The Eternal Time of History - Part VIII E-Book

Simone Malacrida

• Herausgeber: Simone Malacrida
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

The great power of human culture and knowledge, expressed in multiple aspects of daily life and speculative reflection, did not seem sufficient to stem the violence of arms and the prevalence of war in a century, the eighth, which saw the peak of the Islamic Caliphate and the Lombard kingdom's expansion, while an intense unifying drive attempted to create a new Empire after centuries of fragmentation.
This dichotomy underpinned the triple vicissitudes of various families who, from one end of the then-known world to the other, faced the difficult choice between present and future.
Symbolically, the century ended with the birth of the Holy Roman Empire, ephemeral and certainly not eternal, as certain universal ideas would prove to be.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

SIMONE MALACRIDA

“ The Eternal Time of History - Part VIII”

ANALYTICAL INDEX

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

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XVII

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XXI

SIMONE MALACRIDA

“ The Eternal Time of History - Part VIII”

Simone Malacrida (1977)

Engineer and writer, has worked on research, finance, energy policy and industrial plants.

ANALYTICAL INDEX

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

The book contains very specific historical references to facts, events and people. These events and characters actually happened and existed.

On the other hand, the main characters are the product of the author's pure imagination and do not correspond to real individuals, just as their actions did not actually happen. It goes without saying that, for these characters, any reference to people or things is purely coincidental.

The great power of human culture and knowledge, expressed in multiple aspects of daily life and speculative reflection, did not seem sufficient to stem the violence of arms and the prevalence of war in a century, the eighth, which saw the peak of the Islamic Caliphate and the Lombard kingdom's expansion, while an intense unifying drive attempted to create a new Empire after centuries of fragmentation.

This dichotomy underpinned the triple vicissitudes of various families who, from one end of the then-known world to the other, faced the difficult choice between present and future.

Symbolically, the century ended with the birth of the Holy Roman Empire, ephemeral and certainly not eternal, as certain universal ideas would prove to be.

“One should not listen to those who say, 'The voice of the people is the voice of God,' for the confusion of the multitude is always close to madness."

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Alcuin of York

​I

702-704

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Martin loved to walk along the banks of the river that ran through the city of Parisiorum, the capital of Neustria.

He had failed in his attempt to reach Austrasia and its palace steward, that Pepin of Héristal who was considered by all to be one of the most powerful nobles in the entire Frankish kingdom.

The man felt he had found his place and did not want to avenge the brutal massacre committed five years earlier in the southernmost tip of Burgundy.

His two brothers and the entire community he remembered had perished there, a kind of experiment that had lasted a century during which they had given hope and serenity to many people.

From that time, Martino carried with him two indelible legacies: his culture, honed by years of study and which had now allowed him to be a teacher and a tutor so as to be able to begin a new existence, and his daughter Cesarilde, who was now nineteen years old and who was the most faithful reflection of what her mother Frumilde had been like, who died giving birth to her.

“This is enough for me,” he had told himself.

No revenge and no complaints.

What would it have been for?

To nothing.

Sooner or later, the two nobles and the bishop of Arles would be punished by God.

He was certain of it and it was not up to men to replace the supernatural will.

The nature in Parisiorum was very different from southern Burgundy.

More humid, colder and with more rainfall.

Plus, there was no sea.

It had been very difficult to adapt to that world, especially when it came to relationships between people, which were based on oppression or money.

Both Martino and Cesarilde had suffered the first two years, despite what they found in the horse's saddlebag placed just outside the useless palisades defending their village.

With what they had, they had managed to move without suffering from hunger or cold and, once they reached Parisiorum, they had built one of the many huts that were on the southern part of the river.

There Martin began working as a teacher, being able to teach reading and writing in Latin and working as an employee of wealthy families, almost all of whom were interested in giving an initial education to their children, especially those destined for an ecclesiastical career.

The warriors, usually the firstborn sons of nobles, didn't have much time to waste on words, or so it was thought.

As for women, it was practically forbidden for them to get an education and it was for this reason that Cesarilde had hidden her talents.

With how much his father was earning, he could easily have done nothing, but he had protested.

“I'm not used to it.”

Martino had smiled and obliged her, finding her a modest job as a washerwoman.

In this way, she could stay close to him and they went together, from morning to evening, to the area where the nobles of Neustria resided.

Martin had little interest in wars and various alliances.

“Let's stay away from all this.”

His daughter shared.

Before her were still the images of those bloodthirsty and death-thirsty knights and infantrymen who had annihilated their community.

For their own good, Martin had forbidden them to speak about it to anyone.

“We must say that we come from the south, from Burgundy.

Everyone recognizes our accent.

But nothing more.”

Cesarilde had grown up and was now a woman and her father knew what that meant.

As much as he had managed to cope with the presence of a mother and siblings, he knew that his daughter needed a confidante other than himself.

There was a friend of hers, also a washerwoman, but the young woman's speeches seemed futile to Cesarilde.

“They talk about trivial things and say I look like a lady.”

Martino hugged her.

His daughter was almost naive about the outside world, but the man understood that he should not deprive her of her future.

“It is right that you stay with them and find a good and honest husband.”

Cesarilde was torn.

On the one hand, she would have wanted it, to start a family and become a mother herself.

What better way to honor the sacrifice of Frumilde and, later, of the entire community?

However, he feared such a moment.

Did he mean that he should move away from where he lived with his father, leaving him there alone?

It wasn't fair.

“I know what you think, but don’t worry, my daughter.”

Martino saw himself as old and was already happy to have managed to survive.

What happened to his brothers and nephews?

All dead.

However far away the fateful moment might be, spring awakened all kinds of sensations.

It was true that in Parisiorum it appeared later than in southern Burgundy, but Cesarilde was certainly not immune to the scents and fragrances.

