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When you examine just these fractional examples, it takes no wondrous school of thought to realize why young men seek to find those ideals that shaped the traditional masculinity on which their ancestors fought and died for. Since no such thing as a Crusade can exist in this post-modern skit we call the current era, seeking it within fiction, particularly in a lore as rich and inspired by those very same historical events like Warhammer 40,000, allows the young man to forge his own destiny and take back some control; particularly against a world that seeks to herd him into the ‘approved’ categories. In a plane such as 40K, the service to something greater: the depths of faith, a strong identity of brotherhood, and a competitive element, thanks to its popular tabletop game, that invigorates the escapism that critics of men today seem to perpetuate.

The modern world seeks to downplay and denigrate those ideals that were the backbone of the men of the military orders, categorizing the resilience, hardship, and self-sacrifice as virtues of “toxic masculinity”. It instead seeks to prize convenience, instant dopamine gratification & feedback, and the prioritisation of consumption. Our media streams/social feeds bombard us with the ‘correct’ opinions we should follow with ‘influencers’, recycled ‘content’ that the algorithm forces on us, promoting engagement on the shallowest forms of entertainers, and then tries to reframe this as positive for culture and identity. Half-naked women, looksmaxxing promoters, and ‘entrepreneurs’ sell to the modern man that this is the fulfillment of the day – that this is the peak, this is the goal. To be enshrouded in vapid, unfulfilling, fake identity of little substance, and herded into post-modern mythical constructs of the ‘approved’ domains. Unqualified, literal nobodies preach their own vapidness to empty-minded sheep who have never had to draw upon any reserve of discipline, resilience, or intestinal fortitude and wouldn’t understand the concept of duty if it slapped them in the face.

Therefore, where does a young man’s path forge toward in the modern world for him to discover this brotherhood and higher purpose? Why is it that modern man will seek the embrace of brotherhood and self-service through the history books, or the fictional universe?

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In the foggy mountains of Asturias, at the edge of the world, a man watched his civilization crumble to dust. Pelayo—the last of the Visigothic kings, or a local Asturian warlord, depending on which chronicle you trust—stood above a gorge at Covadonga as a Muslim column advanced toward it.

By the early eighth century, the Umayyad armies had taken modern Spain and Portugal in under a decade. The remnants of the old Christian order had fled north, crowding into the same mountains that even the Romans had struggled to hold. Arab chroniclers would later dismiss Pelayo’s band as thirty men on a rock, hardly worth the expedition to root them out.

Whether 30, 300 or 3,000, Pelayo’s force routed the Caliphate’s detachment, less through brilliance than through terrain and the Umayyads’ indifference to a mountain backwater.

As the Spaniards say, “de aquellos polvos, estos lodos” or “From those dusts, these muds.” The mud they would sink into over the next eight centuries began as that dust. The kingdom Pelayo established would become the spearpoint of peninsular Christendom—and over eight centuries, it would grind south, relentlessly, toward the heart of the Caliphate.

FROM THESE DUSTS

The legend of the Spanish Reconquista, as remembered in pop history, is one of valiant knights charging against the unending infidel hordes—the knights, certain only that faith would carry the day, charged while invoking, “¡Santiago y cierra, España!” or “May Saint James aid us, and now charge, O Spain!”

It is a good story, but it is a fairytale. There were heroes and earnest believers on both sides—that is not the part that’s wrong. Reality is just far more complicated than any fairytale. Christian kingdoms allied with Muslim kingdoms against other Christians. Muslim rulers paid tribute to Christian kings who protected them against fellow Muslims and vice versa. The very concept of a unified “Reconquista” took centuries to construct and arguably did not reach its modern form until the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Since the time of the Reconquista, the biggest threat to Spain has mostly been other Spaniards. The numerous separatist movements, Carlist Wars, and the Civil War made it clear that there was a need for a national myth—primarily to create the appearance of unity to smooth over unresolved identity issues.

What follows is the messy version of the Reconquista.

RHYMES OF HISTORY

Two decades after Pelayo, the Kingdom of Asturias remained surrounded. Then the Muslim front cracked from within. The Berbers, who had borne the brunt of the conquest, rebelled after being handed the frigid North while the Arabs kept the fertile south. Simultaneously, a civil war over dynastic succession tore through the Caliphate itself. The Umayyad dynasty was massacred, except for one survivor—Abd al-Rahman I, who fled across North Africa, arrived in Iberia in 755, and established the independent Emirate of Córdoba. In their own way, the Muslim forces had their own Reconquista before them.

Years prior, the Visigoths had similarly been in civil war and that’s what had allowed the Umayyad Caliphate to take over. Alfonso I of Asturias saw his opening and descended from the mountains. He had too few men to hold cities, so he took a very Roman decision—he made a desert and called it peace. He burned Muslim settlements, killed defenders, and marched Christian populations north. The result, combined with the Berber withdrawal and famine, was the severe depopulation of the Duero valley.

The so-called “Desert of the Duero” became a century-long buffer zone between the Christian north and Muslim south. It’s worth stressing though that historians debate very heatedly over the extent of the desert, whether it was devoid of settlements or whether it was so sparsely populated as to not be worth the bother. Yet, with his rear covered, Alfonso expanded into Galicia and northern Portugal, turning a mountain garrison kingdom into a proper territory. These would be the two main factions going forward—the heirs to Alfonso’s expansion and the successors to the Córdoba Emirate.

However, in time players entered from the north. After a rebel Muslim governor of Zaragoza invited Charlemagne to intervene against Córdoba, the Carolingians established the Marca Hispánica—a buffer zone south of the Pyrenees including Pamplona, Aragon, and the Catalan territories. Over time, these drifted from Carolingian control and became independent kingdoms, though the core civilizational lines remained.

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THE TWO KINGDOMS

The peninsula now held two kingdoms, each claiming to be the rightful heir to the whole peninsula. One traced its bloodline to the Visigoths, and through them to Rome, with Christ as the only source of legitimate authority. The other carried a faith born in the Arabian desert barely a century prior, still learning what to do with the Roman, Persian and Visigothic institutions it had swallowed whole.

Neither had fully come to terms with what they were. In the coming centuries, their conflicts and interactions would birth a civilization that was neither of them.

CROSSED SWORDS

As a king, sometimes your biggest threats are not those that storm your gates, but those that you invite over to dinner to feast with you. That much young Alfonso III knew. When his father died, a count tried to usurp the crown, and his family had to flee. Loyalist aristocrats fought against the coup, and a year later Alfonso III regained the crown at fifteen years of age. Then, another group of nobles rebelled against him. Perhaps the most annoying issue about this whole affair is that it was the same nobles that had given him refuge a year prior when hiding from the count. Even so, he defeated the rebels, and then fought against the forces of the Emirate of Córdoba.

These conflicts were no longer Pelayo’s guerrilla ambushes in mountain passes—they were setpiece battles against similarly sized forces. Alfonso III had descended from the mountains, taken over the desert of the Duero, and created a Christian counterweight to the Muslim south.

His people, it seemed, were fated by God to achieve great things. Years prior, a religious hermit (coincidentally also called Pelayo) had seen a shower of stars, on the same hill in the forest at Libredón every night. He investigated and came to find a Roman tomb that would be known as the tomb of the Apostle Saint James. Upon that hill, a small chapel was built, and Alfonso III expanded it to become a proper church. The site would draw pilgrims and accumulate cultural authority across Christendom, second only to Rome—we now know it as Santiago de Compostela.

King Alfonso III commissioned the chronicles Albeldense and the humbly named Chronicle of Alfonso III, which draw direct lineage between him and the Visigothic Kings that existed before the Muslim conquest. This Neogothic mindset would prove the basis for the Reconquista. His reign was an attempt to honor what came before. In the process he created something new. The Visigoths had a complicated relation with Roman Imperial authority, the Asturians had barely been Christian, and yet by invoking both legacies he built enough legitimacy to set the basis for a Christian empire that aspired to the glory of Rome. Such was his claim on the past that he crowned himself Adefonsus Hispaniae Imperator (Alfonso, the Emperor of Hispania)—an imperial title which his heirs would keep, despite their betrayal.

Alfonso III’s lifelong lesson that those closest to you are the ones most likely to take the crown from you was vindicated. His three sons rebelled, divided the new empire, and set new capitals in each kingdom.

A NEW STAR FOR THE CRESCENT

At the same time, on the other side of Hispania was Abd al-Rahman III, or as the Spanish called him, Abderramán. He was the heir of the Umayyad dynasty, which had barely survived and established an emirate in Cordoba.

His mother was a Christian concubine and his grandmother was a Spanish princess, daughter of the captive king Fortún Garcés of Pamplona. His father Muhammad, a prince of the Umayyad house, was murdered before he could inherit. Abd al-Rahman was raised by his grandfather, the Emir Abdullah, who named him heir over his own surviving sons.

Abderramán had been severed from his Arab heritage, as the Abbassids who had overthrown the Umayyads had even gone as far as profaning his ancestor’s graves. By blood he was the synthesis of the emerging Spain—“white skin, blue eyes and attractive face; good looking, although somewhat sturdy and stout. His legs were short, to the point that the stirrups of his saddle were mounted just one palm under it. When mounted, he looked tall, but on his feet he was quite short.” He had reddish-blond hair but dyed it black to appear more Arab.

Although from opposite ends of the war, Abderramán III had similar concerns to that of the now deceased Alfonso III. He was caught between two worlds, one dead and the other powerless to be born. The kingdom he inherited from his grandfather barely stretched beyond the city walls. Around him were both Christian and Muslim threats and yet he faced them with bravery.

For the first twenty years he avoided war with the northern Christian kingdoms. They were far too powerful of a threat to attack head-on. Instead, by aid of a mercenary army, he systematically subdued the Arab lords and Berbers who rejected his claims on them.

After two decades, Abderramán had not managed to fully subdue all rebel forces, but he felt powerful enough to openly defy both the Fatimid and the Abbasid Caliphate by proclaiming himself the Caliph of Córdoba. It must be stressed that in Islam this is a major matter—a Caliphate was thought to only be legitimate by those who ruled over the sacred cities of Mecca and Medina. To this day, it is a title that not only confers political authority but spiritual supremacy.

With this newfound power he continued his assault on the rest of Hispania and North Africa that had not yet sworn fealty to him. The Christian kingdoms were not the priority, but they proved a persistent thorn, and he almost lost his life fighting in the front lines against them. After that, he led armies from afar and turned to influencing Christian dynastic politics through diplomacy and by backing whichever claimant would keep his rivals weakest.

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Abderramán had created a new civilization, one that was neither fully Arab, nor beholden to the Visigothic or even Roman past. He pushed for agriculture with irrigation, even establishing a high office for it, which reduced famines and helped introduce and spread new crops, such as rice, durum wheat (for pasta), sorghum, sugarcane, cotton, oranges, watermelons, bananas, and eggplants. Naturally, the population increased, and during his reign, Córdoba developed to a size similar to that of Constantinople, and almost half that of Baghdad.

This prosperity attracted artists and scholars. Córdoba became the gleaming jewel of Western Europe. Christian leaders complained that young Christians were more interested in learning Arabic than Latin. Other states took note. Emissaries arrived from Otto I of Germany and the Byzantine emperor, among others.

And yet, wealth reveals and amplifies rather than corrupts. Late in his life, Abderramán was accused of debauchery, spending years at a time in his male and female harems, respectively. This accusation was planted in fertile grounds. Earlier in his life, at 34, folklore says that he tried to force himself on a 13-year old Christian youth. The boy rejected him, and the Caliph had him tortured and dismembered.

The boy came to be known as Saint Pelayo of Córdoba for his refusal to be bent to Islam—as always, that name would keep haunting the Muslim forces, surfacing whenever they were about to win.

Despite being on opposite sides of the conflict, Alfonso III and Abderramán were both grasping at the same thing—legitimacy by connecting to the past, while attempting to build something that was ultimately neither Roman nor Arab.

AS CLEAR AS MUD

Abderramán had built an empire where Christian and Muslim influence could coexist, not as equals but as peaceful citizens of the same city. Yet, as has been proven again and again in this story, it is far easier to break something than to build and maintain it.

Decay didn’t happen overnight. In fact, al-Andalus grew in power. Not twenty years after Abderramán’s death, a chamberlain emerged who pushed aside the heir to his legacy. Almanzor was ruthless and effective. In 997, Almanzor razed Santiago de Compostela during his 40th-something war campaign. He burnt the newly built church and carried the bells on the backs of Christian prisoners. The bells were turned into chandeliers for the Great Mosque of Córdoba. Legend has it that he sought to destroy everything, but upon reaching the tomb of the Apostle he found a monk.

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For the past eight months, Feigned Flight Magazine has been exploring the medieval world through oblique and conceptual essays provided by some of the best medieval writers on the internet.

Now, we’re preparing to bring that unique medieval worldview into print.

FFM’s first print edition is a new milestone for the project. It’s an opportunity to take the hidden insights, beautiful musings, and aesthetic we’ve been developing digitally and give them a permanent, tangible home on the page.

A premium-quality print edition gives our readers a chance to hold eight of your favorite essays—plus FIVE PRINT-EXCLUSIVE essays—in your hands, in an immersive experience you will love to return to again and again. Creating a physical copy is also a part of our mission to support human-centric content in the face of AI.

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The second truth follows from the first. Once neutrality reads as treason, loyalty cannot stay a private conviction. It has to be performed. It has to be seen from across a street, heard in the words a person shouts or refuses to shout, proven again every day through small, compulsory rituals, because a belief nobody can verify is worthless to a frightened crowd, and a frightened crowd is exactly what a civil war produces in abundance.

To watch this alchemy at its most complete, the moment a human being disappears behind the symbol pinned to their coat by the others, there is no better chapter of history than France in the first decades of the 15th century, when two princely households dragged an entire kingdom into a war fought less over ideas than over the right to decide who belonged and who didn’t.

Emotion over conviction

Start with the mechanism itself, before the history clutters it. A faction, properly built, needs an enemy far more urgently than it needs a program. Nothing binds a group faster than the shared conviction that some other group threatens its very existence— not its interests, its existence—and so the first labor of any faction-builder is manufacturing that threat, sharpening it, making it feel close and mortal even when, a year earlier, most of the group’s own members had never given the supposed enemy a second thought.

What holds the group together afterward is not argument. Political theory persuades committees; it does not persuade crowds. What moves a crowd is the older, faster current of grief, fear, and rage, feelings that spread by proximity rather than by reasoning, the way one person’s sob starts another’s. Historians of emotion have taken to calling this an emotional community: a group defined less by what its members believe than by which feelings they are permitted, even required, to display, and which are read as betrayal if they are missing. In a functioning emotional community, the man who does not weep at the right funeral is already suspect. The woman who does not flinch at the right rumor is already an informer.

And because trust between strangers is the first casualty of any civil war, the individual, with all the inconvenient complexity of a real neighbor, a real notary, a real cousin’s cousin, becomes far too costly to verify. The symbol replaces the person. It has to. A crowd cannot interrogate every face it meets in a dark street; it can only check for a color, a cloth, a cut of cloak, a shout. In that exchange something real is lost, the tanner or the notary or the young mother disappears, and something far more legible, and far more killable, takes their place: the badge.

Tens of thousands of badges

An event in 1407 brings France into this societal phenomenon and war. When John, duke of Burgundy, had his own cousin Louis of Orleans murdered in a Paris street that November, the quarrel that followed still belonged, for a few years, only to the two princely households and their immediate men. What turned it into everyone’s war was a decision so cheap it is almost comic: Burgundy began handing out lead.

He had, since 1405, worn a carpenter’s plane as his personal emblem, a heraldic pun on rectitude, the tool that smooths crooked wood, and from 1410 a mason’s level besides, timed neatly to a program of government reform he was pushing at court.

