Multicolored birds from Africa and far-off Asia warbled in the carefully tended trees, flitting and fluttering about on clipped wings. Beneath their antics, women in veils and filmy silks chattered merrily. For all appearances, they were oblivious to the peril that amassed beyond Saragossa’s walls—yet when left to themselves, their talk was infused with the latest news, rumors, and conjecture that was rampant within the elegant confines of Marsilion’s private quarters and court.
Conversations died away when they caught sight of the emir hurrying past. His face was resolutely impassive. On his arm was the tall and fair Bramimunde, daughter of Visigoth kings who had once ruled the whole of Iberia—barbarians who had wrested it from the Romans only to fall to invading armies from North Africa. On his opposite hand, Blancandrin walked with head bowed, quietly relaying the latest intelligence on Frank activities. Behind them scurried Ja’qub, his slippered feet but a whisper on the tiles, robe fluttering about his scarecrow frame. Honorius, immaculate as always, rounded out the group—his Eastern lamellar armor exotic even in Marsilion’s resplendent court.
Across the garden, the palace gates groaned open to admit a single horseman atop a heaving steed. The beast clattered into the garden sanctuary, causing a rippled hush through Marsilion’s entourage. The messenger, covered in road dust from head to toe, slid from the saddle and fell to his belly before the emir.
Marsilion gestured with measured restraint for the man to rise.
“My lord,” the messenger stammered breathlessly. “I bear word from the caliph! Emir, pirates have sacked Cadiz! He cannot send relief and advises you to negotiate peace with the Franks.”
“What?” Marsilion snarled. The thin stoic veneer over his features melted away. “Is that all?”
The rider nervously bowed his head. “My lord, the caliph prays for your success.”
Color rose in Marsilion’s cheeks, beard bristling with boiling anger. “He prays for me?” He thrust his hands into the air and shouted, “While the Franks tear the city down about my ears? He prays for me as I administer justice to Frank envoys for crimes against my people? I need more than prayers!” He lashed out a foot at the messenger, who dodged deftly.
Bramimunde stroked his cheek with long, soft fingers.
“Don’t negotiate with the Franks,” she purred. “They cannot be trusted. They’ll send their champion to burn us out like rats. Remember Carcassonne.”
Marsilion pressed her fingers to his cheek. “What can I do? I can’t break the noose strangling the city!”
Blancandrin lowered his eyes deferentially and cleared his throat.
“My lord, there is a way,” he offered. “Take back the initiative by offering an olive branch of peace. If the offer alone isn’t enough, clean out the treasury to pay Charles off. After prolonged sieges and loss of men, do what it takes to convince him it’s time for the Franks to return to their homes. Surely he’ll see the wisdom in your entreaty.”
Honorius shook his head, offering Blancandrin a cloying smile. “Do you believe that is wise, gracious emir? The Franks are a vicious and unpredictable people.”
Marsilion ignored the ambassador. “Continue,” he said to Blancandrin.
Honorius bowed his head, wearing well his diplomatic mask, for no emotion showed at the rebuke.
Blancandrin went on, “My emir, tell Charles that once peace is concluded, you’ll follow his armies to Aachen, and there swear fealty to him. If he desires hostages to secure the agreement, give them. Make him believe there’s no more need for bloodshed.”
Honorius’s words were smooth as a garden serpent’s. “You know it will not be enough. There’s been too much blood on both sides. He’ll demand a pound of flesh as well as coin.”
“It will be enough!” Blancandrin shot back. His hands balled into fists at his side. “And if needs be, I’ll offer up my own son as part of the price. It would be better to have hostages carted away to Francia and there lose their lives than to have Saragossa ripped from us. Without this city, we would be reduced to nothing more than beggars in our own land! If you do this, Emir, they’ll go home. Their army will melt away to harvest crops and herd flocks before the first snow flies in the north.”
A stern look and wave of the emir’s hand stifled a retort on the ambassador’s lips.
“Go on,” Marsilion said. “There is more, yes? We don’t just swear loyalty to these—these—brigands for nothing!”
Blancandrin bowed humbly, feeling the sting of Honorius’s eyes upon him like so many biting ants. “At Michaelmas, as all know, Charles holds a great holiday celebration—days of drunken feasting. We’ll be expected to arrive and in dramatic theater swear fealty to him before his assembled people. But we will not. We will remain here. For that, he will indeed have our hostages killed, and he will rage with anger at the heavens—but let him rage, I say! He won’t dare come back here, knowing that we’ve prepared to hurl his armies into the pit!”