Unlike his father, he worked outdoors, especially during the summer.

The nobles lived around the islet that stood in the middle of the river, on both sides of it, and the water so close was a strong attraction for everyone.

They knew that it flowed into the ocean, a sea completely different from the headlands they had been accustomed to.

Cesarilde had learned some songs that were popular among washerwomen and that helped pass the time.

They were also a magnet for young men who happened to be passing by.

Plebeians, for the most part.

This was how one found a wife without going through the usual family routine.

Martin, unaccustomed to such practices, would never have taken the initiative to find a husband for his daughter, believing her capable of choosing for herself.

This was one of the many revolutionary aspects of his conduct and was considered strange.

“He is a scholar,” it was said as if to justify such deviations from normal practice.

Their mistrust of strangers had been a good thing up until then, as had their general isolation, but that had to change, and Martino began to think intensely about his daughter's future husband.

He must not have been someone obsessed or too superstitious, but not too fervent either.

“We can’t keep our big secret from him,” she told her daughter almost every day.

Cesarilde was embarrassed since she didn't even know who to focus on.

There was no man in her life, even though Argetrude, her washerwoman friend, talked about all the young men of plebeian extraction in the city.

Every day he fantasized about a different one and encouraged Cesarilde to do the same.

“You’re three years older than me and you don’t think about it?

Did you know that you might already be considered old?

I'm getting married in a year, but I don't want my father to decide, which is why I talk about it all the time.

The first one who notices me, I'll take it."

He always laughed with good taste and was good company, exactly what Cesarilde needed to not think about the past.

Her life as a child and as a young girl had been perfect and she did not understand why a Commune could not be reconstituted.

If only his father had convinced three or four other families, they could have started again.

Certainly not in Parisiorum, but in a peripheral area and towards the sea, where the nobles had not yet arrived.

“And where?”

As far as Martin knew, the marriage between nobility and clergy had reached everywhere, except for spilling over into other areas.

In Armorica lived the descendants of the Britons, of whom great evil was spoken.

Further north it was even worse, since Austrasia was the very center of that power from which to escape.

Italy and Hispania were too far away.

The man had decided that it was best to stay in the city, preserving the memory of the missing people.

“They live inside us.

In the heart and in the mind.”

Cesarilde joined in her father's prayers.

They had not stopped having faith in God, but they certainly did not recognize the episcopal authority as long as they continued to behave in that way.

In the middle of summer, Argetrude talked about nothing but farmers and blacksmiths.

The reason was simple.

He saw them every day.

In the hot season, the former worked outdoors and the latter did the same to avoid dying of asphyxiation indoors.

Every young man who struck iron or earth showed off his physique and Argetrude went into ecstasy.

“I would make everyone lose the desire to put so much effort into dealing with inanimate beings.”

Cesarilde touched her with an elbow or a knee, as if to rebuke her.

“Stop it.”

Not at all intimidated, she continued.

“Look at Clotaire, vigorous with the sickle.

And Arnaldo, what a constant and tireless beat on that red-hot iron.”

In this way Cesarilde knew their names without ever having spoken to them and, with the excuse of Argetrude, she managed to give them a fleeting glance.

Her modesty was such that it never stood out and few would have bet on her intellectual gifts, which were displayed only by talking to her.

Anyone who had the pleasure of speaking with Cesarilde reported a positive opinion of her as a balanced person, exactly what was needed for a commoner.

No one knew of the indomitable passion that burned inside her because of what she had had to endure in the past and this created a kind of magical aura, which only her father Martino had noticed.

The tutor was known to everyone, due to the fact that he had appeared out of nowhere five years earlier and with a background that came from who knows where.

Only in convents could such levels of knowledge and learning be achieved, but Martin had never made any reference to support such a thesis.

The man did not make anyone talk about him, carrying a legacy that was already his at the time of the Commune, that is, the experiment that had been carried out, for over a century, in southern Burgundy and which was now forgotten by everyone, even by those who lived in those areas.

He had had a wife who had died and that was all everyone knew.

The rest is a mystery.

The profession of tutor was quite lucrative and was considered better than manual ones, at least from the popular point of view.

The nobles, on the other hand, praised war.

Life was worth living for, while Martin had always detested the use of violence, in any context.

His daughter Cesarilde agreed.

In addition to a calm and peaceful man, who knew how to keep secrets and who did not want to dominate the family, someone was needed who abhorred the very idea of war.

Arnaldo had noticed the two washerwomen, but to Argetrude's great displeasure, his interest was directed at Cesarilde.

There were conflicting versions about her and the blacksmith often heard the servants of the nobles who passed through him for orders arguing.

“He speaks little, but he seems to know how to read and write.”

And then Latin and the rest were added.

“Of course, with a father who is a tutor and who has no other children and is not interested in remarrying.”

Arnaldo was intrigued, but he knew he couldn't offer much.

He was illiterate and was not one of those considered essential, since the weapons were forged by others.

“And that makes you sad?”

The young man had found himself taken aback by Cesarilde's direct question, after they had found themselves near the river, where the washerwomen went to carry out their tasks and the blacksmiths came to stock up on water, which was extremely necessary for forging.

Argetrude, by the end of the summer, had abandoned all hope of conquering Arnaldo, preferring Clotaire, the grass-cutter.

The blacksmith stood there motionless and without saying anything.

He seemed to be in front of a judge, he was so nervous.

What was the correct answer?

A man, to boast, would say that his art and skill were so high that he could easily move from simple agricultural tools to military objects.

However, Arnaldo felt that there was something wrong with this.

Not that he had thought so before that moment, but it was Cesarilde's presence that made him doubt it.

"At that time?"

The girl was waiting.

She made a gesture, like a little snail, as if to mock him.

