Gideon's Passage

Acknowledgements

Writing is a perilous and lonely enterprise at the best of times and to do so without the generous help of others would be an extreme folly. Believe me.

So I must express my sincere gratitude to the many that have encouraged me to pursue my dream who should be acknowledged and yet remain of necessity alas; nameless. You know who you are. Thank you.

And a special thank you to those who patiently bore the inconvenience of my effort; they should NOT remain anonymous.  To Judith Causby who sowed the seed of passion from which flowed the two chronicles of Gideon. Thank you.

To Paul G. Haysman, Ido and Zena Hooijberg, Sandy Shriyan and Richard Campbell who despite their busy schedules agreed to read ‘Gideon’s’ manuscript and contribute their generous and inspiring appraisals. Thank you.

And sadly, my thanks to the late Denis Richard Bridges, who at ninety-three expressed his desire to read Gideon because he loved the genre of Historical Fiction; and penned his appreciation thus:

This is a fantastic tale set against the background of a well-researched historical understanding. All up a very engaging read.

He would be proud to know that Gideon’s Passage will be published. May your soul rest in peace.

And Gideon would have suffered a premature ending if it were not for my wife Cynthia, who had to carry the entire burden of my selfish folly, sans serious complaint. Again thank you.

To the two most remarkable people I have had the pleasure to befriend on this journey; Jeffrey Kosh and Natalie G. Owens, who believe that helping mankind is a necessary function of their lives, and that the practice of justice is the purpose of their living.

And finally to my Publishers at Optimus Maximus Publishing LLC; Christina Hargis Smith and Mura Atkinson Butler; I remain forever indebted to your kindness and professionalism. Thank you.

Ben Laffra

Facts or Fiction?

Most people read fiction for relaxation and entertainment. But a reader of Historical Fiction knows the buzz of uncovering the story that is intertwined with reality. The people really existed ... they were real ... it actually happened! So the reader is sometimes left with the irritating question; is this fact or fiction?

A short list of the true masters of this craft are Pearl S. Buck [Sai Zhenzhu], Tom Keneally, Alan Savage, Wilbur Smith, James Clavell, Frederick Forsyth, Paul Scott, Bryce Courtenay, Winston Graham, Duncan MacNeil, Colleen McCullough, Collins & Lapierre, Belva Plain, Arthur Evelyn Waugh, and Ernest Hemingway amongst a host of other greats in this genre that had its genesis in Homer. 

You will not be reading boring history; you will be taken on a journey of discovery into time to share the aspirations, feelings, thoughts, passionate loves, struggles, danger, horrors of persecution [even crimes against humanity] and occasionally, the triumph of good over evil of the people who actually lived it!

Having said that, I have from time to time played the false prophet, and I plead guilty to reordering the strict era of events and transposing incidents within them. This was done to sustain the tempo and nuance of the narrative.

Finally; chance, I know has the longest and most unpredictable arm of all so if there be an incident or the perceived recognition of persons as characters within this book, it is purely by coincidence and I disclaim any responsibility for that.

It is inevitable when writing Historical Fiction that the ghosts of historical giants are overlaid on my created characters. They are nevertheless a fabrication and not personally, maliciously or strictly portrayed.

Ben Laffra

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Facts or Fiction?

Introduction

PART ONE

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

PART TWO

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

PART THREE

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

PART FOUR

61

62

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

About the Author

INTRODUCTION

Europe in the 16th Century.

In a time of universal deceit - telling the truth is a revolutionary act.

George Orwell.

Real name: Eric Arthur Blair.

Born in Motihari, Bengal India on June 25th 1903; died in London on January 21st 1950.

Killing is the sole province of the religious fanatics, an axiom as true today as it was some five hundred years ago and no region, nation or person is inviolate. The ‘Fanatical Dogs’ had snarled, clawed, bitten and fought over the bones of Western Europe throughout the Middle Ages, each ever-changing pack fuelled by their own egos and dreams to conquer a piece of territory as they would over a piece of an animal’s carcass. A never ceasing ebb and flow of conflict and the only change was the breed that grew strongest to stake their claim for a brief moment in time.

