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In his epic work Orlando Furioso (first version, 1516; final version, 1532), Italian Renaissance poet Ludovico Ariosto elaborates on the tales of the hero Roland (Orlando) and others who fought in 788 for the French king Charlemagne. In Canto 14, the Saracens led by fierce warrior Rodomont, king of Sarthia and Algiers, lay siege to Paris. In reality Charlemagne fought the Saracens, or Moors, in Spain, not in France. Ariosto’s depiction of a siege, and his asides accusing monastic orders of impiety, probably reflect the preoccupations of Italian city-states in the 16th century more than those of the time of Charlemagne. The ends of stanzas are indicated here with slashes.
By Ludovico Ariosto
Now my soaring fantasy will not suffer me to tread always the selfsame path, but leads me hence, back to where the Moorish host deafens France with noise and clamour, from round the pavilion where Agramant, King Trojan's son, challenges the Holy Empire of Rome, and bold Rodomont brags he will burn down Paris and raze sacred Rome to the ground. / It had been reported to Agramant that the troops had already crossed from England, so he summoned Marsilius and Sobrino, the old King of Garbo, and the other commanders. They all agreed on mustering their forces for a mighty assault on Paris, in the certainty that they would never succeed in storming it unless they did so before the reinforcements arrived. / To this end the king had already sent out into the neighbourhood to gather in ladders by the score, and planks and beams and wickerwork panels for which many uses would be found. Boats he assembled, too, and bridges. Most of all he attended to preparations for the first and second assault-wave, and went the rounds of the troops who were to mount the attack. /
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The day before the eve of battle, the Emperor Charlemagne ordained that throughout Paris masses and offices were to be celebrated by priests and friars (white, black, and grey), and that everyone was to be shriven, so as to escape the hands of the infernal spirits, and then to receive communion—just as though they were all to die the next day. / With his barons and paladins, princes and prelates, he repaired to the cathedral and most devoutly participated in the sacred rites, setting an example to the rest. Joining his hands and raising his eyes to heaven, he prayed: 'Lord, though I am wicked and sinful, in your goodness suffer not your faithful people to be afflicted on account of my faults. / But if it is your will that they should suffer and that our waywardness be punished as it deserves, do but defer the retribution that it be not administered by the hand of your enemies: for if it fell to their lot to slay us, who are accounted your friends, the pagan will say that you are powerless, leaving your own followers to perish. / And throughout the world for each rebellious soul a hundred will rise against you, and the false law of Babel will drive out and suppress your religion. Defend your faithful, then; they are the ones who have cleansed your sepulchre and purged it of brutish dogs; many a time have they defended your holy Church and her vicars. / I acknowledge that our merits are not capable of satisfying our debt to you by so much as an ounce nor can we hope for your pardon when we consider the depravity of our lives. But if you throw on the scale the gift of your grace, our tribute is made up to the full amount. We cannot despair of your assistance when we remember your mercy.' /
Thus prayed the pious emperor, humble and contrite of heart; other prayers, too, he added, and a vow suitable to the magnitude of the need and the lofty splendour of his office. His urgent entreaties were not without effect, for his tutelary spirit, his angel, took his prayers and, shaping his flight heavenwards, bore them up to the Saviour. / At that moment countless prayers were being borne up to God by other such messengers, for the saints, hearing his words, all turned their faces, suffused with compassion, to look at the Love Eternal and show Him their common desire—that the just entreaty of the Christian people calling for help should be granted. /
And the Ineffable Goodness, never besought in vain by trusting souls, raised his merciful eyes and summoned Michael the Archangel with a gesture. 'Go,' he bade him, 'to the Christian army who have furled their sails off Picardy and so conduct them to the walls of Paris that the enemy do not hear their coming. / Fetch out Silence first and bid him from me to go with you on this enterprise; he will know exactly what to do to achieve what is required. This attended to, go straight away and seek out Discord; tell her to take her flint and tinder, and go to start fires in the Moorish camp; / have her breed so many quarrels among those accounted their champions that they fall to fighting each other, so that some are killed, some taken captive, some wounded, while others storm out of the camp in a rage, and their king will scarcely be able to count on their assistance.' The archangel made no answer but flew down from Heaven. / Wherever Michael bent his flight, the clouds scattered and the sky cleared; he was surrounded by a golden halo, bright as a lightning flash seen by night. As he went he thought where best to put down if he was to find that enemy of words to whom he meant to address his first commission. /
