs were headstrong, much like Odo himself. To one of these men, Manuza, he gave his daughter in marriage, unmindful of the lamentations of priests, saints and clerics who condemned the marriage as an unholy alliance with the minions of Satan. It may have been such, but Odo was only concerned with his own wellbeing, and that of his family. The marriage promised to neutralize his foe to the south, and more, to create a new alliance in the middle ground between Neustria and Hispania. But when Abdul Rahman came to the Caliphate in Cordoba, he soon plotted to unweave the fabric of Odo’s cloth, and the loose twine which he pulled upon was Manuza.
In the year 731, when the upstart usurper Charles came to Odo’s lands to subdue him, the brawny chieftain rightfully called upon his in-laws to the south to come to his aid, but Manuza was said to be taken with a fit, fearful of the power and guile of Abdul Rahman, and in short order, Manuza was dead.
Odo stood alone against the assembled might of Charles, who had come in anger, bent on breaking Odo’s alliance with the Moors. In this Abdul Rahman was his unknowing ally. By striking down Manuza, Odo was isolated and defeated by Charles. He was soon a gelded and embittered warlord who suffered the humiliation of being forced to kneel before the Neustrian Mayor, and ignominiously pledge his fealty.
So it was that his strength was bled white by Charles, though Odo festered and chafed at the reins the Mayor had bridled him with. He remained a willful and unruly beast, secretly plotting to regain his independence and find yet another way to free himself from Charles domination.