The young man smiled and found Cesarilde to be a peerless woman, uninterested in social conventions.

“No, I don’t mind.

War is none of my business.”

The young woman smiled.

It was the correct answer, at least from his point of view.

The river flowed past them, as it always had for as long as man could remember.

*******

After five years of wandering around Italy, Landgrave had found his ideal place.

By the time he was a quarter of a century old, he had managed to save enough money to afford a permanent home, without having to move constantly like Jonah, his mentor and teacher.

To follow that Jewish merchant, they had left their paternal home, located in Modoetia near the Lambrus River, where their ancestors had settled after the migration of the Lombards to Italy.

Compared to the sedentary lifestyle of peasants, especially winemakers, being a merchant had its intrinsic advantages.

See a piece of the world, alternate landscapes and spend the winter wherever there was a minimum of warmth.

“It's better this way, for both of us.”

He had dismissed Jonah at the beginning of the new spring season.

By remaining in contact with the master, he had learned all possible trading techniques, but he had told himself that he would carry out the same function on a local basis.

A cart and a donkey were always needed, to get to and from without problems and with little effort.

“I will be your point of reference in this area.”

Jonah knew he would pass at least once a year, but even twice now that the Landgrave had stopped.

He had chosen a place that he considered symbolic and in keeping with his nature.

A small hill that was exposed to the sun all day, with mountains to the east and the sea to the west.

The second one was just a mile away so I could easily reach it.

The ancient Via Aurelia passed between the hill and the sea, and the area was called Etruria since ancient times.

The hut he had built was quite rudimentary and without any land around it, since he did not want to be a farmer.

He had not moved there to continue the family tradition, but to start a new life.

The modest dwelling was rectangular in shape, made of wood and with a sloping roof to allow rainwater to run off, also providing a sort of central mezzanine that was used to cool the interior during the scorching summers.

Next to it was a shed for the cart and donkey, while he would later build another section of the hut to store the goods.

The Landgrave's idea was to trade on a local scale, exchanging the surpluses of those who were farmers.

He had noticed that winegrowers, cereal or fruit producers and livestock breeders needed each other's surpluses.

The Landgrave had become familiar with them and had understood their needs.

So he offered to carry out the transport and exchanges, earning a living from them.

Part of the cargo was retained by the merchant himself and then resold to those who commuted for longer distances.

In the meantime, he would have eaten and had enough to survive, but with the arrival of large-scale traders, money would have been added, with which to foment the circle again.

It was much better this way than breaking your back on the ground, since it was less tiring and the risks were limited.

He still remembered well what could happen to winemakers, especially to his family in Modoetia.

There he had left his parents, Baldo and Galdoina, who were now focused on helping the Landgrave's sister, twenty-two-year-old Donalda.

The young woman had married a worthy local man, Rainardo, whose power was matched only by his calm.

He had always been considered one of the quietest men in Modoetia and had not had many aspirations, other than starting a family.

Their marriage had coincided with the last time the Landgrave had been in Modoetia, while the new merchant had not seen the birth of his first grandson, Manfred.

The almost one-year-old baby wasn't even walking yet, and Donalda was assigned to look after him while the others tried to keep things running.

Jonah would arrive in the month of May, the month dedicated to the trade of new wine and in Modoetia there was a shipment of ten barrels to be collected from Baldo's family.

“I'll tell him he has a grandson.”

Jonah took charge of such a missive, after he had described in detail the place of the Landgrave's urbanization.

Galdoina had resented what her son had decided.

He thought it was a temporary choice and not a new way of conceiving life.

“You have to come to terms with it,” Baldo had concluded.

The father was more practical and knew that there was not much that could be done if a man decided in that direction.

The strength of Lombard society lay in this.

Not having lost the adventurous spirit of nomadism even when framed within a rigid division of the duchies.

The great king Cunipert had died and now there had been a rather chaotic period with Aripert II as the new ruler.

The spirits of revolt and the internal division between Arians and Catholics had been calmed by the victory of the latter.

Papias was the undisputed capital, while the whole of Italy was under their dominion, except for the southernmost area which remained in the hands of the Eastern Romans.

Jonah had not seen the full splendor of that place, when Modoetia was a large community of busy people and the workers had attracted other inhabitants.

Of that past, only the religious buildings and a little-used royal summer residence remained.

Even around Baldo and Galdoina's camp there was no one left, underlining their isolation.

Jonah left after two days and wandered aimlessly throughout northern Italy.

Only the area of Ravenna and the small strip of territory up to Rome were not under Lombard rule, but traders could set foot there whenever they wanted.

The merchant's slow journey had only two main goals, of which only the first was linked to survival.

Aware of how much there was in Italian society, it was a lot for someone like him to stay alive.

“I have no real friends,” he always said.

Only Landgrave was, but the fact that he had moved to the city was far from Jonah's nature.

Staying in one place for more than a month was counterproductive to his business and put him in extreme danger.

The sermons of the priests and the episcopal edicts were never magnanimous towards the Jews and this desire of the Lombard kings to appear as defenders of the Pope contrasted with Jonah's vision.

“I'll end up having to leave here too.”

He had heard of how the so-called infidels were spoken of badly, but he had never had any direct experience.

If he had known how people like him were treated, he would have set sail for Alexandria, where goods of all kinds were traded.

The limited nature of knowledge was a common feature and this was good for the non-implosion of society.

What would have happened if everyone had noticed that things were better elsewhere?

Instead, spreading negative news about other places made people stay and fight even more.

While the Landgrave tried to expand, finding wood and tools to build a fence, an entrance gate and a small shed, everyone else continued with their normal lives.

Donalda did not envy her brother and was happy with the husband she had chosen.

Calm and without ambition.

Rainardo knew the fortune of the field and the history of that family, even though everything was on the road to decline.