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He went over in his mind all the places Silence tended to frequent, and ultimately his thoughts all arrived at the same conclusion: that the churches, the monasteries of friars and cloistered monks would be the place to find him. Here conversation was rigidly banned; Silence reigned where they intoned the psalter, where they slept, where they took their meals; Silence was posted up in every room. / Expecting to find Silence here he beat his gilded pinions with greater haste; he felt confident of finding here Peace and Quiet, too; and Charity. But he had only to land in the cloister to be cured of his delusion: Silence was not to be found there. 'He no longer lives here,' he was told, 'except in the signs up on the wall.' / Piety was not to be seen either, nor were Tranquillity or Meekness, Love or Peace. They used to be found here in days of old, but have since been driven out by Gluttony, Avarice and Wrath, Pride, Envy, Sloth and Cruelty. The angel was amazed at this turn of affairs; he looked here and there among this hideous throng and noticed that Discord was here too, / whom the Eternal Father had told him to find after Silence. He had expected to go down to Hades, imagining that she dwelt with the damned, but here he came upon her in this new inferno (who would have thought it!) amid the divine offices and the mass! It seemed odd to Michael to discover her here when he had anticipated a long journey in search of her. / He recognized her by her multi-coloured attire composed of countless uneven strips of material which gave her only periodic concealment, for they were in such tatters they kept falling open at every movement she made, at every puff of wind. Her hair was a mixture of silver and gold, black and grey, all at cross-purposes—part of it was plaited, part gathered in a ribbon, a great deal fell over her back, a little over her breast. / Stuffed down her bosom and clasped in her hands were sheaves of summonses and writs, cross-examinations and powers of attorney, and great piles of glosses, counsel's opinions and precedents—all of which tended to the greater insecurity of impoverished townsfolk. In front and behind her and on either side she was hemmed in by notaries, attorneys and barristers. /
Michael summoned her and bade her go down among the Saracen champions and cause memorable havoc with some bone of contention that would bring them all to blows. Then he enquired of her about Silence: she might well know where he was, for she was always on the move, sparking fires all over the place. / 'I cannot recall ever having set eyes on him anywhere,' replied Discord, 'though I've heard him mentioned often enough, and much commended for his slyness. But one of our company, Fraud, should be able to enlighten you, I think—she occasionally consorts with him. There she is,' she added, pointing a finger. / Fraud was pleasant-looking, soberly dressed; her eyes were meek, her bearing dignified, and she was so benign and simple in her speech she might have been the angel of the Annunciation. For the rest, she was ugly and mis-shapen, though she contrived to conceal her deformities beneath a long and ample robe—which always concealed, in addition, a poisoned dagger. / Michael asked Fraud which road was most likely to lead him to Silence, and was told: 'He used to dwell exclusively among the virtues, with Benedict, and with the disciples of Elias the hermit, at the time when the monasteries were still in their infancy. Much of his time he spent in the schools back in the days of Pythagoras and Archites. / When there were no philosophers or holy men left to keep him on the straight and narrow path, he forsook his virtuous propensities and threw in his lot with the wicked. He began consorting with lovers at night, then with thieves; he was party to every sort of crime. Now he frequents Treachery a great deal, and I have seen him keep company with Murder. / He often slinks off into some dark hole in the company of forgers; as you see, then, he is constantly changing company and location and you'll be lucky to track him down. Still, there is a chance I can help you find him: if you make a point of reaching the house of Slumber at dead of night, you will find him without fail, for that is where he sleeps.' /
