Orlando in Love, episode 36: Rodomont's Assault. My voice must soar to match my song; I need words more magniloquent. My bow must sweep more rapidly~across the lyre; I must portray~a fierce and obstinate young man, who almost brought the world to ruin. This overreaching Rodomont has often kept me occupied. Rodomont is a king who rates~Macon as not worth one vile leaf, and he thinks _less_ of other faiths. He holds /his/ god as daring strength. He won't adore what he can't see. The emperor of Africa has organized a vast assault against the French and Charles the Great. But Rodomont's impatience will not let him wait for all the rest. This proud man of great arrogance plans to subdue France all alone, He boasts he'll win it in three days. -- I left him in his land, Algiers, preparing ships to cross to France, He curses Him who made the sea~and wind, since he can't cross at will. He yells, "Blow, wind!" (L) " if you know how~to blow, since I'll set sail this night! {-deep, young, -rude} I'm not your slave, and not the sea's, that you can hold me back by force!" He called a helmsman to his side. Rodomont asked him, "For what cause~have you detained me here so long? (L) These six days may seem short to you, but I'd have burned six provinces! Therefore look to it: {softer, menacing} see -- _this_ night -~ these vessels are prepared to sail. "Don't try to second-guess me: (L) _if_~I'm to drown, then that's my fate. If all my men are likewise doomed, my heart won't be one whit concerned, since when _I_ sink beneath the sea, I'll _want_ to take them all with me!" -- The helmsman answered him, "High lord,~the wind is wrong for us to leave, (R) the waves are huge -- and getting worse! {-hollow, -nasal} But I'm more scared by other portents: The setting sun grew weak and spent~its light inside the gathered clouds. The moon now turns red, now is pale, which is -- no doubt -- a sign of gale! "I am so expert in this art, (R) I _swear,_ I promise on my faith, that even if Macon gave me~assurance that I would not drown, my answer to him would be '/You/ go on, but _I'll_ remain in town!'" Rodomont said, "Alive or dead, (L) no matter what, I want to cross. If I reach France a living man, in three days I'll control it all! If I am dead when I arrive, in _that_ form I will terrorize (since I'll be lifeless) everyone: /They'll/ run.away, and _I_ will *win!*" -- And so the great armada sails~from Algiers, tacking hard, trimmed close. At sea the northwest wind prevails, @[lean FL, FR] but gradually the northeast grows. The ships are forced to come about~quickly -- the noise is great, the shouts! Straightway the north and southwest winds~/convulse/ the deep: they too contend! @[lean F, BR; wobble thru next stanza] Those ships were so jam-packed with men~and horses, and with food and arms, that even in the calmest weather, they needed careful handling. But here's no light but lightning bolts, fierce winds and thunder all one hears. The ships are _slammed_ in all directions. No one obeys, and all command. That navy had sailed as a fleet, but it's now scattered on the sea. It could not last against that tempest. For every ship afloat, one's lost. Waves crash together ruinously, and the wind grows more fierce and huge~each hour, never letting up. Here, a wave seems to top the _sky,_ There, in the depths, is _earth_ disclosed. -- Rodomont, meanwhile, threatens heaven. His men swear vows and say their prayers, but he swears _at_ the world and nature and shouts such threats at high Macon, he frightens even fearless men. Three days and three full nights it was~their bad luck to be tempest-tossed. The fourth day's danger was the worst. There _never_ had been such a storm. A portion of that mighty fleet was driven under _Monaco._ Advice and help are worthless there: The wind and tempest, each hour fiercer, batter the ships, which break apart~on jagged rocks and stony coves. And all of the inhabitants, who recognized the pagan fleet, screamed out, "Attack! Attack these dogs!" and then descended to the shore. -- Undaunted, that fierce Rodomont~orders his ship, for good or ill,~to head to shore. Its sails are filled. His men are so afraid of him that everybody madly moves, and every ship at his command runs its