These were unremarkable ducal vanities at first, the kind every great lord wore stitched into his household’s livery. What was not unremarkable was what Burgundy did next: he had thousands of cheap lead and pewter copies struck, stamped with his cross of Saint Andrew, his patron saint, and put them directly into the hands of Parisian butchers, tanners, and skinners, the same trades that would soon give a whole uprising its nickname, after Simon le Coutelier, a skinner nicknamed Caboche. For the first time, a duke’s private emblem was worn by people who had never set foot in his household. Rank stopped mattering for joining a faction. What mattered was the symbol as long as you wear it and fight in the name of it.

Paris answered by turning the badge into law. To enter or leave the city at all, a Parisian now needed the green hood of Burgundy’s colors and a leaden Saint Andrew’s cross, with a small fleur-de-lys worked into its center and the words “Vive le Roi” (Long live the King) stamped around it, a badge designed, quite deliberately, to make loyalty to the crown and loyalty to the duke look like the identical thing.

The opposing household answered with its own mark: a plain white sash worn diagonally from shoulder to hip meaning “The Right Path,” the emblem of the Armagnacs, partisans of the house of Orléans, whose name the faction would carry for the rest of the war. Later, only in 1417, their own badges changed to reflect an association with the Dauphin of France to legitimize themselves with the French royal power family.

With every change of regime in Paris, the population would discard thousands of badges from the previous administration, in many fortified cities. Today, badges featuring the Cross of Saint Andrew or the Armagnac dauphin can still be found in the Seine river.

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Factional identities

Burgundy did not stop at cloth and lead. In 1411 the Duke’s men reached back fifty years for a papal bull originally aimed at roving mercenary companies and had it applied, by name, to the Armagnac leadership, expelling them from the sacramental community of the Church at the same moment they were expelled from the political community of the city. With excommunication pronounced against the entire of Armagnac partisans, many unburied, decomposing bodies were found in the suburbs and surrounding regions of Paris.

The same logic reached deep into the bureaucracy: in October 1409, on invented charges of corruption, Burgundy’s officers arrested and beheaded the king’s own chief steward, Jean de Montaigu, whose real offense was never in serious doubt among the people who had appointed him; he had simply served the wrong duke.

A manufactured enemy, once named, could be made to fail every possible test of belonging at once: temporal, spiritual, and administrative. No one was safe anymore.

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It took seven years for Muslim forces to conquer modern Spain and Portugal. It took 780 years to push them out. That ratio, roughly 1:100, tells you something about the difference between breaking a thing and rebuilding it.

Except “rebuilding” is the wrong word. The people who finished the Reconquista in 1492 weren’t restoring what had existed in 710. They couldn’t have been—the Visigoths who fell weren’t the Spaniards who would eventually rise. The process of trying to return to a bygone age changes you. You become something different.

Nowadays we are in an era where things are breaking faster every day, and an ever-growing number of people are trying to keep the old ways, or even to rebuild what is actively being lost. It doesn’t always work out, but this struggle can birth something entirely new.

This essay is part of a series about the transformation that Spain underwent with the Reconquista, in trying to rebuild the mythical past of the pre-Islamic era. We’ll start with the collapse itself: why seven years was enough to completely break the status quo. Then, we’ll explore why it was so difficult to put Humpty Dumpty together again, and finally what the aftermath of these eight centuries of bloodshed were.

Let’s discover how the cracks formed and how the Iberian peninsula broke.

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Meet the Players

In my last essay, we covered Rome’s transition from Empire to the Medieval Kingdoms. The East of the Roman Empire became Byzantium, and the West was largely left to be consumed by the barbarian hordes, which were themselves being pushed out from Eastern Europe by the Huns.

The Goths spread throughout the former Empire. The Ostrogoths (Eastern Goths) took over Italy, and the Visigoths (Western Goths) took over modern Spain & Portugal (the Roman province of Hispania), parts of Southern France and the Moroccan tip of the Strait of Gibraltar.

However, unlike what you might learn if you look at a map, their dominion was not absolute. There were several other players in the mix, so let’s explore the factions and their roles in this grand play:

The Visigothic Kingdoms (the hollow center)

Only 1%-2% of the population were actually Visigothic; the rest were the former subjects of the Roman Empire with all the baggage that entailed. Initially, the Visigoths were their own people, with their own language, customs and even faith.

While the larger population was Catholics, the Visigoths were Arians, as in they believed that Jesus Christ was the son, and thus lesser than God. This might seem minor to modern audiences, but it wasn’t: it had enormous philosophical and social implications—people went to war over it.

Arianism said Jesus was made by God (powerful and special, but ultimately just another part of creation, not God himself), which meant Christians were either praying to someone who isn’t actually God (a big problem), or that God chose to save humanity through a middleman rather than showing up himself, raising the question of why an all-powerful God wouldn’t come directly and what that distance says about his nature and love. For Catholics, the whole point was that God didn’t send a representative: he came personally, which is what made salvation real and intimate rather than delegated. That insistence on God’s direct presence in Christ shaped how Christianity understood everything from worship to the very structure of reality.

Unsurprisingly, this divide was as irreconcilable as that between Muslims and Christians. In fact, Arians and Muslims shared some similarities: both insisted on God’s absolute oneness and denied that Jesus was God himself - though they differed in that Arians still granted Jesus an exalted, semi-divine status, while Muslims see him strictly as a human prophet.

Arianism was the core of the Visigothic identity. Take that away and the language, the writing (invented specifically for translating the Bible), and the culture itself would dissolve. After quelling pro-Arian revolts, this dissolution is exactly what happened at the Council of Toledo in 589 where King Reccared I publicly renounced Arianism.

By 711, when our story begins, the Visigoths had integrated into the former Roman subjects—they no longer spoke Gothic, and their culture had mostly vanished with very few traces left. That said, the integration with the former Roman world did not mean they were allies with the Roman holdouts, having devoted the last few decades to kicking out the Byzantine settlements from Hispania.

The Jews in the Visigothic Kingdoms (the ones with nothing to lose)

Jews had always had a… complicated relationship with the Roman Empire. The matter only got worse when the empire converted to Catholicism. As social outsiders, they initially saw the Visigoths as a nonconforming religious minority and kindred spirits. But this comradery ended with the Visigothic adoption of Catholicism in 589.

Now the Gothic elite and the Catholic bishops shared interests. The bishops had always wanted Jewish restrictions; now they had a receptive crown. Over the next century, Jews were persecuted with forced baptism orders, property confiscation, bans on religious practice and restrictions on professions. Many fled to North Africa, where they’d become pivotal in years to come, as the Caliphate was still making its way there.

Though the Byzantines had lost their territorial foothold in southern Hispania decades earlier, they continued launching naval raids in the late 7th century. During this time, the Byzantines saw Iberian Jews as a useful potential fifth column against the Visigoths, and so they sent naval expeditions to stir up revolts among Jews and remaining Roman populations. This did not work, and along with whispers of the North African Jews’ plans for revenge, it convinced King Egica that the Jews needed to be enslaved, have even more of their property confiscated, and also have their children taken from them and forcibly made Christian and married to a Catholic partner.

Understandably, this pissed them off.

The Northern Mountain Peoples (the crazy people at the edge of the world)

Up in Northern Spain, in the rainy, muddy and misty mountains were a people that even the Romans had struggled to defeat. Hispania had already been subdued two centuries before these people were incorporated into the Roman province, and even then the imperial grasp on them was tenuous.

These populations were nominally Christian by the 7th century but how deep that went versus older practices is harder to know. The word “pagan” literally comes from paganus—rural people, countryside dwellers who held onto older ways longer than cities. By 711, when the Muslim conquest started, the Visigoths were still fighting to try to integrate them.

Today you would know them as the Basques, the Cantabrians and the Asturians. And their spirit remains fiercely independent.

The Umayyad Caliphate (the young faith with old appetites)

This was the second of history’s four major Islamic caliphates—an empire whose ruler claimed to be the political-religious successor to Muhammad and a leader of the entire Muslim world.

The ruling dynasty was in an awkward legitimacy situation, as while they came from Muhammad’s tribe, the Quraysh, they had been his enemies within it. Abu Sufyan, the Umayyad patriarch, led the Meccan opposition against Muhammad for years, including the military campaigns against him. Not only that, but Abu Sufyan’s conversion had always been seen as a conversion of convenience once Muhammad put him in checkmate.

When Muhammad died in 632 (79 years before the invasion of Hispania), he’d left no clear succession plan. This has been a contentious issue for Muslims ever since.

Some Muslims (the Shia) believe that leadership should have passed exclusively through his bloodline—specifically through his cousin and son-in-law Ali. Others (the Sunni) believed the community should choose its leader through consensus, so long as he was qualified and from Muhammad’s tribe.

To an outsider, the distinction might seem arcane—much like Arianism vs Catholicism—but it’s a critical issue deciding whether the leader of Islam is an elected ruler or a divinely guided spiritual heir. The resulting power struggles produced civil wars, assassinations, and ultimately the Umayyad dynasty—the same dynasty that would send its armies into Iberia, and whose last surviving prince would later rule it.

There are many other factions at play here, but these are the core participants of the drama that is about to unfurl. Now that the actors are in place, let the show begin.

On the Warpath

The pop-culture retelling of the Reconquista goes a bit like this: Peaceful Spain was attacked and by some infernal curse the Muslim forces managed to conquer Iberia, raping and pillaging as they went along. Then, a miracle. Spain fights back and over the next 8 centuries takes the country back.

It’s a compelling narrative with pre-assigned villains and heroes. But reality is far messier.

The reason that the Muslim forces were able to sweep Visigothic Spain was because the core was rotten. The Visigoths were having one of their all-too-common succession disputes.

When King Wittiza died in 710, his sons ran to the throne but found someone already sitting on it. King Roderic—a powerful noble, possibly the Duke of Baetica, had muscled his way in. This was not necessarily unheard of.

After all, the Visigothic Kingdom took from the Germanic tradition of elective monarchy (similar to what we would later see with the Holy Roman Empire). Yet, this succession model produced constant coups, assassinations, and civil wars as legitimacy could be voted in, rather than ordained by a sacred bloodline.

However, in practice, kings often tried to establish dynastic succession by associating their sons with the throne during their lifetime. For example, the now dead King Wittiza had been co-ruler with King Egica, his father, but this passing of the baton did not happen in the next generation.

The historical record becomes quite murky so there’s a couple of options that have been suggested. The sons might have been too young, he might have died suddenly, or Roderic might’ve killed King Wittiza in a coup.

We shall go with the third option, as the story needs some drama. Yet, however it happened, King Roderic succeeded Wittiza, and during this time, legend says that he met a damsel who had been sent to the royal court in Toledo to study—this was the daughter of Count Julian, the governor of Ceutá (in North Africa).

King Roderic raped her and when news reached Count Julian he vowed revenge, even if it meant allying with the enemies of the faith. Julian chose his daughter over God, and reached out to the enemies of God.

Similarly, the sons of the previous king Wittiza were plotting their revenge. Some sources suggest the Visigothic kingdom split with Roderic controlling the south and center, while Wittiza’s son Achila may have controlled the northeastern region (Tarraconensis and Septimania). Yet Roderic still seemed to have some sway over them, as he was able to summon them into battle.

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On the other side of the Gibraltar Strait

The Umayyad Caliphate had been expanding in every direction for decades, and would continue to do so—sometimes with disastrous results, as when they tried to take Byzantium and were met with Greek fire. But they were relentless.

They had taken Egypt in 2 years, Syria in 6 and Persia in 20. But the Maghreb, the area after Egypt up to the Atlantic, had proven to be quite troublesome. It took 70 years to defeat it.

The Maghreb had been a bitter war, one of the most difficult and protracted campaigns in early Islamic expansion. And it only got more difficult towards the end.

Dahya, a legendary female warrior, an old crone that was whispered to be at least a hundred years old, emerged from the Aurès mountains and united the Berber tribes against the Umayyads. She was an extraordinary leader, and gave the Arabs such problems that they gave her the nickname “Al-Kahina” ~ the priestess soothsayer, for her ability to see the future.

She would carry an idol into battle and the Berbers would see her as a spiritual leader.

Unsurprisingly, everyone has tried to claim this woman. The Jews are convinced she’s one of their own, the Christians say her idol was clearly the virgin Mary, and the Berbers hold that it was likely a Berber spirit.

Whatever divine aid she was getting, it worked… for a time. While her ally of convenience, the Byzantines, were pushed out of the region after the Siege of Carthage, she remained.

The Umayyads hunted her and she fought back, soundly defeating the Islamic forces in the Meskiana Valley in modern day Algeria. After the battle, she spared all the Muslim captives but as she expected the Umayyads to return, she went on a scorch-earth campaign which greatly angered the settled people of the oasis who would then betray her.

She took refuge in the Roman Amphitheatre of El Jem, where she fought against the Umayyad forces—and yet her fate was sealed: the night before she had had a vision of her head mounted on a spike and presented to the “Great King of the Arabs.” She was killed the next day. But, having seen this future, she asked her sons to go and ask for the mercy of the Muslim forces.

Kahina had been defeated, and her sons were now under Muslim control. The year was 703.

Her sons would be folded into the Umayyad army over the next few years, as the Caliphate continued its assault on the Maghreb.

It’s worth saying that the sons being forgiven and incorporated into the army was not unusual. 7,000-12,000 other Berber soldiers, followers of Kahina, would be absorbed into the Umayyad war machine.

A charitable interpretation is that Islam sought to embrace different people under its banner. A more cynical interpretation is that structurally they had no other choice. Islam was less than a century old, and beset by inner turmoil.

Furthermore, the political structure that underpinned the Caliphate needed constant expansion to function. By pushing the internal turmoil outwards, having the Arab tribes fight others, instead of their peers, it worked as a social safety valve. There was no need to fight for a specific slice of the pie, if the pie just kept getting bigger and more slices were being created.

Bankrolling the system

Yet, to make war you need money, especially if you pay your soldiers a salary, which was uncommon in the medieval era, but the Umayyad did. The caliphate’s revenue depended heavily on two streams which were levied on conquered populations:

• Kharaj (land tax)

• Jizya (poll tax on non-Muslims)

But the caliphate’s religious mission encouraged conversion to Islam, and conversion theoretically exempted converts from jizya and reduced their land tax from the heavy kharaj to the lighter ushr (one-tenth of produce).

Put simply, if the caliphate was too successful in their conversion of the conquered people, their tax revenue decreased. This is not merely historical speculation; it’s something the caliphate themselves were aware of.

Non-Muslims would try to escape these onerous taxes by publicly converting and even joining the military, but many times the authorities would reject this and send them back to their lands so that they continued paying the tax.

Medieval Middle Eastern Historian Robert Hoyland has mentioned that tax agents would complain about diminishing returns and governors would try to circumvent the Muslim tax exemption by requiring people to recite the Quran from memory and to circumcise to qualify—and you thought your tax filings were difficult!

Ironically, the Umayyad Caliphate, supposed to represent the spirit of Islam, had a built-in incentive to discourage conversion to the Muslim faith.

All’s Fair In Love And War

We return to the Count of Ceutá, the Visigoth leader who single-handedly controlled the gates to Hispania. He had spilled the blood of his men for years trying to keep that gate shut. And one day he opened it.

To avenge his daughter, he coordinated with the Umayyad forces, likely via the expelled Jews as intermediaries. He provided the caliphate a political map of the Iberian landscape, and presumably also lended them his political acumen to connect with those who hate King Roderic, including the sons of the former King Wittiza who unofficially ruled a portion of the kingdom.

It bears saying though that the attack that was about to happen could be catalogued more as an opportunistic raid than a serious attempt to conquer Iberia. There had been similar raids on Spain for years, likely since the conquest of Tangiers in 706, and the governor of the Maghreb only showed up with his own army once the raid proved to be far more successful than planned—typical case of a boss trying to steal your credit.