It was not until the 16th Century that the canvas of conflict changed dramatically in the rise of the Ottomans and to stamp their influence over much of Europe, that was to last for over 400 years. The Ottomans were of the Islamic faith centred in Anatolia in the obscure reaches of Western Turkey. So from this cradle the Ottoman Empire expanded under Sultan Suleiman. The Europeans called him Suleiman the Magnificent while his subjects called him Kanuni the Lawgiver. Whatever the titles, his place as a great ‘Caliph’ of the Ottomans was assured. His conquests and his subsequent kingdom spread from Turkey through Arabia, Egypt and to the coastal countries of North Africa; across Eastern Europe from the Persian Gulf to Georgia on the Caspian Sea; and North West from the Crimea into Hungary to the shores of the Adriatic encompassing Greece. Once threatened the very gates of Vienna. His navy controlled the trade in the Mediterranean and his swift fearsome fighting galleys routed all before them in sea battles. Yes, Suleiman stamped his Islamic authority, justice and good governance over much of Europe and put the fear of God to the North West, into the Christian Kingdoms that stubbornly remained to thwart his total vision.

As the power and threat of the Ottoman’s subsided, the unconquered countries of Europe breathed a collective sigh of relief from the reduced danger of their enemies ‘without’; allowing them once again to relapse into their eternal squabbles and their perceived enemies ‘within’.

Man is a complex creature. For though these very Christian States had survived because of the bond of religion against the Muslims, they could still find reason and cause to fight within their religion giving credence to the argument that perhaps the Christians were less tolerant within their religious practice than their enemy, the Muslim Ottomans. It was certainly true in the sixteenth century.

PART ONE

The Chemistry within Parallel Planets.

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In the meridian of Europe’s modern Renaissance period and in three different countries of the world, something happened around the same time. All four participants were of different nationalities and cultures. Every episode was different and so were the circumstances. Each of the events had, as yet, an unknown significance and relationship.

None of the participants knew of each other’s existence; they orbited in four different earthly planets that would one day collide in unexpected circumstances!

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In the Beginning there was ...

[I]

The Ottoman Noble Lady

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About 1,700 miles to the East of Paris stands Istanbul Turkey, the epicentre of the Ottoman Empire.  A young Ottoman woman of noble birth, who was apprenticed to her physician grandfather closed her books and withdrew to her room. An attractive but sober young woman, she took her education seriously desperate to be a physician like her famous grandfather.

If one were to probe deeper into her psyche one could detect the complex emotions that churned within her, belied by her solemn exterior. Apart from her medical studies, she had three passions; a passion for oil painting, and that was harmless enough; a passion for Yoga practices and developing a subtle body, and that was equally innocent; but the third passion was inconsistent with her character. Said passion was to secretly pore over the Persian translations of the ancient manuscripts of India and China. In her defence, there was a correlation between the contents of the manuscripts and her studies; but they also included extensive segments of sexual interaction, both heterosexual and Tribadism or Sapphics. The ancient Sages wrote compassionately of the relationship of women in wealthy households between the Sakhi sisters; and all was associated with a spiritual path.

The young woman removed her clothes to reveal skin of a smooth coppery colour, and a body shapely yet taut; slightly resembling that of a youthful Adonis. She completed thirty yoga asana, or postures, she had mastered. Her mind and body felt relaxed and supple.

Then she went to her wooden chest and retrieved the exquisitely carved sandalwood box, from which she withdrew two Chinese jade eggs. She examined them with fascination and marvelled at the ancient custom of Chinese courtesan’s, who used them especially after childbirth to strengthen their ‘love muscles’ within. To her medically attuned mind, there was nothing erotic or vulgar about the process. It was simply a function of good restorative therapy. She pulled on the attached silk cord and tested her ability to hold the egg within her. Satisfied, she wiped the polished surface of the eggs clean of her secretion and returned them to the box.

She bathed herself in a scented bath, dressed once again and went to join her hakim grandfather for dinner.

The young, aristocratic Ottoman woman was not aware of it yet but her obsessive compassionate interest in the Sakhi Sisterhood might just have tilted the axis of her complex psyche.

Her name was Gönül Femi.

[II]

An Impetuous Princess

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The second interplay of events occurred across several Continents, farther again to the South East but 6,000 miles away from France, in the wealthy Kingdom of Hyderabad in India. This event was to have a profound influence on the lives of two people. Once again, it concerns a young teenage girl of extreme beauty, and a quirk of fate, that resulted in a remarkable relationship between East and West. Her father was a Moghul Nizam and her mother a headstrong attractive Frenchwoman; who, though a commoner by birth, became the Nizam’s Begum or Queen.