bow on the seashore sand. The south wind blows an awful gale with thick fast rain and heavy hail. The only sounds are splitting ships and men's loud shouts and dying cries. Weighted by armor, Saracens~drown in the sea on every side or /uselessly/ launch bolts and darts -- the sea waves never let them aim. Soldiers and local people guard~the coast, forbidding their approach. -- That grisly creature Rodomont alone does more than all the rest. He stands in water to his waist, and seems a rock amid the sea. Taking huge steps, he reaches shore as in his haughty scorn he wades~through the most slippery of stones. Rodomont lands despite their efforts. Behind him many of his men, leaving their broken boats and ships, regroup in waist-deep water -- though,~even of these, large numbers drown. One-third or less of his troops survive and those who finally reach shore~are dizzy from the storm, so they~don't know if it is night or day. Round Rodomont the fight begins. He did among the Christian men not more nor less than fire in straw, with blows so strange and fearful he~quickly dispersed the infantry. The locals and foot soldiers _all_~were slaughtered by the saracens, of six thousand six hundred men, not forty-five escaped alive. -- The pagans went back toward the sea: Now it was calm, the weather clear. Here Rodomont had his men camp. Each man rushed to retrieve his gear, tables and chairs and other supplies~that, sunk at sea, had reappeared, tossed by the wind and waves to shore. He'd had one-hundred-ninety ships, big and small, when he'd left Algiers: Better-equipped were never seen, with splendid men and plenteous stores -- but over two-thirds had been lost. Not _sixty_ ships reached Monaco, and these not fit for peace _or_ war, since most had foundered on the shore. All of the horses had been killed and all the food and tackle lost. Rodomont does not think to _stop_ nor that this loss is worth a /straw./ He circulates to cheer his troops, saying, "Companions, don't be grieved -- (L) Here we will win a *thousand* for~each thing that we have lost at sea. "We won't remain _here_ very long, (L) because these /peasants/ are too poor. I'm leading you to _treasure,_ down~in France's rich, abundant fields! so don't complain about what's lost -- this land will pay back all of us." And so King Rodomont assuaged~his warriors with daring talk. He called this man and that by name. He beckoned them to rest on shore. -- Now messengers from Monaco~rush out to tell the Lombards~and the French [R/L] of Rodomont's assault, and ask those kings to send their aid. Desiderio, Lombard king, R moves out with all his troops at once, while King Charles sends a mighty force L to occupy Provence's shore. _Duke Namo_ leads the French vanguard, While King Charles readies further troops. Each army marches furiously -- @ L -> <- R I mean the Lombard men and French. One dawn they see each other from~two hills that were not far apart. Below, on shore, is Rodomont where he camps with his Africans. -- That scowling, mighty Saracen sees Desiderio on the mountain. The many spears and standards seem~to be a forest of fir trees. Crying out loudly, Rodomont now calls to his men to bring his armor, and in an instant that bold youth is well-equipped with mail and plate. Now at his back the fierce cries rise, and more appear along the slope: L Duke Namo, and his four fierce sons, who had come on the /other/ side, with a large army of the French. -- When Rodomont lifts up his eyes, he sees men come from every side -- they very nearly box him in. He faced his men -- scowl darkening -~ and said, "Attack which side you want, (L) this one or that one, I don't care! The one that's left, by God, _I'll_ chop~to pieces on this plain *myself!