The Broken Blade

The morning is cold and brisk, with October’s frosty embrace hovering all about me, eagerly nipping at my exposed skin. As I trudge through the battlefield my heavy, ironclad boots slosh in the thick water, diluted with the brown and red hues of mud and blood. Dense clouds of coagulated dust, kicked up by the enemy’s cavalry, hang idly in the dormant air, creating a hazy fog that stretches far across the grassy plain.

A few hours ago this field had been alive with the thundering gallops of some eighty thousand or more Muslim soldiers, roaring over the foothills as a wave does over a coral reef. It was the year of the fifteenth indiction, and Emir Abd er Rahman had already conquered much of southern Gaul. His next move, to invade our kingdom of the reges criniti, had been his last.

I can remember being shook from my sleep by a fellow Frank and close friend, Chlodric, in the early hours of the morning seven days prior to the battle. I was about to scold him for disturbing my rest but he was quick to interrupt me, saying, “Marcel is gathering all the able-bodied men of Tours, the Arabs march north.” Before a single word could escape my lips he was gone, short sword in hand.

Groggily I clambered out of my bunk, threw on a set of drab clothing and my working boots (which are covered in only a thin layer of metal), and stumbled off in search of answers.

It was early dawn and the sun had only just peaked in the horizon, sending a cascade of light that scattered in flecks across the glinting gravel roads. I walked through the stony streets of Tours almost aimlessly that morning, although I felt the city bustling all around me with a strong sense of urgency.

I can remember going to the barracks and finding it brimming with more life and activity than I had ever seen; Franks and Germans flooded to the place in swarms, taking up short swords, javelins, and spears without question.

“What is going on here?” I asked to one grisly and heavily bearded man.

“Major Domus Charles Martel has issued a call-to-arms. Rahman is gathering the Arabs to overtake Tours,” he explained. The man then turned from me and received his weaponry, and shortly thereafter was lost in the crowd.

Unlike the reges criniti, the long-haired kings, of our lands, Charles Martel was a leader of true courage. Although he held little political power, as he was only a duke, he had mustered up around him a militia of true Franks and Germans that would follow his lead to their graves.

We were that group.

There was no armour to be provided, but I willingly accepted the iron short sword provided to me. As I stumbled through the swelling mass of militiamen I slowly recalled details I had heard of the Arab Muslims and their campaign through Gaul.

Bordeaux, near the River Garonne, had succumbed to the Arab’s ever-expanding grasp just recently, and rumours spoke of the massacre of countless Christians at that site. Since then the Arabs had sent numerous raid parties into our lands, all of which, although generally unorganized, had done much to shatter the borderland cities. The lands of Gaul were slowly falling into a state of turmoil as the enemy advanced deeper, mercilessly razing, pillaging, and looting as they went.

That morning I found myself crossing the grassy meadows outside of Tours with thousands of others. I, as well as the others, wore only my toughest of day clothes, as there was no armour at the ready for a makeshift army such as ourselves.

Later that day we set up tents on a small hillock half a days march south of Tours. The Arabs had not arrived yet, and so we waited. As we waited unfalteringly our faces reddened from the chilling bite of the wind, which brushed over the rolling hills with unwished-for ease. The sun bore its golden fangs down upon us, and, despite the cool of the air, its heated strokes were not so gentle upon our wind-wearied faces.

Then we caught sight of it. It started as a small dust of cloud, miles off in the distance, raging across the meadows as a sandstorm does over the desert. The sand animated itself in the air, swirling and dancing in mesmerizing patterns as it slowly drew closer. We all knew it was them, but how could so much sand be raised in a grassy field?

An hour or two passed, the small cloud growing to a realistic size as it traversed the seemingly endless expanse.

One man, who had been studying the cloud religiously for the past hour, was the first to see the enemy peek out of the swirling veil of earth, and his eyes grew wide. There, at the head of the billowing dust swarm, peeked forth a head not of a man, but of a horse.

“Cavalry!” the man shouted in horror, and the entire camp erupted in pandemonium.

With the Arabs controlling most of the south, every one of us realized their force would sorely outnumber and out strength our own, but the realization of how desperate our situation was struck us hard nonetheless. Martel, coming before us all, held his hands up high in an attempt to maintain order. Almost instantly everything fell silent, save the rumbling approach of our guests, and everyone looked attentively to Charles, all their trust invested in him at that moment.