The girl was riding a white stallion and she gave it its head despite the uneven terrain that marked the verdant slope to the wide flowing river on her left. On her right were a blur of rich cultivation; fields of corn, ginger, chillies, vegetables, and a host of other crops to which she paid no attention. She rode with an abandon born of obstinacy. Her silken white cape flying behind her. The peasants in the field rose from their various working positions to bow and salaam obsequiously as she flew past. She paid no attention to them either. She was a Princess of the Nizam’s Court.

A small party of courtier’s congregated by the river and even at some distance. Her sharp eyes picked out the centre of the group, an Omrah or Prince, she surmised, for he was flying a rare and prized hunting falcon. She pulled up on a rise, the stallion snorting and prancing sideways in animal dissent, as she watched the raptor circling above in the clear early morning sky. The raptor stopped to hover briefly, and then with sudden blinding speed, swooped down like a falling arrow to strike its prey. There was a brief puff of feathers as the predator struck and then regained some height, and gracefully glided to perch on its master’s leather glove; it’s dead prey in its curved beak. The theatre of the kill excited her and brought a further flush to the dusky soft skin of her face.

One of the Omrah’s entourage must have noticed the watching horsewoman and an Equerry rode out toward her, bowed in the saddle, and courteously requested her to join their gathering.  She followed him into a shady mango grove where a party of six other young ladies and their children lounged on rich Persian rugs and silken cushions. They were not part of her Palace, and she deduced the Omrah was a visiting Prince from a neighbouring kingdom and these were his wives and children. The women welcomed her, twittering over her dusky pale complexion and green eyes. It embarrassed her when they freely admitted her rare beauty. It being an exceptional occurrence for women to openly admire the beauty of the same sex. Yet, they were obviously taken with her and wanted to know all about her, her two younger brothers, and her famous French mother, the Begum Ferzand.  Obsequious servants circulated with silver platters of rich spicy meats and a cooling almond flavoured sherbet. It tasted delicious. The Omrah now joined them in the mango grove and, in a surprising display of affection, played with the children for a while.  He turned his attention to her, thanked her courteously for joining them, and seemed keen to know if she enjoyed the life in the Palace Zenana. He expressed surprise at her command of the Persian language and complimented her on the purity of its style. She told him that she had been tutored from a child in both Persian and French.

Thirsty from her exercise of horse riding, she finished the pleasant sherbet rather quickly and the Omrah advised her not to drink too much of it. She ignored his advice, again born of natural obstinacy. He was handsome and charming; she found nothing haughty about his demeanour and was still young, about thirty years of age. He told her he had been informed of the beautiful French Begum Ferzand and her daughter, but they had not paid her beauty due tribute. He expressed he found her more beautiful than he had imagined. Clearly, he was attracted to her, but his compliments were offered as a dignified, quiet opinion rather than base flattery.

After a time, she bade them farewell. As she sat on her horse about to leave, he suddenly asked her to disclose her star sign.

‘Cancer,’ she replied.

He spoke quietly aside to one of his aide’s and then looked up at her. This time he smiled. ‘It is a good sign,’ he said.  She did not understand the significance of this but it seemed to please him. She rode back to the Palace as if riding on air, with a strange, light-headed feeling; keen to tell her closest friends and half Sisters, Kahir and Jahan, about the chance meeting with the handsome prince. They were as excited as she was, for the Omrah she had met was none other than Prince Sadat Ali Khan, the heir to the throne from a powerful neighbouring Kingdom.

She slept soundly that afternoon and later, as they were relaxing together drinking cool minted tea, a servant came in and spoke quietly to Jahan who hurried out of the apartments and came back clapping her hands with excitement. ‘Come, we must bathe and get ready! We have been invited to a private function.’ She would not tell them where. ‘It’s a secret. Let’s hurry.’ Her sisters paid special attention to bathing and perfuming her, doing her hair and choosing a special robe to wear.

