Bastard of Baghdad

By Roger Dunphy

Around the end of the eight century anno domini, Baghdad was the Camelot of the Muslim world. It had quickly expanded beyond its first walls and stretched on both sides of the Tigris River. The early historians believed more than a million people would be considered Baghdadis. The wharves allegedly stretched for miles along the Tigris. Exotic goods came in from all parts of the known world. The Caliphate extended from Spain and the Mahgreb in the West and India abd Samarkand in the East. Only the two deserts, the Gobi and the Takla Makan, stopped the Muslim empire from expanding farther into China.

Yet like all Camelots, there were problems. The original Arab settlers resented the cultured Persians and it showed in their resentment of the Barmacides who influenced the early caliphs, in particular Harun Al-Rashid. He comes to us by way of the fabulous Arabian Nights stories. In reality, two historians, Al-Tabari and Masudi have left us accounts of that period. Along with cultural differences, there were also religious problems. Not all Muslims agreed on interpretation nor on various holy imams. So the caliphs had to persuade or dissuade segments of the population. The goddess of discord was definitely an influence during these eras.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 23, 2008
• ISBN: 9781450046657

Roger Dunphy

MARINE 4 YEARS 1945 - 1948, OKINAWA AND CHINA GRADUATE OF THE UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA. ECONOMICS MAJOR ADVANCED DEGREES AT THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, HISTORY LIVED IN FRANCE FOR ELEVEN YEARS IN A RENOVATED FARMHOUSE TAUGHT ANCIENT AND MEDIEVAL HISTORY TAUGHT RUSSIAN TRAVELED VIA CHINA AND KASHGAR TO EGYPT AND ABU SIMBEL PROWLED IN PERSIA, IRAQ, JORDAN, ISRAEL, ARABIA LIVE ON A GOLF COURSE - FORE!

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Copyright © 2008 by Roger Dunphy.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

Preface

Around the end of the eighth century anno domini, Baghdad was the ‘Camelot’ of the Muslim world. It had quickly expanded beyond its first walls and stretched on both sides of the Tigris River. The early historians believed more than a million people would be considered ‘Baghdadis’ The wharves allegedly stretched for miles along the Tigris. Exotic goods came in from all parts of the known world. The Caliphate extended from Spain and the Mahgreb in the West and India and Samarkand in the East. Only the two deserts, the Gobi and the Takla Makan, stopped the Muslim empire from expanding farther into China.

Yet like all Camelots, there were problems. The original Arab settlers resented the cultured Persians and it showed in their resentment of the Barmacides who influenced the early caliphs, in particular Harun al-Rashid. He comes to us by way of the fabulous ‘Arabian Nights’ stories. In reality, two historians, al-Tabari and Masudi have left us accounts of that period. Along with cultural differences, there were also religious problems. Not all Muslims agreed on interpretation nor on various ‘holy imams.’ So the caliphs had to persuade or dissuade segments of the population. The goddess of discord was definitely an influence during these eras.

This is strictly a novel and not anything of import or necessarily relevant to today’s world. Oh yes, there is no medieval jargon of ‘thees’ and thous’. How to ruin a story.

My wife and I have been fortunate to visit most of these historical sites many years ago. We have had the best of all possible worlds. Thank you, Pangloss. This novel has been fermenting in my fevered brain for more than twenty years. Finally, after a ‘lifetime’ of golf and other frivolous pursuits, I have come to my favorite sport, the telling of historical tales. I enjoyed writing this tale. I hope you enjoy reading it.

Prologue

The man sighed as he dropped heavily in his camp chair, his bones aching in the bitter cold and from the raging winds which whistled around his tent. He reached and turned up the flame in his kerosene lantern. Slowly putting on his glasses, the man picked up the dirty and crumpled, heavy leather tube. Carefully he slit one end. Reaching two fingers inside, he felt the stiffness of ancient vellum. His eyes widened in wonder and then felt a tremor of surprise race through his frame. What can this be? he murmured to himself. He looked around to reassure himself that he was alone. His faithful major-domo, Ahmad, had left his meal and a carafe of wine on the table and then left. He knew that Sahib Stein wished to spend his evenings working on his daily logs.

Sir Marc Aurel Stein wanted to prolong the moment, so he ate several bites of his lamb and chappaties. He sipped on his glass of wine for several moments and then turned again to the encrusted leather tube. He felt inside and gently began to ease those crinkling vellums out of their ancient resting place. As they came loose from the tube, Aurel could see they were covered in writing. My God! He thought. If these are in a language I have some knowledge of, I’ll be greatly pleased.

