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Sins of the Father: A Duchy of Apulia AAR

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I hope my memory isn't faulty ... as I recall, Vendramus was a Venetian bad guy earlier. I suppose he is much older than I thought! :eek:

Did the Zealots release Ebola on the Romans? :eek: :wacko:

Interesting how your alternate timeline differs from the traditional in the fate of the Zealots at Masada. I wonder how this will play out in what follows.
 
Brilliant, just brilliant. Glad to have you back, Al. :)
 
Now that is what I call an return with style! If memory serves me correctly, this is not the first time that you've done this, sir. ;)

I can't wait to see how this Roman mystery ties in with Apulia.
 
Heh, thanks for the strong welcome back, guys. Here's to keeping it interesting! Don't fret, this all makes sense somewhere in the recesses of my brain. The links are there if you look for them, and more will be revealed soon, as well.

I dont look at it as an alternate timeline so much as a different interpretation of history. Silva's order of sealing the walls off led to his "partner's" spreading of a rumor that the Zealots had comitted mass-suicide instead of facing roman slavery--he wanted to keep the truth from people at all costs. The only difference from history is that Silva did not die at Masada, but hey, I am a glutton for dramatical flair. :D

Next update, we will rejoin Bohemond and Lancelus and see what happens in the dugeons of Melfi...
 
Great to see you back at it, Alhazen!

That's an incredible picture of Masada. Impressive.

Rensslaer
 
Evening,
5 Janurary 1072 AD

Melfi,
Basilicata
*****​

The Norman castle at Melfi stood on an immense rock of sandstone carved from the mountainside itself, and overwatched the compact town like some great bird of prey perched on high. It was old and squat and ugly, but formidable—a fortress, not a home. It had been built upon the ruins of the strongholds of other men whose times had come and gone—Lombards, Romans, Samnites, and other barbarians before. Thus, it was riddled with secrets. Its walls were a warrens of spider-holes and criss-crossing corridors, hidden chambers, passageways that doubled back into reversed stairwells, and vaults forgotten by all but those who built them, or so they’d hoped. Goalers on cold winter nights around the watchfires were wont to say that sometimes you could hear the screams of Hell itself in the deepest dungeons—but were quick to follow such macabre jests with a sign of the Cross and a muttered prayer.

Raulf was not a praying man. But even he would Cross himself like the others when he heard those faint moans carried on the chilly draft that always blew in the dungeons. He shuddered with the thought, and then again blew into his hands, rubbing his fingers to try and regain some feeling in his pale digits. Sniffing, he coughed up phlegm in his throat and spat into the bucket on the floor, and then began the laborious process of standing up, his bones weary and joints cold.

He was a not a praying man, but he was superstitious. He knew all the stories this place had to tell, or so he believed, and so he knew strange things happened in the catacombs of Melfi castle. He had served as goaler for a two score of years and had served Duke—nay, King Robert for more than half of those. The Guiscard had been merciless with his prisoners, especially traitors, and the score of odd, foreign machines in the black levels were testament to the man’s passion for torture by new and interesting methods. He still could hear the screams of Father Basil, the Orthodox monk who had tried to lead an uprising amongst the Greeks of Bari and Tarentum several years ago. Somehow, the Guiscard’s torturers had managed to keep the old man alive for over a week of disfigurement and butchery. Those screams….he shuddered again, and let out a long breath of air.

The long corridor was dark as the void, and dripped with condensation. The modly steps cut into the stone led down into what was known as the black levels, where only the most vile of offenders were kept, including, from time to time, heretics and sorcerers. A iron grate was cut into the ceiling and could be raised or lowered to seal off access to the stairwell, and a stone placard cut into the wall had characters in ancient Latin too scratched and worn to read.

Raulf ducked under the raised portcullis and took an oil lamp from the wall, whose flickering light served only to deepen the shadows around him. Gingerly he made his way down the stairs, testing each footfall briefly before stepping, though he had made he walk more than a dozen times in the past two days. The old goaler, Gregor, had fallen to his death on this very stairwell six years ago, the poor old bastard. Not him, Raulf mused to himself. Every now and again he would pass a grinning skull looking back at him from the wall, mortared into place in the stone as macabre reminders of the price of treason. Soon another one would be joining their ranks, he thought, the few teeth he possessed showing as he grinned in the lamplight.

Another iron grating blocked the foot of the stairs. Pulling the chain of keys from his belt he fumbled through them with fat fingers, trying three before finding the correct one. The bars rattled loudly as he opened them with a groan, and when he stepped through the portal he stepped into icy water an inch deep.

“Shit!” he cursed, pulling his foot up and slinging it back and forth to shake the water. Holding the lamp lower, he saw where a small trickle of rain water from this morning had turned into a series of pools on the muddy floor. The black levels were deep within the mountainside, cut out of pre-existing caves that extended deeper into the earth. Often water dripped from the ceiling or trickled from a crack in the wall when it rained or snowed heavily.