The same vine produced less and the only way they had to secure the ten barrels of wine was to increase the size of the plantation.

None of them knew much about crop rotation, especially since it applied to cereals and vegetables rather than vines.

Nevertheless, the decline cycles were known, unlike the atmospheric conditions, a real enigma.

The ancient, forgotten religion called upon the forces of Nature, personified by pagan Gods, now considered to be destroyed and legacies to be ashamed of.

Jonah crossed the mountain range when the grape harvest was being completed in Modoetia and before him the views opened up towards the part of the sea where the Landgrave was.

He knew the paths and never tired, nor did his donkey do otherwise, through a perfect union between animal and master.

“There it is.”

The valley and the subsequent descent towards the sea.

Another day's walk and he would find himself in the vicinity of the Landgrave's house.

He might not find it directly, but he would have to wait no more than a day.

This was the maximum length of absence conceived by the friend.

It was like this and meanwhile he saw from the outside.

Only a person who was extremely trusting of others could leave that place, leaving it unattended, and be sure of finding everything intact.

“I'll camp here.”

He remained outside the property, after having inspected the fence and new buildings.

Landgrave was truly capable of doing multiple jobs and soon his figure would be noticed in the area.

The man recognized his friend's cart.

They hugged each other.

“Come inside.”

He welcomed him as a guest and showed him all the improvements.

“Did you see what I did in six months?”

It looked great and trading was good.

“I have some things here...”

He showed him how much he had set aside.

The Landgrave knew where and how Jonah could place the goods and the potential profit.

“A third of your profit is enough for me.”

Jonah did some calculations.

It was in his best interest to accept, as he would be returning there in six months, after the winter season.

“Everything right away,” Jonah was keen to point out.

The agreements were those, always.

Thus the Landgrave could have spent a winter without problems, also sheltered from the cold which was instead very present in Modoetia.

There the ground froze in winter, remaining a single block for many days, while in Etruria, where the Landgrave was, nothing of the sort happened.

“Did you see?”

He pointed to a place three hills away, where someone was growing vines and producing wine.

He knew who they were, other Lombards or Italics who had moved from more inland areas towards the coast.

He had no idea that part of their origins came from that Calimero who had re-taught his ancestors how to make wine and cultivate vines, with a mix of those who came from Greece or other places.

After the Lombard invasion, which had occurred almost a century and a half earlier, there had been no further movements of peoples, but only the impromptu sending of a few warriors.

“And there is a convent there.”

Jonah knew the way to it, but he had never taken it.

Christian religious places were dangerous for people like him.

“Aren’t you tired?”

The Landgrave was amazed at how this man, much older than him, wanted to wander constantly.

Jonah smiled and took a piece of bread.

“Let’s eat.”

He had to offer it as a seal of the agreement they had reached.

The Landgrave would have liked to have neighbors, preferably trustworthy ones, and Jonah was one of them.

“If you come by again, I’ll build you a shed right next door.

I have all winter to make myself useful.”

He didn't ask him anything about his wife, whom he had left in Mediolanum.

Jonah had children he knew nothing about and a woman who had perhaps even left with someone else.

Conversely, the merchant informed the Landgrave of his family's status.

"Uncle..."

He thought about it for a while and then told himself that it didn't matter to him.

He wished the best for them and that was why he left.

That vine wouldn't be able to live much longer and they had to start thinking about moving.

For this reason, perhaps it would have been better for Jonah not to stop in that place.

Without him, how would she have known about Baldo, Galdoina, and Donalda, the three members she left behind in the north?

Above all, when they decided to leave, they would have had Jonah as a guide, or at least his directions, to locate the Landgrave.

It wouldn't have been bad to see them all gathered on those slopes and near the sea.

Since the Landgrave had seen him five years earlier, his spirit had never remained the same.

“Look how beautiful the sea is...”

He always said to himself every night.

Jonah, as was his custom, left after a week.

The warm lands of Lombardy Minor awaited him to spend the winter and to sell his goods.

He would return in the spring, starting the same path as always.

After about ten years of this craft, each stage was merely a variation on an existing script.

To the Landgrave, everything seemed quiet and peaceful.

The situation was very different in the various duchies and in the armies that were being formed.

Aripert II was a weak king and everyone was waiting for a true leader, capable of finally conquering the whole of Italy, a feat that no Lombard king had yet achieved.

*******

The transition that Hammad was about to complete was the most desirable thing for his family.

From the palace in which he resided, and which had seen several generations of his family pass through, he could have a clear view of the court of Damascus, the central symbol of the Caliphate's power.

His mother Bisma still remembered when much of the family's business passed through those rooms, while now Hammad had preferred to decentralize everything, leaving it in the hands of his ancestors' relatives.

For himself, he had carved out a role directly at court through the skillful work of his wife Chadia's family.

The large sums of capital he had accumulated in the past had served to introduce him to the circle of notable officials and, in any case, he could draw on an income from what his other relatives managed.

The key factor was the great culture that Hammad had managed to acquire and his vision was certainly broader than that of rich merchants or even military generals.

“Your advice is always precious and your opinion is taken into consideration,” were the words of the Caliph, speaking directly after the birth of Omar, the firstborn of the couple formed by Hammad and Chadia.

In their home, even women could access a certain culture and Bisma had never turned away.

The family library consisted of precious tomes and one of the first copies of the Koran, received as a gift from one of Hammad's ancestors directly from the hands of a former Caliph.

Family lineage was beyond question, and this would benefit Omar's life as he was about to meet his relatives from Carthage for the first time.

Hammad's cousin Dasia had moved there, whose family consisted of her husband Kashif, the true factotum of Western trade, and her two sons, Rashid and Rida.

The occasion of the visit to Damascus would have coincided with the wedding of Rida, a beautiful eighteen-year-old with mixed features like her father's, to Khaled, a young soldier from a good family.