Aurel Stein . . . he had dropped the Marc years ago . . . was the foremost English explorer and archaeologist in the forbidding regions of the high Pamirs and the desolate Takla Makan desert. He had been plying his craft shortly before the turn of the twentieth century on the ‘roof of the world’. This latest expedition was more of the same. He was looking for the source of that ancient river, the Oxus, now known as the Syr Darya. Marco Polo had written about a high mountain, glacial lake and Aurel felt it was the source of the river. He was determined to find it.

He had left Kashgar a month ago with his small force of diggers and horse-handlers. Keeping track of thirty horses and supplies was the responsibility of Ahmad, so he did not have to contend himself with the daily problems. Now he focused on the Pamirs, the deadly mountains which separated Siberian Russia from China and Afghanistan. Traveling over those high passes was in itself a chore. Yet talking to the few traders he had met along the trails had convinced him he was on the right path. Only another week or so and he would be there. It had kept him going even when the weather turned bad. But now this! Was it a reward for his efforts.

Yesterday he had nudged his horse up a steep, twisting, and narrow trail leading to the remnants of a crumbling, stone watch tower. Digging in those ruins, he had come across the old leather tube buried under part of an internal wall which had decayed into detritus. Aurel had carefully dug with his trowel and hands and finally rescued the tube. He had known, just by looking at it, that it was quite old. Before he had been able to examine it further, one of the handlers had yelled up to him, Sahib! The guide says a storm is coming. We better hurry if we wish to encamp in the lee of that mountain.

Aurel had waved his agreement and tucking the tube into a saddle-bag, mounted his horse and returned to the main route. From then on, there was too much weather for him to think about his find. Once in awhile it would pass across his mind, but it was not until now that he had the time to examine it. And it had been Ahmad who had brought it to his attention, saying, Sahib Stein, do you wish this dirty tube in the tent with you? He had nodded yes, remembering.

Aurel shook his head ruefully. He must be getting old. He carefully unrolled a part of a vellum. Bending over the sheet, he examined a line or two, ‘. . . Patric and I had been together in the Ja’afari for over a year now.’ It was written in Latin. Latin! Out here? Chinese, yes; Arabic, yes. Even the old script of India . . . But Latin? He took another sheet of the vellum. This time he used a magnifying glass to make sure. ‘. . . she laughed at me as I wallowed in that dirty canal in Yang-Chou.’ Aurel’s mouth dropped open. Yang-Chou? That old Chinese city had been a major seaport near the mouth of the Yangtze River in the China of the Sui and Tang dynasties. Latin in China? He could feel the excitement growing in him. My God, what do I have here? Yang-Chou had disappeared as a major seaport in the time of Kublai Khan. Yes, it was still there, but now just a minor town.

With the magnifying glass to help him, he read . . . ‘I crouched and began to enter the dark, humid entrance to the caverns of the pyramid. Would there be djinns and madrids to rip out my eyes and stomach as had happened to some merchants in the Takla Makan?’

The pyramid? China? The Takla Makan? And Latin? Aurel Stein sat back in his chair, and with trembling hand, poured himself another glass of the wine. Drinking slowly, he could barely comprehend the enormity of his discovery. This was not artifacts and shards and camel droppings to be fumbled and puzzled over; but a voice from some ancient age.

He carefully thumbed through several brown and stained sheets until he found one that looked like the beginning of this incredible story . . . ‘I think I had some influence on the affairs of the time which affected three kingdoms, maybe four.’ He visibly trembled, but not with the cold. It was these inexplicable ancient vellums. His emotions were high. This is what he lived for!

Aurel Stein had been born in Budapest of Jewish parents and had been educated at the universities of Tubingen and Oxford. Like many of the people of Israel, he had a keen analytical mind. He was totally dedicated to his crafts of archaeology and cartography. Always alone in the ‘God forsaken’ areas of Asia, he was content to spend his life under these most primitive conditions. It was the love of history and the challenge of solving some of its puzzles which were his raison d’etre. Perhaps now, he possibly had discovered one of those keys that could conceivably open doors into the dark rooms of history and ancient times.