“We will play the defensive. Let them come to us,” he ordered, his tone commandingly strong yet calmly reassuring. “Already they have killed thousands of defenceless Christians. Now we will test their will to fight!”

There were no cheers of bravery or cries of valour, but every man nodded grimly; his duty, whatever the outcome, was set out before him. Then the rain began, starting as a light drizzle. It was that cold, autumn rain, that, if delivered at the right time, could soothe the weary with its numbing touch. To us it was icy and bitter.

That rain would last for eight days.

When the Arabs came to a halt, still half a mile from our hilltop encampment, the number and nature of their force could be truly appreciated. They had, paired with countless cohorts of fully iron-clad infantry, the horseman of the Berbers -famed, dark-skinned men of the south renowned for the mastery on horseback. These were light cavalry, adept at moving with great agility, but accompanied with them was the Arab’s horsemen, riding mounts fully clad in cataphract. But Martel would not be discouraged, and he stood and watched with unwavering determination.

* * * * *

Six days passed. It was six days of wind, rain, and skirmishing. Often the Arabs would send small groups into the fields to egg us on, a ploy that -however tempting- we would not fall for. When they got too close we would chase them back, often inflicting or receiving the odd injury, but we would never follow them so far as to fall into the deadly range of their swift moving cavalry. Charles Martel believed that the Arabs, after joyriding the country and plundering without any forces to stop them, had grown insatiable in their prosperity, and their bloodlust would eventually entice them to advance.

He was right.

On the seventh day the hoofs of the Arabs’ steeds struck the earth once more, and they began an advancing march. Our camp ignited with life; men took up their arms and fell into formation under Martel’s banner. We were then ordered to form a defensive square on the hillock, placing spearmen in the frontlines, as was customary for a phalanx formation.

“We will not meet them. They will come to us, we will hold our position, and they will fall!” his regnant voice dictated, booming over the silent, disciplined crowd like thunder.

And they did come, as the storm does after the calm silence of nature’s apprehension, they did come. Leading with their full cataphract cavalry, it seemed they would flood us over, a raging tsunami of men. But somehow we stood strong, and when the first wave dove into our defences they were quickly closed in on, and the men were torn from their horses. The chaos continued for many hours until, content that no more damage could be dealt that day, the enemy slowly withdrew.

I looked to Charles Martel, still standing tall, his face sullen with grime and soot. I looked to the Arabs, the last of their forces kicking earth into the air as they retreated to their camp. I wondered how we had survived.

* * * * *

The Arabs were expected to attack early the next morning, and Martel feared for the worst. We had proven ourselves to be a competent foe far longer than anyone had expected, but in a dismal manner we wondered the extent of our fortune. I, simply a common soldier among thousands, did not attend the tactical meetings that night set up for Charles Martel and his most trusted commanders, but I did catch wind of their conclusions.

Everyone was awoken early the next day, long before the break of dawn. We were to suit up for war (in other words pick up our weapons and put on our cotton padded “armour”) and wait. I was once again awoken by Chlodric that morning, but this time he came baring revelations. He told me that they were sending out a small contingent to the Arab’s camp during the battle to attempt to divert and split their forces. He was part of that small force. The hope was that the enemy’s forces, so bent on protecting wealth and the valuable items they had plundered, would fall back to make sure it was safe.

I could see fear brooding in his eyes, but he told it all with a strong sense of duty. I clasped him on the shoulder and looked directly into his hazel orbs, replying, “Good luck, and God speed.” Then he was gone.

The enemy’s army approached us the same way that morning, starting as a slow march, and, as they closed in on our square formation, breaking into a swift charge, the whole time spear-headed by their deadly heavy cavalry. The rain’s downpour, which had lasted for the past eight days on and off with hardly any sign of the sun’s salving light, came to a climax that morning, drumming off our enemy’s armoured shells at a constant tempo.

Not long into the fight things were already looking desperate, as our spearmen tried desperately to keep the Arabs at bay. A stalemate had formed between the two sides, but slowly the enemy was breaking through at numerous junctions.

Then it happened. As a splinter breaks free from the main host, splitting forth when too much pressure is applied, the Arabs began to break apart. News had spread that their camp was being ravaged for valuable items, and their greed got the best of them.

For Emir Abd er Rahman it all happened so suddenly. I can remember seeing him caught in the midst of his fleeing soldiers, his eyes wide with panic as he tried to rally them back to the fight. But he could do nothing to prevent his army’s demise. Caught up in an attempt to keep his soldiers in formation, Rahman disregarded his own safety, and I watched as a great mass of Frankish infantry fell upon him with abandon.