A long corridor of crude masonry crooked its way more or less straight ahead. Keeping to the higher part of the floor on either side, Raulf crept down it, always holding his lamp high. Every five feet or so a stone door was hewn into the rock with an iron grate serving as a spyhole within. These were the black cells. To be cast into one of them was to face death, for it meant your sentence had already been passed.

But the prisoner within the fourth cell looked dead already—or as if he wished he were.

“Hey, you,” Raulf whispered loudly, kicking the door softly and then taking his keys and banging the metal grate. Inside was inky darkness, and he could see the lamplight reflect on a pool of water on the modly, straw covered floor. Nothing moved. “Come on now, get up! You’re to be cleaned,” he said.

Lancelus d’Evereux needed to be cleaned.

He did look dead already, his face puffy and swollen from the beating he had taken at the hands of Guy Savelli’s henchmen the night he was thrown in prison. The side of his face was a black and red smear of scabbed over tissue and infection from the viscious sword-cut that had nearly cleaved his head in two. He would never see out of his left eye again, and the pus that seeped from it was pitiful to look on. His clothes were filthy from lying in the dungeon floor, and his hair, matted and knotted with dried blood, had bits of straw sticking to his wound. He had soiled himself the first night, and the stench about his cell was even stronger than what would normally be expected, so much so that Raulf nearly wretched.

The nobleman looked up at the hideously bright lamplight coming from the hole, squinting his good eye, and blurrily saw the goaler through the grate. Gasping, he croaked one word.

“Menechem?”

“Eh?” Raulf asked. “Get up, I said. “

“Who are you?” the knight managed.

“Well I ain’t Saint Peter, that’s for sure,” he laughed, like he was in a bawdy festhall. Raulf opened the cell door with his keys and pushed It inward slowly with a grinding sound of stone. Stepping into the wet chamber, he held his hand to his face for the smell was too strong. Stepping across the wet straw he moved to where Lancelus lay upon the floor, and kicked him sharply in the ribs for good measure.

“Heh,” he chuckled. “I heard you was a nobleman.” He kicked him again, the wounded knight lying in a fetal position on the floor. Raulf used his boot to prod him onto his side, and made clucking sounds with his tongue. “Not so noble, now I guess. Now you’re a King-slayer.”

“Eh?” Raulf stopped suddenly, feeling a icy presence. “Who the devil—“ he asked, staring with fear into the corner.

*****​

“Sit still or you’ll reopen the wound, my lord,” Amatus pleaded for the fourth time, his voice pleasant but his annoyance apparent.

“I have things that must be attended to,” Bohemond insisted, wincing again as the monk lanced him with the needle, threading his side with stitches to seal the deep cut he had sustained the other night. The wound had bled severely but Savelli’s surgeon had done a decent enough job keeping him alive. Now the Benedictine monk had the task of ensuring the injury actually healed, and that he would not die of infection in the process.

“You are lucky to be amongst the living, let alone attending to things,” he replied. “Now, I pray you, my lord, allow me to finish.”

Bohemond had spent a week in Melfi’s dungeon himself, while Guy Savelli had contemplated which side to choose in the coming war. The memory of the night his father was murdered brought the bile back into his throat and he saw Lancelus again in his mind, plunging the dagger into the Guiscard’s back.

“Lord, you must relax,” Amatus repeated.

“Relax, Amatus? Relax?” With a growl he stood from the stool, and began pacing with his arms crossed across his chest. “My father is murdered, and the culprit is in my power yet I have done nothing! And you ask me to relax?” He stormed to the corner window slit and leaned against it wrothfully, closing his eyes. Outside he could hear the drizzle of an icy rainfall, and could see the lights in the windows of the sprawled out homes and brothels of Melfi below them.

“You are wise to do nothing,” came the Italian’s voice. Guy Savelli entered the solar, a satchel bulging with scrollcases hanging over his shoulder. The Lord-Chancellor was waring a fine crimson robe and mantle of dark ermine, with a thick gold chain about his neck that marked his station as Castellan of Melfi and caretaker of the Kingdom of Sicily. Savelli had a oily, serpentine look about him at all times, and no time more so than when he smiled. Bohemond did not trust the conniving creature at all, but had heeded his advice so far nontheless while he regained his bearings.

“Bohemond, you are bleeding again,” Amatus groaned, standing himself wearily. The Norman’s wound had opened again and was seeping blood slowly down his side. Ignoring it, he grabbed a tunic from the bed and pulled it over his chest.

“Wise, am I?” he said through clenched teeth.