Too excited to sit still, Aurel rose, stretched, and slipped outside. The winds had swept clear the skies and the heavens exploded in their dazzling display of stars. Aurel thought about what he had read as he looked skyward. Raising his head, he shouted, Are you up there in those brilliants, whoever you are? Is it time for me to meet you and converse with you? He stood there, heeding not the puzzled looks of his handlers. He stood there, head cocked as if expecting a reply. Then faintly tip-toeing through his consciousness, he felt, ‘God is great. God is all.’ Once more raising his head to the skies as if he were beseeching, he softly whispered, You have me. I know not who you are, but I intend to find out.

With that, he returned to his tent and began his reading.

Chapter One

Laus Deo. my name is Thierry de Ronvillette. Thierry is pronounced ‘Tyeery.’ Ronvillette should give you no trouble. I was born in the year of our Lord in 781 at Bordeaux in southern France. I say this to give you a time-frame if you desire to read my journals. When, where, and under what circumstances these papers will come-to-light is beyond my ken. In fact, I don’t know if anyone is interested in reading the ‘babblings’ of some damn old fool like me. Yet I think I had some influence on the affairs of the time, which affected three kingdoms, maybe four. Please don’t get the idea that I was an earth-shaker. It just happened that I was there when some events were decided.

I presume one begins at the beginning and so shall I. It’s probably easiest to do so. My mother had gone to Bordeaux with my father who was forced to go there and kiss the foot of his lord, the Count of Bordeaux. It was one of those dreary rituals every baron had to perform to keep his lands free from the avaricious hands of the Count. So there I came into the world in July of that year, squalling, drooling, and shitting.

The only words my father said on viewing were, according to my mother, Christo! Why is he so dark? We’re all blond, but look at that little turd. He’s as dark as a Saracen! He didn’t know it then, how prophetic his words were to become.

So back home we went as soon as the fealty rituals were complete. Home was a large manor house on top of a hill in a very old section of France. There were remembrances of the Roman occupation all around us: spear heads, old rusted swords and helmets; all the souvenirs of that long-ago age. Also, not far from our home were the caves of some earlier peoples dug into the cliffs of the Dordogne and Vezere rivers. But they were very eerie and threatening places. Witches and warlocks were said to fornicate there and conduct disgusting and murderous ceremonies. Most of us stayed well clear of such caves. But not me and my friends. We went into them and found drawings on the walls and bones and stone knives near the old fire pits. We would play with them and throw such things into the rivers. When my father found out I had been there, he gave me a good hiding, grimly saying, You little bastard, stay away from there or you’ll have those goddam ghosts coming here.

My father was the Baron Hughes de Ronvillette, a local lord in this lush land of rivers and woods. We were fairly wealthy and so we had many servants and slaves to do our bidding. My father said it was necessary to keep up appearances with the other lords. So we all piled into that house which sprawled everywhere. There were times when it was impossible even to go to the jakes because there were so many of us. So we would squat in the corners or just outside. When the stench got too strong, my father would yell and start whipping the slaves. Clean up this filthy mess! Get water and brooms and sweep out this shit! It smells like the stables in here.

So I spent my first six years dodging my father’s fists or my older brother’s foot. He was as blond as I was dark. His name was Olivier and he was four years older than I. We never did get along. He would kick me or punch me at every opportunity. My father would just laugh and say, Hit the little bastard again. I learned early on not to trust people. Finally, Olivier was sent to another lord’s manor to begin his duties as a page at age ten. It was one of my happiest days to see him depart and I celebrated it by throwing a horse turd at his back as he left. Unfortunately, I hit him. That night my father gave me another hiding, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was impatient to bed his latest whore whether my mother liked it or not.

My mother gave birth to a girl about then. That baby was so beautiful my father had tears in his eyes when he looked at her. Just like my mother, he would snuffle as he held her. Then he would cast an eye on me and snarl, I don’t want you touching her with your filthy black hands, nigger!

That hurt. So at every opportunity I would rock little Ermingarde and watch her coo at me. Mother would watch us and smile. I won’t say anything about this to your father, Thierry. Hold her as much as you like. God knows, you’ve had little affection around here. Then she would caress me and tears would spurt into my eyes. I wasn’t used to kindness.

During those years I did make friends with several of our slaves who had been captured in Spain. They were dark like me. When they saw me for the first time, they smiled and broke into their heathenish language. Soon I found out they were ‘Moors’ from Granada. They must have thought I was one of them because we began a friendship which lasted as long as I was home. They taught me their language . . . especially the dirty words . . . which was Arabic. They would laugh as I tried to get my tongue around those sounds. When I could understand them better, they warned me not to speak Arabic around my father or they would get whipped for corrupting me. That was no problem for I tried to stay out of his sight as much as possible.