Then, after witnessing the lurid fate of their respected leader, the entire army broke apart, fleeing as a stampede back across the grassy meadows now stained red with the blood of their comrades.

I could only stop for a moment to register the fact that we had, despite all odds, won before I was shoved into a charge by the many behind me as our defensive square broke apart in an attempt to chase down the enemy’s last withdrawing forces. We ran for what seemed like an eternity, cutting down many in our wake, until eventually we slowed to a halt.

And here I now stand, amidst the scattered bodies of my enemies, and the haunting moans of the dying. Horses trot about the field aimlessly, their riders torn from their backs amidst the chaos. The rain heavies the burden of my already dirt encompassed clothes, causing the thick material to cling to my sweat laden skin. Slowly the shroud, that foggy haze that drapes itself over the land as a blanket, is beginning to clear, parting for the cleansing rainfall that continues to fall over the battlefield.

I begin to walk once more, the water churning under my heels. Then I see a man, barely visible, amidst the murk. Cautiously I approach him as I navigate my way through the curtains of dust. When I finally come to him I see he is an Arab lying broken on the ground, barely conscious. In one bloodied hand he holds the hilt of his sword, the fine blade shattered into a million pieces across the earth, and in the other he -peculiarly- holds a silver cross, rich with detailed Frankish scrollwork and designs. The cross, shaped from fragile silver, is now contorted and inflicted with numerous dents. He looks me in the eyes, a piercing gaze that I will never forget, and I see regret.

This, I conclude, must have be one of the men that first left the battle to ensure their treasure’s safety. Whether he had been cut down by a javelin whilst attempting to flee, or thrown from his horse’s back, I do not know. I can see in his expression that he feels inane. His gaze diverts to the silver cross he grasps tightly in the palm of his hand. Effortlessly he releases it from his hold, and it falls to the ground with an unceremonious thud. His armour screeches from rust developing in its crevices as he leans forward slightly. With a pained look he reaches his hands to the sky, the broken sword still in his grasp. Loudly, defiantly, he shouts something in the Islamic tongue directly to the clouds.

He then grabs my arm forcefully, and my hand goes to the hilt of my sheathed sword, expecting him to attack me. Instead he looks me in the eyes as he presses my hand against the cold steel plating over his heart. He sounds as though he is laying and accusation on himself. “Fasiq,” his pleading voice says. “Fasiq…”

The man starts to rest then, his weary body growing tired. Out of pity I place my arm under his head, and he surprisingly accepts the gesture. Was this to be the way of the human race, killing each other over petty squabbles such as these? My emotions are mixed when I look upon this man, who participated in the killing of so many before, and likely would have killed me on the battlefield this day if given the opportunity. But my capacity for sympathy overthrows such hatred, and I watch as his chest rises with his last breath, his hand clutching the fatal wound on his side. He passes with a serene expression, and I think he has at last found peace. His muscles surrender then, and his sword’s bladeless hilt falls out of his grasp and tumbles to the ground where it lies broken, awaiting the day it will fall back into the earth’s soil, and eventually be remade as a blade far stronger than before.

* * * * *

The night passed uneventfully, and, as expected, the Muslims did not return the next morning. With Charles the Hammer, as he would be known from that day forth, leading us, we leave for the city of Tours, that precious gem we had all risked our lives to protect.

Chlodric falls into line beside me and his expression, along with the others, is the kind any rightful victor should bare.

“You know some of the Arabic tongue.” I inquire, “What does Fasiq mean?”

He ponders on it for a moment, scratching his scruffily bearded chin. “I think that’s what the Muslims call a sinner, or something like that,” is his reply.

I remember the Muslim, lying on the ground broken. I would remember him often, I was sure, but the memory was not an entirely disturbing one, as he had left the world in peace, whole once more. The question crosses my mind once again; how did we win? Discipline, a great leader, and perhaps the will of God is all I can come up with. I remember the look on Charles Martel’s face after our first day of victory, as he felt he had served his holy retribution for all the slaughtered Christians.

I look to the broken sword at my hip; the bladeless handle that sways in rhythm to my movement. I take it as a reminder of it all, and perhaps a reassurance that even in the midst of war humanity need not be void of emotion. For, although many souls are lost amidst the strife, they leave behind the ideals and the memories that carried them to battle within the hollow shells of armour, and the blades that’s notches tell those tales.