Marsilion grimaced but nodded thoughtfully. “Yes. Yes, we will let him rage.”
AOI
The Tournai men continued to expand their earthen fortifications behind their screens while roving bands of Saragossan horsemen darted close to the lines and launched arrows at them, only to scatter before Frank cavalry could gallop in pursuit. Loads of dirt rose into earthen works, behind which men and equipment could move more freely to continue extending the fortifications around the city in a strangling noose. Amid that backbreaking work, Julian snatched up a water bucket then slipped away into the constantly moving mass of men. Once out of sight of the Tournai men, he hurried toward the finer accommodations in the center of the camp.
In a nearby pavilion, Guinemer directed a farrier tapping out a dent from a helmet. When he straightened to wipe sweat from his eyes, he also caught a glimpse of the youth moving through the crowds. His shaggy eyebrows furrowed together when Julian reached a gap in the traffic and cut a beeline toward Demetrius’s tent.
Guinemer stepped out of the canvas shelter, covering his eyes with a hand against the sunlight, and watched the youth disappear inside.
Guards, who just a moment before sagged against their long spears, snapped to attention when Roland approached the sentry position. The champion acknowledged them then stepped across the defensive trench to stand alongside them and watch the horsemen kicking up dust from Saragossa. Blancandrin rode his familiar black steed, his long lance topped by a white flag tight in his grip. Behind him straggled an awkward party of timid, robed men that put Roland in mind of their own priests. A Frank outrider circled the plodding procession and then pounded across the parched ground to where he stopped before the champion.
“My lord, they’ve no weapons,” he reported.
Blancandrin placed a hand over his heart then bowed slightly from the saddle.
“I bear greetings from the emir!” he called out. “He wishes to discuss peace with the Frank nation!”
“Peace is a convenient word, is it not?” Roland asked. He pointed to the white cloth on Blancandrin’s lance. “You’ve killed our own under sign of truce. That also was a discussion of peace.”
A thin-lipped grin touched Blancandrin’s face.
“Blood has satisfied blood. Today is a new day, and perhaps further shedding of blood can be avoided.”
“A new day, indeed.” Roland slapped the shoulder of the sergeant standing at his elbow. “So what say you?” he asked the man. “A change of heart?”
A gap-toothed grin broke the sergeant’s pockmarked face. He looked the Saragossans over with a critical eye, and his response was quick. “I wouldn’t trust them, my lord.”
“Agreed, I fear. But we must show decorum. We wouldn’t want our guests to think us barbarians.” He gestured for the guards to take positions surrounding the newcomers. Then he walked to the head of the party and led them toward the center of the camp.
Through the gawking Frank soldiers clustered along the way, Blancandrin rode bolt upright, his eyes unwavering in their focus on the large, multicolored canopy surrounded by fluttering eagle pennants and a cordon of stalwart Frank sergeants. At a respectful distance from the tent, the group stopped. Guards stationed there pulled back the enormous canvas flaps. A heartbeat later, Charles emerged, followed by Naimon and several other notables of the Frank court.
Blancandrin dismounted, handing off his lance to a scholar who fumbled it but at least kept it from landing in the dirt. The general took a few steps toward Charles before dropping to the ground to prostrate himself in the dust.
Charles folded his arms, a stern look upon his face. “A knee is all that’s required here.”
A low chuckle rippled through the assembled ranks. A curt look from the king silenced them.
The remainder of the Saragossans dismounted and, following their general’s example, dropped to their knees.
Charles gestured for them to rise.
As protocol demanded, Naimon stepped forward.
“Speak your business,” he commanded.
Blancandrin rose, reassuming the commanding air that he carried before the armies of the emir.
“Great king of the Franks and Romans! I bring you the greetings of all Saragossa and the words of Marsilion, its emir,” he said in a crisp voice that rose through the ranks surrounding the audience. “Our scholars have studied the laws of the Franks regarding war and peace. The emir graciously offers to satisfy them. Noble King, he shall pay you generously—enough to provide bonuses to your entire army. Then, during your holy days, my master swears to travel to Aachen where he will pledge you his service. All this he will do if you leave our lands in peace and return to your home beyond the mountains.”