*" {crescendo to full shout} So spoke that overreaching youth, and his troops, who took heart from him, madly attacked the Lombard men. Trumpets and drums and cries were heard~at once, they came from every side. -- King Desiderio, his stout knights, wreaked havoc on the infidels. Although the pagans were ferocious, spurred by their king's prowess, they~were fewer than the Lombards and~foot.by.foot steadily lost ground. But _here_ the combat is a /joke,/ I mean, compared to that nearby, where Rodomont so wildly fights~the cavaliers who came from France. All by himself, he was not slow~to charge those coming down the slope. He makes war on foot and alone. Footsoldiers, knights, the strong, the frail, fall on each other, killed, impaled. Slash after slash, while _howling_ threats, @ that African strikes -- straight, reversed. @ With enemies on every side, his blade makes space enough for him. -- A daring knight within those ranks, like arrow's shaft or heaven's lightning, lowers his lance at Rodomont. He struck him hard, he pierced his shield, and almost knocked him upside-down, although that thrust left no /wound,/ since~the Saracen, _unparalleled,_~*amazing,* his force _infinite,_ harnessed for battle, always wore~a serpent skin four inches thick. Rodomont simply laughs at him: he's truly someone with no fear. Furiously he _sweeps_ his blade @ and draws its edge along the waist~of that knight who had struck him hard, leaving him (who had suffered) slain. The body of the knight remained~half-saddled, half along the plain -- a rare display of fierce sword-work. Everyone else was terrified when they saw such a stormy swing, and those who can now leave the field, but that fierce pagan follows them. Without a thought he slaughters men. Some flee on foot and some by horse, but all are slow compared to him. Rodomont is so fast and nimble that he's caught _leopards_ he has tracked. Defense and flight have no effect: all are left lying on earth, /dead./ As in December when the wind~_whirls,_ and a chill invests the air and tree's leaves fall till none remain, dense as a shower of leaves, _men_ _rain._ -- Duke Namo, who saw everything, believed he'd die from his great grief. "O Heaven's Lord," said he, (R) " if _sin_~has drawn your justice down on us, {old man} don't let this /heathen/ win esteem by slaughtering your _wretched_ men!" That bold old man Duke Namo lifts~a large lance, orders his troops forward, and leads his four fierce sons: Avin, Avor, Ot-ton, and Belenger. Avor is now the first to strike~the Saracen: he breaks a lance, but Rodomont can meet this test -- that mighty pagan does not bend. Likewise, when next Ot-ton attacked he stood fast on two feet, a match. Now Belenger and Avin run their lances, Duke Namo as well, but none of them does any good. After the fifth spear's jolt, that wild~Rodomont cried, "Rabble, get lost! (L) You are not worth a scrap of straw!" He speaks no more but swings his sword~and wallops bold Ot-ton's fair head. As God wished, and His Mother Mild, the sword /turned,/ and the blade hit flat; But that blow was of so much force, it knocked him from his saddle, stunned. -- The pagan does not end with him, but he attacks the rest -- a tempest. Avor and Belenger were hurt -- and all the others, base /and/ bold, would have been slain by that strong pagan... if _Desiderio_ with /his/ men -~ stout _Lombards_ -- had not changed their fortune. He'd come with his fine troops by then to rout and kill the Saracens. He rode to catch King Rodomont, who hunts the others as they fall, who has already left young.Avin~prostrate, with his face badly gashed. Just as a great wind on the shore will spray surrounding fields with sand, just so, that savage with his sword sends everybody dead to earth. Mail links and shields whirl through the air, plated arms, helmets -- /filled with heads/ -- as Rodomont _cut_ hauberks, links,~and metal plates like naked flesh. L/R/L -- Still, he would often turn his sullen~eyes R to his routed, broken men. He fought his ghastly, savage war, and all the while he watched his ranks. As the fierce lion in the woods, hearing the hunter at its back, tosses its mane and shakes its head, @ *roars* fearfully, and shows its claws, @ so Rodomont, who hears the _storm_~the Lombards make, the awful sound~of his defeated, hunted men, turns his disdainful face around. His men retreat. They run who can: the first one is a happy man! King Desiderio never stops but drives them down a narrow path. -- King Rodomont's _flag_ fell to earth, a scarlet standard that displayed~a lion bridled by a queen: Granada's Doralice, loved~more than his heart by Rodomont. That savage monarch carried her~portrait upon his gonfalon: Gazing at this, to fearsome battle, bolder