My mother was very gentle with me. She would bring me to her solar and read to me from the one book we owned. It was the Bible and she would relate all the wonderful tales from it. My favorite was the story of Joseph in Egypt. I intended to go there one day, if I knew where it was. She let me look at the beautiful drawings in the Bible and encouraged bookishness in me, saying the estates were to go to Olivier. So perhaps the Church would be in my future. With that in mind, she brought in an old friar, Anselmo by name. He was originally from Italy, a son of a merchant from Naples. As a youth he had traveled with his father to many foreign shores. He knew where Egypt was, and Canaan, and even Babylon; all those exotic places ‘Maman’ had read to me.

I was entranced. I began to learn geography and sums and science. Surprisingly, it came easy for me. One day Brother Anselmo asked me if I would like to increase my studies. Of course, I said. So I began to study Latin and Italian. They weren’t so different from our French.

When I turned eight, my father announced that I was to be sent to the famous school in Aix-la-Chapelle. Founded by Alcuin, the English monk, it had become the academy to attend if one expected to go far in Charlemagne’s kingdom. It seemed that Friar Anselmo had written to a teacher at the school about me. I had known nothing of this. But he had sent examples of my penmanship in Latin and Italian to the school. My father said sarcastically, Well, ‘nigger’. Let’s hope the Church can make a capon out of you. I’d hate to think that with your looks and black skin, you’d be pumping babies into our fair women. Besides, you’re too cute. You can become some bishop’s catamite.

That man really knew how to hurt me. It was true I was too handsome by far. Most people would love to have my looks. They’re welcome to them! From the age of five I had had to fight off the ‘pawings’ of my father’s friends, and even their squires. Believe me, one cannot grow up in my times without knowing all the perverted drives our men had. Some wanted to stick their members in my anus, others in my mouth. Whistling, from their cod pieces they would flop out their chunks of gristle at me and demand I service them. I would run like a deer, their laughter ringing in my ears. So it was with a sense of relief that I was leaving my ‘home’.

I don’t remember much about the journey as my head was awhirl. It was the first time I had really gone far from home. Everything was new and different to me. Yet it wasn’t. We traveled through great forests, but we had forests, too. We slept in small towns and villages similar to ours. I kept hoping there would be huge castles and fiery dragons and such. None appeared on our journey.

After several weeks we reached Aix-la-Chapelle. Now I was awed. To me it was a huge city. There must have been thousands of people surging about. There were buildings and then more buildings. Some were churches, many were storehouses and barracks for the soldiers of the King. There were shops and markets for the people. And then there was the palace of our King, Charlemagne. It was the biggest edifice in he city. Structure after structure: the royal house, the royal chapel, the royal mews, the royal kitchens, and on and on. To me, at the age of eight, it was a maze. I was sure I would get lost in all those structures. And I did, more than once.

When we first entered the royal courtyard, our small entourage was directed to various places. A monk took me to the academy areas. He made no attempt to help me with my baggage but let me drag it along in the dirt. Luckily, there wasn’t much in it. Several changes of underclothes, two pairs of woolen hose with their leather bindings, and a tunic or two. All were dark for sobriety and piety, and the dirt isn’t so noticeable.

Very quickly I settled into the routine of the school, loving all of it. We had scholars from all over Europe and one or two from Moorish Spain. Practically on my knees, I pleaded to enter their classes. The monks looked at me with some skepticism until I spoke in Arabic. I heard the provost, Brother Stephan say, This one will never make the priesthood. He’s too dark and too handsome. He’d end up impregnating all the women of the diocese and giving Mother Church a bad name. Can you imagine what would happen when all those dark babies began showing up? Besides, he has the language of the heathen. Wouldn’t it be better to make a merchant out of him. God moves in mysterious ways. And the Holy Church needs many different hands. So I was admitted to those classes.

As a new student I had to carry out chores for the older boys, ‘ragging’ they called it. To me it was more like attempted rape. More than once I had to fight for my virginity. With teeth and howls and fists and feet, I would struggle against the lusts of those brutish boys. Two things saved me. They would attack me singly, ashamed to let any other boy know of their perverted lusts. I was big for my age and knew how to fight. So I gained a reputation to ‘leave the ‘Moor’ alone’.