The 7,000 men were mostly recently-subjugated Berber cavalry and might have also included Kahina’s own sons, as they were prophesied to “gain power with the man who killed her, and establish glory for the Berbers.”

Only 27 Arabs were left in the Berber army to teach them Islam. Thus it remains an open question how devout the Umayyad spearhead was.

Berber freedman Tariq ibn Ziyad led the assault, transported by Count Julian’s merchant ships. They landed in the foothills of a mountain which was henceforth named after him, “Gibraltar”—the Spanish of the Arabic name Jabal Ṭāriq (جبل طارق), meaning ‘mountain of Tariq’.

King Roderic assembled the banners to him, and as luck would have it he had been fighting the Basques, so a portion of his army was readily available. Not taking any chances though, he called upon everyone, including the sons of King Wittizas, with whom he had been having tense relations. They answered the call, and by the time he made it south to face Tariq’s Berber army he might have outnumbered him 3 to 1.

When roots don’t run deep…

What happened next is pieced together from fragments. The Mozarabic Chronicle, written forty years later, says only that Roderic’s army ‘fled’ and that nobles had accompanied him ‘fraudulently and in rivalry out of ambition for the Kingship.’ Later sources elaborate the betrayal—the sons of Wittiza turning mid-battle, opening a gap in the lines—but whether this is history or retrospective explanation, we can’t know. What we know is the outcome: Roderic died, the nobility was shattered, and no one remained to organize resistance.

The Visigothic hollow center had crumbled.

The 2 centuries of Visigothic rule left almost no trace in Spanish culture. Almost no Gothic words made it into the language, as opposed to 8% of modern Spanish deriving from Arabic.

Over the next 7 years, most of the Iberian peninsula became a part of the Caliphate. Most of the conquest was voluntary submission—the Visigothic roots were not deep, and when the trunk was hit with enough force, the rest went with it.

The Sulh system of surrender and incorporation wasn’t invented for Hispania, but it had its roots in the fighting Bedouin tribes that birthed Islam in the first place. The best early expression of this might be The Treaty of Theodemir (April 713): keep your lands, your faith, your authority—just pay tribute and hand over rebels.

The alternative was to end like Mérida—initially wealthy, proud, second only to Toledo—which resisted and paid for it. Elites had their wealth confiscated; many were killed or enslaved. The city never recovered its former status.

The remaining Visigoths, having had their military shattered, often just tried to keep what status they had and bent the knee, much as Kahina’s forces had years before.

Changing fortunes

The Jews, the ones with nothing to lose, also played a critical role in some of the more important cities that could’ve offered resistance. Legend says they opened the gates at the Visigothic capital of Toledo, and let the Umayyads in.

The conquered cities of Córdoba, Málaga, Granada, Seville, and Toledo were placed under the control of Jewish inhabitants whom the Moorish invaders had armed. The same people King Egica had enslaved, whose property he had confiscated, whose children he had torn away and forcibly married to Christians, were now running his former capitals.

Under Muslim rule, Jews became dhimmis: second-class but protected, taxed but not enslaved. It wasn’t equality, but compared to forced baptisms and child separation, it was a dramatic improvement.

The 10th and 11th centuries would later be called the “Golden Age” of Jewish culture in Spain—a flourishing of religious scholarship, poetry, philosophy, and commerce that would have been unthinkable under Visigothic rule.

The one exception to this whole invasion was the exception that had always been—the Northern peoples. The crazy people at the edge of the world, which the Visigoths had not conquered, and the Romans with great difficulty had submitted, was now ironically the last holdout of a legacy they never really belonged to.

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The Reconquista Begins

In subsequent issues we’ll explore the drama and the full consequences of the little holdout in the north. But, for now, let us leave those marshy, rainy lands clouded in mist, as they have been for eons. Let us instead focus on the Umayyads.

From the initial takeover in 711, over the next 40 years, the Umayyads would rule their empire, plagued by revolts, failed military expeditions and administrative mismanagement. Ironically, they weren’t that dissimilar from their Byzantine peers. Yet, in 750, the Abbasid Revolution, fueled by widespread discontent with Umayyad rule and led by the Arab Hashimite dynasty (descendants of an uncle of the prophet Muhammad), ousted them.

The Abbasids massacred nearly the entire Umayyad family. Abd al-Rahman I, a surviving Umayyad prince, fled across North Africa and established the Emirate of Córdoba. Perhaps out of necessity, this new kingdom of Al-Andalus was relatively tolerant for the era.

A clear social hierarchy existed, but people could practice their faith if they paid their taxes on time. The hierarchy went thus:

Arab Muslims → Berbers → converts (muwallads) → dhimmis (the peoples of the books) → slaves

Al-Andalus served as a critical bridge, connecting the knowledge of East and the West, ancient and new. This transmission of knowledge, Greek philosophy filtered through Arabic scholarship, would later feed into the intellectual currents that produced the Renaissance.

The rebranded city of Córdoba was in its time the most advanced city in Europe. This prosperity would of course not last forever: in 1009 a series of civil wars (fitna) fractured the Caliphate and by 1031, it collapsed into dozens of small taifa kingdoms.

In a weird twist of karmic fate, the Caliphate, the heirs to the Umayyad dynasty, had their own reconquista before them—first reconquering Spain, and then trying to recover everything from there to Syria. Córdoba became the last holdout and they would attempt to rebuild what was broken.

As is always the case though, the process of trying to return to a bygone age changes you. You become something different. Thus it always was, and thus it shall always be.

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Richard Amador writes about why humans stay the same even as civilizations change. He is the author of Cavemen with Smartphones and is currently finishing a science fiction/fantasy novel about civilizations built on forgotten technology. In addition to his Substack, he can be found on X at @acuriocabinet.

You can read his previous essay for Feigned Flight here:

Further Reading

• Jorge Alvarez, Pact of Theodemir
  https://www.labrujulaverde.com/en/2024/06/pact-of-theodemir-the-treaty-by-which-a-visigothic-governor-saved-his-cities-and-inhabitants-during-the-muslim-conquest-of-al-andalus/

• Roger Collins, The Arab Conquest of Spain: 710 - 797 (A History of Spain)

• Roger Collins, Visigothic Spain 409 - 711 (A History of Spain)

• Robert G. Hoyland, In God’s Path: The Arab Conquests and the Creation of an Islamic Empire

How do you feel when you have accidentally left your phone at home? Do you feel half-dressed? Maybe you feel vulnerable. If you don’t carry a firearm, maybe the ability to call 911 on your phone is your primary tool for self-defense.

When a new style or model of phone comes out, do you look longingly at it in the store? Are you a bit embarrassed to use your phone in public when yours goes out of fashion? If you can relate to these feelings, you would have something in common with a man of the Middle Ages. That is, you would if you answered yes to any of the above questions but replaced “phone” with “dagger.”

The dagger wasn’t just a weapon for brawling in the streets or finishing an opponent on the medieval battlefield, it was a prized possession and a marker of class, wealth, and age, as well as a dress accessory.

Inseparable gadgets

Before the Middle Ages, large knives already had a significant cultural and practical place in European culture. During the Middle Ages, cultural forces drove evolution from large knives to daggers, a specialized fighting weapon adapted for the time. Throughout the course of the medieval period, daggers diversified into many different fashions and styles, with some styles persisting all the way to the 16th century while others marked a specific period of time. Unlike some popular perceptions of the medieval period, it was not an era frozen in time. Instead, technology, particularly metallurgy, progressed rapidly, and fashions and culture were in constant flux.

A dagger type that modern historians refer to as an “antennae dagger” resembles the swords of what some might call the Viking Era. The pommel is a crescent curving away from the hand. In Illustrated Encyclopedia of Knives, Daggers, and Bayonets, Dr. Tobias Kapwell hypothesized that this and other early dagger styles that are present only in the early Middle Ages came from a time in which daggers were wielded both point up and point down, and then were phased out as dagger fighting evolved to be dominated by a point-down (icepick) grip. The pommels of these types of early daggers may have been unwieldy in the now-fashionable icepick grip, and thus lost popularity. The baselard, with its much smaller I-shaped pommel, would be much more comfortable to hold in an icepick grip. Perhaps, too, as sword designs shifted, the cultural connection between the “viking sword” type pommel on the dagger and the sword it mimicked was broken, and there was no demand for paired sets.

In the late middle ages, a further dagger design development based around gripping appeared with the increased prevalence of gauntlets: the rondel dagger, specialized for the gauntleted hands of heavily armored fighting men. The two discs of the rondel dagger allow for easy indexing of the weapon, even in plate gauntlets, and lock the grip onto the weapon. Nevertheless, baselards and ballock daggers (which we will discuss more later) remained popular through the Middle Ages and into the Renaissance.

A comparison that comes to mind for me is the modern cellular phone. While modern touchscreen smartphones dominate the market, there is still a significant niche for slide phones and flip phones from the previous cellular phone generation. Those phones have what is now considered a clean, retro style, and give up the larger screens that caused modern touchscreens to dominate the more tactile, durable, and less engaging designs of the past.

However, the car phone and the briefcase phone are solidly dead. Technology has moved totally beyond them, like it did with the antennae dagger.

We can never forget the importance of fashion and craftsmanship to people in the Middle Ages. One glance at the panoply of weapons in Knives, Daggers, and Bayonets brings us an extremely diverse set of weapons just in the small section of the book that covers the Middle Ages. Clearly, dagger makers of the medieval period balanced concerns of practicality, the fashions of the time, and the tastes and wealth of their clients. It seems that there was a dagger made to suit almost any price, from smoothed common wood grips to gilded, ornate hilts etched with complex designs.

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Daggers in the streets

While a fighting man or a man who fancied himself to be one may have wanted a dagger specialized for fighting with a narrow piercing blade, burghers and townsmen may have preferred a dagger that could have multiple uses. Ballock daggers in particular may have been used for many purposes.

The ballock dagger, like many other daggers of the medieval period, was worn hilt up at the waistband. This method of carry especially lends itself to the ballock dagger, which has a hilt and guard shaped like a penis and testicles. This dagger seems to have been popular with all classes of society for hundreds of years. Their pervasiveness is clearly shown by the 65 ballock dagger hilts found aboard the sunken 16th century flagship, the Mary Rose.

I can’t imagine a more perfect way for a young man to flaunt his pride and masculinity than to strut around with a new ballock dagger at his waist, spoiling for a fight. At least in my circles, which are admittedly older and suburban, the fervor for new iPhones has cooled since its peak around 2010. However, I can still remember the time when there was nothing more important to a young man who had just received an iPhone 4 than to show every person he encountered that he had one. Even men who seem old enough to know better would gush about the new features, such as FaceTime, that seemed like they would change the world. I recently re-listened to an old episode of the Joe Rogan Experience from March 2010 where Joe Rogan, Eddie Bravo, and Brian Redban debated the merits and implications of the different smartphones that were hitting the market at the time. I can imagine medieval and Renaissance men doing the same with their daggers, passing them around the table to admire the craftsmanship.

Where today people flaunt the brands of their possessions (Porsches, Rolexes, Gucci), medieval people who had the money for fine things flaunted the cities where they were made, such as Milan, Toledo, Solingen, Damascus, and London. Instead of specific models of items like the Carrera or the Submariner, the most prized items in the Middle Ages were based on a city’s style of craftsmanship, which were often unique and individualized.

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He is fishing.

From a small boat on a still river, unhurried, composed, he could be mistaken for a man at peace. A traveler passing on the road above sees him and asks where a man might find lodging for the night. The fisherman answers graciously, directs him to a castle just over the hill, tells him he will find welcome there. Nothing in his manner suggests anything is wrong.

The traveler arrives at the castle and finds his host already there, reclining on a couch, unable to rise to greet him. The feast is generous. The hall is full. And then something passes through the room that the traveler will spend years trying to understand. A procession. A lance that bleeds. A radiant vessel carried by a young woman, lighting the hall as it moves. The traveler watches. He says nothing. He has been taught that a knight does not ask unnecessary questions. Morning comes and he rides out and the castle vanishes behind him and the land outside is barren and still.

He has just failed the Fisher King. He did not know it yet.

The story is eight centuries old and it has never stopped being told. It describes something true about the interior life of every person who has ever built a life around a wound they will not name. The Fisher King is not a historical curiosity. He is a mirror. And the wasteland surrounding his castle is not geography.

It is the life that forms when the question goes unasked.

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Reflections of the archetype

The story begins in the late twelfth century, in the unfinished romance of Chrétien de Troyes, a French poet writing for the court of Champagne. His Perceval, or the Story of the Grail, composed around 1180, introduced to Western literature both the Holy Grail and the wounded king who guards it. Chrétien never finished the poem. Five other writers attempted continuations within fifty years. The story refused to stay contained. It spread across France, Germany, Wales, and England, accumulating detail, theology, and symbol with each retelling, until it became one of the most elaborated myths the medieval world produced.

The medieval mind understood, with a clarity born from hard experience, what an incapacitated king meant for the people beneath him. A king who could not ride could not lead armies. A king who could not generate heirs left his kingdom open to succession wars that could last generations. The chaos that followed a weakened or wounded sovereign was not theoretical. It was the lived reality of medieval political life, and the Fisher King gave that terror a face and a name. Here was the archetype they feared most: the king still present, still alive, still nominally ruling, and yet unable to act. The worst condition was not a dead king. It was a suspended one.

England lived this in the fifteenth century with Henry VI. Crowned at nine months old, he grew into a king temperamentally unsuited to rule—gentle, pious, and constitutionally incapable of the decisiveness his throne required. When he suffered a complete mental collapse in 1453, he sat motionless for over a year, unable to speak or respond, while his court fractured around him. The result was not a clean transfer of power. It was the Wars of the Roses, thirty years of dynastic bloodshed that cost tens of thousands of lives. The land did not wait patiently for its king to recover; it tore itself apart. The medieval fear of the suspended king was not superstition. It was memory.

The roots of the archetype run deeper than Chrétien. Scholars trace the Fisher King back to Bran the Blessed in the Welsh Mabinogion, a wounded king associated with a sacred cauldron and the health of his land. The sovereignty myth maintains that the king and the land are a single organism, the ruler’s vitality expressed directly in the fertility of the earth. This is older than Christianity, older than the Arthurian cycle, woven into the Celtic imagination long before the romances gave it any literary form. When Chrétien placed his wounded king beside a barren wasteland, he was drawing on a symbolic logic his audience already carried in their bones.

The depths of the cup

The exterior reading of the Fisher King is this: a civilization’s deepest political anxiety, dressed in the language of romance and quest. The land suffers because the king suffers. The kingdom waits because the king waits. And the cure depends on the arrival of a knight pure enough, perceptive enough, and brave enough to ask the question the entire court has learned to leave unasked.

This is the reading most people bring to the story. It is accurate. It is well-grounded in the scholarship. And it stops too soon.

There is a detail in the story that the exterior reading cannot fully account for: The Grail is already in the room.

It does not need to be found, carried across impossible distances, wrested from a dragon or a rival king. It passes through the hall in plain sight, carried in procession, lighting everything around it. The Fisher King can see it. His court can see it. Perceval, newly arrived and paying attention, can see it. The sacred vessel whose power could heal the king and restore the land is present, visible, and near, and the king remains wounded, and the land remains barren, and the procession passes through and nothing changes.

If the story were only about political anxiety, only about the medieval fear of the incapacitated sovereign, the Grail would be elsewhere. It would be the object of a journey, the prize at the end of a long road. Its presence in the hall changes the story’s logic entirely. The wound is not being sustained by distance from the cure. It is being sustained by something interior. Something in the king himself, and something in every person in that hall, that keeps the question from being asked and the hand from reaching out.