Although Fraud was a natural liar, her words had this time the ring of truth, and the angel believed her. So he flew out of the monastery at once, and so regulated his flight as to reach his journey's end at the home of Slumber—he knew its location—at the right moment to find Silence there. / In Arabia there is a pleasant valley quite remote from any village or town; it lies in the shadow of two peaks, and is planted with ancient firs and sturdy beeches. In vain the Sun tries to introduce bright daylight here—his rays can never penetrate the thick foliage concealing the entrance to an underground cave. / Beneath the dark wood a rock-cleft forms an ample, spacious cave; twisting strands of ivy cling to its brow. This is the place where heavy Slumber rests, flanked by plump, corpulent Sloth and by Laziness, sitting on the ground, unable to move and unsteady on his legs. / Scatterbrained Oblivion stands at the entrance; he lets no one enter, recognizes nobody; he hears no deputations, relays no messages, but holds everyone off impartially. Silence mounts guard, pacing about in felt slippers and a dark cloak, and from a distance he waves away all comers. /
Michael approached him and whispered into his ear: 'God would have you guide Rinaldo to Paris with the troops he has brought in to reinforce his sovereign. But you must do this so quietly that not a shout reaches the ears of the Saracens—who must be circumvented by these troops before Rumour can give notice of their arrival.' / For all reply Silence merely nodded assent and obediently followed him; they took wing and in one hop landed in Picardy. Here Michael moved the brave squadrons and so curtailed their route that a single day's journey brought them to Paris, without any of them realizing the miracle which had been wrought. / Silence was everywhere, spreading a thick veil of mist all about the army while elsewhere the day remained clear; this dense mist muffled every sound of trumpet and clarion. Then he went to the pagan camp bringing with him some singular property which made everyone deaf and blind. / While Rinaldo was on his way at such speed that it was evident that the archangel was leading him, and in such silence that not a murmur reached the Saracen camp, King Agramant had been deploying his infantry round the outskirts of Paris and along the moat beneath the threatened walls, in order that day to make one last supreme attempt. /
The man who can tell the numbers of the army moved against Charlemagne today by King Agramant would be able to count every shrub growing on the shady ridges of the wooded Apennines, every wave that breaks on the Mauretanian shore when the Atlantic is at its roughest, and every eye through which the heavens espy the furtive play of lovers at dead of night. / In Paris the bells could be heard ringing frantically; look in church after church and you would have seen hands raised to heaven and lips moving in prayer. If treasure seemed as beautiful to God as it does to our foolish way of thinking, this is the day when the faithful would have used pure gold for every statue dedicated to Him. / The venerable old men could be heard regretting that they had survived to bear such trials, and envying the sacred relics of those whose bodies had fallen to dust many a long year before. The younger men, however, were spirited and sturdy; they paid little heed to the dangers looming, scorned the talk of their elders, and ran hither and thither to man the walls. / There were barons here and paladins, kings, dukes, knights, marquises, and counts, soldiers from France and from other lands, all of them ready to die for the honour of Christ. They begged the emperor to lower the drawbridges so that they could sally forth against the Saracens; he was heartened by their spirit, but was not disposed to let them out. / He deployed them in suitable places to stop the barbarians breaking in; here a handful of men was deemed sufficient, while there an entire company was not too many. Some were assigned to the fire-raising equipment, others to the engines, as the need dictated. Charles was everywhere at once, never still for a moment, assuring help and acting as a shield over all. /
Paris is set in a broad plain at the navel of France, or rather, at the heart. The river passes within its walls and flows out by another opening, but only after forming an island which constitutes one part (and the best) of the city; the other two parts (for the great city is divided into three) are bounded on the outside by the moat, on the inside by the river. / The city has a circumference of several miles, so it may be attacked from many points. But Agramant, reluctant to disperse his forces, proposed assaulting it from one side only, and withdrew across the river towards the West, to mount his attack from this quarter: thus to his rear he would have not a single town or region which was not under his rule, all the way to Spain. / Charlemagne had thrown up powerful fortifications all along the line of the walls, strengthening every embankment and building into them tunnels and arrow-slits. He threw colossal chains across the river at its point of entry into and exit from the city. But he made the most concentrated provisions for those points where the danger was greatest. / He had eyes like Argus' to foresee where Agramant would attack; indeed, the Saracen made no plan which had not already been forestalled.