Other new boys were not so lucky. Often I heard them crying softly on their pallets after ‘sessions’ with a bigger boy. Once or twice I came to assist a smaller boy and the older ones would pummel me into the dirt. Sadly, I learned not to interfere too often as my reward was always lumps and bruises. As far as the brothers were concerned, I deserved what I got. After all, they argued, a sound thumping never hurt anyone . . . good for the soul, teaches humility.

So I learned to live with my fellow students, but primarily as a loner. It concerned me not, as I was totally committed to the classroom. Those scholars taught me science, geography, ciphers, more Latin, more Arabic. And later I was schooled in more geography, navigation, and history.

There was one other discipline to add. It had less to do with the mind than with the body . . . that of sword play. I felt if I were to become a trader and handle large sums of money, I should be able to defend myself. It was a cruel and wicked world outside my narrow confines. Once again, fortune smiled on me. The school had employed several masters of the blade, including a Moor who instructed me and some others in the use of the scimitar. Those hours were a great pleasure to me. I imagined my father as the foe and would attack furiously. Daoud, the teacher, would laugh and disarm me in seconds. Control yourself, boy. The sword and mind must work together. Remember, heat always brings defeat. So I worked hard to keep my emotions in check. Learn to cloak your intentions. After several years, Daoud gave me encouragement. You’ve got a good eye and splendid reflexes. With your height and reach, in time you could become a fearful swordsman. Keep at it, Teery. Odd? Most Muslims never could pronounce my name. But I’m getting ahead of my tale.

Once a year we were allowed to return to our homes. This was the season of Christ’s birth and the celebrations connected with it. As the years passed those visits became more distasteful to me. My father either nagged at me or totally ignored me. The latter was far more pleasing. Maman seemed to be despondent and morose much of the time. She would sit in her solar for hours, staring out at the countryside. At times, I thought she had died, she was so still. Then, if guests were lodged with us, she would force herself to be bright and pleasant to all.

At one of these gatherings I asked my sister, Ermingarde, if there was some serious sickness with Maman. She answered with tears in her eyes, that Maman was withering away. She and father kept separate rooms and the bastard was bringing his whores into the house now. Those slatterns would even try to dictate to Maman. With such unhappy conditions permeating my vacations, I was glad to return to the contemplative existence of the academy. I must have been all of twelve or thirteen when I realized what a bastard my father was. Even now, so many years and so many experiences later, I still find it difficult to say his name. He was the Baron Hughes de Ronvillette, Lord of Caberrac. And may the devil take his soul.

Returning to the academy, I learned that Alcuin, the founder, was ailing. Seldom did we see him now. So more and more, I turned to two of my ‘Moorish’ teachers. The first, Hakkam, coached me in Arabic until I had the purity of that language burned into my mind. Then he led me into the various dialects which comprised many parts of that world. He even began instructing me in Farsi, the tongue of the Persians. The second, Abd-Allah, continued my education in mathematics which they called al-jibra. And he brought me alive with the study of astronomy. Many times he would say, To read the path of the stars is never to get lost in the world. If I was going to travel, then such a skill would be absolutely imperative and probably life-saving.

He told me things that sent me away reeling from their magnitude. My heart would race, my mouth would flop open in the majesty of the world as he described it. Abd-Allah told me of vast deserts burning in day and freezing at night. Of mountains so high that their peaks were lost in the clouds. Of djinns and efrits, evil spirits who could suck the souls out of men. Of apsaras, beautiful, wispy, floating maidens who played music so enchantingly that one could lose his mind when he listened to them. Of ghostly caravans, dead for centuries in the deserts of the East, but who still haunted the highways and trails.

When he mentioned cities, ten . . . no fifty times larger than Aix, I knew he was a liar. He saw the smirk on my face and responded thusly, You may smile at me now in your ignorance, little brain. But when you gaze on the walls of Constantinople or Baghdad, think back to what I have told you. And I shall tell you something else. They are but villages compared to the cities of the ‘Han’ who are the master builders.

Who are the ‘Han’? I asked.

The yellow people of the East. There are millions and millions of them, and they are very rich compared to this primitive place, he replied. If you are ever so fortunate to travel to their lands, you will never return to this this pigsty. Why live in poverty of mind and body, when you can live in luxury in both? They are the most inventive and educated people in the world.

While I knew he was wrong, I couldn’t help but imagine what their cities would look like. Little did I know my speculations would turn into reality and lead to a ‘contretemps’ both awkward and tragic. But again, I’m getting ahead of my story.

