The Horse Healer (47 page)

IV.

A
year after his arrival at Salvatierra, Diego was preparing for his first mission.

On a table sat a number of creams, wigs, paints that would darken his eyes, and a paste that would wrinkle his skin until he looked like an old man. Pinardo explained how to use them and what each one of them was for.

To the techniques of disguise was added an extensive training in bettering Diego's sense of orientation. Hundreds of times he had traveled blindfolded through the entire fortress, his hands tied behind his back, following the odors he smelled and being guided by the sounds and the feel of his feet over the floor. He had also learned to handle every sort of weapon and to camouflage his face. He mastered forging documents and making invisible ink and had recently learned a complex sign language that the knights sometimes used to communicate.

Before being with Pinardo, Diego had worked with Otón. As a test, he'd been forced to memorize a difficult text in under an hour. It was written in Arabic, a poem with complicated rhymes. With a first quick reading and a later, slower one, Diego had managed to recite it without wasting time and without a single error.

“This one will defeat you,” Otón said, choosing one in Latin and throwing it on the table almost offended, since he himself had needed at least a week for it.

Diego took it in his hands and read it in a low voice. It was a treatise entitled
Origin of the False and the True
and it was written by Saint Augustine. For a while he shut himself off from all else, concentrating on those reflections. Then he closed the book and began to recite the first paragraph.

“‘Noli foras ire, in teipsum redi; in interiore homine habitat veritas …'”

“That's fine. … There's no fooling you. Come tomorrow so we can go over the maps of the cities of Seville, Córdoba, and Granada.”

Diego told Pinardo what had happened with Otón while Pinardo was disguising his face.

At midday, when his transformation was complete, they went to the courtyard of the fortress to see how it had turned out. Diego attracted so much attention that people came from all areas of the fortress to see him, astounded at his appearance.

“I'm almost scared to pat you on the back.” Bruno stared into the false wrinkles around his eyes, impressed by the magnificent results. “You look like a fragile old man.”

Diego was stooped over, walking with a cane and wearing a long white cotton tunic like the ones common among the Saracens. He was employing a fragile, hollow voice, pretending to lose his breath as he spoke.

“Excellent work, Pinardo,” Bruno said, looking over at him. “And good acting, too, Diego. I hope everything functions according to plan. Now, follow me to the meeting room and I will tell you the next steps before we put everything in motion.”

Diego stood up and smiled at those present before disappearing into the subterranean tunnels. He was accompanied by Otón, Pinardo, and Tomás, as well as six other knights who frequently attended their meetings.

Bruno was already seated at the center of the large table, and as the knights filed in, they all sat as well, not losing any time. He raised his voice to call their attention.

“Our informers assure us that the enemy courier left Seville with the message three days ago,” Bruno said, bringing them up to date. “He's also been seen passing through Jaén and Écija, which means that if he keeps up that pace, he'll arrive at the Muradal Pass tonight around midnight. The idea is to place Diego near its end, before he enters the plateau, on the edge of the road. For everything to turn out the way we want, we need to take care of a number of issues before nightfall. While Pinardo finishes with his makeup, Otón will organize a party to distract the enemy, pulling them away and leaving the path open for Diego. Use twenty horsemen!” Otón showed his agreement. “The more they are, the more troops they'll devote to chasing you down. The key in this mission is to get Diego's disguise to provoke pity,” Bruno continued, turning now to Diego. “What do you do then?”

“He'll believe I've been wounded and when he comes close, I'll stab him in the neck with my dagger.” He breathed nervously, not yet resigned to that difficult task. “So he doesn't shout, I'll have to do it fast, and the cut needs to be deep. Then I'll take the message and hide his body in one of the small caves that run along the slopes of the gulley.”

“Exactly. The only difficulty is that you will have to act in complete solitude, Diego. The pass is very narrow and it's impossible to hide even a single horse. If we did it earlier, where the trail is broader, there would be too much risk of being seen.”

“And how will he know if it's the right man?” Otón asked curiously.

“They have told us he's traveling alone on a black horse. He also has a long goatee, a thin moustache, and his skin is very dark.”