The nobles surrounding Charles broke out in surprised chatter. Yet the king remained silent, examining the general’s face for a few heartbeats. “You are well spoken,” he finally said. “But the emir is my enemy. He has shed the blood of my people and my own family. Why should I believe him now?”
Blancandrin bowed once more, his voice low and direct. “My master Marsilion has also lost family to this war. He desires nothing more than its end and peace between our peoples—so that generations of our nations live free from the shadow of war. To prove his words, he offers hostages as a guarantee of peace. Know this, great king, my own son will be among them.”
“And I’m to value your son more than my own daughter?” Bitterness clipped Charles’s words. “Naimon, have the men pitch a tent for our guests. Bring them food and drink. They will wait for my decision.”
The champion’s sun-bleached tent stood near the king’s grand pavilion, the canvas sagging under the intense midday heat. Two of the walls were rolled up to take advantage of the barest breeze. Undaunted, Roland and Oliver stood within the scant shade, where they reviewed troop deployments and searched hastily sketched maps for holes in the enemy defenses.
Demetrius ducked under the canvas roof to hand Oliver a vellum document covered in miniscule script. Oliver began matching up the new intelligence with other documents.
Demetrius pulled up a chair and rubbed at his eyes.
“So what have you learned, my friend?” Roland asked.
“Of Ganelon? Not much, I’m afraid,” the Greek replied with a frown. “He takes counsel with Alans, but our man cannot get close enough to gather details.”
Roland leaned forward on his stool, an earnest set to his own features. “He must. I need proof, damn it!”
Oliver put the documents down.
“Ganelon is a wily one,” he observed. “He’s survived many years at court by distancing himself from controversy and leaving no loose ends scattered about. It is not a simple thing you ask.”
“That’s why it takes time to get close,” Demetrius added. “It’s a matter of trust.”
Roland kicked at the stack of documents at his feet, scattering them in a flurry.
“Time is a luxury we don’t have! We must get proof and finish this before the Tournai men get back over the mountains—back to Francia and those who sympathize with him!”
“Be assured,” Demetrius said. “If a snake hides beneath the rock, we’ll find it.”
Squires scurried through the crowded conclave of nobles waiting outside the king’s tent. Turpin, his tonsured head rosy beneath the morning sun, found Roland haggling with two northern counts, urging them to speak up and support his position. The men listened courteously, but Turpin could see in their eyes that they wanted no more of this war. Both men excused themselves when Charles stepped from the tent and into the sunlight with Louis at his side, dressed in their gold-trimmed royal finery. Turpin gave Roland an encouraging nod. The lobbying had worn down even the count of the Breton March’s boundless energy. Regardless, Roland took his place on Charles’s right hand, and Turpin muttered a prayer that the Lord would sort out the right of things and bless the Franks whatever the decision.
“My lords,” Charles began, clearing his throat. “Marsilion offers us tribute and fealty in exchange for peace between our two nations. This is a weighty decision, my brothers. I ask you, do we accept?”
Bickering bubbled up as the counts jostled one another with opinions—never in short supply among an assemblage of Franks. Roland raised his voice to be heard above the cacophony.
“My king, we sent two of our finest to negotiate peace, and the emir brazenly violated a flag of truce. I say take Saragossa! End this war once and for all. Then we march to Francia and drive the Saxons into the sea!”
Many murmured in agreement with their champion. Ganelon gauged the response and then raised his hand for the floor. Silence took a few moments to take hold.
“Charles, great king,” he began, irony in his voice. “Believe a fool—me or any other fool—and mark my word, we’ll all pay dearly. Marsilion sues for peace! I wager he recognizes the wrong he has done to you, my lord. Thus he has offered up his coffers.” He sauntered close, until he stood at Roland’s elbow. “Anyone who opposes this offer doesn’t really care for the lives of his comrades, either here or in Saxony.” He did not look at his stepson. “I urge you to seek counsel with wise men that we might see beyond the clouds of passion and explore the offer based on its merits.”
The council fractured, some cackling in agreement with the count of Tournai. But Ganelon’s eyes never left Charles’s, even when Naimon spoke.