“Indeed, my lord.” Savelli crossed and sketched a bow as he neared. “If you slay Lancelus, you are no better than he, and you already have a reputation to overcome if you are to gain your throne, let alone keep it.”

“You think I care for that?” he growled.

“Your Father did.” Guy said with resolution in his eyes. “Would you throw away everything he gained, gained for you, I might add, by murdering the man in those cells below us? You need your uncle Roger if you are to have stability in this realm. He has many loyal barons in the south, and his power in Sicily grows stronger. If he opposes you, I fear for this kingdom.”

Bohemond slumped back onto the stool again and groaned despite himself. The wound was sore and burned when he moved just so, and he knew Amatus was right about the stitching. He put his face in his hands and stroked at his short beard for a moment, his eyes closed again. Each time he did so, he saw his father’s face as the grip of death tightened on him, just moments after they were reunited.

“Besides,” Guy was saying. “The wound you dealt Sir Lancelus is a far worse penalty than death for him. It is almost a fitting punishment for him to live with the way you left his face, and blind in the one eye. Ghastly.”

“Then what would you have me do with him, Chancellor?” He rose again and looked at Savelli square in the eye.

“My lord, he would be a most fitting hostage for Lord Roger’s good conduct. If the minstrels tell true he is the Great-Count’s own natural son. It could very well be so, especially since I have just received a courier note from Lord Roger, asking our intentions towards d’Evereux.” He reached into the satchel and produced a vellum scroll, the broken wax seal an eagle behind a crimson cross.

“I will never release my father’s murderer.” Bohemond was adamant.

“I would not think so. Remembering, my lord, that Roger does not know that I had captured you, nor that I have now released you. He writes to me as Chancellor of the realm, and expects me to do as he wishes concerning his damanble offspring. I assure you, he is perfectly willing to pull the kingdom into war if we keep him.”

“Then war he will get.”

“My lord,” Savelli chided, as if rebuking a child. “ May I remind you that you are as yet disinherited. You have no claim nor any right that is recognized by the Church, or the German Emperor. You have no bannermen, no barons, not even a knight to call upon. How would you fight Roger?”

The Italian was right, he knew. Bohemond fumed,standing again and pacing angrily to the window-sill. And then it came to him, as if God himself had whispered into his ear.

“Where is Roger Borsa?” he demanded.

“Your brother? I—uh, he, my lord..he was sent to Venosa the week after your father’s coronation. He is there still, as far as I know, in the care of Adhemar Royce.”

“Then that is where we go. My uncle needs Borsa—dead or alive, he plays a central part to his plans, no doubt.”

The monk frowned. “Bohemond, he is only a child,” Amatus said.

The look the prince gave him would have made lesser men turn away. “So was I.”

*****​
 
Roger Borsa to play a part in these games after all, eh? Interesting. Well-written, Al, as always.
 
Outstanding! Good to see things still as tense and ominous as ever!

And what is in that cell with dear ol' d’Evereux?
 
...Truely God has blessed our house."
Click to expand...

I could not stop laughing when King Robert said that.




Alhazen said:
Any others? Id be more than happy to throw some more contenders in the mix :D
Click to expand...


How about getting Adhemar Royce of Capua involved?
 
Draco Rexus said:
And what is in that cell with dear ol' d’Evereux?
Click to expand...

Perhaps one of those jokers from MacRaith's Transylvanian escapades? :D
 
didnt think I would forget about everyone's favorite pre-teen did you? of course borsa will be important :)

thanks for the great comments guys, and its great to be back writing this story. Maybe Ive read a little too much Lovecraft lately, but theres been a tinge of horror to my writing the past week or so :D
 
Wow! Good to see you back, Champ!

Again i must praise you for the powerful use of imagery, makes you feel the pressure.

You mentioned the Roman theme... Can we expect Bohemond's reconciliation with the Hauteville's and his journey to the Holy Land in seek of truth(or maybe spirit of his Father :D).

Anyways nice to see you back, good luck, and looking forward.

Don't keep us to stressed though and give an update soon :D
 
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Ack! Masada has been eaten by Photobucket!!! :eek:

Hope you're doing okay over in Afghanistan, Alhazen...

Will you still be there long enough to receive packages? And could you re-state your address?

Thanks!

Rensslaer
 
Sorry about the Photobucket issue guys, had to delete some in order to make room for more Afghanistan pictures!

Doing well, Renss, thanks. A bit bummed because we've been extended for another few months right on the cusp of coming home.. pesky Taliban.. I'll now be here until late November, so packages are much welcome, fellas.

SGT Zach Brown
Task Force Warrior, 2-4 INF BN
ATTN: S-2
APO AE 09354 RC East


As for Sins of the Father, I'm sorry I havent updated it as I should. Work issues, you could say. Don't think I've forgotten it though. And yes, I could definately see Bohemond travelling on Crusade to the east..
 
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