The Horse Healer (58 page)

Diego weighed his chances and decided to do it no matter what. He knew that any error could bring with it fatal consequences, and that Pedro de Mora would alert the guards at the least sign of danger. It wouldn't be easy, but nothing was going to stop him.

He took a deep breath and blew out slowly until he felt relaxed enough, then he looked for the two daggers in his belt. He looked at his sister and said good-bye to her.

“For God's sake, Diego, be very careful and come back soon. I can't bear to lose you now. … I'll be waiting for you.” In that moment, Estela's eyes expressed a tumult of emotions. She blessed him for what he was about to do, but at the same time, she felt a terrible fear. She would have liked to help him with her own hands, to breathe in the last breath that man expelled, to steal his life away …

Diego stroked her cheek and promised to return.

He shuffled over, kneeling down, until he was close to the tent, and then dragged himself along the ground to approach it from the end opposite where the soldiers stood. He lifted the fabric cautiously and looked inside. Amid carpets and silks, in an atmosphere of luxury, there was Pedro de Mora, seated and looking over some papers. Diego saw the rogue from the side. He thought that if he entered quickly and without making noise, he could even go unobserved. He inhaled, clenched his teeth, and walked silently into the tent. He felt the blood coursing in his veins and thought the beating of his heart would give him away, but Don Pedro remained absorbed in his papers. The key to his success was speed.

Pedro de Mora snorted brusquely and Diego jumped. To his great regret, he couldn't cut Mora's throat, however much that was what he wanted, because if he was discovered in the act, the alarm would sound over the encampment and his mission would be compromised.

He decided to act according to plan.

Now was the moment.

He hunched down on the ground and walked up behind him. He felt the scent of the man's hair gather in his nostrils as he passed his arm over his face, covering his mouth. Making use of his other hand and his knowledge of anatomy, he pulled his head backward until he heard a soft crack in his neck. He let him go and made sure he couldn't move. From that moment on, the man would be paralyzed but would remain conscious.

Diego looked into his eyes and exhaled, satisfied; Don Pedro's expression showed he recognized him. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. To avoid unnecessary risks, Diego put a kerchief in his mouth and then looked for the bag with the concoction that Estela had prepared. Don Pedro's pupils contracted, first from surprise, then from fear, imagining his fatal destiny in the hands of the albéitar. He wanted to escape, but incomprehensibly, he couldn't move a single muscle.

Diego came close to his ear and whispered softly.

“Now you'll taste this death potion. I'll give you something to drink that will burn through your entrails and organs one by one. You will feel yourself burning alive, but without fire.” Don Pedro de Mora's eyes swelled with panic. “That's how you'll pay for the evil you've done to my family.”

Diego found a pitcher of wine and a glass. He filled it and dropped in the powder, stirring it with precision. The mixture began to produce an acrid smoke. Then he pulled back the man's head, took the cloth from his mouth, and opened it as wide as he could. He held it open with his fingers and made him drink the foul liquid. That poison would leave no sign of a violent death. The next morning they would find him dead, and no one would relate it to the presence of the Christian deserters.

Diego cleaned the saliva that had begun to flow from his mouth and watched how the drug's effects were progressing. De Mora's eyes were popping from his head and his mouth grimaced with pain.

Before he left the tent, Diego, thinking of the crippling pains the man must be feeling in his insides just then, wished him a happy stay in hell. He made sure there was no one around and then ran after Estela.

They embraced intensely and then separated for the night.

“Estela, I saw it. … I felt how his life drained away in my hands, and then I remembered father, Blanca, and Belinda. And you, too. … At last that monster has paid for the terrible harm he did us.”

“From now on, our dead will rest in heaven.”

X.

T
he air became thick and the wind hardly moved over the hillsides as the sun rose on the sixteenth of July of 1212.

A closed silence accompanied the Christian army while the soldiers took their positions on the broad meadow that separated the Christian camp from that of the Saracens.