Scholars who have pressed hardest on this detail have arrived at the same place. If the Grail guardian’s wound is the unhealed wound of sin, of fracture, of the thing a man has never brought into the light—then the Fisher King is not a political allegory. He is a portrait. We are all the Fisher King.

The exterior view describes kingdoms. The interior view describes the reader.

The depths within

There is a particular quality to the moment of recognition when a person sees himself in the Fisher King rather than a distant medieval sovereign. It is not comfortable. The story is not offering an insight of someone else’s condition. It is holding a mirror at close range. The man fishing quietly from his boat, gracious and composed, everything maintained, nothing generating: that is not a cautionary tale about kings. It is an invitation to ask, honestly and without flinching, whether the boat and the river and the careful daily routine have become a way of living around something that has never been named.

Scholars broadly accept that the injury to the Fisher King’s thighs is a euphemism for something deeper: a groin wound, impotence, the loss of generative power. The king cannot produce. Cannot renew. Cannot bring life forward. Whatever made him vital, creative, able to act in the world with full force has been stopped at its source. He is alive. He is present. He is even gracious, a careful and generous host. But the generative center has gone still.

And so he fishes.

From a small boat on a quiet river, day after day, in the only activity his wound still permits. There is something almost contemplative about it, a man who has made his peace with limitation, who has found the one motion available to him and performs it with dignity. He has organized his life around what remains. The castle is magnificent. The feast is abundant. Everything that can be maintained, he maintains. The one thing he cannot do is generate what is not already there.

This is the interior Fisher King. The person whose creative life has gone still, whose capacity to initiate, to risk, to bring something genuinely new into the world has quietly ceased—and who has built, around that cessation, a life so functional and so gracious that even he has half-forgotten what is missing. The fishing is the tell. The man who should be riding is in a boat. The man who should be ruling is waiting. He has mistaken endurance for living and called it peace.

The Grail passes through the hall every day.

It is the unwritten book, the unasked question, the creative work that keeps almost beginning, the conversation that keeps almost happening. It is not far. It has never been far. What stands between the Fisher King and the thing that would restore him is not a journey across impossible terrain. It is a single interior movement—the willingness to stop fishing, to look directly at the wound, to ask what it actually is and what it has actually cost.

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Echoes of the image

The wasteland is the life that forms around that refusal. Functional, sometimes even beautiful in its careful way. But something is not moving in it, a generative stillness at the center, and the people closest to that center feel it even when they cannot name it. The land knows before the king admits it.

In most versions of the story the question is that simple. It is not a riddle. It carries no trick. It requires no feat of arms, no special knowledge. And yet it takes Perceval years of wandering to become capable of asking it.

This is where the story’s interior logic becomes most demanding. The wandering is formation. What the years produce is not information or skill but a man who has suffered enough, questioned enough, and faced enough of his own interior life to recognize a wound without flinching from it. Perceval cannot ask the Fisher King what ails him until he has spent years asking the same question inward.

The Grail is always in the room. What changes is the person standing in front of it.

Perceval returns. He wanders, fights, fails, loses his way across half the known world before he finds the castle again. When he finally sits across from the wounded king in that same hall, he asks the question. He has simply become the kind of man who can bear the answer.

The king is healed. The land recovers. Rivers run. The crops return. The thing that broke open was not a mystery. It was a question simple enough for a child, held back by the long education in silence that every court, every hall, every carefully constructed life delivers to the people inside it.

The waters of life

The medieval imagination preserved something we have largely stopped believing: that the wound and the cure exist in the same room, that the question and the answer are closer than the silence between them suggests. A kingdom does not need a new king. It needs the old one healed. And healing does not begin with strategy or the arrival of someone more capable. It begins with a single person willing to say, out loud or inward, what they have always already known.

This is what Perceval ultimately becomes: a man whose interior formation is complete enough to act outwardly with full force. The hero of the story is not the strongest knight or the most decorated. He is the one who has done the interior work that makes the exterior act possible. He can see the wound clearly because he has looked at his own. He can ask the question without flinching because he has already learned to bear the answer.

The bridge between the Fisher King’s suffering and his healing is not a sword or a quest or a diplomatic negotiation. It is a person who has become, through years of formation, capable of honest witness. That capacity, to see clearly, to speak directly, to ask what everyone in the room already knows, is the rarest thing the story offers.

We do not have to reach back eight centuries to watch a man acquire it. In the autumn of 1921, an employee of Lloyds Bank in London applied for three months’ leave… It was there, at the lowest point of his life, that Thomas Stearns Eliot wrote the draft that would become The Waste Land.

Eliot built the poem on the scaffolding of the Fisher King, taking its architecture from Jessie Weston’s From Ritual to Romance, the study of the Grail legend that he credited in his own notes with supplying not only the title but the plan and a great deal of the symbolism of the poem. The wounded king, the sterile land, the question that goes unasked—Eliot in the grip of a real psychological collapse found that an eight-hundred-year-old myth described his condition more exactly than any language of his own time. At the close of the poem he takes up the Fisher king’s own posture, a figure sitting on the shore, fishing, the arid plain stretched out behind him, and gives him a single question to speak: Shall I at least set my lands in order? Chrétien’s unasked question, surfacing in a modern voice eight centuries later.

You do not need a castle or a bleeding lance to stand where Eliot stood. Perceval needed years. Eliot needed a breakdown. The story asks only this of you: Have you wandered far enough, and suffered honestly enough, to turn at last toward the wound and speak?

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Michael J. Elliott is the founder of Grail & Lance, a heritage leadership and creative media company. He writes on leadership, myth, and meaning, and is the author of The Leader's Book of Inspiration. His forthcoming book, The Nine Worthies, publishes November 2026.

This anxiety—the tendency to prioritize digital devices over what truly matters—has its origins precisely within the urban heart of the medieval state. Here we encounter manifestations of a chaotic ideal: theft, deceit, debauchery, drunkenness, and a total lack of common sense, good manners, and hygiene. Not even in the households of the wealthiest could order and cleanliness be found: servants relieving themselves right in the courtyard at night, stray animals ceaselessly searching for scraps from the boyars’ feasts, and the pungent smell of horse and cow manure wafted from the neighboring stables and the Gypsies’ huts. Water and sewer lines were a luxury found only in princely courts, where daily life unfolded in a much more organized manner, with the utmost attention paid to the needs of the princely family, the courtiers, the boyars, as well as the guards, soldiers, and servants who worked tirelessly to manage the affairs of the court, ensuring that everything ran smoothly to the satisfaction of their master. But what brings us closer to this behavioral disorder linked to technology and addiction is, of course, wine.

Medieval chronicles reveal that, in our lands, drinking has always been a vice that clouded the minds of even the most prominent members of the nobility, as well as those of the rulers themselves and their families. Taverns, shops, and cellars where wine was sold generated considerable profits, to the delight of merchants and the ruin of consumers, who were usually excommunicated by the Church.

The Romanian Middle Ages also became fully acquainted with psychotropic plants; hallucinogenic herbs were introduced even at princely courts, initially administered as painkillers, only to later gain ground and take on a purely recreational role. Romanian ethnologist Gheorghe Pavelescu observed and documented practices used by innkeepers in inns and taverns, noting that belladonna, mandrake, and hemp were mixed into the wine served to customers to heighten their euphoria and encourage them to return.

“Innkeepers in the Apuseni Mountains would place a piece of mandrake in the wine barrel so that the drinker would not leave until he had finished his drink,” Pavelescu, Research on Magic Among the Romanians of the Apuseni Mountains (1945).

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The Algorithm Becomes Technology

Beginning in the 14th century, merchants from the Republic of Genoa established a network of commercial ports along the Black Sea coast and at the mouth of the Danube. Cetatea Albă, which they called Moncastro, and Chilia, known as Licostomo, were part of the same Genoese infrastructure that included Caffa in Crimea and Pera near Constantinople. Historians today refer to this route as the “Moldavian Route,” a transcontinental segment through the Eastern Carpathians, which connected the Baltic port of Danzig to the northwestern Black Sea, and Cetatea Albă and Chilia had become veritable seaport markets for the Hanseatic League (a commercial and military alliance of merchant cities in northern and central Europe, active from the 13th to the 17th century). The trade privilege granted in 1408 by Prince Alexander the Good to merchants from Lviv confirms this trade route. High-volume agricultural goods such as cattle, salted fish, salt, honey, wax, and wine were shipped from Moldavia to the Black Sea ports, while textiles, spices, and other manufactured goods traveled along the same route, from the Mediterranean world toward the north of the continent.

What made this long-distance trade possible—between people who did not know one another and did not speak the same language—was a verification system. The records kept by the Genoese notaries in Caffa and Pera documented, document by document, every transaction—every contract for the sale of grain, hides, or wine—in a form that could later be verified by any of the parties involved. This essentially addresses the very problem that, for today’s wine consumer, the QR code on the label—which became mandatory in Europe starting in 2023—solves, allowing anyone to discover, with a simple scan, the bottle’s entire history, from the exact vineyard plot where the grapes were harvested all the way to the store shelf. The difference between the Genoese notary in Pera and today’s digital traceability system is speed. Whereas in the past a written register, verified by an official of a merchant republic, was needed to ensure trust, today all that is needed is a database that can be accessed instantly by anyone, anywhere in the world.

This trade connection was abruptly severed in 1484, when Sultan Bayezid II conquered Chilia and Cetatea Albă, despite resistance from Stephen the Great’s army, and the “Moldavian Route” permanently lost its link to the Hanseatic League. This marked the first documented disconnection of the Carpathian region from a broad European trade network—a pattern we will encounter, in various forms, whenever a sudden technological change severs the ties that communities have patiently built over several generations.

Viticulture reached its peak in its medieval form in the Moldavia of Stephen the Great (1457–1504). The most famous wine-growing centers, such as Cotnari, Huși, Odobești, and Nicorești, were not merely agricultural settlements but hubs of an economic and symbolic network that stretched from the princely court to the humblest mountain monastery. And Grasa de Cotnari, with its complex aromas of honey, acacia blossoms, and oriental spices, thus becomes the distilled expression of the diplomatic and cultural relations of medieval Moldavia.

One of the most telling indications of the importance of wine in maintaining Romanian power during the Middle Ages is the establishment of the title of cupbearer, chief cupbearer, as well as those of the governor and steward of Cotnari—a position created at the court of Stephen the Great—who was personally responsible for overseeing the royal vineyards and the quality of wine production. This position was not merely a symbolic title. The cupbearer was liable with his life for the purity of the wine served to the voivode. This was a responsibility that, in the context of the era, entailed a real risk of poisoning. This institution reveals an architecture of trust and the vulnerability of power: the ruler, the moment he raised his glass, was in the hands of a man chosen specifically to perform a single grand and refined gesture.

Stephen the Great, the longest-reigning ruler of medieval Moldavia, with a reign of forty seven years, is perhaps the most fascinating case study of the relationship between a medieval ruler and wine. Paradoxically, his figure combines the rigors of Christian asceticism. He was a prolific founder of monasteries and a valiant ruler who enjoyed the refined pleasures of a medieval courtier, educated in all the diplomatic traditions of his era. Wines from Odobești were regularly served at his banquets, and historical and literary tradition repeatedly describes the ruler as a connoisseur with refined tastes.

Within the same evolutionary context of modern society, collective transformation took shape in October 2024, when a team of Romanian wine tasters, outperforming thirty-three other countries, identified—solely by taste—the variety, origin, vintage, and producer of twelve unknown wines. The event took place at Château Sainte-Roseline, a vineyard located in the Var department, in the town of Les Arcs-sur-Argens, somewhere near the Sainte-Roseline Chapel in France. This transition marks a direct cultural and social evolution that has developed from the roots of the medieval world—through the titles of “Paharnic” at royal courts—to sophisticated, internationally recognized titles of expertise in what we now call modern society.

The legend of Grasa of Cotnari reveals, through its medieval setting, the concepts of gift-giving and alliance. It is said that Stephen the Great paid a visit to Matthias Corvinus and, in addition to exquisite dishes, was treated to wine. So delighted was Stephen the Great by this fermented grape beverage that he asked for some grapevine cuttings, but Matthias gifted him a different variety, called Poama Grasă. Stephen the Great ordered his servants to cultivate this precious gift in the Cotnari region, where it acclimated very well, and thus Grasa de Cotnari was born. The vineyard planted with those cuttings on the hills of Cotnari gave rise to a grape variety that has survived over the centuries. The Grasă de Cotnari grape variety is mentioned in medieval documents and received special attention from Stephen the Great. Cotnari bears the royal seal and was highly regarded at the royal courts of medieval Europe (it was sent as a diplomatic gift to Pope Sixtus XIV and King Matthias Corvinus of Hungary).

“Cotnari wine has a truly unique color that you won’t find in other wines; namely, it is greenish, and the longer it ages, the greener its color becomes” Dimitrie Cantemir 1997, 47.

A “foreign” grape variety that, through long-term acclimatization, had become synonymous with a place’s identity unwittingly foreshadowed the most dramatic episode in the global history of viticulture, which took place at the end of the 19th century. When the phylloxera insect, accidentally brought over from America, decimated nearly all European grapevines in just a few decades, the solution that saved the continent’s viticulture was grafting traditional European varieties onto American rootstocks, which were far more resistant to the pest. In essence, every glass of European wine today—whether a Cotnari, a Bordeaux, or a Chianti—comes from a vine whose European genetic heritage has been strengthened with the help of an imported rootstock.

The direct consequence of this “grafting” logic did not end in the 19th century; it continued—only at a much faster pace—right in modern laboratories. Genetic editing techniques such as CRISPR/Cas9 are used today to optimize winemaking yeast strains, reducing the production of undesirable compounds during fermentation—that is, a direct intervention in the process’s “genetic code,” where entire generations of winemakers had intervened over the centuries solely through empirical selection. Other research addresses a threat that neither courtiers nor rulers could have anticipated: climate change, which alters the aromatic precursors in grapes and can leave an undesirable smoky taste in the must—especially due to increasingly frequent wildfires—a problem now combated by polymers specifically designed to selectively remove those compounds.

The real psychological difference between the generation of Stephen’s vineyard workers, who grafted onto American rootstock out of pure survival instinct, and today’s generation of genetic engineers now depends on a research cycle that has existed for only a few years. Those who edit a genome in the laboratory accept profound intervention precisely so that an ancient custom may survive—a custom that once spanned the lifetime of an entire generation of vineyard workers is now reduced to years. How quickly can a community make an informed decision about which parts of its heritage deserve to be protected and left untouched, when the algorithms and technology that can change it are advancing faster than its collective understanding through genetics?

This type of human expertise led, in parallel, to an unprecedented integration of artificial intelligence into the entire wine production chain in 2025—from the vineyard, to Burebista and the Dacian ancestors, to the courtiers of Stephen the Great, and all the way to the label on the shelf. Drones equipped with artificial intelligence and soil sensors are used to monitor the health of the vines, detecting diseases or nutrient deficiencies early on, which allows for more precise treatment and objectively reduces the waste of resources. In wine cellars, machine learning algorithms adjust the temperature and humidity in real time during fermentation, ensuring more consistent quality from one year to the next; the Chilean producer Concha y Toro, one of the largest producers in South America, is already using such systems to monitor fermentation and predict the wine’s final profile before it is actually ready.

On August 1, 2024, the European Regulation on Artificial Intelligence entered into force, marking the world’s first comprehensive legislative framework dedicated to this technology. The regulation classifies artificial intelligence systems by risk level, mandating human oversight specifically for those models capable of influencing human decisions, behaviors, or emotions on a large scale—a modern legal formulation of exactly what Burebista intuitively grasped two thousand years ago: a power that connects the mind to something greater than itself must remain, by law or decree, under a form of collective control.

