In distant Saragossa, preparations for war continued to the rhythm of drums and horns. Beneath the martial staccato, the emir’s troops assembled for inspection before the city’s dun-colored walls. Marsilion reclined in his typical fashion beneath a silk parasol near the parade grounds, sipping a chilled drink while the sun beat down on the nobles who sweated uncomfortably beside him.
Blancandrin, unwilling to show any sign of discomfort within his dark armor, approached the emir’s canvas pavilion from amid the ranks of troops and prostrated himself. Marsilion let him remain in the dust for a moment while he visibly accounted the strength of units passing before him. Finally there was a break between battalions, and he motioned distractedly for the general to stand.
“Speak,” Marsilion ordered, sipping his drink and wiping stray liquid from his beard. His eyes darted after a fly racing for the edge of his cup. He swatted it away.
Blancandrin cleared his throat to refocus his lord’s attention. “Our scouts have returned from Barcelona,” the general reported. “We’ve sufficient arms to keep Sulayman caged within the city, but we will be hard-pressed north of the Pyrenees. And the caliph …” his voice trailed to silence.
“What of His Eminence?” the emir eagerly asked. “What aid does he promise us?”
Blancandrin ground his teeth as he glanced to where Honorius stood among the nobles, resplendent in his impeccable armor, decorative eagles glistening in the midday sunlight. His painted-on smile seemed oblivious to the heat.
“The caliph has not committed men,” Blancandrin said. He silently prayed for an opportunity to remove the Byzantine’s head from his shoulders before the emir led the army, and the entire city, down the road to ruin. “Instead, at the ambassador’s request,” he nodded deferentially in Honorius’s direction, “he’s sent us Greek prisoners. Broken men in chains! My emir, what we need are soldiers!”
Marsilion flashed his general a diplomatic smile. “Calm yourself. Our other allies have committed troops. Look—” He gestured across the plumed and armored formations ranged before them. Though pennants hung still on the windless day, only rarely rippling when a rider fidgeted or a foot soldier dared swipe at a fly, they presented an impressive vista of deadly might. “See the splendor of the tribesmen from Morocco! See the Algerian lancers!”
“Yes, my emir,” Blancandrin acknowledged. “Enough for Barcelona. But not to hold even a few steps into Francia.”
The emir drained his cup and handed it off to a waiting youth. “Nevertheless, we will send war parties to the north. Prepare the army to cross the mountains, once we dispose of Barcelona.” He stood and stepped out from under the canvas into the blinding sun, drawing close to his general.
Blancandrin bowed. “As you command, Emir.”
“We must have more information on Frank movements, Blancandrin. Perhaps we will find a weakness we can exploit?” Marsilion flashed a genuine smile this time, placing a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Do your best, old friend. I will send to the caliph again. And I’ll beg for his support if I must. I’ve also thought there may yet be some in the east who have interest in our doings. I’ll petition them as well. But mark me, ours is the greater glory for redeeming the honor of our dead. Tours will not be forgotten!”
Marsilion returned his attention to the troopers, but his thoughts were far afield, lingering on a bygone defeat at the hands of Charles Martel those many years ago and the grandeur that would be regained by the grandson of him slain on that bloody field deep in the heart of Francia.