On that damp stretch of land, there were nine large groups, each one consisting of two thousand men. Three battalions were at the head, three in the middle, three more in the rear. The first line was composed of heavy cavalry, split into three groups of a hundred horsemen with three behind them.

During the long, tense wait, a flock of swallows flew over the soldiers in their formations, screeching their strange calls. The horses seemed to wish to chant along, for at that moment, there rose up a timid chorus of neighs that grew until it drowned out all else, a deafening concert of grunts and whinnies. The animals were extremely nervous. They could foresee something terrible. They kicked at the ground, their ears pricked up at the smallest sound as they stood there, weighed down by their riders in their heavy suits of armor, holding their swords.

A cool breeze rose up and everyone felt relieved, because the heat of the day was already vexing them.

Amid so many thousands of men, an anonymous rider from the militia in Frías looked around, terrified. He was on the front line and was about to live through the most dangerous experience of his life. The panic made him shake in his saddle.

At his side, a Navarrese knight attempted to comfort him.

“Always watch your right flank. Their attacks will be fast and they will come after that side. When you see them, protect yourself with your shield right away, because the arrows will be coming at you with incredible speed.” With his sword, he pointed at a group of soldiers just in front of them, only a quarter league away. “Those are Arab horsemen, and beside them are the Turkish archers. Those coursers they ride can almost fly. You'll see them coming and going and changing direction with a speed that you won't be able to believe.”

“I'll try to keep my eye on them, señor,” the young man said in a choked voice. He tried to straighten his helmet, but just then it fell off; it was too big for him.

“How old are you, boy?” The Navarrese knight felt compassion for him and decided to try and protect him.

“Sixteen, señor.”

“Is this the first time you've seen war?”

“The first, yes.”

The man was afraid for him, knowing his inexperience. He was on a beautiful Arabian mare, but his arms were shoddy and inadequate. An old leather cuirass barely covered him, and his sword was too short. Nor was he outfitted with a lance.

“What are your defenses?”

He showed him a battered shield.

“I also took Communion and listened to Mass this morning, and God will protect me. …”

“Don't ever abandon your faith, son, but God's protection won't be enough today. Take my sword,” he said, exchanging his for the boy's. “It's long and heavy, but it will serve you better when you strike at an enemy's chest. It's sharp and it will open deep mortal wounds. The one you have is only good for fighting on the ground.”

“And you?” The boy was surprised by his generous act. “How will you defend yourself?”

The nobleman pointed to another, bigger sword, and to his lance.

“We are the front lines of this great army, the right flank. We are fighting side by side with the knights and family of Don Diego López de Haro there in the center and with the Aragonese, headed by their ensign, who are over there on the left. When we see the standard of the lord of Biscay waving, the one with the two black wolves on the white background, we will attack. We'll be the first to do so. When that happens, push the side of your horse close to mine, and do the same with the man to your left. We'll form a strong and unbreachable wall that will break apart their formations. Once that's happened, and we're through the first few rows of men, swing your sword with all your might and keep pushing. Cut and stab and don't think about them being men like us. If you do, you've lost, and they'll kill you first.”

“I understand, señor. … I won't flinch,” he affirmed, now more convinced.

“That is what our three kings expect of us. Never before have those three joined hands in battle. Look at them, they're behind you making up the three rearguard formations. Each one bears the standard of his kingdom. Mine, Navarre, is to the right. In the middle is Alfonso VIII of Castile, and to the left Pedro II of Aragon. Today, young man, we're making history.”

“What is your name?” the boy from Frías asked, looking at him with an almost filial respect.

“Iñigo de Zúñiga.”

Behind them, the grand master of the Order of Santiago rallied his men, reminding them of their duties in battle.

“The soldiers of Christ never retreat!” he shouted, enraged. “Do you hear me?” The man rode around his followers, observing their expressions.