Khaled came from a family of Tripolitan origins who had embraced Islam well before the conquest of those territories by Arab warriors.

It had been a long time since the entire family of Hammad and Dasia had last met, and Damascus had always been chosen as the meeting place.

On the other hand, they all came from there, at least since their ancestors had moved from Mecca and Medina to what was now the undisputed capital of the Caliphate.

A double vessel of the company had escorted the members from Carthage to Antioch and, from that port, the entire caravan had set out carrying the family symbol.

Traveling within the Caliphate, they were respected and no one dared to stop their contingents and goods.

Speed had been the weapon thanks to which they had prevailed and everyone knew it.

The great mosque of Damascus fascinated the guests, each of whom saw themselves reflected in the immense glittering dome.

“Welcome.”

It was up to Hammad to do the honors, while the female component would soon unite around the matriarch Bisma and her special bond with Dasia.

The latter, who had lost her father at a very young age, had been raised by her mother Anila in full respect of the Sunni tradition, ignoring the extremist Shiite component to which Anila was supposed to belong by virtue of her marriage.

Dasia, as cultured as Bisma, was the female pivot around which Rida had grown up.

“Show yourself, you're gorgeous.”

Bisma had always remained very close to that young woman and Chadia had become, for Rida, the reference point from which to look up to since they had met years before, always there in Damascus.

Little Omar, at two years old, was admitted to that all-female gathering, where there was certainly no shortage of a nanny, a servant who looked after Chadia's rooms impeccably.

Instead, the four men remained among themselves, talking business and all sorts of possible implications.

Hammad had to do the honors and felt in a dominant position, even though Kashif was ten years older than him.

In the background were Rashid and Khaled, both in their twenties and about to become brothers-in-law.

Hammad had some surprises in store that came straight from the court of Damascus.

“The Caliphate’s accounts are excellent.

Each individual area of the domain generates revenue and there are administrators who can easily manage taxes.

We can think about consolidating power, creating a network of exchanges without the possibility of interruptions.

In the East, expansion continues, but we must take the Shiites into account.

They don’t seem to be so bellicose anymore, but I wouldn’t trust them too much.”

In the meantime they had eaten excellent dates and spicy dishes, as was appropriate in Eastern tradition.

The fresh water used for purification and ablutions was served in large silver decanters, while other marble vessels were arranged throughout the dwelling.

Furthermore, Hammad had designed a sort of internal water recirculation system that created small natural waterfalls.

The background noise was pleasant and there was a certain amount of air mass generated, which provided a slight refreshment.

Kashif took the floor and tried to frame the company's economic situation in the West.

“The routes are gradually expanding and we can count on a greater number of vessels and men.

Furthermore, the Maghreb area is under our control, but here I would leave the floor to my future son-in-law.”

Khaled felt called into question.

As a young soldier, not yet at any level of command, he knew better than anyone the state of the army in the western part of the Caliphate.

Dressed as befitted a soldier, he had not ruffled his feathers too much and his figure was impeccable, without giving in to the softness and comfort typical of intellectuals.

In terms of manners, he was at the opposite extreme from Hammad, but the host thought that the important thing was how much he loved Rida.

“We are organizing the army for the big operation.”

Everyone knew what it was about.

For years, nothing else had been talked about in Damascus, but the expedition must have been well prepared.

There was no room for failure and everything had to happen quickly.

The sea raids had been successful and now a widespread organization was needed to succeed in invading Hispania, where the Visigoths were located.

“They are more organized than either the Vandals or the Eastern Romans we met in Africa.

A good number of ships and soldiers will have to be prepared.”

Until then, Rashid had remained silent, but now he felt called into question.

As Kashif's son, he was the heir to the commercial side of the company and was responsible for following the evolution of the Hispanic situation step by step.

“We will supply the army directly.

This time we will not follow the conquests of a few years, but we will be alongside.

In addition to ships, we will need caravans and transporters because the area is very large and not desert, especially if we go north.”

None of them had yet considered the question of the natural borders of the Caliphate, even though Hammad had thought about it several times, but in that context everything had faded without much concern.

The family business was much more important and he had a curiosity to show.

“Look here.”

He dug out an astrolabe, a reconstruction of those used by the ancients.

“It works like this.”

He tried to explain the ingenious mechanism and attracted everyone's curiosity.

Hammad knew it wasn't anything advanced, as he had read that there was something else there and he intended to find out.

He dropped everything when the women showed up.

How happy Daniyal, Hammad's father and Bisma's husband, as well as Anila, his sister and Dasia's mother, would have been to see everyone reunited under one roof.

And for a special occasion.

The wedding was to be lavish, as befitted the power of their family, with the presence of Imams and high-ranking officials and even some members of the caliphal family.

You had to be there because it was an event that mattered and all power was still based on these clan ties.

Delegations from Mecca and Medina arrived and everyone was to be given hospitality and courtesy.

The costs of the ceremony were not considered, as everything would be repaid many times over by the fame that would bring each person business and prosperity, notoriety and respect.

It had taken decades to build such a position, and they certainly weren't going to miss the opportunity to be recognized.

Khaled's parents, along with his family, were admitted to the capital's presence and no one was scandalized that, in defiance of the old dictates, the spouses had seen each other several times before the wedding, but of course never alone.

For that ceremony and for the following month, Khaled would have enjoyed special leave, given the lack of war in the western zone.

Furthermore, the young man would have been able to witness, through Hammad's introduction, what was being debated at the central court of the Caliphate, bringing back impressions from the peripheral areas and beginning to build a certain reputation for himself.

Just as the guests had arrived, they would return to their business and their homes, each with a general conviction of the correctness of their own values.