and fiercer he'd return, as if he'd seen her in the flesh. When he beheld his flag on earth he'd never felt so sad since birth. {sad, weakening} The color of his face turns: first it's white, and then with red flame burns. {growing rage} If God in mercy does not help, Desiderio and his men are _doomed._ Rodomont's fury is so huge our men will be *destroyed* -- they'll lose! -- Meanwhile, the paladin _Rinaldo,_ during his travels in the east, has heard of Rodomont's attack. Rinaldo set out straightaway, to bring King Charlemagne, his aid. Arriving soon in Hungary, he found there many troops in arms. A garrison was gathering, an army that seemed bold and strong, Otachier, Prince of Hungary, was mustering to march to France, to aid King Charles against his foes. -- Rinaldo came within the walls, and he was recognized at once and honored by the king, as one~whose valor was known everywhere. Otachier's confidence increased because his voyage found the favor~of a man far-famed for victory; he'll have Rinaldo's company. Their council named the stout Rinaldo~Captain; every man rejoiced, The king now puts his son and all~his soldiers in Rinaldo's trust, -- They'd thirty thousand cavaliers, each one a strong and noble knight, volunteers for that enterprise, who felt no fear of Saracens. They crossed the mountains and came down~at Genoa, beside the sea. Traveling on with utmost speed, they reached the borders of Provence. They heard, beyond the mountain, horns~and trumpets, as they rent the sky. Such madness filled the air, such yells, it seemed the world dropped down to hell. Leaving the other men behind, Rinaldo quickly went ahead~with Otachier and his friend Dudon until he was above the vale~where Rodomont, the African, destroyed the men of Lombardy. He slaughtered more men on that shore than died in any prior war. I don't know if eternal heaven gave such strength to a Saracen, or if the devil, come from hell, fought on the field for him that day; -- Rinaldo, watching, almost swooned, seeing that pagan's brutal blows. He understood help was required and that he could not risk delay. Rinaldo cried out loud, "Alas! Gone for good is my happiness! (R) I've been involved in many battles {young knight} and never have I seen such havoc. "No flag is upright on the plain. (R) I don't see one man stand and fight. They're all dead. It is no lie! I want to _join_ them, though I die! "I do not know that African (R) who kills so many of our men. Who-ever it is, I must go~oppose him and his insolence. "Otachier! Dudon! Good friends! (L) Fall back for now! See to our men! I will descend like someone _desperate;_ There's nothing else to do! "O you, my blessed God in heaven, (U) I stand before you. Grant me grace! [pray] I do confess I've greatly sinned, but I've returned now, penitent. Let faith in you give strength to me: Without you, I am worthless straw!" -- Now furious, he grinds his teeth and spurs Baiardo down the slope, Baiardo, best of all good steeds. His two companions now retreat to bring their troops up to that ridge, as resolute Rinaldo rides.~down to the field and sets his spear. He aims his lance at Rodomont, who's easy to identify: He's a chest taller than the rest; his face is sharp and horrible; it seems he has a dragon's eyes. Rinaldo's courser carried him~so fast he could have smashed a wall, and he hit Rodomont's right hip, knocking him down upon the plain. Just as a mighty tower falls, or some high mountain's summit crumbles, such was the 'boom', such the _huge_ sound, when Rodomont now hit the ground. But Rodomont, that soul of flame, was soon upon his feet again, The first thing Rodomont now did was swing low at /Baiardo's/ legs, and that horse hardly jumped in time -- could not have jumped, if it had paused. -- Rinaldo said, "False Saracen! (R) You were not born of noble blood! Treacherous lout, aren't you ashamed~to strike a precious animal? "Maybe in your hot, burning land (R) where neither virtue counts, nor worth, your custom is to hit a horse, but that's not what we do in France!" -- Rinaldo spoke Algerian; therefore, the Pagan understood. He said, "At home I was not known~as either villain or as rogue -- (L) "But let me tell you, I _won't_ spare~your horse, since I