“If he wears a turban, those details will hardly be visible.” Otón was trying to help Diego so that he would not make a mistake.

“His horse's forehead has a strange, cream-colored swatch shaped like a figure of eight. Regardless, I don't think many people will be traveling on that pass at night. Our agent in Seville has assured us that the message he is transporting is of dire importance. Just think, it may be our only opportunity, because once he's through the mountains and onto the plain, he'll have more chance to escape.”

Bruno, still harboring certain doubts inside, looked at Diego. Though he had been the one to decide to put Diego in charge of the mission, it was going to take great bravery and ability to react. If things went poorly, the peculiarities of that terrain would make it impossible to hide, and he would be in great danger. He would have to deceive the courier, prevent him from fleeing, and kill him, all that without being noticed. It was a serious challenge for a first mission.

When their talk was ended, Diego returned to the room where Pinardo had left all his tools so that they could finish with his disguise. As he walked, he thought silently about what lay ahead of him and he was surprised by his determination. Until that moment, he had never killed anyone, though he would have liked to slay Pedro de Mora, and in a fit of rage he had almost done away with Friar Servando. For him, life was a gift too precious to destroy without good reason.

And yet, in the past few months, things had changed, and his impressions as well. He began to see himself as part of an ambitious project: to strike back at and annihilate the Almohad Empire. He understood it was a task of colossal proportions, but necessary to preserve the civilization he knew. And maybe it was the mere fact of participating in such an enterprise that filled his heart with peace.

Every day, he was learning more from his comrades, and he valued them like no one he had ever known before. They were brave and committed, a special breed, able to practice the highest principles and values without boasting about it: duty, selflessness, loyalty, devotion. At their side, he understood that the tasks that they were entrusted with might bring difficult consequences, just like the one he would carry out tonight. But that was reality: To keep their civilization alive, their beliefs and their principles, to put a stop to the hate and extremism of the Almohads, a heavy price would have to be paid.

While he waded through these thoughts, he felt his stomach shrink from nervous tension. He went to the kitchen and swallowed some food to take his mind off it.

Then Pinardo finished painting his face, leaving what looked like a long scratch on his cheek, tore his tunic at his belly, and splashed lamb's blood around another wound he had painted. The look was very convincing.

Just a few hours later, Diego was lain out on the ground waiting for the messenger to appear. The silence was almost absolute. Nothing could be heard but the occasional flight of some nocturnal bird giving chase to its prey.

From his uncomfortable position, assailed by his frantic nerves, his only relief was a gust of wind that crossed from the north end of the pass to its south.

Before long, he heard something. It was a soft echo that soon became the clear sound of clacking horse hooves. The moment appeared to have come.

“Help …” Diego writhed in the middle of the path, covered in dust, looking wounded. “Please …”

The man heard his cry and went for his sword.

“Who is it?” His rough voice resounded off the sides of the gully, growing louder.

“Help … save me.” Diego's voice seemed to come from a person on the edge of death.

The man dismounted a few yards away from him and threatened to strike with his sword if Diego made any strange movements. The light of the moon left no shadows to cover them. The courier realized that was a good spot to be ambushed. He looked at his surroundings and saw to his relief that there was no vegetation around them where an enemy might hide.

He thought he saw something moving in the distance and threw a stone. A frightened rat ran from its hovel.

He kept walking toward the man lying in the middle of the road, unsure of whether to help him or carry on. His orders were strict; he should take the message to a young translator from Toledo without stopping for anything.

“I need help, in the name of Allah …” Diego continued to moan and forced a dry, sharp cough.

The horseman took pity on him and came over.

When he pulled back the cloth from his face, he revealed eyes of steel. He seemed self-assured and very strong. His long goatee and pointed moustache were unmistakable: he was definitely the courier. Diego kept his eyes on his sword.

“What's happened to you?” The voice was steady and the face unmoving. At all moments, he kept a safe distance from Diego.

“Praised be Allah the most merciful for guiding you here to me. …” Diego raised his head and turned so the man would see the scratches on his face and the blood staining his clothes. “They robbed me. … Curse them.” In a gesture of impotence, he squeezed a handful of soil in his fist.