The Meccans and Medinans would have been almost scandalized by the Syrian licentiousness and Western customs, while the Tripolitan families were dazzled by the grandeur of their kingdom.

Khaled gathered information on the remaining parts of the conquests, trying to educate himself from the map that was drawn on the floor of Hammad's palace.

Hispania seemed within reach, with a truly miserable stretch of sea to cross, but he knew the dangers of a landing.

It would have been the first real conquest carried out not by land but thanks to a large naval operation and this constituted a further test on their path.

“We will succeed,” was Khaled’s final conviction before a gathering of advisers.

At the palace, Dasia had glimpsed the astrolabe and would have liked to confer with her cousin.

“Something is missing.

I have drawings in Carthage that indicate further development.”

It was what his mother Anila had found after a long search and it remained there, not given to Bisma.

Hammad was amazed by his cousin's acumen, but he didn't back down.

“We will have to establish some kind of mutual exchange.

Your son Rashid could take care of it.”

It seemed like a great idea.

Perhaps, in this way, a solid position between trade and culture would have been created while awaiting war.

If the older generations had been present, they would have warned against affiliating themselves too much with military power, but this was no longer taken into consideration.

Art and weapons, culture and conquest, trade and religion went hand in hand, and a family like theirs should not have overlooked any part of what characterized the Caliphate as such.

“If only we could enter Constantinople...”

It was a dream for Hammad, because of the culture there, and also for Khaled, but only to conquer the entire Eastern Empire.

Only Bisma agreed with what was going on in Dasia's head, but neither woman made the matter explicit.

When they conquered Alexandria, they had definitively destroyed the library and inside there was so much knowledge that it would have required centuries of application.

What they were doing was only a temporary remedy for an eternal loss.

Dasia was certain that the astrolabe could be perfected, and on the return journey to Carthage, she tried to instruct her son on the number of times he should make the journey to Antioch.

For Rida, however, a new life had opened up: that of a bride.

Her husband would soon have to leave for patrols and supplies.

All this, while waiting for the great leap towards Hispania.

The future seemed to smile on them all, a family that saw only personal and collective progress in the great epic of their people.

​II

706-708

––––––––

According to Martin, the whole way of conceiving the power of the Franks was fundamentally wrong.

“On the one hand, there is the Salic Law which generates upheavals and internal wars within the royal dynasty, on the other, there is the ever-increasing importance of the local nobility and, in particular, of the palace butlers.

What do we deduce from this?”

In the darkness of her hut, her daughter Cesarilde answered directly:

“That the current kings are commanded by others and count for nothing and that no one is safe until the legislative system is changed.”

Martino reached out to caress his daughter's face.

She was witty and insightful, but also something more.

Wife and mother.

In her, Martin had seen the fulfillment of a family's destiny and the promise he had made to his brothers.

“It won't end with us.”

Such conversations could only be held without witnesses and it was better that Arnaldo, Cesarilde's blacksmith husband, did not participate in such gatherings.

Not because he was dishonest or disloyal, but because he lacked the basic knowledge to be able to reason correctly.

The man had adapted to an anomalous situation, but one which he found quite stimulating.

A wife whose origins he knew little about and who was much more educated than even the men.

There was, in their union, a pinch of diversity that made the husband happy.

“I could never have found anything like this in other women.”

It was true and Cesarilde was grateful to her husband for having chosen her, as she would never have moved first.

He carried with him a kind of reticence and ill-concealed acceptance of fate, as if he belonged to another time and another place.

“You are here, but also elsewhere,” Arnaldo had emphasized, and the birth of Orlando, their firstborn, and the second pregnancy that the woman was carrying to term had not been enough to quench this thirst for escape.

Although she knew it was impossible to actually implement it, Cesarilda always dreamed of returning to the south of Burgundy, where the unspeakable massacre had taken place nine years earlier.

What was there now?

Pines, only pines.

This had been the order of the local powerful, somehow struck by a kind of revenge.

Pepin of Héristal certainly did not want to start a civil war, but he was positioning his sons as natural heirs, keeping the king in his place.

He had made personal bequests of lands and men, accompanied by the title of duke, and Austrasia seemed more structured than Neustria.

This scared Martino.

This meant that, sooner or later, there would be an internal war to decide the unification of the three kingdoms, as had always been the case in their history since they had urbanized Gaul.

He did not speak of any of this in his lessons as a tutor, limiting himself to teaching Latin grammar, rhetoric, logic and some rudiments of theology.

He knew he could not go further, since his activity had been reported to the bishop, who had summoned him at the beginning of the winter that had just ended.

“Where did you learn this knowledge?”

Martino couldn't lie, but he couldn't tell the truth either.

He named the priest who had followed them to the Commune long before.

“And how did you pay for your studies?

You are a plebeian.”

The tutor reiterated:

“I worked the priest's land.”

The bishop had accepted the explanation, even though he did not completely believe Martin's word.

“I know you’re not telling me the whole truth.

I sense it.”

On the other hand, even with all the necessary research, he would never have been able to trace the Commune, since his counterpart in Arles had erased every trace.

No such community had ever existed and no massacre had been committed.

Furthermore, that bishop had been dead for a year, which was very welcome to the entire clerical structure as it had been a cause of scandal.

The lineage of the bishops of Arles had been supplanted and the Curia had sent a man of the utmost honesty who was making a clean sweep of the previous distortions.

This was also due to the actions of Pepin, who could not allow the southern part of Burgundy to suffer upheavals, as it bordered on the Lombard kingdom.

The meeting with the bishop of Parisiorum had convinced Martin to conceal even more what they knew.

“As for the education of your children, I will take care of it.

You must not expose yourself.”

Cesarilde had understood the danger and would have agreed.

In any case, their proximity to each other helped, as the woman had managed to convince Arnaldo to move right across the street from his father.