An Equerry arrived and escorted the three young women through the many courtyards and gardens, to a set of buildings even they had never visited before. It was cool and beautiful with the floors, walls, and fine latticework, all in pure pink marble. They entered a large chamber where the Equerry bowed and left them. They could hear soft music being played behind a distant intricate marble lattice. All manner of fruit and food had been set on a low table and she spied a large jug of the milky almond drink standing in ice-cold water.

There were just the three of them so they made themselves comfortable on the silk cushions and helped themselves to the fruit and drink. The young Princess once more drank the sherbet too quickly, for it started to take effect; though her sisters were less inclined to do so. Nevertheless, the three of them got to chatting aimlessly and laughing uncontrollably. She was experiencing a strange sensation of being outside her body and yet with an exciting, heightened feeling that she had never felt before. Everything seemed beautiful, as if floating in a special space. There was a crystal clear pool and waterfall in the centre of the chamber and she had the sudden uncontrollable desire to take off her clothes and swim in it, which she impulsively did, quickly followed by Kahir and Jahan.

The three cavorted like happy uninhibited nymphs in the cool waters, caressing, kissing, and playing with each other. Then, she suddenly noticed the musical instruments had stopped playing and the Omrah was standing looking at them from the far side of the large pool with an amused expression on his face. Bareheaded and dressed in a simple cream and gold, heavily brocaded robe, he looked taller than she had noticed that morning. He bowed and apologised for intruding, then turned to withdraw from the chamber.  ‘Please stay, Prince Sadat’ she called out impulsively.’ He stopped, his back still turned to them, and for a moment she thought she had offended him by her display of brashness. But then Kahir and Jahan joined in, also asking him to stay. When he turned, he fixed her with a long look.

Now emboldened, she went on ‘The Omrah is welcome to join us in our play,’ and her sisters clapped their hands in glee. He seemed to think about it for a long time and they feared he would go away. Instead, he advanced to the pool’s edge, removed his robe and undergarments, and threw them onto a nearby table. He stood before them totally naked, his body brown and muscular, and completely hairless. The three caught their collective breath in wonder for they had never seen a live naked man before. Yes, in the pictures of their Persian study books during their education they had seen the naked male form, but a living, throbbing organ; no. He lingered while the sisters dwelt shamelessly on one particular part of his body. The princess suddenly craved to feel it, fondle it, and have it within her!

He made a long shallow dive, coming up in the midst of the three. The foursome fondled and caressed each other for an eternity, until her centre of pleasure felt as if on fire; for he was paying particular attention to her. His fingers under the water felt like feather strokes and his mouth on her nipples, teased them to bursting. He then gravely asked for permission to enter her. She was so filled with the haze of ecstasy that she could barely respond, but did notice Jahan quickly whisper in his ear. He drew back instantly. ‘I am sorry Princess, I knew not that you are a virgin, but, by that time, she was beyond reason and begged him to take her. Still he shook his head.

‘You are a man and I wish to become a woman, now. Deflower me Prince Sadat; I will not beg you to do so again.’ Her words came out sounding distant, as if from another mouth.

He paused for a long time again, looking into her eyes searchingly and not without a mix of ardour and compassion.  ‘You may regret it when the sun rise’s Princess.’

‘Then the regret will be mine, not yours. Do as I request’ she answered boldly. He nodded slowly and drew her toward him. After a lingering kiss he laid her back on the water. Kahir and Jahan floated her body as they continued to fondle and suckle her breasts.

Her first experience was sublime. She spent that night in a luxurious private chamber. Prince Sadat came to her bed twice more to make love. Strangely, the one thing she always recalled of that night was his last words. ‘Within the span of five years, Princess, you will be the most beautiful woman in the world that men will die for.’

The next morning when she awoke, she felt fresh and invigorated; and only when she sat up in the bed did she notice the necklace that he had placed around her neck. She went to her mother excitedly to tell her of the wonderful experience but the Begum’s response was furious. In her naivety she could not understand why, for most of the young princesses had been deflowered even at a younger age; some already married at fourteen. She went back and cried with her sisters. It was only the following week that she heard through Kahir’s mother, and not her own, that Prince Sadat Ali Khan had gone to her father to ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Since she was a woman and not a male heir, the Nizam referred the request to her mother. She had refused. The headstrong young princess stamped her foot in a rage and requested a private audience with her father, which he graciously gave her the following week.