In conclusion, the World Health Organization’s Commission on Social Connection published its first comprehensive report on wine consumption in 2025, concluding that approximately one in six people worldwide feels lonely, and that social isolation contributes to hundreds of thousands of deaths annually—a figure that the report’s authors compared, in terms of severity, to other major public health risk factors. The report highlights a paradox that it explicitly names: statistically speaking, we are living in the most connected era in human history, and yet the digital technologies that connect us instantly are listed, in the same report, among the main causes of actual social isolation.

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The contrast with the history we have explored in both of these essays is striking. The Geto-Dacian drinking rituals, the Genoese trade routes from Cetatea Albă, the butlers, cupbearers, and vineyard workers at the court of Stephen the Great—all of these, without exception, required the physical presence of others. A glass of wine drunk alone, in front of a screen, as an anesthetic for a tiring day, is structurally different from wine poured at a communal meal, even though the chemical composition of the substance remains identical; it is the social context that determines whether that glass of wine strengthens a bond or deepens an already existing isolation. It is no coincidence that the solutions proposed by the WHO report to combat loneliness explicitly include strengthening everyday social infrastructure—that is, parks, libraries, and cafés—which represent precisely the kind of physical, community spaces around which the Carpathian region, and others, has organized, over the course of millennia, its own rituals and traditions related to wine.

Alex is a Romanian editor. He is passionate about history and all kinds of mysteries, including science, science fiction, and paranormal phenomena (both old and new). What he enjoys most is connecting real history with the world of today—and, by extension, with a distant future. You can find his work on Substack @doxparadox.

Today virtual assistants and AI technology can handle the most complex requests and commands of modern people. In ancient times, the traditional peoples who inhabited the Greco-Roman regions—the Geto-Dacians, the Scythians, and the Thracian tribes—responded to rather complex universal imperatives. Most of the reasons for the cultivation of wine were aimed at the people’s own survival, but life itself, through spiritual practice, urged them to cultivate grapevines and consume wine regularly. This represented a form of respect for nature, but also a divine manifestation that shaped their culture and gradually led to the transformation of the modern world.

Modern people are familiar with the concept of “The Matrix” (that is, the world unconsciously trapped in a simulated dystopian reality), but people in antiquity were not without this form of conceptual experience.

Greek and Roman historians have recorded numerous writings that refer to wine as a connection between humans and their own nature, similar to a modern algorithm which mirrors our preferences back at us, likely superimposed on a universal plane of cosmic evolution. Thus, Homer recounts that wine was known to the Geto-Dacians as far back as the time of their ancestors, the Agatarsii tribe, who had settled in the area of present-day Transylvania. More precisely, they were a Scythian-Iranian people shrouded in considerable mystery. As rulers deeply fascinated by the mystical forces of nature, they were known as great worshippers of the Mediterranean god Dionysus. They used wine in nocturnal ceremonies, and according to some researchers of Scythian cults, they used infusions of hallucinogenic plants or roasted hemp seeds to achieve a state of spiritual liberation and communion with the divine.

Herodotus placed the Agathyrsi tribe north of the Danube, likely in the Apuseni Mountains region, and describes them as a refined people, lovers of gold, closely linked to the Thracians but with Scythian customs. This description points to an early form of a naturally evolving system that facilitated the implementation and transmission of information through the universal cosmic network. Essentially, this involved the creation of a platform through which the manifestation of habits became a subconscious practice, within a universal framework very similar to AI and modern technologies.

The original social platform

There is much to be said about wine—from historical and traditional concepts to a form of modern culture closely linked to technology and innovation in culinary transformation—as well as about how the essence, development, and processing of new brands can be captured and calculated today using algorithms. The oldest known algorithm, however, is not one dictated by a digital device, but rather by a natural and universal model, which has ensured the diversification and structuring of the conditions for the development of the entire planetary system, so that the optimal conditions for life and evolution function in perfect harmony with cosmic cycles.

One such example is how viticulture emerged in the Carpathian-Danubian-Pontic region at least 7,000 years ago, when Vitis vinifera silvestris—a wild grapevine—came to grow abundantly and naturally in the Danube floodplain, the Danube Delta, and along the Prut River. These areas were part of the Pontic region, with the Black Sea to the east—which served as a gateway to the Mediterranean Sea—encircling the arc of the Carpathians and bordered by the Danube to the south.

Vitis vinifera silvestris spread almost algorithmically from Portugal (the Iberian Peninsula) to regions such as Central and Southern Europe, North Africa (the Mediterranean coast), southwestern regions such as Iran and Turkmenistan, and Western Asia. But in Romania and across the border into Serbia, wild grapevines grew in abundance, as this area is considered their natural habitat, where ecological conditions are most favorable for this type of grape. Algorithms disseminate virtual data in a similar manner throughout the web. Hashing is a process in which a digital “butler” performs a function whereby a numerical index is calculated and placed on the appropriate shelf, using the most ideal coordinates.

Changes in seed shape and certain details regarding distribution suggest that the domestication of the species Vitis vinifera silvestris took place primarily in the western Black Sea region (Bulgaria and Romania) between 4100 and 3000 BCE. At that time, the most advanced human technology consisted solely of fire, stone, sound, and vibration.

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Amplification: RAM and liquid courage

Homer, in a verse from the ancient poem The Iliad, says that “The Greek warriors went to Thrace in search of wine.” There, he also mentions that Thracian ships came to the aid of the Greeks, bringing them wine. Wine was considered a powerful stimulant for courage and strength. In like fashion, a computer’s Random-Access Memory is a fast, temporary workspace, where program data used by the processor in real time is stored. Just as soldiers used wine as a short-term performance enhancer, a computer’s processor can read or write data to any cell in RAM instantly, without having to search sequentially through other data.

Thracian wine was the most famous in this regard during that era. Xenophon wrote that the men and women of the Getae tribe drank wine “according to the Scythian custom, without water, using deer and ox horns instead of cups, which were passed from hand to hand.”

The manifestation of the earliest natural forms of computer systems, through the implementation of “gadget” models—that is, small, ingeniously constructed objects that often have limited practical utility or represent a technical innovation—is thus represented through various displays and processions.

Plato, in the same vein, wrote that the Scythians and Thracians drank wine and then “splashed it on their clothes, considering this a pleasant tradition that brought happiness.” We might compare this to the smallest element of a natural digital image—known today as a pixel—which can take shape in the collective imagination, when a human or a computer transforms the trivial to the significant.

Sources from the Roman world indicate that the Thracians used to ripen their grapes artificially by covering them with dry leaves (Pomponius Mella), and Publius Ovidius Naso (the Latin poet who lived between 43 B.C. and 17 A.D.), who was exiled to the city of Tomis on the Black Sea coast (Pontus Euxinus), also described the winemaking method practiced by the locals in Dionysopolis (now in Bulgaria), as well as the process by which they obtained a more concentrated wine by freezing it during the winter. These procedures and techniques are incorporated into modern winemaking and are used primarily in the production of fortified wines—or very sweet wines (Port, Sherry, Marsala).

Bug–Virus–Antivirus

Just as in the modern world, where every technological advance is accompanied by certain disasters—whether it be the manipulation of nature through HAARP or hybrid wars originating within digital platforms—transformations have also taken place in the Matrix of the ancient world of wine. These can be correlated with certain digital phenomena, such as bugs, viruses, or even antivirus mechanisms.

The ancient geographer Strabo, a contemporary of Burebista (the first great king of the Geto-Dacians recorded in history), reported that Burebista convinced his subjects “to cut down the vines and live without wine.” He believed that the Geto-Dacians drank and partied too much and that, for this reason, they were unable to defend their territory. We can consider this event the first recorded instance of a network error and the implementation of a digital antivirus model, in a form that evolved as naturally as possible.

However, in the cult of Zamolxis in that region, wine held special significance. Zamolxis was credited with the courage and strength he bestowed upon soldiers during battle, but above all with the fact that they feared death not at all. Herodotus, in this regard, writes in his work Histories (Book IV), describing the Getae as “the bravest and most righteous of the Thracians”; he also mentions their belief in immortality and describes the rituals associated with the god Zamolxis during the campaign of Darius I. Herodotus refers to them here as “those who consider themselves immortal” (getae immortales). Thus Burebista’s miscalculation ultimately leads to his assassination.

Therefore, the natural programming model is created: bug—virus—antivirus, in a primordial order that unfolds in the collective human consciousness, under a universal cosmic impulse.

Alex is a Romanian editor. He is passionate about history and all kinds of mysteries, including science, science fiction, and paranormal phenomena (both old and new). What he enjoys most is connecting real history with the world of today—and, by extension, with a distant future. You can find his work on Substack @doxparadox.

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What is beauty?

The honest among you will have an example come to mind. Instant, instinctual. Perhaps a sunlit path in a well-manicured garden, or a stained glass window illuminating a cathedral. Maybe you thought of your wife on your wedding day, your son’s gap-toothed smile. Perhaps you thought of that perfect silence before sunrise, when the world is still and the horizon blooms violet, the stars still hanging in the sky like they’re not ready to leave.

For medievals, and even through the Renaissance and up to a few hundred years ago, the answer was simple. Nature, art, people. Beauty was self-evident. But poll any random person today, and odds are they’ll tell you that beauty is subjective. Some variant of beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, or so the saying goes. It sounds harmless enough, doesn’t it? People are entitled to their opinions, after all. Most will hear that, give a mental, conciliatory nod, and go on about their day.

But is it really that harmless?

Why, when posed the question, do people come up with instant, obvious examples of objective beauty? You’d be hard pressed to find anyone enthusiastically endorsing the aesthetics of a trash-strewn subway or meat packing plant. Of course, among those polled you’re bound to find the odd contrarian—henceforth in this article named the modernist—and that’s precisely the trouble.

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Our ancestors were right

Like the majority of Western philosophy and aesthetics, the medieval belief in beauty’s objectivity comes from the Christian interpretation of Greek philosophy, as seen in the writings of medieval theologians and philosophers such as St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas. Of all that I’ve read, I enjoy St. Augustine’s interpretation the most: that beauty is a fundamental truth, self evident, objective.

Objective beauty exists external to humanity, and can be plainly observed, and contemplated without active participation. St. Augustine believed that beauty was an indispensable aspect of creation, inherently harmonious, and that its existence aligned with humanity’s deeper, proper desires. This likely comes from Plato’s Theory of Forms, which labeled beauty amdist other observed immaterial, perfect truths beside goodness, justice, and, among other things, geometry (which has a sort of beauty in itself).

In St. Augustine’s school of thought, one could suppose that humanity is drawn to beauty because it is good, and that which is beautiful is by nature a gift from God. This is not to say that beauty can never be used to mislead or corrupt, but rather that, in the medieval view, beauty exists as a testament to an attentive, loving Creator. To the medieval mind, God ordered things a certain way, before even the world was made, in a language that goes beyond words, an observable objectivity which speaks to the soul. After all, what does it say in the very first book of the Bible? That when God made the world, he found that it was good.

That word ‘good’ is used several times in the first chapter of Genesis, each time after God completed another aspect of creation. The word itself in Hebrew is tobe, which carries a deeper meaning than simply good, or acceptable. Tobe is objective good in the truest sense. If something is tobe, it is the objective best, the platonic ideal, it is beautiful. Ancient and medieval scholars alike would have understood this, because what could be more obvious, more self evident, than beauty?

Objectivity in this sense isn’t merely impartiality, as the common definition would have it. Objectivity is a direct result of divine order. The true north. For the West, this comes from Christianity, but the concept of changeless truths have been recognized across other cultures. The Greeks took their divine order from the gods: things were ordered thus and human life was in a state of seeking harmony in disharmony. The Chinese have numerous stories about how mortals cannot defy the heavenly order without severe consequence. Is it any wonder that so many cultures had gods depicting ideals? Time, nature, fire, music, water, beauty.

That beauty is a universal concept transcends culture, where culture merely brings the flavor. Throw a dart at a map, and you’re almost guaranteed a poem from that culture comparing a woman to a flower. Why? Because it’s a natural comparison. Flowers are beautiful, pretty women are nice to look at, thus the obvious.

Pleasing aesthetics are the neon welcome sign of a healthy society. The most successful cultures of the world valued beauty and exported it. The Greeks knew it, the Romans knew it. Silk, jewelry, pottery, statues, literature, music—they were all highly valued exports of their cultures.

To many Medievalists, there is no greater example of this in the medieval world than the surviving pieces of embroidered textiles called Opus Anglicanum. Coined in the 13th century from the Latin for “English work,” the intricacy and beauty of these textiles were so prized that, once trade routes to the east were established, bolts of silk were sent to England to craft garments in this specific style that would be sold abroad. The beauty and craftsmanship of these vibrant and intricate embroidered textiles was so prized that their influence spread throughout Medieval Europe, with pieces being found as far North as Iceland, and more throughout the continent.

Even French nobility had to begrudgingly admit the English were such immaculate craftsmen that they became one of England’s premier clients for their textile work. Perhaps there’s something to be said for beauty if the quality of one’s art can cause even the most legendary of grudges to be set aside.

Apart from food, what is the dominant cultural export throughout history? Art. Beauty.

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Modernity: The obligate antithesis

I’d like to take a step back for a moment and ask you, dear reader, once more about that phrase: beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Take the religious aspect out of this; thousands of years of history, culture, and basic human instinct, has proven that there is an objective truth to beauty. So why now are people so hesitant to say it?

I propose there is a certain type of person who views objectivity as oppressive, and therefore has done their absolute best to obscure it. However, in setting themselves up against objective truth, they are necessarily also adversaries of all other forms of objectivity, including Goodness and Beauty.

Perhaps because of this, they become a miserable sort that’s not content with being alone in their neurosis, but that has to spread their dismal worldview because they find goodness—and therefore Beauty—to be intolerable. As they say, misery loves company, and these sorts seem to attract more of their own kind, and form a conglomerate of wretchedness that has, regrettably, been allowed to fester for the past few generations because more sensible folk were content to ignore them (and arguably, rightly so).

Meet one Theodor Adorno (1903-1969), a modernist philosopher from the Marxist Frankfurt School in Germany, whose abuse of Western thought has infected our culture for the past 60 years or more. While not a household name for most, he and his school-fellows can be held largely responsible for the obnoxious state in which Western society finds itself today. Adorno was the quintessential modernist, a man so bored with the success of the culture in which he was born, with so little to do and so filled with inner discontent, he made it his life’s work to find something to complain about and, in due course, made it everybody’s problem long past his ability to care (because he died).

To the modernist, totality, which is Adorno’s word for objectivity, simply cannot be allowed to exist, because in their mind, objectivity is oppressive. This is why beauty must be made to be subjective, because if it were objective, that would mean there are things in this world that aren’t beautiful.

There are no possible words I could use to disparage this man better than his own. Take these examples from his book, Negative Dialectics:

“The point of social theory is to demonstrate the disjointedness, the untruth, of totality.” … “Totality is to be opposed by convicting it of non-identity with itself.”

Reading his pseudo-intellectual bombast is like pulling teeth, and seems almost deliberately to obscure rather than clarify.

“The totality of identical definitions would correspond to the wish-fulfillment picture of traditional philosophy: to the a priori structure and to its archaistic late form, ontology. Yet before any specific content, this structure … is spiritualized coercion.”

These are a lot of fancy words to complain that commonly understood truths are somehow oppressive. Adorno, in his own words, is an atheist by virtue, not merely of God but, maddeningly, to the degree that he even rejects truth as a concept. To not believe in God is one thing, but to look at something objective and claim it is coersive for being so is laughable.

“Theory must, as a dialectical one—like the Marxist one, by far and away—be immanent, even when it ultimately negates the entire sphere in which it moves.”