In unison, those men, with their stern faces and gravelly voices, pledged their unshakable commitment. Their huge horses stamped at the ground energetically.

“Then listen to me and let these words be engraved in your hearts.” He looked at the men gathered closest to him. “We have come here to win freedom for the sons of God.” He was shouting now. “And in the defense of our faith, we will use the weapons and the courage that can only belong to those who bear the truth.”

He stopped to examine their faces. In those glances there was fearlessness, willingness to give all, and lust to water the ground with the blood of infidels.

“Let no one strike fear in you!” He raised his powerful voice. “You have been selected for this holy mission. And if you feel they are defeating you, look up into the sky. God will help you to go on swinging your weapon against the enemy.”

“War, war, war …” they all chanted, pointing their swords in the air.

Behind them, King Sancho VII rode an enormous Neapolitan horse, looking for Alfonso VIII's position. He found him beneath a standard different from the one he normally flew: the emblem was a yellow castle under an image of the Virgin Mary. The Aragonese was answering the call of the Castilian, along with the archbishop of Narbonne and the archbishop of Toledo.

“Together we have agreed as to what our tactic will be. We know that God is on our side and we have been blessed at a solemn Mass before coming here. We possess the greatest army our enemy has ever faced …” Alfonso VIII looked over the battlefield and stopped at al-Nasir's tent. Vivid red in color, it was surrounded by a rectangular palisade of grand proportions guarded by no fewer than five hundred men. “Therefore, gentlemen, this is the day and hour of the truth.”

“Today, the troops of Jesus Christ shall win!” the archbishop of Narbonne added, shouting.

The Ultramontane's comment was cheered on by a half-dozen bishops from Castile and Aragon, who were riding into battle like any other soldier.

Don Álvaro Núñez de Lara approached the three kings and requested their attention.

“The cavalry is already prepared for the first sally. It will charge straight ahead in a tight formation. The two hills on each side of the plain will help us, for there is barely space for the enemy to try and slip by our flanks, as happened at Alarcos.” Alfonso VIII remembered what had happened just as he was at the point of breaching the enemy's front, when they had been surrounded by the light cavalry and their forces were annihilated.

“How are their troops arranged?” Archbishop Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada asked Don Álvaro.

“They have placed the volunteers in the middle and on the front line. They are foreigners, fanatics who have come to war without any fear of dying. They are normally wild and don't fight particularly well. Beside them are the light cavalry—they are deadly. By my estimation, there are no fewer than five thousand Arabs among them, professional soldiers from the various tribes in the empire. With them, we have to be on our guard, we've seen what skilled riders they are and they are rightly famed for their violence. They will try to disperse us and break our ranks.” He pointed to the next group. “In the second row there is a dense group of Andalusian knights.” He thought of Diego, wishing he had been successful in his mission. “And behind, in front of the caliph's tent, are his best troops; thousands of fierce Almohad warriors and perhaps ten thousand Turkish archers.”

“Is there anything new concerning what we spoke of yesterday?” King Alfonso intervened.

“The local militias are our worst-trained and worst-armed fighters,” Pedro of Aragon said. “We need to mix them in with our knights. That way they can protect one another. That will be important when they fight side by side.”

“Agreed,” Sancho said, speaking for the rest of them, and commanded his ensign, Gómez Garceiz, to transmit this order to the men.

Then a number of troops were rearranged, and everything was ready.

The signal was given.

Don Diego López de Haro began the first charge, speeding up as they descended a slight hill. The Christian troops were silent, but the Saracens banged their drums, hundreds or even thousands of them, and the entire Arab contingent shouted infernally.

The terrain separating them was irregular, full of brush and large stones that forced the densely packed cavalry to open up a bit.

From the Saracen side, the Muslim volunteers, seeing that wall of men approach them, recited sutras from the Koran. The enormous horses panted furiously, picking up speed as their hooves pounded against the dry earth.