She had not set eyes on him for years and so was shocked and saddened to see him looking quite old. Where once he was tall, he was now stooped and gaunt, but somehow still retained the powerful brow and eyes, that once sat upon a robust body. She prostrated herself at his feet and wept, but he bent and lifted her up to sit on his regal divan alongside him. ‘You are too pretty to cry, my child,’ he said, wiping her eyes with his thumbs, ‘but I know and understand your pain and reason and you need not explain. We cannot always get what we want in life, not even I the Nizam; so we must accept what Allah has given us with joy. Treasure the memories of happiness and do not dwell on that which saddened you or has been denied and escaped you. Now, you must listen to me and abide by it. Your mother wishes to send you to France, and I have approved, for you are both Mughal and European. You must experience both cultures and decide what you want to be.’ He hooked a finger under her chin and kissed her on the head in blessing. ‘Now go and do as I say.’

The audience was over and she had to leave for that was the custom. The Prime Minister Aristo Jah, the most powerful figure after the Nizam, escorted her out. On his shoulders weighed the administration of the entire Kingdom and he was a very cultured and wise man. She had liked him as a young child, as she had played with his many children in the Inner Palace. They stopped in an anti-chamber where he spoke to her kindly. ‘Listen carefully to what I say, Princess. As your father said, there are two parts to you; one that is headstrong and bubbling as a turbulent European stream, the other, the blood of the ancient Mughal rulers of India. You must temper the one without losing the other. In two years’ time I will make arrangements to send you to your mother’s country. You will receive an annual purse to maintain you comfortably, while you learn their ways. You must improve your knowledge of their language and how to live like them. Meanwhile, I will arrange for a tutor from the French garrison to guide you in their foreign ways. Before you leave, I will also arrange for their priest to give you a Christian name. He will do my bidding. If you like, you may take your mother’s previous married name. In the interim, you shall not lie with any man or Princes of the Court. If you disobey, you will be banished, never to return. Do you understand me clearly?’ She nodded solemnly for she understood it was an edict she could never disobey. For two gold sovereigns, the French priest arranged for her care and French education with the Laframboise family in the city of Orleans in the Loire Valley.

The birth name of the headstrong princess, who was deflowered underwater, was Noor un-Nissa. As arranged, she was baptised by the French priest and given the name Catherine Noelle Ney-Worley. She was sent to France as planned to discover her true self.

[III]

The De’ Medici Child

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In Europe, a third chemistry of affairs took place around the same time, at the opulent mansion of a Medici ruling class family in Florence; 600 miles east of France. This time it concerned a child that was far younger than the previous participants.

Her cousin Lorenzo was barely twelve and she ten when he had come to spend his August summer holidays on their vast country estate. The adults retired to their bedrooms for the hot afternoon siesta, duly admonishing the two children to do the same. But one afternoon, she rubbed her sleepy eyes and wandered out into the warm, leafy garden. There she spied young Lorenzo, his silk pantaloons around his ankles, his face red with effort, screwed up in a grimace, and eyes firmly shut as he violently pulled at the organ at his groin. She watched in innocent fascination, wondering just what he was trying to do.

She crept up on him and whispered in his ear. ‘Just what are you doing, Cousin Lorenzo?’

Lorenzo yelped in guilty fright and stepped forward, or tried to, but only landed on his face as his pantaloons held fast around his ankles. She giggled in absolute delight at the sight of his pink, round, buttocks and skinny legs. Turning over, he sat up and glared at her but her eyes fixed on his little red manhood, that now perched limp atop his testacies. She asked again, what he was doing but he merely scowled and ignored her. He made to pull up his pantaloons, still fuming, and then changed his mind, noting with interest her fixed gaze. Then he lay back supine and closed his eyes, feigning disinterest. His shirt had pulled up over his navel, his smooth pink stomach and skinny legs exposed. Unable to resist, she sat down beside him, still interested in his little half-cocked penis with its foreskin drooping over the end. ‘Can I touch it?’ she asked.

He opened one eye to see her pink tongue come out and lick her rosy lips. ‘Are you thirsty?’ he asked her.

She nodded. ‘Only a little bit.’

‘Suck that’ he said pointing to his cock. ‘It’s a water spout.’

She looked at him sceptically but he closed his eyes again, pretending to ignore her. After a long time, she hesitantly touched it. Nothing happened. So, feeling a little braver, she felt it in her fingers. ‘Um,’ she said, ‘it's nice and smooth. Why don’t I have one like that Lorenzo?’