Objectivity, hierarchy, therefore is oppressive and, to the modernist, a thing to be done away with. Here is the trouble, you see. The modernist despises objectivity. In order for something to be objective, that means something else isn’t. If something is beautiful, that means something else is ugly. If something is true, that means something else is a lie. And to them, this makes objectivity an oppression, and they find oppression everywhere. Convenient, as it gives them a continual source of things to campaign against, allowing them to feel as though they’re accomplishing something without having to put in any effort.

These subversive types, modernists, or whatever you’d like to call them, hate themselves and so hate the world around them. Therefore, everything must become ironic. A White Knight becomes a synonym for a simp instead of a man who holds true to his convictions. A Princess becomes a spoiled brat instead of the noble ideal of a virtuous woman. Every facet of our art, our language, has been so irony-poisoned it’s impossible to take anything seriously—and it’s entirely intentional.

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Beauty held hostage

This manner of thought, this hazy redefining of language, is the tool of choice at the modernist’s disposal. Their main method of attack against truth is obfuscation through subjectivity, because they can’t argue against truth. Perhaps it’s fitting that the first truth to be attacked is beauty, validating every princess ever held captive by a dragon. It’s the easiest lie, subtle, difficult to detect. And where one truth is obscured, the rest soon follow.

When beauty becomes subjective, those who dislike living in disharmonious spaces seemingly have no valid argument against it. Brutalism is just as valid an aesthetic as Art Nouveau, you see. Nevermind the way endless corridors of bare concrete wither the soul. You dislike living in piles of trash? Have you ever considered this assault to the senses may be your neighbor’s culture and is beautiful to him? Don’t you feel bad?

The obfuscation game puts the blame on the observer for noticing something is wrong. Worse still, it delights in playing ignorant, further rendering any proper argument impossible.

So, stop arguing. The antidote for obfuscation is plainly stating the truth.

It’s begins with a simple no.

Beauty is a self evident, immutable fact that has existed long before the ideology of the modernist, and shall persist long after these ideas inevitably wither. But in order for the truth to bloom, one has to be willing to take risks. To brave telling the incoherent modern masses “no” once in awhile.

In this they have no recourse, no manner of defense. State the truth and don’t continue the argument, because they have none. It may sound like common sense (because it is), but the West has too long allowed common sense to disappear for the sake of appeasement, and look where that’s gotten us.

For this reason, I would like to amend that oft-quoted phrase: taste is in the eye of the beholder, because beauty is self evident.

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The excellence of Beauty

Your ancestors were right, beauty is obvious. They weren’t evil for saying so, and you’re not evil for knowing it.

Consider the cathedral, a staple of Medieval artistry. Cathedrals were made to be beautiful, to uplift those who looked upon them, to bring the viewer closer to the divine. They were great labors of love, artistry, and worship that took centuries to complete. There were stonemasons who spent their whole lives carving a piece of something they would never live to see the whole of. Why would they have made this their life's work if beauty wasn’t something worth striving for? Why would countless hours and fortunes be spent on such great labors of beauty if it wasn't important? Why would generations upon generations of people spend lifetimes mastering the arts and passing them on if they didn't matter?

From the masterworks of Anglo-Saxon goldsmiths found in the Sutton Hoo burial ship, to the later vibrant and luxuriant Opus Anglicanum that spread across Europe, the artistry of the Medieval world spanned centuries and miles, with each generation leaving behind troves of intricately detailed treasures. Scores of archaeologists digging through centuries of humble earth to find rings and carvings and paintings and pottery prove to the world that beauty could be found everywhere, and for what?

Because it mattered to the people then, and it should matter to us now.

Again I ask you, what's the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the word beautiful? To some, its city lights reflected in a puddle. To others, a field full of wildflowers that only bloom for a week in April. A mother’s love, a baby’s smile, a father’s pride, a daughter’s laughter. All these things are beautiful, and you didn’t need me to tell you that.

If I sat and thought for hours, I don’t think I could come up with a quote better than John Keating’s speech in Dead Poet Society. So this I shall leave with you:

“We don’t read and write poetry because it’s cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is full of passion... Medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love: these are what we stay alive for.”

Fiona is a self-taught writer, amateur historian, and mythology nerd, and makes killer focaccia.

For further reading:

• Clare Browne, Glyn Davies, and M.A. Michael, ed. English Medieval Embroidery: Opus Anglicanum. Yale University Press, 2021.

• Confessions of St. Augustine https://ccel.org/ccel/augustine/confess.i_1.html

• Elizabeth Coatsworth and Michael Pinder, The Art of the Anglo-Saxon Goldsmith: Fine Metalwork in Anglo-Saxon England: Its Practice and Practitioners. Boydell Press, 2002.

• Europos, “The Frankfurt School: Politics of Perversion.”

  Europos’s Substack

  The Frankfurt School

  The political Left has long mutated away from caring about the livelihood of workers, towards a struggle for all sorts of supposedly oppressed social collectives. This is by now cliché to say…

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  2 years ago · 25 likes · Europos

• Theodor Adorno, Negative Dialectics. Bloomsbury Continuum, 1981.

In literature there are few things that stir the imagination quite like a Lionhearted King. Most moderns take it for granted that such Kings have always existed. However, they didn’t simply arise from the ether but entered cultural memory some time after the third Crusade.

Before that, Kings were portrayed either vaingloriously, as shown in the Epic of Gilgamesh, or as any other men: both capable of mistakes and of being great, as in the cases of the Odyssey, Iliad, and Roland. Certainly, you had Kings who were meant to serve as more or less glorious figures but they were always humanised in some way, rather than portrayed as both human and somehow greater than the ordinary man.

That is until the rise of Arthuriana.

The roots of legend

Now not everyone in these modern times is familiar with the term Arthuriana (though they should be). The term is derived from the name Arthur. He was in effect a ‘Fantasy’ King from a series of cycles from the medieval period. King Arthur in the many tales of the Middle Ages is a ruler initially depicted in an idealised manner. He is in the early Welsh stories presented as a man who heaps a great deal of slaughter upon his enemies, but suffers considerable betrayal and suffering.

There has of course been much debate about who the historical Arthur was, and despite much archeological research and historic searching, no conclusive answer has been reached. The most likely candidate for the historic figure who inspired the stories is Artuir MacAedan. He was King at the start of just the Hebrides, which at the time were part of a kingdom by the name of Dal Riata, who conquered chunks of western Scotland and was to have a very brief reign.

He was however key in the spreading of Christianity throughout Scotland, and was to feature in the famous tale known as The Life of St Columba by Adomnan of Iona. This chronicle is also one of the most important records on ancient Scotland, and would serve as a model for many later chivalric epics. It certainly follows the formula, with the only difference being rather than a knight going around doing derring-do and combating monsters with sword and shield, instead it depicts Saint-Columba using the power of faith to accomplish his feats.

Such stories were the norm in early Medieval Europe after the downfall of Western Europe and reflect the tastes at the time. That said, it wasn’t long before tastes changed and returned to a more classic style, with the Welsh being at the forefront in developing the first stories and songs of King Arthur.

It was the French however who picked Arthur up, and refined him still further with the grand narrative of Gawain and the Green Knight. In this text, the ingredients for the later legends of King Arthur are starting to take place, with the emphasis placed, rather than on him, upon his nephew. In this way, Gawain serves as a prototype in some ways for the likes of Roland in the Chanson de Roland tale that was so popular in the centuries that followed after Gawain’s own legend was published. What adds to the mystique of both tales is that their authors are unknown.

Later, Chrétien de Troyes turned him into a bear of a man, and someone who truly is larger than life. Arthur, in his stories, is a man who is the living and breathing embodiment of chivalry alongside his nephew Gawain.

In those tales Arthur’s knights go on a series of quests resolving the mythical and mystical problems of Arthur’s realm (that of Logres, which is a mythical version of Great Britain). Arthur himself rules from a shining court in the city of Camelot, which is a chivalric British version of Rome in some ways, except founded with far more virtuous people than those Romulus drew to his own city.

In De Troyes’ stories, Arthur is the most impressive, the most chivalric man who ever lived. He’s not just some shadowy figure inspired by a 6^th century Dal Riadan conqueror of the western regions of Scotland, but a larger-than-life living, breathing figure.

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Humans are remarkably adaptable. What initially appears unbearable gradually becomes normal. The sailor who once feared storms eventually accepts them as part of daily existence. The danger itself does not disappear; rather, the mind recalibrates its expectations.

Modern research suggests that chronic danger can change how individuals perceive threats and what level of stimulation feels normal. A life of uncertainty, risk, and constant vigilance creates a body that is optimized for precisely those conditions. The brain physically changes in response to experience. Neural pathways that are repeatedly used become stronger, while others weaken. A veteran companion of El Cid develops attentional patterns shaped by years of campaigning: instinctively scanning every ridgeline for an ambush, every treeline for concealed horsemen, every distant dust cloud for the approach of an enemy host.

The problem is that these adaptations can become maladaptive when the environment changes. When the veteran soldier finally returns to Castile, the silence of a summer afternoon may feel strangely unnatural. His mind has been trained to expect danger behind every horizon, and the habits that once preserved his life no longer know where to rest. Likewise, many historical sailors, explorers, or warriors seem to have struggled with ordinary civilian life.

Juan Sebastián Elcano was no exception. After completing the first circumnavigation and gaining prestige beyond what he could have ever imagined, Elcano joined another dangerous expedition that ultimately cost him his life.

Beyond the pale

On 6 September 1522, Juan Sebastián Elcano led the Victoria into the port of Sanlúcar de Barrameda, completing the first circumnavigation of the globe. At just thirty-four years of age, he had survived starvation, disease, mutiny, and the gradual extinguishing of hope that accompanies voyages into oceans no European had ever charted.

In recognition of his achievement, the Crown granted him a new coat of arms, a life annuity of five hundred gold ducats—equivalent to roughly three hundred thousand dollars in the value of the gold alone today—and a royal pardon for his previous transgressions. The motto Primus circumdedisti me (“You were the first to circumnavigate me”), bestowed by Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor and King Carlos I of Spain, remains among the most evocative and grandiose mottos in the history of exploration.

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One of the most extraordinary aspects of Elcano’s story is how modest his place in the expedition originally was. He did not leave Seville as Magellan’s lieutenant, nor as a celebrated nobleman entrusted with command. The fleet consisted of five ships, each with its own captain and hierarchy of officers: the Trinidad under Magellan, the San Antonio under Juan de Cartagena, the Concepción under Gaspar de Quesada, the Victoria under Luis de Mendoza, and the Santiago under João Serrão.

Elcano served as maestre aboard the Concepción, an important position, though one far removed from the centre of strategic decision-making. Above him stood Magellan, Cartagena, Quesada, Mendoza, Serrão, Barbosa, Carvalho, and countless others whose authority appeared unquestionable. Yet, through mutiny, execution, disease, massacre, and shipwreck, every layer above him gradually disappeared.

Mendoza was killed during the mutiny of Puerto San Julián. Quesada was executed. Cartagena was abandoned on the Patagonian coast. Magellan died at Mactan. Serrão and Barbosa perished in Cebu. Carvalho was eventually removed from command. In December 1521, more than two years after the fleet had departed from Seville, Gonzalo Gómez de Espinosa elected to return across the Pacific aboard the Trinidad. Only then did Elcano assume command of the Victoria and, in practical terms, of what remained of the expedition.

By that stage, the voyage had already become a succession of ordeals almost without parallel. The Pacific crossing had reduced men to eating rats, leather, and sawdust. Mutinies had fractured the fleet, while massacres in the Philippines had eliminated entire generations of leadership. The expedition that had once departed with five ships and 239 men now continued with a single vessel and a handful of survivors.

Yet perhaps the greatest challenge still lay ahead. To return to Spain, Elcano had to cross the Indian Ocean and round the Cape of Good Hope through waters controlled by Portugal. The entire purpose of Magellan’s westward route had been to avoid Portuguese influence under the Treaty of Tordesillas, but Elcano no longer possessed that luxury. To stop at a Portuguese port meant arrest and the likely confiscation of both ship and cargo; to remain at sea meant starvation.

Elcano chose starvation.

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However, it goes much deeper than that. Every night, for weeks, the people poured into the square late in the day, many dressed in traditional Albanian clothing to protest against a corrupt government—this island deal was the last straw. Many believe this is an issue of sovereignty: a territory that belonged to Albania, to the people, was practically given away. This corrupt government was not acting in their interests. Every night the protesters drew strength from each other and the justice of their plea for a new Albania.

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Elias Canetti in his work entitled Crowds and Power elucidates this further:

“The crowd needs direction. It is in movement and towards a goal. The direction, which is common to all members, strengthens the feeling of equality. A goal outside the individual members and common to all of them drives underground all of the private private differing goals which are fatal to the crowds as such.”

As a society we need that—we need a common goal and even a hero who is the embodiment of that cause to be propelled into action. The symbolism of it happening in this square, in front of the statue of their beloved Medieval hero, is not lost on Albanians.

You don’t have to look far in Tirana to see Skanderbeg is wrapped up in their national identity. He is immortalized in statues and verse, invoked by leaders trying to emulate him, and historically, has been part of the nation’s rallying cry for freedom and justice for centuries.

He is almost a god amongst Albanians and they esteem him greatly, no matter their background. He is the one national hero that unifies and inspires—a hero who is still relevant today.

Scott T. Allison in Psychology Today says there are twelve main reasons why we have heroes and why they are still meaningful in a modern context. Some of these reasons “help us survive, [others] help us thrive. They help us through our worst times, and they prepare us for our best times.” These reasons are then broken down into further categories—basic survival benefits, cognitive, motivational, emotional, social, growth, spiritual, existential, and creative benefits. These advantages apply not just to us as individuals but also society.

Motivational, growth and emotional benefits

Skanderbeg’s story is one of hope and ultimately, standing up for what you believe in.

Born Gjergj Kastrioti, the Albanian hero’s story begins in a familiar way. When the Ottoman Turks swept through the Balkans occupying huge swaths of territory, they took a child tax (devşhirme). The sons of noble families were taken captive and trained as janissaries. In 1414, Kastrioti was taken to Edirne in the east of modern day Turkiyë and raised as a Muslim. In converting to Islam, he took the name of “Iskander,” invoking Alexander the Great. That became the Skander part of his name. He was trained as a warrior, learnt warfare and strategy from the Turks and became part of the fighting force against Christian nations.

Unlike most warriors who assimilated into the ranks and were never heard of again, he chose a different path. Some sources mention he was made a bey, or lord, in 1433 when he became the governor of a province. One source mentioned that he forged the letter from the Sultan to gain that governorship. Anyway, this is where the “beg” gets added to Skanderbeg and his new identity is born.

Knowing he produced a counterfeit letter to the governor makes his defection less surprising. In 1443, after the Battle of Niš, Skanderbeg deserted the Sultan’s Army.

He bided his time, waited for his moment, and then rose up against the Ottoman Turks, who remained his enemy. Skanderbeg never lost sight of who he was throughout his captivity. His story of loyalty and steadfast faith is a motivational example.

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Cognitive and spiritual benefits

His story is about wisdom, tactics and moral imperative.

After his defection, Skanderbeg publicly converted to Christianity and began a slow campaign of taking over Albanian castles. His vision was of a free and Christian Albania. This fact is downplayed in modern Muslim majority Albania, one of those private differing goals that is swept aside as the crowds chant for justice. The higher moral calling is for freedom.

What is pivotal to this story is how Skanderbeg united the Albanian tribal leaders under his rule. He showed great wisdom in not allowing petty grievances to divide the clans from their real objective—liberation from the Ottoman Turks.

The rebels were called the League of Lezhë. This germ of an idea was the groundwork for what would become the Albanian state. Those who sought the common ideal banded together, shared resources, and joined their military forces. They took Skanderbeg’s two headed eagle as their standard. It has become Albania’s national flag today and harkens back to this earlier Christian Byzantine Age.