The house where Arnaldo had previously lived had been sold at a reasonable price, although still to other commoners like them.

It was a concentrated group of huts along the southern bank of the river that was once called Sequana, in honor of the Celtic deity of water, and which had now been shortened to Seine.

Following the course of the river, one could say that Martin lived in the left area, corresponding to the southern part.

It was the most easily defended in the event of an attack by the Franks of Austrasia, as had happened several times in the past.

Since there was no possibility of invasion, the greatest dangers came from the brothers who inhabited other parts of France, as Martin called the area under the jurisdiction of the Franks.

He could not stand the division that the nobles tended to make, breaking the territory into myriads of small portions to which they assigned disparate and imaginative names.

“There was an Empire here,” he used to say.

He kept all this information from the nobles, as it would have made him stand out too much, while with his daughter he was free to speak as he wished, especially since Cesarilde had left her work as a washerwoman in their homes.

Orlando's birth and her current pregnancy meant she couldn't work safely, something other women did anyway, regardless of their health or that of their unborn child.

This was what Argetrude did, whose desire to become a wife and mother had been satisfied with Clotaire, while Martin had summoned his son-in-law Arnaldo to agree on something unusual.

“The two of us make enough money to support your children and your wife.

Cesarilde suffered greatly in the past from the lack of a mother, I will not allow this to happen to my grandchildren again.”

Arnaldo had to accept.

He had neither the financial means nor the intellectual or persuasive means to stand up to his father-in-law.

Martino had also made some calculations for the future.

He was fifty-two years old and had already outlived the average man.

Once he had completed his grandchildren's education, usually by the time he was fourteen, his mission would be accomplished and his home could be sold upon his death or passed to one of his grandchildren.

It seemed like a great compromise if it had worked out.

The only thing he was not sure about was whether the Commune's existence was being transmitted.

Adult minds were needed to understand, and that, perhaps, would have meant waiting too long.

“It will be your turn, my daughter.

Don't let the memory of what happened be forgotten, even if it remains in the form of legend and myth.

When we came here I forced you to keep quiet and now I am giving you a new commandment.

I know it's not easy.”

Cesarilde hugged her father before leaving her hut.

It was enough to cross the little-traveled path to find oneself in his environment, where Arnaldo was already asleep.

His expression was identical to that of Orlando, the two-year-old son that Martino carried in his arms and placed on his bed.

The very symbol of happiness, as my grandfather used to say.

The humid air clogged the nostrils, through which penetrated the smell of wet grass.

Soon the rains would stop falling and the Sun would spread its power to make the fruits of the earth grow.

Everything depended on that.

A year of famine meant death and disease, something the Commune hadn't suffered much from.

The way of producing was better and the pooling was the real novelty.

“Something unrepeatable,” Martino kept thinking.

The nobles, the powerful and the bishops would not have allowed anything of the sort and it was for this reason that such predispositions had to be concealed and, at most, revived as in a dream.

What would become of the world if property had been abolished?

No war.

So how would the nobility have survived?

“Exactly,” Martino tended to emphasize to his daughter Cesarilde.

The tutor's lessons were of a completely different nature, knowing what the powerful expected.

The readings of the greats of Rome, from Caesar to Trajan to Constantine.

And then everything concerning the correct division of the people into classes and wealth.

Who was to command and who was to obey.

Thus a new generation of oppressors was raised, those who would perpetuate the very symbol of domination over other men.

Martino felt like an accomplice, but he couldn't do anything about it.

Better that than becoming a servant of the earth or a warrior.

Perhaps he could have even thought of educating the people, but that would have been frowned upon.

“From whom?”

Cesarilde, even the day before giving birth, could not hold back from asking her father questions.

“Even from the people themselves.

Do you know how many people think that children are just hands to be used?

I coined a new name for them.

Proletarians.

Those who exploit their offspring because it is their only resource.”

Cesarilde smiled and she had the same expression when she became a mother a second time.

Another male child, named Acacius.

Not Frankish or Germanic, but Eastern, meaning the Greek part of what had been the Empire.

Martin knew that there had also been a heresy that bore that name, but no one would have fully understood such a comparison.

As far as the preceptor was concerned, the real heresy was in allowing certain behaviors at the episcopal or noble level.

How could one divorce one's wives and have children by more than one woman?

The pagans did this already at the time of Christ, and indeed the bishops were deeply concerned about this new heresy that came from the desert and had taken over a large part of the Eastern Empire.

Martin knew nothing of it and remained in the dark about it all, but the Frankish warriors would soon experience the diversity of the world.

No more internal divisions and civil wars, but something else.

And then, they would have regretted all these fratricidal clashes.

Arnaldo received visits from all his neighbors and those who knew him.

The congratulations on the birth of the new baby were accompanied by the orders that served to keep the community alive.

Pieces of various metal that were remelted and given new life.

Many brought Arnaldo what they already had, but which was covered in rust.

“Fire restores and regenerates,” it was said.

Arnaldo needed wood for the furnace and this was brought by other plebeians like him.

There was a dense network of businesses surrounding the profession of blacksmith who wanted to remain free and independent from a count or a duke who could have the money to buy the metal itself.

For Arnaldo it was more of a constant struggle to stay afloat, given that the people were not prosperous.

Although the wars had decreased, the destruction of the past had not yet been recovered from and everyone knew that it was only a truce.

“Let's wait for the next feud.”

In fact, many had been enlisted, willingly or unwillingly.

There was pay for the warriors, as well as reliable food, and many saw this as a chance for salvation.

How could large families get by when there wasn't enough food?

Sending a daughter to become a nun or a son to become a priest or warrior was already a privilege, as it would raise the family's standing.

In all of this, where was personal freedom?

Non-existent and this was what Martin contested in his soul, knowing that there was another way of conceiving the world.