“Count Ganelon’s right on this, my king,” the wizened counselor interjected, tugging uncomfortably at his beard with gnarled fingers. “Marsilion is effectively caged within Saragossa. If we continue this campaign against a beaten man, then we bear the burden of a greater sin.”
Charles nodded tentatively in agreement.
“If we do this, then who do we send to negotiate on our behalf?” he asked.
“Of course, I will go,” replied Naimon, straightening as best he could.
The king placed a hand on his old companion’s bent shoulder. “No, old friend, remain at my side,” he said. “I will have need of your wisdom before this is through.”
Roland stepped before the king and bowed his head.
“I’ll go, sire,” he offered.
Oliver jostled to the fore, placing a hand over his heart.
“No, my king. Send me!”
Charles raised both hands. “This task requires tremendous diplomacy.” His eyes narrowed as they roved over the assembly. “Both of you are veterans of the battlefield—my best warriors. But you aren’t seasoned for this task. My knights, choose someone to speak for me.”
“Since you seek a man versed in peace, Uncle,” Roland said, “why not send my stepfather? Marsilion will find great delight in his eloquence.”
A ripple of agreement rustled through the nobles though Ganelon’s face darkened and his eyebrows wrinkled together. He leaned over to Roland, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You had no right to name me.”
“The king needs you,” Roland breathed back. “If he commanded me, I’d take your place and spare you the danger of losing your head.”
“Yes, it will be Ganelon,” Charles commanded, either oblivious to the exchange or ignoring it.
Ganelon put on a fervent expression and spoke up for all to hear.
“Because Charles commands it, I shall do my duty!” A cheer rose from his supporters among the crowd.
“Very well,” the king replied. “Ganelon, count of Tournai, we thank you for carrying our words to Saragossa. Come forward—receive the staff and glove.”
Naimon passed the tokens, a matched set of those lost with Basile and Basan, into Charles’s hands. Ganelon stepped forward and offered a precise bow, then took the glove from Charles’s hand. The token slipped from his fingers and slapped on the ground.
The nobility gave a collective gasp.
Ignoring them, Ganelon scooped up the glove and straightened himself, gathering his dignity.
“Sire, since this matter requires urgency, I beg your leave.”
Charles handed him the staff and a letter bearing the royal seal.
“Of course, dear count.” He clasped a hand to Ganelon’s shoulder. “God go with you and bring you success.”
Ganelon bowed stiffly and then spun on his heel, striding through the parting sea of Frank lords without looking at them.
Turpin watched him go. To no one but himself he murmured, “God as my witness, nothing good will come of this.”
Amid the tents of the Tournai men, a squire held the ornate bridle of a warhorse as Guinemer held the stirrup for Ganelon to mount. His retainers and common levies assembled to watch their master follow the footsteps of the first doomed envoys to the Saragossan court. Julian jostled among them for a better position where he could watch Ganelon more closely.
“God ride with you,” Guinemer said.
Ganelon wrapped his hand in the reins then leaned down to his uncle’s scarred face and spoke in a low voice.
“Uncle, ours is a mighty line,” he whispered. “I swear it will not end here. I removed William. I will remove his king. The throne will be mine!”
He slipped Charles’s letter into Guinemer’s hand.
“Burn this.”
His spurs bit the steed’s hide, and it launched through the knot of Tournai men, who lifted their voices in bold cheers. With a slap of the reins, he continued on toward Blancandrin and the waiting Saragossan envoys. Julian watched until the commotion gave him cover to disengage from Ganelon’s troops. Then he silently lost himself among the war host.
But as Guinemer tucked the king’s letter into his sleeve, he spied the youth slinking into the throngs. The wily older man set his sights on Julian’s back and fell into step a good distance behind.
Ganelon rode through the camp sharply cognizant of the thousands of eyes that followed him. Undoubtedly, he mused, many were wondering if this would prove his final ride. But the count of Tournai had weightier things on his mind, for seeds must be sown early if they are to bear fruit in season. Across the bustling camp, Breton marchmen drilled in a veil of dust. The wolf banner rippled and snapped defiantly. These were the very men who must be crushed to bring down the Crown—men who would rather die fighting for their usurping king than accept a legitimate heir with his bloodied hands clenched to the gilded arms of the throne. Ganelon chortled. He would crack them apart and break them down just like their own Germanic ancestors had broken the Romans.