He was watching her through half closed lids. ‘Because you’re a girl, stupid.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Don’t worry, I know. I secretly watched my parents do it many times. His is big and fat and she’s got plenty of hair. I saw it all as I spied on them through the window.’

‘I haven’t got any hair.’

‘First suck that and we’ll see.’ She just sat there thinking about it for some time, eyes on his appendage, while he watched her cunningly through his half-closed lids. He probably knew he could get her curiosity aroused to do his bidding.  ‘Go away, stupid girl, and leave me alone,’ he challenged.

‘No, I won’t.’ She pouted stubbornly in return.

‘Then suck it’ he challenged again.

She did as was told; now quite excited with the game. But, she finally tired with the effort and got up complaining. ‘My neck is aching’ she said, and ran off leaving Lorenzo disappointed. But, he was a crafty young Medici and knew she would be back the next day, when he would be ready and waiting.

‘Want to suck it?’

‘No, I’m not thirsty.’ She grinned mischievously.

And so they spent each lazy, warm afternoon, she busy sucking and he trying valiantly to put his pene into her when it was stiff. Lorenzo was getting more agitated and frustrated each passing day; as she would soon tire of the game, pull up her silk pantaloons, and skip away, leaving him to play with himself; only to return the next day driven by curiosity.

‘Can you feel it? Is it in?’ he panted. 

‘Fool, try again,’ she hissed angrily in her tiny child’s voice. The now mortified Lorenzo kept trying without success. She pushed him off, scoffing at his puny pene. ‘It’s too small,’ she said with venom. ‘It’s not as big as your father’s that’s why it won’t go in.’ She pulled up her silk pantaloons and ran off, singing and skipping happily. ‘It’s too small, it’s too small, and his water spout is too small!’

The now sulking Lorenzo de’ Medici never got his opportunity again, for the family left the next day, for their traditional home in Florence. But he did get his revenge to salve his shattered ego just before leaving. ‘You’ve got no hair around your hole,’ he hissed viciously into her ear on parting.

Much later, when she was twelve, she was sent to a boarding convent to complete her education. All thoughts of Lorenzo were distilled from her mind in the next four years, except the nagging fear that she would have no hair around the hole. But, by fourteen, it grew rapidly, much to her relief, and with it the cramping pain of her first menstruation.

She was barely sixteen when her marriage of convenience was arranged, to a very wealthy Medici. He was forty years her senior.

Marina di Andrea Gamba, and her summer afternoon juvenile flirtations with her cousin, might just have corrupted the delicate balance of her chromosomes.

[IV]

A Hotel Brawl

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The fourth and final unconnected incident took place at the University City of Orleans, located in the picturesque Loire Valley of France, just 60 miles south of the capital of Paris.

Early one evening, a young university apprentice innocently went into the Pension of Louis Pichette, long reserved by tradition only for the University seniors. The loud talking, singing, and raucous laughter stopped as though the conductor of a great orchestra had brought his baton down in the signal of conclusion. The silence was acute. The young man blinked to adjust his eyes to the dim interior and walked towards the wooden counter at the far end. He was not overly tall but upon closer inspection, he was broad of shoulder, with a barrel chest and muscular. His not unpleasant fair freckled face and startling blue eyes clashed incongruously with his dark hair. His name was Ian McGregor from faraway Scotland.

His mother, who was part French, wanted him to be educated at a French University. So many months earlier, she had cajoled his father to send him to Orleans.

Young Ian had raved, ranted, and rebelled against the decision. The thought of leaving his beautiful Scotland for a strange country and to attend a French university filled him with loathing; and to leave behind his carefree life and passion for horse riding, hunting, fishing, and the new-found sport of ‘bare knuckle fisticuffs’ made the thought worse still. But the die was cast when, after weeks of rebellion, his father’s patience ran out. He stood over him menacingly and told him, ‘You are going, young man and that’s the end of the matter, or I will personally belabour you and throw you out in the street without a penny. Is that clear?’ And for good measure, he added; ‘Now I’m warning you to study hard and do well with numbers; lest the same fate overtake you.’ 