The Skanderbeg legend doesn’t end there.

The Sultan turned the full force of the Ottoman army against Skanderbeg more than once. Though he was often outnumbered, Skanderbeg’s forces went from battle to battle halting the Ottomans in their tracks. Sometimes the battle was won and at other times, Skanderbeg had to use diplomacy—he enlisted the help of the Venetians and was able to gain more than one truce with the Sultan.

Skanderbeg used cunning, guile, diplomacy and the aid of fellow Christians to keep the Sultan at bay.

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Existential and social benefits

Skanderbeg represents society coming together with a sense of destiny, identity, and purpose. He transcends his own time.

Albania actually ended up with twenty-five years of independent rule during the height of Ottoman expansion. Egypt only resisted against the Turks for one year. Gjergj Kastrioti as Skanderbeg managed to do what very few could—stand against the might of the Ottoman Empire in the fifteenth century and win.

Scant years after his victories, Constantinople fell to the Ottomans in 1453. Christendom had lost the jewel in the crown. The Ottoman Turks had been chipping away at the Byzantine Empire and weakening it gradually. In the face of such power and strength, Skanderbeg’s resistance and heroism, therefore, seems extraordinary. The Ottomans would go on to rule for centuries but this one bright episode in history captured the imagination not just of Albanians but others as well.

After he died, Skanderbeg moved from hero to national icon. His biography was written just forty years after he died by an Albanian monk. He was written about four times in the 1500s, mostly by Italian writers. Vivaldi wrote an opera about him, fittingly called Scanderbeg. It was performed for the first time in 1718 in Florence but most of the work has been lost today. What is telling is that he was considered worthy enough for an Italian opera.

Why does all of this matter? Because Skanderbeg moved beyond an historical figure to that of an icon.

Albanian society galvanised behind this figure during independence movements in the twentieth century. According to AllPoetry: “Naim Frasheri, an Albanian poet, writer, and translator … played a crucial role in the Albanian National Awakening, a period of cultural and intellectual revitalization that laid the groundwork for Albanian independence.” He wrote an epic poem, twenty two Cantos in length on Skanderbeg to call the people in his age to action:

Canto V

Krujë oh blessed citadel await,
await for Scanderbeg!
Returning as a hued dove
to liberate our motherland.

To unshackle Albanians
from wicked Turkish yoke
and restore your honor
oh crown of Albania.

Albanian braves follow him
Fearless in the danger’s eye!
In his heart fire burns
He is wise, gallant and manful.

Welcome oh summer
That bring us prosperity
For many years more
May you adorn Albania.

You fair maiden of Albania
Pensive in your lingering
Undress mourning clothes
The blessed day is here!

Field whiten, mount lighten,
From valiant arms!
In eagerness neigh the steed
That king of Albania brings!

How can Skanderbeg return and liberate Albania in the 1900s? ‘Liberate the motherland’ and ‘unshackle Albanians’? Because Skanderbeg is no longer a person—he has become an idea. He is not a distant figure but one who is with the people in their time of crisis.

In the Face of Existential Crisis

Thus, after victory in the First Balkan War of 1912, Albanian leaders gathered in Vlorë to realize the Skanderbeg dream of a fully independent Albania.

It doesn’t stop there—others invoked the name of Skanderbeg for their own purposes.

Need to show yourself to be a strong ruler like Skanderbeg? Prince Wilhelm of Germany styled himself as Skanderbeg II in 1913 when he ruled the country.

Need to pick up the pieces after WWI and try to unite the people behind your rule? Ahmed Muhtar Zogoli called himself Skanderbeg’s heir. He became King Zog I in 1928 with the backing of Mussolini.

Want to invoke the Skanderbeg resistance narrative? Communist leader Enver Hoxha, who began his brutal rule after WWII, claimed to be related. Hoxha would use the Skanderbeg legend for his own ends.

Want to show Albania is free and independent? In 1992, after communism fell, Albania chose the Skanderbeg double headed eagle flag as its national one.

Harnessing the heroic

I am not an expert on Albanian politics and only spoke to a handful of people in the country. Some were tour guides, others involved in humanitarian organizations. However, even to an outsider like me, Skanderbeg is a powerful symbol that unites this country. His story is one of resistance and rising above adversity. He is a figure that speaks to the independent spirit of the nation. Skanderbeg defied the odds and fought for a just cause. He fought against oppressive rulers and for the freedom of his country.

On our news feeds, we see young people protesting in a square. We see the Trump angle and we think of corporate greed. Albanians are invoking so much more. The struggle continues, the protests are still happening as of August 2026.

Skanderbeg is not just a statue in Tirana’s main square. He is the embodiment of justice, independence and freedom. He is the hero and inspiration for a movement of people leaning into their history. They want a new Albania, not a corrupt government that sells sovereign land and doesn’t uphold the rule of law—and that cry has echoed through the ages.

Names, flags, symbols—just remembering our heroes can carry power, a rallying cry, and a deeper cause.

Heroes such as Skanderbeg can motivate us, encourage us, and bring about personal and societal change.

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The “Third Intention” in fencing is used to “out-think” rather than simply out-speed or out-power an opponent. It involves high-level, complex, and premeditated tactical action to trap one’s quarry. You can read Third Intention’s musings on Substack.

Third Intention is a trained History and English teacher with a passion for the written word and Editor (Squire) for Feigned Flight Magazine.

Further Reading/Notes:

• All photos are by the author unless noted.

• Bergi Agalliu, “Skanderbeg – The Man Who Shaped Albania’s Identity.” https://hey-albania.com/blog/skanderbeg-the-man-who-shaped-albanias-identity

• Bjondi Dervishi. “Understanding the Power of Unity and Leadership with the Story of Skanderbeg, a National Hero of Albania.” https://www.aaciusa.org/the-story-of-skanderbeg-a-national-hero-of-albania/

• Elias Canetti, Crowds and Power. New York, Continuum Publishing, 1961

• Gjergj Kastrioti “Skanderbeg’s Letter to the Sultan in 1461” written in Albanian, translated by Petrit Latifi. https://balkanacademia.com/2025/03/13/gjergj-kastrioti-skanderbegs-letter-to-the-sultan-in-1461-written-in-albanian/

• Naim Frasheri - https://allpoetry.com/Naim_Frasheri

• Scott T Allison “12 Reasons Why We Have Heroes” https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/why-we-need-heroes/202204/12-reasons-why-we-have-heroes

• Warfare History Network “Skanderberg: Christian Hero of Albania.” https://warfarehistorynetwork.com/article/skanderberg-christian-hero-of-albania/

Few chivalric tales symbolise the days of chivalry, and what it is to be chivalrous, more than Tirant lo Blanch by Joanot Martorell. Published in 1490, it is one of the quintessential and final works of the Middle Ages. Meanwhile, less than a century later, The Lusiads would be published in 1572 by Luís de Camões. These two triumphs of Iberian literature, though so close to each other, could not be more different. One speaks of holy war against Portugal’s eternal enemy, the Moors, whilst the other goes on about exploration, as if the Middles Ages are over and a new age has begun. Their contrast reflects well the shift of values and priorities not only in Portugal, but also in the rest of Europe.

The conquests of Tirant

To better understand the contrast between Tirant lo Blanch and the Lusiads, and how it is reflected by two works written not even a century apart, it is essential to understand that they represent a profound shift in world view, territorial ambitions, and even sense of belonging. Europe goes from seeing events through a religious angle, that of a united Christendom, to seeing them through that of the realm, far more centralised than before, spreading the seeds for later nationalism.

Tirant lo Blanch is a near thousand-page-long and winding chivalric romance written about the fictional knight Tirant the White from Britany. Joanot Martorell himself was a knight, though no Boucicaut or William Marshal. Yet, his lack of fame did not prevent him writing down what it means to be a great knight, and to what a great knight should aspire. That is why the tale of Tirant does not begin with the titular character, but instead with a certain William of Warwick and how, due to his great skill, piety, and chivalry, he overcomes an unbelievably large Muslim invasion of England.

Time passes, and during a year-long tourney, Tirant meets an aged William and learns from him what it is to be a knight. Then he becomes the greatest knight in the tourney and decides to earn further glory in fighting God’s enemies, that is to say, the Muslims. This is no coincidence, as in the days of Joanot Martorell, Portugal had expanded its domain to lands in North Africa, having seized Ksar es-Seghir in 1458, and it had been battling Muslim forces since its inception. Thus the novel reflects contemporary conflict.

After having aided the knights of Rhodes, Tirant the White goes on to aid the Greek Empire (as it is called in the novel) and defeats a great many Muslim kings before suffering a shipwreck off ‘Berberia’ (the lands of the Berbers, synonymous with North Africa in this case).

As Tirant is supposed to represent the greatest knight on earth, he honourably and piously conquers and converts Berberia before using these new conquests to save the Greek Empire once more. Additionally, he saves its Emperor and the princess (whom he weds), and briefly becomes heir to the Greek Empire before perishing suddenly and being buried in his native Brittany.

In general, the tale takes place in a world very similar to ours, although with a touch of myth and fantasy. King Arthur shows up for a few pages, imprisoned and sermoning about what it is to be a good ruler, and the Greek Empire is Catholic. Joanot Martorell acknowledges that it is the successor to Rome, although it voluntarily ceded the Western Empire to the Church and limited itself to the East. By the end of the tale, you have a resurgent Greek and Catholic empire led by Tirant’s former squire, Hippolyto, which has conquered even Persia, and Muslim threats are no more.

In every way, this is a tale both chivalrous and absurd, written with subtle humour, and representing quite well what an Iberian knight thought the main threats were at the time, including the end of the Greek/Eastern-Roman Empire and the rise of Islam. It seems that although the Reconquista was nearly over, the seizure of Constantinople in 1453 remained a striking event, as this tale mostly concerns the saving of the Greek Empire.

The adventures of Vasco de Gama

One would expect these themes and concerns to carry through into Portugal’s national epic, The Lusiads, less than a century later. But it is not so. Times have changed. Portugal has entered a new era. The Lusiads are a mythical retelling of Vasco de Gama’s historical voyage towards India. He arrived in Calcutta in 1497, only seven years after the publication of Tirant lo Blanch, making the latter perhaps the last major work published before the new era, a great what-if, had not the age of exploration begun.

What is most curious about the Lusiads is their large usage of pagan gods and mythology. The plot goes as such: The gods of the Roman pantheon debate over whether or not they should favour the Portuguese as they travel eastwards, just as the Greek gods debated over whether or not they should favour one side or the other in The Iliad. Venus favours the Portuguese expedition, Bacchus favours the easterners they’re soon to meet, hampering the Portuguese on multiple occasions as they sail along the Cape of Good Hope. In fact, this whole epic poem bears many similarities to works of Virgil and Homer, as if the author wished to craft a bridge between the ancient era and his own, and thus put the medieval era in the Middle, as it is so often pictured today.

Eventually, the Portuguese arrive in India, meeting the Sultan of Malindi, and there they describe to him their home. Portugal’s history is unveiled with myth and glory, bit by bit. A muse is invoked to aid the retelling, much like the beginning of The Odyssey. Canto by canto, the tale then shifts to the beginning of the journey itself, again like The Odyssey, and the many trials the fleet went through before The Lusiads’ overall narrative began. It ends with a general retelling of great seafaring voyages, including that of Ferdinand Magellan, and gives advice to King Sebastian about eastern lands.

This epic poem is much shorter than Tirant lo Blanch, but its significance is clear enough, and the contrast between the two is the very same contrast as between the Middle Ages and the Age of Exploration.

Both Joanot Martorell and Luís de Camões are men of their era. One is a knight and the other is a sailor as well as a poet. Thus it is no surprise that they wrote such works, and that their works represent their times so well.

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There is a tension within many societies, often manifesting as a boundary between binaries. Whether observed in America, with its political aisles, or in ancient cultures that maintained a clear division of roles among their members, the structure is binary in each case. In many ways, these systems represent externalized forms of unresolved inner conflict.

It is not only exclusive to “systems” of societies, but can also be witnessed in the architecture that makes up the landscape of said nation or culture. Such forms serve as outward shapes of what has not been faced within, whether it be the rejected, the feared, the unowned aspects of a Self that finds it easier to divide the world than to reconcile itself. Such projections are not merely a sociological curiosity. Beneath these divisions lies that which is older and more personal, a tension that seems to precede the structures built to contain it. It is an ache that appears to be universal, legible across time, in the symbols civilizations carve, the gods they construct, and the rituals they repeat.

Swiss psychologist Carl Jung gave a name to the unending endeavor of wholeness: individuation. For Jung, the tension between opposing forces was not a flaw in human nature but its central feature. Wholeness was never the elimination of conflict, but the integration of it. Such unintegrated aspects—the rejected, the feared, the unowned—are what Jung called the Shadow. It is not only a personal darkness, but it encompasses all that the conscious Self refuses to claim. It is here, in how a civilization handles its Shadow, that its deepest character is revealed.

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Recognizing the Shadow

All nations have their history, and those events that highlight the milestones of the ages. America has long struggled with its internal and historical dichotomies, perhaps the remnants of a tumultuous beginning after leaving its “parent,” Europe; we still watch its struggle for individuation on a massive scale. Adopting the same lens to view the Middle Ages, it is evident that conflict itself was a catalyst for attempted progress. The Crusades may be the most intense expression of this outward projection. It is a tribe rallying an unresolved tension into holy war, casting its Shadow onto an outside enemy. Such a risk was no mere political stunt; those who fought did so with genuine and fervent conviction. Their violence was inseparable from their faith. Along with that, tangible results emerged, both geopolitically and institutionally.

With the recapture of Jerusalem and the formation of chivalric orders, a collective cultural identity emerged across Europe. As Mark Cartwright states in his article, “The Crusades: Consequences & Effects,” “There was also a greater feeling of being ‘European’, that despite differences between states, the people of Europe did share a common identity and cultural heritage . . .” Yet that same collective identity carried a darker edge. As Cartwright notes, the period saw “violent attacks on pagans, schismatics and heretics across Europe.” One may argue that the time of the crusades, along with their fallout, was a segment of history best left on the wayside; however, it is precisely these acts that demand recognition for the precedent they set in how people lived and practiced their faith in the centuries that followed. Conquest itself offered no resolution, as the Shadow cannot be defeated in the field.

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Turning inward (Threshold of Consciousness)

Now is where, even amid such tumult, society can be seen turning inward, an exhale that produced the most transcendent architecture Europe had ever seen. For the medieval mind, “turning inward” did not refer to a psychological landscape so much as a theological one. To turn inward was to turn toward the divine, to reckon with sin, with grace, with the distance between the fallen Self and God. The soul was a battleground, and the task of life was salvation. With this in mind, medieval creations hold a particular intensity, as they are manifestations of devotion and longing channeled into stone.

Gothic architecture was, paradoxically, a style of openness, pointed arches reaching upward, walls dissolved into vast windows allowing light to filter through in an array of colors, masonry blooming with ornament. Some of the openness can be attributed to the remarkable flying buttresses, which acted as stone supports, transferring the weight of the walls outward, enabling them to be replaced almost entirely with glass. This is a structural embodiment of the psychological notion of pushing a burden to the exterior so that what remains may be filled with light. Likewise, with intent, the infamous gargoyle drain spouts and figures serve both symbolic and functional purposes. In his article, “Laughing at Evil: The Hidden Purpose of Gargoyles,” Dr. Lorris Chevalier remarks:

“Gargoyles are far more than decorative elements or architectural curiosities; they are sculpted manifestos against evil, combining satire, mockery, and moral warning.”