At the edge of camp, Blancandrin and his company waited to escort him to the court of Saragossa.
Yes, the very instruments were near at hand to implement the plan formulating in his head.
Roland watched the horsemen depart from his position amid the marchmen’s battle formation.
“Do you think it’s to be peace then?” Oliver asked, huffing from the exertion.
Roland hefted Durendal in his hand, straightening his shield to cover the man on his left.
“What I think doesn’t matter,” he replied with a wan smile. “Marsilion may have been crushed on the battlefield. But he’s achieved much more than a martial victory. He’s destroyed Charles’s spirit.”
A Dane warrior jostled into Otun, and he roared in frustration.
“All right, lads!” Roland called out. “Let’s work together!”
Otun grumbled with a mighty flexing of his arms. The other Danes laughed, but all once again fell into step, and the Breton March moved as a single unit—the tip of the Frank spear.
As they passed the last Frank sergeants at the outlying pickets, Ganelon rode next to Blancandrin. The Saracen general appeared much relieved by the growing distance between himself and the enemy. And yet there was something more in his tone of voice when he turned to the count of Tournai. “You know, your Charles is a mighty king. He leads powerful war hosts and has humbled many mighty nations. Peace will be a welcome season in this land.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Ganelon replied, meeting the general’s eyes. “But you should think on this—Roland, his nephew and champion, has far greater ambitions than even the king.”
“Greater ambitions? What do you mean?”
“I have a tale to share, one not widely spoken of outside the circle of intimates surrounding the king and his family,” Ganelon began. He glanced about conspiratorially to ensure no one else could hear his words. “Not many weeks ago, Charles sat beneath a tree to escape the miserable heat. Roland came to him, fresh from plundering near Carcassonne, his horse still covered in dirt and sweat. In his hand, he held the dripping head of the local sheikh. This he offered to Charles as a gift, saying, ‘Dear uncle, take this—for it is the first of all the kingdoms of the earth with their thrones and riches, which I will seize for you.’”
“Surely you’re joking,” Blancandrin replied. “No man could be so consumed with bloodlust.”
Ganelon smiled, a friendly but not altogether pleasing expression. “You’ve seen him in battle? You’ve seen him before the walls of a besieged city?”
“Of course,” the general said. “He’s a dangerous foe. I’ve played chess with him on the field and faced the edge of his blade in combat.”
Ganelon tapped the side of his nose with his finger. “Then you have your answer. To achieve his ends, he would drench the earth in blood and cover what remains in ash.”
Blancandrin swallowed hard. He remained silent while the company approached Saragossa’s walls.
AOI
Marsilion fidgeted uncomfortably on his thick-cushioned throne while his court assembled around him in the expansive chamber. He flashed a painted-on smile at Honorius and Ja’qub when they took their accustomed places. Oh, how he hated these conclaves for their incessant chattering and second-guessing of his decisions—never mind that bringing his unruly nobles together bred sedition, if for no other reason than it was easier to speak against one’s lord when surrounded by others who might do the same. And now this proud scion of desert lions faced not just his nobles but also an envoy from the Frank nation—the messenger from a proud and vengeful monarch. How he wished for a chilled drink, but then blaring trumpets announced Blancandrin’s arrival. Palace guards threw open the great double doors and admitted the general with cluster of troopers flanking the solitary Frank. He was an older man who walked tall and straight, eyes boring straight ahead at the emir. Marsilion wrinkled his nose at the anticipated stench of this barbarian whose Frank finery was nothing more than rags and rusty bits compared to the Saragossan splendor arrayed about the chamber.
Blancandrin prostrated himself before his master. Marsilion waved for him to rise, but his eyes narrowed when he noted the Frank had failed to follow suit. Instead the man had only bowed slightly, a gesture that barely bordered on propriety. Guards’ hands twitched on their spears, the men awaiting an angry outburst from the emir.
Blancandrin climbed to his feet then hurried to the throne.
“My lord, I delivered your petition to Charles. Praise Allah, the Frank king has sent this emissary to us!” He extended a hand to Ganelon. “May I present Ganelon, count of Tournai and brother-in-law to King Charles of the Franks.”
Marsilion explored Ganelon’s face through slitted eyes, his hand tugging at the end of his close-cropped beard. He nodded slightly, for this was an appropriate emissary to be sure—kin to the king. “Speak,” he commanded. “We will hear you.”