He sulked for some time, wondering why this dreadful fate was thrust upon him. Had he known the real reason, he might just have escaped, for it was his passion for the sport of ‘fisticuffs, that convinced his mother that her son was becoming an uncouth ruffian and in need of refined French education. But all this was hardly on Ian’s mind when he stepped into the Pichette Pension.

The pretty maid behind the bar looked at him in terror and he innocently wondered why she should be afraid of him. Being careful with his money, a delightful trait of the Scots, he asked in halting French and impossible accent what a wee dram of Whisky would cost. She shook her head in consternation and signalled to Monsieur Pichette, the owner, who took in the situation with a practiced eye and hurried to her rescue. Unfortunately, his English was non-existent. The owner explained in French that since he was a University junior, he could not enter by tradition, the establishment reserved for his Senior’s.

‘I cannot understand you, man,’ he said, and he tried again; ‘Je demande le prix.’

Louis partially understood him and seeing him for a foreigner now immediately renewed his pleas to leave, urgently gesticulating toward the door. All of this was of course lost on good Ian for his French was still elementary, but he was slightly annoyed by the vehemence with which the owner pointed towards the exit.

Just then, a stentorian voice from the tables demanded in French, Who is this crazy fool? And with that, the chanting ensued, accompanied by the thumping of tables ‘Qui est fou? Qui est fou? Qui est fou?’

Ian McGregor looked around with some astonishment, and then smiled at the blur of faces in the hope that the chanting was one of friendly greeting. Instead, it became louder and now changed into a menacing tone; ‘A l’auge, au fumier!  A l’auge, au fumier!  A l’auge, au fumier!’ With that, a group of seniors descended upon him, grabbed him, and started frog-marching him out of the pension. 

Monsieur Louis Pichette rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and silently cursed the stupid foreigner for the disturbance.

It was not until they approached the horse trough that it dawned on McGregor he was in for a dunking in the icy water. A thought that did not quite amuse him though his captors found it so, for they were now laughing while still chanting in French words he understood now; To the trough, to the manure! At the very moment they got to the trough and were trying to pick him up, self-preservation and anger at this hostile treatment invaded the Scotsman’s mind. He suddenly dropped his body as they were trying to lift him, put both boots on the lip of the trough and, with the leverage from his powerful legs, jack-knifed backwards. Caught by surprise, the whole group behind him collapsed backwards with McGregor on top. He heard the wind gush out of some as they hit the ground hard on their backs, followed by swearing and yelps of pain from his assailants.

On his feet now, McGregor heard only the voice of his Scottish instructor; ‘When ye hit ‘em, laddie, hit ‘ard. Don’t fooking kiss them’ ... ‘Don’t grunt an’ bellow laddie, save yer fooking breath for the fighting,’ and that was exactly what he set about doing. With bunched fists, he struck at anybody within reach. Yelps of shock and pain followed every punch; to the face of one, the head of another, the ribs, the stomach, the back of the head, the kidneys ... a judicious kick to the groin and any other part of the anatomy. The mob of seniors fell back in shock and dismay.

To fence and wrestle they understood, but well directed flailing iron fists were totally unexpected and unfamiliar. Cries in French of Shit! ... Bastard!  ... Drag him down! ... Wrestle the devil to the ground! punctured the air but McGregor kept flailing away. Finally, by sheer weight of numbers, that’s exactly what the mob achieved; they dragged him down to the ground while he heaved, bucked, and kicked with gusto. But numbers will ultimately prevail, so they now sat on his arms and legs; some pummelling him from above and others kicking him from the safety of distance. Yet, not a sound escaped him.

Suddenly, a refined and commanding voice pierced through the bedlam. ‘Enough! Enough, you stupid idiots.’ A statement followed up by the swish and crack of a cane on the backs and shoulders of those straddling and pinning McGregor to the ground, drawing, more yelps of pain. Looking up, they saw the tall, bony, but aesthetic figure of Jean Bodin, one of the most respected seniors of the student body. His short hair was combed back; an immaculately trimmed beard graced his face, and the cane in one hand and pipe in the other, added to a distinguished appearance. ‘Ah, so now it takes only twenty Frenchmen to subdue one foreigner? You are so courageous! Now pick him up, dust him off, and fetch him to my table. He now at least deserves some French hospitality for his bravery.’ Turning his back on them, he made his way back into the pension. 

With the cessation of hostilities and adrenalin spent, a