Even though more than a century and a half had passed, the oppression of the past seemed identical to that of today and the stories that had been handed down to the Commune by its founders to justify that forced isolation were extraordinarily consistent with everyday life.

Whether they were in Arles, Orleans or Paris, whether they called themselves by this name following the new language of the Franks mixed with what remained of Latin and Gaulish or whether they still used the ancient name, the substance did not change.

A paradox occurred to Martin.

“Perhaps the rose is like that because it has that name?

Where is its essence?”

These were difficult questions, even for someone like him.

It was better to think about something else.

She had two grandchildren to raise and had to help her daughter Cesarilde in the arduous task of avoiding the ugliness of the world.

Sheep among wolves, that's what they were.

His brothers were right, their ash being now buried and absorbed by the roots of the pine trees.

*******

Manfredi was employed in the fields, even though his age of five did not allow him to develop great strength.

However, the solution found was the best that could be had, considering what someone like Baldo could do elsewhere.

Apart from periods of greater work intensity, two adult men and two adult women were too many to run the vineyard and the constant lack of production had to be compensated for by other means.

Baldo, as he had always been since he was young, was capable of doing any job and so he went on foot to Modoetia to lend his hands to others.

All this for a few pennies and a handful of food, but it had an undoubted advantage.

Bring more money to the family and temporarily remove a mouth from needing to feed at least one meal a day.

Galdoina took care of the two houses and her little niece Mimulfa, while Donalda was able to help her husband.

They had decided to do this in an attempt to save the tradition and what remained of their ancestors, buried in those places near the Lambrus River.

Resisting indefinitely had become their motto and they did not want to surrender to the evidence of the facts, namely that the time of the vine in Modoetia had run its course.

They should have renovated the vineyard, but above all changed the area.

“Nobody ever told us we could do this.

Nor were they taught how to do it.”

Galdoina was the most opposed of all, having received from her father Pertaldo the gift of the field and the wine.

It was about carrying on a family brand and a memory that was now leading them to poverty.

Jonah had tried to warn them, noting the great difference in his eyes between those two now dilapidated huts and what the Landgrave had built.

“He could use a hand and there are rolling hills waiting to be cultivated.”

Empty words, at least that's how he interpreted them.

Even Donalda was not in favor of the move and said that she was young and her thoughts were on the future of her two children.

Did we have to wait for the new generation?

Or some event that changed the politics of the Lombard kingdom?

The wars seemed far away in Modoetia and even in Etruria, despite the proximity to what was in the possessions of the Eastern Romans.

A fragile peace existed, continually interrupted by violations on both sides, although the push against the Lombards came mainly from the Exarchate of Ravenna.

On this, Baldo's family was united, whether it was those who left or those who remained.

No one had gotten involved in the war, which had completely wiped out the branch of the family that had moved to Papia because of the arranged marriage of one of their ancestors.

Being soldiers meant, in their humble condition as plebeians, obeying nobles without having the slightest possibility of making a decision.

It was done out of fighting spirit or to raise the importance of the family or to become rich.

This last possibility had been diminishing over the decades, given that everything was in the hands of the Lombards and what did not belong to them lay in poverty and misery.

Rome was more of a symbol than anything else, but now the Pope stood there, the undisputed head of the Catholic Church recognized as the only religion by the entire people.

Teodolinda's old dream had come true after more than a century.

No longer Lombard or Ostrogoth or Italic peoples, but Italians.

This is how more or less everyone defined themselves, even if the percentage of mixed marriages was very low and the divisions into duchies would have made themselves felt.

As long as there was a powerful king at the head of all, the autonomist tendencies would have subsided, but Aripert II was certainly not the leader everyone was waiting for.

Someone else was needed to dictate the law in order to unite the nobles and soldiers towards the same goal: conquest with its attendant power.

When Jonah concluded his summer journey and retreated south, he would find significant news.

The Landgrave had never stopped building his residence and his commercial network, going so far as to own a horse instead of a donkey.

The horse cost more but also allowed for greater travel if you wanted to do everything in one day.

The merchant had set a maximum of two nights and no more than one, managing to reach the inner corners of Etruria, making contact with many producers of various types.

His face was known and his fame was spreading, even among Calimero's relatives, theoretically his neighbors three hills away.

The part of the family that had never moved from where the now very deceased ancestor had settled had inquired about the Landgrave and had a transaction to propose to him.

Could a man remain alone for life, without any help and without any offspring?

Or wouldn't it have been better to live according to the law of the Lord?

“You’ll be able to go away for longer with someone watching your house.

Plus, you'd be related, and your neighbors would defend the whole thing, creating a kind of large conglomerate.”

Landgrave was offered a wife without a dowry.

Not that he was keen to bargain, but it was still a new mouth to feed.

Everything multiplied by two, and with children, even by three or four.

How could it have been done?

Was the joy of the flesh and the spirit enough to compensate for all this?

What's more, he was supposed to see the bride.

Rosamunda was a petite and graceful girl of almost nineteen, with thin arms and legs, considered unsuitable for farming and heavy work.

For this reason, she was not well-liked in the family and they had kept her at home before passing her off to someone.

We needed someone from outside who didn't know the whole past and how little Rosamunda was regarded.

Landgrave took pity on her.

They were selling her and she had no power over those who were supposed to love her and instead just wanted to get rid of her.

If he was hesitant before seeing her, he had no hesitation afterwards.

If it had been just to get her out of that horrible situation, he would have taken on the burden of caring for her and feeding her, starting to think from a family perspective.

He had space, that wasn't the problem.

“Leave us alone.”

At least the Landgrave could demand that.

Rosamunda had not yet looked up when the Landgrave approached.

“What do you say?

I'm not rich, nor am I young. I'm ten years older than you.