Ganelon stood planted where he had halted, his thumbs hooked in his broad leather belt and an arrogant grin on his face. “Emir, I bring to you the word of Charles, king of the Franks and Lombards, colleague to the emperor in the East, and servant of God.” His words were stiff and formal, each syllable well rehearsed. “Before God and this court, I present terms satisfactory to the king. First, Charles requires you to be baptized, accepting the waters within the space of a day. Second, once you step on dry land, he shall return half your possessions. Third, you will swear fealty to him without condition. If you reject these terms, Saragossa will be destroyed.”
Marsilion reeled in his chair. “Infidel!” he roared, his face throbbing deep red. “I shall never! Do you hear me? As Allah is my witness, I shall never accept those terms!” He vaulted from the throne and wrenched a spear from the nearest guard’s hand. The emir rushed down the steps, the wicked point aimed straight for the Frank’s gut.
The collective breath of all the spectators in the chamber stopped.
Blancandrin intervened, grabbing the haft and bringing Marsilion to a halt.
“Release me, mutinous cur!” the emir snarled, his words dripping with threats.
“Please, my lord,” Blancandrin said, his voice low and even. “Listen to this man. Upon my honor, he, of all the Franks, means you no ill will.”
“All the pain I’ve suffered, and yet you come to me with these harsh words?”
Marsilion spat at Ganelon’s feet.
Ganelon raised his hands. “I am but the messenger. I swear to you the words are not my own.”
“Please, Emir,” Blancandrin said in a soothing tone. “Don’t allow anger to cloud your judgment. Listen to him. Listen to what he has to say.”
Marsilion stared at the Frank with loathing. Around him, he could fairly feel the stares of his vassals, ever watching with calculating eyes, trying to mark any weakness that could be exploited later. Then he looked beyond Ganelon to the windows and the smoke beyond them perpetually wafting over the city these last many days. He thrust the spear into Blancandrin’s hands.
“Proceed,” he growled, though his face remained darkened.
Ganelon bowed deeply, offering the emir a much more polite gesture than when he had entered.
“Emir, know also that the other half of your possessions will be given to Roland, the king’s champion. If you reject these terms, Charles will order him to march on Saragossa and tear down her walls about your ears. Once the city is subdued, you’ll be chained like an animal and dragged to Aachen where you’ll be put to death in the cathedral square.”
Marsilion charged the knight again, hands raised to claw at Ganelon’s eyes. Ganelon raised his own hands in defense, but Blancandrin restrained the emir once more.
“Get out!” Marsilion wailed. “Get out before I have you torn apart and fed to the dogs! My own son got no better from you Franks!”
Ganelon cautiously lowered his hands.
“Emir, you are not the only father to lose a son to this needless war.”
Marsilion sputtered while Ganelon’s words sank in.
“You?” The emir then hissed, breathlessly sucking in air, straining against Blancandrin’s iron grip. “Your son is dead as well?”
“Yes, in Saxony.” He glanced at Honorius and then lowered his voice. “Abandoned on the frontier by his king.”
“Tell me then,” he said, taking Ganelon’s cue and dropping his voice to a whisper, “what will entice Charles to give up this war and leave in peace?”
Ganelon leaned toward Marsilion. “With Roland as his champion and standing as his shield, Charles fears no man, not even the emperor in the East.”
Honorius’s eyes shot poisonous darts while he strained closer to hear their conversation.
Ganelon forged ahead. “This war will not—no, cannot end so long as Roland lives.”
“But the caliph, our allies in Africa—with more troops, we can prevail,” Marsilion said defiantly.
Ganelon shrugged. “Troops alone are not the answer. Do not forget, Emir, the walls of Carcassonne.” Ganelon glanced again at Honorius, who had abandoned all decorum and stepped closer to them. He took the emir’s elbow and bent close to his ear. “I have an idea. Listen quickly—with Roland gone, Charles and his usurping brood will be vulnerable, and I am the nearest heir to the true blood. Surely men such as ourselves could come to an accommodation.”
A toothy grin broke across Marsilion’s face, the fine seams around his eyes deepening with delight. He clasped the Frank on the back and waved his hands to the skies.
“I like this man!” he exclaimed. “Yes, we must talk, envoy of the Franks. Wine and food—bring us wine and food!”