Marsilius, assisted by Ferrau, Isoliero, Serpentine, Grandonio, Falsiron, and Balugant, remained in the rear with the troops he had led from Spain. / To his left, on the bank of the Seine, was Sobrino, with Pulian, Dardinel, son of Almont, and the King of Oran, who looked a giant, twelve foot from crown to sole. Alas, if only I were as quick with my pen as these men are with their weapons: look, Rodomont is bawling and cursing in a lather of rage—there's no holding him! / Imagine the importunate flies on a hot summer's day as, buzzing noisily, they swarm onto the remains of the sweets at an outdoor meal, or onto the dishes from which shepherds eat; or think of birds flocking in to pick off the ripe purple grapes clinging to their stakes. Thus were the Moors as, filling the sky with their shouts and clamour, they launched their attack. /
On the walls the Christians defended the city fearlessly, with sword, spear and battle-axe, stones and fire, little impressed by the barbarians' audacity. Where Death reaped one defender after the next, there was no one who through cowardice refused to fill the gap. The Saracens were driven back from the walls under a hail of blows and knocks. / Metal was not all they used, but great chunks of masonry and entire merlons from the battlements, and walls laboriously dismantled, roofing from towers and whole sections of parapet. The Moors found the scalding water thrown down upon them unendurably hot; this sort of rain was not easy to withstand, for it found its way into the men's helmets and clouded their vision— / indeed, it did almost more damage than the steel weapons. What then of the cloud of lime, the cauldrons of boiling oil and brimstone, pitch, and turpentine? Nor were Catherine wheels left behind in the arsenal; blazing with a ring of flame, these were hurled from every quarter, a shower of unwelcome garlands dropping on the Saracens. /
Meanwhile Rodomont, King of Sarthia, had thrown the second assault-wave against the walls; with him were Buraldo the Garamant and Ormida of Marmonda. At his side were Clarindo and Soridan, nor was the King of Ceuta lurking in the background. Behind them pressed the Kings of Morocco and of Cosca, each one eager to show off his prowess. / Rodomont's standard depicted a lion on a red ground; its fierce jaws were open as it submitted to being bridled by a lady. Rodomont identified himself with the lion; as for the lady who was checking him with a bridle, he modelled her on fair Doralice, daughter of King Stordilan of Granada. / She was the damsel whom (as I related) King Mandricard had abducted (I have described where and from whom). She it was whom Rodomont loved more than his kingdom, more than his very eyes. It was for her that he was now displaying gallantry and valour, little realizing that she was in another's power: had he known this, he would this very moment have done what he did later the same day. /
All at once a thousand ladders were set against the walls; on each rung of each ladder—no less than two Saracens. Hard pressed by those climbing up behind, each man urged on the man on the rung above. In some courage, in others fear was the motive force: there was no escape from entering the breach, for harsh Rodomont killed or wounded whoever hung back. / So each man strove to climb up onto the walls through the fire and missiles. All the other attackers, however, looked about in search of an easier opening. Rodomont alone scorned to make for any opening but where the hazards were greatest; and when the situation was getting out of hand, while the rest sent prayers up to the Almighty, he sent up curses. / He was armed with a tough, durable breastplate made from the scaly hide of a dragon. It once clad the chest and back of Nembrot, his ancestor who built the tower of Babel, thinking to hurl God out of His golden abode and wrest from Him the government of the stars. To this end he had his helmet and shield fashioned to perfection, as also his sword. / Rodomont was every whit as dauntless, proud and rabid as Nembrot, and if there were a path up to Heaven, he would not have waited for nightfall before taking it. This being so, he was not going to stand looking to see if the walls were solid or broken, or if the moat was fordable: he took the moat at a rush, indeed he flew at it, up to his neck in water and slime. / Mud-stained and soaked through, he plunged into the flames and stones, arrows and slings like a wild boar in the reedy plains of our Mallea, which uses its chest and snout and tusks to break passages wide open wherever it goes. Bearing high his shield, the Saracen advanced unshaken, scorning Heaven, let alone the wall. /