In this manner, the Medieval mind did not refuse to acknowledge the “evil” spirit that exists within man, but instead carved its likeness so that it might never be forgotten. Often, gargoyles were mentioned in sermons to teach a lesson or to contribute to a story. More than that, they were tools for Shadow work; something that must be faced rather than hidden away and denied.

Their placement around the cathedrals is also significant, as they were often at rooflines or the edges of buildings. One might think that something so far off could not be recognized or mentioned, yet it is precisely this placement that reveals its significance at the threshold of consciousness, similar to the Shadow; it exists in a liminal space, neither banished entirely nor let in.

They create a stark contrast with their likeness to the attractive, inspiring saints in the stained-glass windows. It is not so much that the gargoyles themselves are embodiments of evil, but that they represent the unconscious of the cathedral itself. That which is repressed inside its walls, among the elegant and radiant decorations and array of pigments, is externalized outward onto its own skin. Ironically, the cathedral holds this dichotomy with remarkable grace, integrated into a single structure, as if the building itself is doing the work its builders could not yet imagine.

In the article “Gothic Architecture, an Introduction,” the contributors note that:

“Although such a building as a whole is ordered and coherent, the profusion of shapes and patterns can make a sense of order difficult to discern at first glance.”

The wheel window, or rose window, in particular, is a distinct symbol of “divine perfection,” a circle radiating outward from a center. It is a form of mandala, a symbol that Carl Jung considered not only religious but an archetypal expression of the unconscious; a symbol of the Self, the totality of the psyche, representing inner order, wholeness, and the mind’s spontaneous effort to restore balance during times of chaos or crisis.

It could take anywhere from a decade to centuries to complete the construction of a cathedral, and as such, it demanded patience, steady devotion, and funding. It was not only a testament to faith, but also to the collective psychology of the people and land it was built for and upon; such projects, being communal efforts for the duration of their completion, represent the priorities and importance that a people hold dear. As any church is a rallying point for its flock, so too is the Gothic cathedral a beacon for those who built it as much as those who worshipped in it. It is a communal act of reaching, generation after generation, toward something none of them would live to see completed. In Jungian terms, the cathedral is a culture’s unconscious reaching toward integration, evident in its external form as it cannot yet be achieved within.

Ora et labora

One word comes to mind when examining the daily life of a Christian monastic during the Middle Ages: Order. The monastic pursuit was total in its demands, every hour of the day structured around ora et labora, Latin for ‘pray and work,’ leaving no corner of daily life unconscious or without form.

Throughout the Middle Ages, one frequent theme was reform, attempts to return to stricter ways of religious life, inspired by ideals of poverty, simplicity, and spiritual purity. In a way, the monastery functioned as a container, a world designed to make confronting the Self unavoidable. More importantly, no one imposed it; monks sought it out and chose it freely.

By the High Middle Ages, the Rule of Saint Benedict had become the foundation of monastic life across Western Europe. At its core were three vows monks took upon entering the order: stability, fidelity to the monastic way of life, and obedience. Stability meant a lifelong commitment to the monk’s community and dedication to the monastery. There was no leaving, no fleeing, or casting the Shadow onto a distant enemy. Whatever darkness a monk carried within, he would meet it here for the rest of his life. The vow of fidelity demanded a lifelong commitment to transformation. Obedience required the surrender of the ego, set aside in service of something larger. Jung might recognize this as the necessary precondition for any genuine encounter with the Self.

The structure of their day is worth examining in more detail, given that the Horarium is a cornerstone of monastic life. The Wyoming Carmelite Monks describe the Horarium as “The schedule that the monks live everyday within the monastery. It is the set time for prayers and for various community functions that sanctify every moment of the day.”

Hour by hour, what appear to be abstract testaments on paper become concrete practice. Even before the sun rose, one awoke at midnight, practicing that which is a refined discipline. Similarly, the act of copying manuscripts was a devoted practice and one that benefited generations to come. For hours in near-silence, a monk would transcribe scripture and scholarship alike, and just as the word was sacred, so too was the material upon which it was written.

Psychologically, that constant rhythm of returning to the Self, one which they are temporally and architecturally prevented from avoiding, shows the refusal to let consciousness drift. Jung described individuation as a lifelong journey, not an abrupt realization or transformation, but a genuine struggle. When speaking in relation to Christianity, Jung noted:

“. . . Christianity holds up before us a symbol whose content is the individual way of life of a man, the Son of Man, and that it even regards this individuation process as the incarnation and revelation of God himself. Hence the development of man into a self acquires a significance whose full implications have hardly begun to be appreciated, because too much attention to externals blocks the way to immediate inner experience.”

Jung’s framework enlightens the aim of monastic practice. External structure and repetition were the disciplines through which the Self could be found.

What the Middle Ages achieved, in both spirituality and architectural feats, remains some of the most inspiring creations and practices humanity has expressed. Upon closer inspection of the aspects that turned the wheel of civilization of times past, one may find that the notable and obvious structures and behaviors of a society are the ones most remembered, not only for their appearance, but for what they signify about both the psychological and spiritual state of a nation or province at the time of their formation.

The same lens can be turned toward America, still reaching for its own integration centuries after leaving its parent behind. Time passes, and new structures replace the old, yet their appearance and significance continue to symbolize what a nation is reaching for. That is worth scrutinizing today, and for those who come after us.

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Jamie is the author of Roots of the Range, which delves into American history and culture through a Jungian lens. Her work explores depth psychology and contemporary culture, examining the psychological undercurrents shaping the nation’s past and present.

Bibliography:

• Cartwright, Mark. “The Crusades: Consequences & Effects.” World History Encyclopedia, October 09, 2018. https://www.worldhistory.org/article/1273/the-crusades-consequences--effects/.

• Chevalier, Lorris. “Laughing at Evil: The Hidden Purpose of Gargoyles.” Medievalists.net, February, 2025. https://www.medievalists.net/2025/02/hidden-purpose-gargoyles/.

• Jung, Carl G. The Undiscovered Self (Present and Future). Translated by R. F. C. Hull. Collected Works of C. G. Jung, vol. 10. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1958.

• Dr. Beth Harris, Dr. Steven Zucker and Valerie Spanswick, “Gothic Architecture, an Introduction,” in Smarthistory, January 25, 2023, accessed June 30, 2026, https://smarthistory.org/gothic-architecture-an-introduction/.

• “The Horarium.” Carmelite Monks of Wyoming, accessed June 30, 2026. https://www.carmelitemonkshorarium.org/index.html.

When you stand outside on a cool evening and gaze up into the stars, there is a clear sense of looking outward into something grander. On a similar night in 13th century England, someone looking up at the night sky would instead have a sense of looking inward. This disconnect from past and present is not all that surprising when we consider how many centuries have passed between us and the Middle Ages. But then, it is also worth noting that we are closer in time to those at the end of the medieval period than they were to those at the beginning of the period. Clearly the passage of time is not the sole or primary cause for this shift. Instead, we must come to terms with the fact that we, in this postmodern age, have lost something in our ability to perceive the universe in the way our ancestors did.

With the Scientific Revolution and Enlightenment, many great advancements and boons for civilization were developed and spread, but over time there were other consequences which we still deal with to this day. As mankind began to look at the world not as a revelation to be deciphered but as a thing to be investigated, there was a natural lowering of our imaginations and our sense of the true cosmic story. Even for Christians today, we might have a sense of the spiritual, but our imaginations naturally resist the fullness of a spiritual model of the universe intertwined with the scientific. For the medievals, there was little challenge in connecting what are for us disparate disciplines.

It is difficult for our modern minds to think of science and philosophy as inseparably linked, or to consider aesthetics and astrophysics as bedfellows. We often divide the realms of academia quite harshly. What does music have to say to physics? Or chemistry to literature? As modern science has developed, the increasing depth of each discipline has left the challenging question of how it all fits together. Stephen Hawking famously sought to develop a theory of everything, but eventually determined it to be an impossibility. Perhaps this difficulty relates to our understanding of knowledge itself and how it is acquired.

From the modern perspective, knowledge is obtained first through experience, and then through inquiry. We assume that information is chiefly gathered by the physical senses and then processed through stages of reason. It is a largely bottom-up approach. Information not obtained through the senses, or that cannot be tethered to the material sciences, is not meaningless perhaps, but certainly of less value. By contrast, the medievals assumed knowledge came first through revelation, and only then through inquiry.

Our first question should be, what difference does this make? And our answer ought to come from asking how the medievals understood the fundamental nature of the world and what their perspective included that ours has lacked.

The medieval mind was often preoccupied by the ordering of things. “Things” is a word simultaneously of no great precision yet also clear intention. It was understood by the medieval scholar that creation, the whole of the universe, is intelligible and therefore worthy of intense study. Any good and knowable subject demands organization, systemization, and clarity. As such, the “things” of the universe, or the material sciences, might properly be known as only the third most significant subject our minds might content themselves with.

Chief among these subjects is, of course, that of God himself and his revelation. All knowledge comes from a transcendent source and is trickled down to us through the general revelation of nature and the special revelation of Scripture. This is followed distantly by the place and nature of man as he knows himself and as he has been revealed to himself by God. To the medieval mind these seemingly unrelated subjects were all part of the scholastic project of bringing the universe into a single, coherent model from beginning to end. One can hardly discuss a work of art without also discussing the Artist or the subject, and that is truly what this scholastic project was about. Creation is an artwork. It is a true and worthy endeavor to study and organize information about God’s great handiwork.

Visualization often aids in the clarity of such models, and we see various attempts at depicting the celestial spheres in their eternal dance or the cycles of nature throughout history, but it is more challenging to capture it wholly in a single piece. It may be impossible to include every detail of the cosmic model in one visual representation, but that is not the goal. The goal is to display the beauty of the created order and the Majesty which oversees it. The model itself is far more beautiful to the poet and artist than it is to the scholar. Nothing is magic to the magician. This is why such representations must be considered as shadow artworks grasping at their muse, yet only ever capturing a small piece of its glory.

A curious and unique example of one such depiction is the Hereford Mappa Mundi (Map of the World) which depicts the earth, not as a geographical subject, but as a metaphysical one. Created around AD 1300, the map displays the key moments of humanity’s journey out from the Garden, the nature of God, the hierarchies of the universe, and the grand narrative drawing it all together. It has no interest in showing you what the world looks like as any other map might; rather, it wants to show you what the world is, where it began, and where it will eventually go.

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The Westward March

One of the first things you might notice about the Hereford Mappa Mundi is its orientation. It does not have north at the top and south at the bottom, but east at the top and west at the bottom. The continents are only crudely shaped without care for precision or scale, and the locations are often cluttered with the mythological as well as the historical. The most significant events of human history, at least according to the designer, are found in a straight line from top to bottom. These events chart the grand narrative of creation from Fall to Redemption and the Final Judgment.

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I am not a historian. I want to be clear about that upfront, mostly because I wrote a love letter to a farming tool and a historian would never do that.

What I am is a farmer’s daughter, with Danish and Anglo Saxon roots and a lifelong appreciation for the simple things and where they came from. I grew up watching my father turn the soil and my mother tu…

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Dear Men of the Plough,

I know history is not supposed to be written this way. I know I am supposed to begin with dates and archaeological evidence and careful, measured discussions about agricultural innovation in post-Roman Europe. But every time I think about the heavy plough, I find myself distracted. Not by the plough, but by the men who carved earth with it. I have tried to be more scholarly about this and it has not worked. I am a woman.

He came home at dusk smelling like earth and effort….and she had something warm rising in the oven. The medieval birth rate suggests this was a very reliable sequence of events.

The historians tell me the heavy plough emerged in Eastern Europe sometime around the fifth or sixth century. It spread westward across the continent through the Frankish kingdoms and into the British Isles. It transformed the dense clay soils of Northern Europe and laid the foundations for population growth, wealth accumulation, urbanization, and the eventual rise of the medieval kingdoms that would shape the Western world. All true but…they left out the good part.

I see something else, I see what was forgotten. I see dawn and the men who quietly put their boots on. I see mist hanging low over a field somewhere in what is now France or England or Germany, the ground dark with moisture, the thick and hardened earth waiting, breath rising from oxen in the cold morning air, and the men already preparing for the work ahead. Not because they are inspired, not because someone has told them they are special, but because the field must be ploughed and the grain must be planted and the fierce and unforgiving winter is coming, and winter does not negotiate. His people need to eat. His wife, his children, his neighbors, the whole village depends on whether this man shows up. He is how they will get to the other side of the cold.

That is why he kept going, season after season, century after century, with no glory waiting at the end of the furrow and no audience to witness it. Just the absolute, unannounced, unshakeable decision that the people he loved were worth every obstacle he would ever face and every physical pain and ache that came with it.

The remarkable thing, the thing that makes me put the history book down and simply sit with it, is that nothing has changed. The alarm goes off before dawn in 2026 and men are still doing exactly that. Different field, different tool, same reason. “My family needs me, so I am going, even though my body and mind want to quit.” Male fortitude is remarkable.

Sigh.

I imagine women throughout history stood in the doorway watching. There is something about a man who goes out before the sun rises and comes home at dusk having moved the earth that a woman just...notices. When he came through that door at the end of the day, the bread was ready, the fire was warm, and the grain he had worked himself half to death to produce was rising beautifully in the oven. I giggle thinking this probably put many a bun in the oven, if you know what I mean.

History speaks of kings, conquerors, and generals and remembers men who stood before armies and changed borders with a signature, but it rarely speaks of the men who fed them. This is the man who fascinates me most, the one standing ankle-deep in mud before sunrise, guiding a heavy plough through stubborn earth because if he does not, nobody eats, the army starves, the village dies. Nobody crowned him for it and nobody composed epic songs about him, yet he fed everyone who did.

The heavy plough was not elegant and it was not sophisticated. It was brutally, completely practical, developed by Slavic farmers in what is now Poland and Ukraine around the 5th and 6th centuries and spreading westward because it worked better than anything before it and the earth knew it immediately. A vertical coulter cut into the earth from above, a horizontal share sliced beneath it meeting it exactly where it needed to be met, and a curved moldboard lifted the soil and rolled it completely over, burying the weeds and exposing what was fresh and ready beneath, again and again and again, one furrow after another, one acre after another. The entire thing possessed the same stubborn, unhurried determination of a man who knows the work must be done, which, as it turns out, is exactly when women are watching most closely.

This was not easy work. The plough was heavy and the soil was heavier and he was out there in the cold doing something that demanded more than just his strength. There is a particular kind of man who does hard things quietly, who comes home with mud on his boots and sits down at the table like it was nothing, like he did not just spend the entire day moving the earth for the people he loves. The romance in this is better than poetry.

I suspect historians have always underestimated how much women notice the work of men. We notice the way a man moves when the work is real and he knows it and he does it anyway. There is nothing quite like watching a man who is completely unaware of how he looks doing something that genuinely matters, not performing, not posturing, just working, steady and unhurried, like the field was the beginning and end of the world. That is the thing that creeps into our thoughts as women….a provider.

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The medieval woman knew those broad furrows represented food six months from now, that the grain in the field would become bread in her oven, that the children sleeping under her roof would survive another winter because somebody was willing to drag iron through clay until his shoulders ached and his muscles burned like fire and then come back and do it again tomorrow. There is a particular kind of woman who has stood at a window watching a man work and felt something shift quietly in her chest that had absolutely nothing to do with how he looked and everything to do with what he was doing and why he was doing it.

The medieval woman knew this in her bones, in her cells. Every morning those furrows opened up in the cold dark earth she understood something that no one needed to explain to her, that strength with a purpose is the most attractive thing in the world, that a man who shows up for his people without fanfare, without complaint, without anyone having to ask him twice, is a different creature entirely from a man who is merely handsome or even one that is wealthy. She knew which one she wanted keeping her warm that winter.

History, bless its heart, recorded the kings. The women remembered the farmers. We have always had excellent priorities.

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