Several things are necessary to set the stage before I get into the main tale. Firstly, I was growing into manhood. Hair sprouted in the oddest places, in the armpits, in the crotch. Normal, I was told. My erections were a daily occurrence. The work of the devil, I was told. Instead of getting more manly, my face became even prettier. Christo! What a burden! Now it was no longer boys I had to fend off, but the monks. Every day in chapel one of those brothers who had committed his soul to Christ tried to commit his gristle to me! Many was the time when kneeling, I would feel the hot breath of some monk on my neck and his member poking at my rump. It was one thing to fight the honest but queer lust of my schoolmates, but the hypocrisy of those dedicated Christians made me sick. I would turn on the offender and hit him as hard as I could. Most of the time it was sufficient to cool the ardor of those perverts. But there was one, Brother Mariano, a huge man and an ancient Greek scholar from Ravenna, once the capital of the Roman Empire. Smashing him just brought a gleam to his eye. I’ll get you yet, you beautiful boy, he would hiss. You can’t be on guard all the time. Why don’t you learn Greek from me? I can give you more knowledge than any of the others here.

Troubled, I turned to Abd-Allah and told him of my problem. He listened quietly while I sniveled and whined about the grossness of some monks. Then he replied, There is little I can do to help you. You are as Allah dictated. To disfigure yourself would be a crime in our religion. You must find your own way in this world. He leaned forward in his chair. Have you asked yourself why you’re different from the run of the boys here? Do you ever look in the glass and see how dark is your skin compared to these ruddy types? You’re almost as dark as one of us. With your eyes and dark lashes, your straight nose, and brilliant teeth; you’d be in greater danger in Granada or Sevilla. Tell me, have the women bothered you yet?

I shook my head. He smiled and said, Well, they will. And they can be worse than the men. They don’t give up and if you don’t react the way they want, they’ll relate false tales how you raped them and such. Remember, they are born with the ability to scheme and manipulate and get their way.

How do you know this? I asked

History teaches us, Teery. Think of all the kings and their harems. Whether it was Persia and Xerxes or the Roman Empire and Octavian and Lydia; women have eventually controlled the throne. Mothers, mistresses, any woman who had a son or lover, connived to get hers on the throne to the detriment of the kingdom. If there is any palace revolution, look for the woman behind the assassin. Constantinople is a good example. The Empress Irene now rules, not her son. How prophetic were his words.

And so I went home to a fateful Christ’s mass holy time. I was fifteen and was now allowed to enter into adult conversations. So one night I was sitting with Brother Anselmo and we sat there reminiscing and drinking wine. He was drinking four to my one. I had been telling him about the school and my problem. He responded, Have you ever wondered why you’re so dark? Have you looked in a glass? Shades of Abd-Allah.

I shrugged and said, I just assumed I was some throwback to a Roman ancestor. Why are you asking me these questions?

Go to your mother, Thierry. You’re old enough now to understand. Go, boy.

I stood on trembling legs. I wanted to know but feared what I think I already knew. I forced myself to climb those stairs and enter her solar. She sat there by the fireplace, just looking at the flickering flames. I crossed over to her, knelt, and put my hands on hers. Maman, Brother Anselmo said it was time for me to know. What should I know?

She looked at me with love, softly stroked my hair. "You, Thierry, are my love child. But you’re not of your father’s body. I committed adultery. I fell in love with a stranger from a far distant land. He loved me and I loved him, not too wisely, but ever so well. Think you. I was married to your alleged father at the age of fourteen without ever seeing him. He didn’t care for me, nor I him. But we did our duty. We had Olivier. Then he left me for his whores. I had years of his marital infidelities. There were times I wished he would come to me . . . but he never did.

"Then one autumn, just at harvest, a small group of Moors came here. They were on their way to Aix to see our King. They intended to spend several weeks there and then go south before the winter set in. Yet they seemed in no hurry to continue their journey. In that group of Moors, there was one, the handsomest man I had ever seen. His name was Musa, Musa ibn-Yahya. He said he wasn’t a Moor but a Persian. He said he came from a famous family in Persia. Barmak was their name. His father was adviser to the Caliph, whatever that is.

Your father . . . no Hughes to you now . . . was busy with the harvest and his whoring, so I was expected to entertain our guests as ‘chatelaine’ of the castle. That was the mistake. We saw too much of each other, Musa and I. In a week I was in his arms. When he left, I thought my heart would break. She smiled at me and caressed my cheek. "Hearts don’t, you know. I loved him and still do. A month