The moment Rodomont reached dry ground his arrival was felt on the catwalks which formed broad bridges behind the walls for the French troops. Now you would have seen many a head split open, many a friar's tonsure altered to the look of a bishop's cloven mitre, arms and heads fly off; a river of blood flowed from the walls into the moat. / The pagan threw down his shield, grasped his cruel sword two-handed and struck Arnulph, a duke whose home was where the Rhine flows into the salt sea. The poor wretch was as helpless before him as sulphur touched by fire. He fell, shuddered, and lay still, his head split down to his chest. / With a single, slanting blow he slew Anselm, Oldrade, Spineloccio, and Prando: the crush was so great in so confined a space that his sword proved quite devastating. Of these four the first two were lost to the Flemish, the last two to the Normans. Then he struck Orghetto of Maganza, cleaving him from crown to chest and still on down to his belly. / Andropono and Moschino he hurled into the moat from the battlements. The former was a priest. As for the latter, he worshipped only wine; many a hogshead had he drained at a draught. He shunned water like poison—to him it was viper's blood—yet here he was, dying in it: he took it most unkindly that water should prove the death of him. / Louis (from Provence) he cut in two; Arnold of Toulouse he ran through the chest; he made an end of Hubert, Claude, Hugo, and Denis (all men of Tours): their spirits gushed out with their warm blood. Beside these he killed four from Paris—Walter, Satallone, Odo, and Ambalde—and many others; I should never be able to give all their names and countries of origin. /
The Saracen host surged after Rodomont, and swarmed up ladders set against the walls at many points, but the Parisians no longer stood their ground here, seeing the futility of their initial resistance. Besides, they well knew that the enemy still had their main problem ahead of them, and this would prove no child's play: between the outer and the inner ramparts yawned a trench of awesome depth. / Our defenders showed great courage as they fought an enemy now above them; however, fresh defenders were brought into play, fighting from atop the steep inner ramparts, and showering spears and arrows onto the attackers swarming in—whose numbers would, I think, have been considerably sparser were it not for Rodomont. / Some he encouraged, others he rebuked; he drove them before him willy nilly; if any of them turned to flee, he pierced their breasts or split their skulls. Many he pushed and hustled, some he picked up by their arms, their hair, the scruff of their necks; and so many did he toss, head over heels down into the fosse that it was too narrow to contain them all. / While the barbarian horde was climbing down, or rather being sent crashing down, into the perilous trench from the floor of which they tried a different way of scaling the inner rampart, Rodomont, as though he had a wing attached to each limb, lifted his ponderous frame and cleared the trench at one leap—and he was in full armour. / It was a good thirty feet across, and he cleared it as deftly as a greyhound, hitting the ground as soundlessly as though he had landed on felt. Now he laid about him, reducing everyone's defences to shreds, as though their arms were made of soft pewter, nay, of mere bark, and not of iron—such was his sword and the power behind it. /
Meanwhile our side had laid a trap in the deep fosse: they had assembled a huge quantity of besoms and faggots well impregnated with pitch, but all well concealed from view, even though both walls of the fosse, from the dark bottom almost to the very top, were bristling with them; and they had concealed thousands of cauldrons / brimming with saltpetre, with oil, sulphur, and similar combustibles. Now, to bring a sorry outcome to the mad temerity of the Saracens down in the fosse who were expecting to scale the wall and reach the inner ramparts at several points, our side, on hearing the signal given from selected places, set a blaze going here and there. / The scattered flames united in one single conflagration, filling the entire trench from side to side and rising high enough to dry the damp breast of the moon. Dark, inky smoke spiralled upward, cloaking the sun and plunging the daylight into darkness. A close-linked chain of explosions could be heard, like a fearsome roll of thunder. / A ghastly concert of high-pitched shrieks, bellows, and yells arose from the poor wretches perishing in the fosse through the fault of their leader—a medley of sounds blending weirdly with the fierce crackle of the murderous blaze. Enough, my Lord, enough of this canto; I am quite hoarse and need to rest awhile.
Source: Ariosto, Ludovico. Orlando Furioso. Translated by Waldman, Guido. ©1974. Reproduced by permission of Oxford University Press.
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Ariosto, Ludovico; Epic; Italian Literature; Renaissance
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