don't care a /fig/~for any customs that _you_ keep: I do my _worst_ to enemies." As Rodomont said what I've told, he started swinging with such speed that if Rinaldo had been slow he would have been killed with one blow. But he turned down the mountain slope -- maybe an arrow's flight he rode -- /dismounted/ and -- Rinaldo's bold -~ returned /on foot/. He _left_ Baiardo. -- The pagan, seeing him return~alone, on foot, without the horse~whose speed could keep him out of reach, was sure he'd kill or capture him... But.now, on the ridge, soldiers appeared, Prince Otachier, and bold Dudon -- with all those armed Hungarians, They _shout,_ those valiant warriors: Down the slope they descend, they _storm._ Rodomont sees them -- well-equipped~with shining arms and feathered crests -- he jumps up joyous, rapturous, as if he grips them in his claws. @ He moved just as a _lion_ moves that sees a herd of feeding deer~and, as it hunts, becomes convinced~it _won't_ be hungry very long. Just so, that dragon-hearted pagan, who's unafraid, who scorns the world, _forgot_ Rinaldo, who drew near, and ran, headlong, to meet /these/ soldiers. -- All his men followed after him: His valor made the others bold. Our Christians and the Africans could not advance another step; But the fierce pagan Rodomont found open space inside that mob, for he chopped arms and flailed at flesh the way a sickle slices grass. Hungarians, Wallachians are routed, and no means suffice~to make those men return to fight, though Otachier most bravely tries. Prince Otachier, who's desperate, turned toward the pagan, set his spear, charged, and struck Rodomont i'the ribs, breaking his lance in the encounter -- But he was forced down, fell to earth, grievously wounded on his head, wounded by Rodomont, who _struck_~his helm, @ _stunned_ and unsaddled him. -- /Dudon/ saw young Otachier fall. He'd no doubt that the prince was /dead,/ and since he'd loved him like a brother disconsolate, he set his heart~on vengeance: he'd retaliate~_without fail,_ or he'd die _with_ him. Dudon charged at that cursed king, and with both hands, _slammed_ at his helm. @ The visor split wide at that stroke, the pagan buckled to his knees, @ Soon, though, he's on his feet once more,~and whirling his resistless sword, he breaks Dudon's shield into bits, completely cleaves his plate and mail, and leaves his whole left side exposed: Dudon sees that he can't match /strokes,/ so when the Saracen moved close, he ran to _seize_ him in his arms. @ Now, both of them were tall and large; therefore, they wrestled long, but when~Dudon had lost his strength at last, the pagan slammed him to the ground and bound him like a little boy. -- As blessed God or Fortune wanted, /Rinaldo/ reached them at this juncture, and when he saw Dudon was chained, his great grief almost drove him mad. He gripped his bare sword in despair, not taking further time to look, not caring for /his/ life or limbs, and _hurled_ himself at Rodomont. -- He was on foot, for (as you've heard) he'd left Baiardo on the slope. Both barons are so valorous I can't say which is mightiest. And each of them was so enraged the features of his visage changed: the light their eyes cast turned to *flames* [gesture at eyes] and _sparkled_ in each fierce, dark face. Soldiers, who'd pressed in close before, scattered away from them, afraid; Christians /and/ pagans fled in fear, [R/L] as if those two were come from _hell._ Rinaldo, never one to wait, swings with both hands right at his head, @ and Rodomont, who /likes/ to fight, also attacks -- he does not bide -- and they make, as their swords collide, a noise louder than ever heard. Their sharpened sword-blades never stop~removing armor: on both sides~thick plates and tiny rings of mail~are _hacked,_ and /bits/ rain on the field. Their armor goes from bad to worse; neither holds more than half a shield. -- King Rodomont habitually~flattened.his.foes down with _one_ smash, but now, squared with /Rinaldo,/ who gives out as fiercely as he gets, that lofty spirit raged past measure, disparaged heaven with contempt, and cried, "You won't be saved by God: (L) I'll _plant_ you -- quartered -- in the sod!" So saying, that cruel Saracen~unleashed a double-hand cross-swing -- and don't think that Rinaldo wasted~a moment: @ he whirled his sharp blade. @ Thus each one struck the other's shield with sideswipes hideous and huge~that _split_ them, but despite great ruin, neither ceased swinging; both continued. -- But now, a new force joins the fray: Behold! An army on the ridge -- and it descends with battle cries, with such loud trumpets, horns, and drums it seems to shake the sea and sky. Because you should know all the facts, I'll say, _King Charlemagne_ attacks. This mighty ruler leads the _flower,_ I tell you, of the Christian power. Seventy thousand knights and more (the best of every land were picked), so valiant, fierce, and well equipped, they could oppose the whole wide world. -- Now Rodomont, who /scorned/ the world, learned, when he asked Rinaldo, that~those men rode with the king of France, and he rejoiced in looks, in thought, like someone full of arrogance, as he set all /those/ men for _naught._ He said no more, he took no leave, but headed for _them_ instantly. That daring pagan ran fast: soon,~Rinaldo could not follow him. His leaps were longer than a leopard's. Rodomont started hacking Christians, and, if the day had not been late, his actions would require more speech, but sunlight left the darkening sky, and forced the hard-fought war to cease. Great was the slaughter. Dead were heaped~along the field in massive mounds -- both our men and the Saracens. The dark of night, as I have said, ended the battle they'd begun. -- I am amazed how marvelous~that fearsome pagan is. He fought~all day and never rested once, and then, the battle having stopped, went crashing over hill and plain to find Rinaldo once again. He has each prisoner brought forth -- the multitudes he keeps in chains -- and asks them where Rinaldo is. He frightens them, and roughs them up. One, for some reason, maybe fear, says he has gone into the wood, but~this man does not tell the truth: he has no way of knowing it. In fact, the good Rinaldo went~to get his horse Baiardo, but believing what he hears, the pagan~leaves his men to seek that knight. Not waiting for the light of day, at once, he sets upon his way. -- His men, whom he'd abandoned, don't~know what to do without his aid. Distraught and very much afraid, they board such ships as still can float. But retribution fell upon~those who were /slow/ to weigh their anchors because Rinaldo, now upon Baiardo, races down to shore. Rinaldo looks for /Rodomont,/ searches by moonlight everywhere, calling his name and crying loudly as he peers through the dark of night. Now, as he looks along the coast, he sees the army load the boats. Without a thought, Rinaldo struck, since he knew they were Saracens. After a portion had been killed, he asked those who were still alive where he could find their puissant king. A very frightened Saracen, kneeling before Rinaldo, said~his king had gone toward the wood, for he'd been told _that_ was the road that /he/ might find /Rinaldo/ on. Rinaldo, when he learned the place~where Rodomont now searched for him, lost interest in these other men. His heart was burning like a flame~with passion to encounter him, and in a hurry he rode on, toward the west, along the coast. -- Similarly, King Rodomont hurried to get to that deep wood, and mused to humself as he went: "May heaven grant this gift to me, (L) that I might find that baron bold~and _kill_ him - /or/ make peace with him. If he's dead, I'm unmatched on earth, but _with_ him, I could conquer *heaven*! I can't believe that Count /Orlando/ could equal his ability! "God save you, O my emperor, (L) if you invade these provinces. If I'm (as I'll be) far away, your men will lose along this plain. "Your old advisors told the truth. (L) You have to trust experience; for /if/ Orlando fights as well as he who stood in front of me,~poor Emperor! Woe to those men~whom he transports across the sea, for I, who bragged I'd seize them all, with but *one* had my hands _quite_ full!" As Rodomont rides through the woods, his army is left leaderless, but little threat to Charlemagne. The Emperor of Africa will come with more troops though, anon: This war has hardly _started_ yet. But now, a brief pause in the fight, And so, my friends, I say, "Good night!"