The echo of the drums grew in intensity, its rhythm matched by the galloping of the horses. Hundreds of Arab riders pushed ahead, launching arrows and trying without success to surround the enemy.

Just before Don Diego and his Biscayan soldiers reached the enemy's front lines, the drums and the shouting fell silent. Even their breathing stopped. All that could be heard was the galloping and the roaring of the horses. Fewer than ten yards away, Don Diego gave the order to aim their lances.

With the first clash, the Muslim advance was stopped and their troops dispersed with almost no defense. The men under the lord of Biscay were able to penetrate to the second line, where the Andalusians stood ready. Among them was Diego de Malagón and the rest of his alleged deserters.

Suddenly something happened that none of them expected. To the surprise of the Saracens, the Andalusian horsemen, heavily armed and with horses as fearsome as their own, lowered their arms and turned, abandoning the front. That was their way of returning the insults they had suffered from their Almohad masters and avenging the death of Ibn Qadis, one of their most beloved leaders.

The night before, Diego de Malagón convinced them, saying they would be considered brothers of the Castilians, sharing their destiny with the people of the north. He said that he was speaking in the name of Alfonso VIII and that this promise came directly from him. If they were victorious together, they would share the spoils together and their erstwhile disagreements would be forgotten.

“It worked, Álvaro,” King Alfonso VIII shouted euphorically when he saw the war was turning in his favor despite the numerical inferiority of the Castilians. “That retreat has just undone our enemy's strategy. Now we'll see what the caliph can do against us.”

Inside the Almohad palisade, al-Nasir had just ordered his sister, two of his wives, and his favorite concubine to leave him in peace to think. They went to a second tent and he remained on the ground praying to Allah.

He felt he was blessed, just like Saladin, who had toppled Jerusalem, defeating the crusaders and retuning it to the faith of Islam. Like him, al-Nasir would receive help from heaven to win the war against the forces of evil.

“God spoke the truth and the demon lied …” he repeated over and over, repeating the words of that storied leader when he found himself at the gates of the Holy City.

Seated on his shield, he opened the most elegant of his Korans and recited several verses, shortly after ordering the Turks to chase down and kill the Andalusian traitors. He also gave the signal for the first counterattack.

Helped along by the slope, thousands of Almohads rushed toward the Christian advance and soon managed to break it apart. The Christians kept fighting, separated and exhausted, stopped short on the land and trying futilely to progress uphill. In that unfortunate position, they were easy targets for the archers, and they began to fall by the hundreds beneath their arrows.

The second Christian attack, with the Templars and Calatravans at its head, reached the positions held by Don Diego López de Haro and came to his aid, though soon they were pushed back as well by the Almohads' skilled cavalry and the effects of a new rain of arrows. Some, alarmed by their poor progress, began to retreat to lower ground, where they could take better positions, but from the Christians' rearguard, King Alfonso VIII saw this as a retreat. He even thought it could be the lord of Biscay himself.

He understood it was time for him to act. He made a sign to the other kings and leapt into the melee, followed by the monarchs of Navarre and Aragon.

At his side was Archbishop Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada.

“Archbishop, you and I will die here if we don't triumph!” The priest had unsheathed his sword and looked toward the enemy front with eyes bursting with bravery. Though some might have given up the battle, he preferred death to turning back with a humiliating defeat.

“We have to break through the final line of soldiers and reach the palisade,” Sancho VII shouted, coming up on Alfonso from his right flank. “If we strike him there, it will be a mortal wound.”

Diego observed the course of the attack headed by the kings, for he himself was already close to the palisade, where Estela was located. He tried to make his way up there, slaying anyone who got in his way.

Al-Nasir had protected himself behind a solid defensive barrier: an enormous wooden fence reinforced with thick chains. Behind it there was a second army formed by nearly five hundred Imesebelen: the caliph's personal guards. They were bound together at the knees and some were even buried up to their thighs. Packed closely together, they completely surrounded the place where their master waited.