“Who are you talking of, my good man?”

“A group of bandits. They fell on me, took what I had, and then dragged me along the ground, kicking me like a dog.”

The courier contemplated the old man, still mistrustful, and asked him where he was from and where he was going.

“I was returning to Úbeda with merchandise for my store when they attacked me. I'm from there. …” He howled opportunely and twisted on the ground, holding his stomach.

That last deception worked, and the man put away his sword and came over to help. When he knelt, Diego made use of their proximity, taking a sharp dagger he had hidden beneath his clothes and plunging it into the man's neck with no hesitation, while he covered the messenger's mouth with his other hand to muffle his screams. He struggled powerfully, but Diego had been lucky enough to pierce his jugular. He began to count to ten before letting the man go, but at five the man slumped down beside him.

Diego threw the dagger away and looked at the man, filled with grief. He was panting, drowning in his own blood, his eyes wide open and fear in his pupils. He was still conscious, though a cloud of death began to shadow his gaze. Diego felt bad for what he had done and stayed there to watch him die. Then he felt in his clothes and found a leather belt with a small wooden box embedded with copper and a false safe conduct for travel through Castile. When he opened the box, he removed a small parchment with minuscule letters. He slipped it into a leather bag that he hung around his neck.

Shortly afterward, Diego found the entrance to the Black Cave, as it was called, and dragged the cadaver there. It was exhausting, especially at the end, because the opening was uphill from the pass. Once the body was inside, he covered the entrance with branches and then turned to look at the result. Satisfied, he took the man's horse and returned to the fortress, careful not to be discovered, and weighed upon by his conscience because of what he'd done.

“Congratulations, Diego. You did your job perfectly.” Bruno could imagine what he was feeling. “Sometimes, our work makes us get our hands dirty, and it may even affect your principles, as I told you already. But don't think that you've sinned because of the blood you've spilled; don't let it affect you. See it as something necessary on the way to a much nobler end.”

“A noble end, you say. … I doubt that killing is one.”

“We are at war, don't forget it. Kill or die; many times there is no third option. We are living in dark times, in dangerous lands. Here there's no room for feelings like the ones that are tormenting you. You have to be harder.” Bruno became more serious. “The death of that man will save many others. With your action, you have given them life. That is how you need to see it, the only way you need to see it.”

Bruno served Diego a generous glass of wine and then made him drink.

“Forget what happened. God will judge that man, just as he will judge you when your time comes. We all have our time to live and our time to die.”

V.

M
encía's arrival in Burgos loosed a veritable whirlwind of emotions in Marcos, all swirling around Diego. The mere mention of him reopened the wound of his disloyalty.

When she told him what had happened to his friend in Cuéllar, he shrank with dread, though he felt relieved immediately at the news that his tomb had been empty.

Mencía had come to him convinced that she would find Diego, but she had been wrong. How could she have known that Marcos would have no idea what had happened, and worse, that he had disappeared from his side at the most critical moment?

Of course Marcos knew why he had done what he had done. Once he'd managed to think through the negative consequences that would arise once he set foot into the courtroom, he had been filled with a terror so overwhelming, it had made him fear for his very life. He thought that he would end up thrown into a cell with Diego. And how could he have helped then? Not at all. Cuéllar needed a sacrificial lamb and they had found one. A poor man like him could do nothing to change the verdict that he was sure they would impose upon his friend.

“Let's go look for him together,” she encouraged him. “I'm sure we'll find him.”

“I don't think it will be easy, Mencía. I don't know, I think we should calculate better and try to figure out where to start. And remember, I still have responsibilities here and …”

Mencía fell quiet. She was wounded by the lack of interest this alleged friend was showing, and it was clear he wasn't telling her everything. Something bad must have happened between them on those fateful days to justify that silence.

Though she felt disappointed, she decided to carry on and look for Diego on her own. But to begin, she needed a clue to follow, and worst of all, she didn't know where to find one. It occurred to her that there in Burgos, the capital of Castile, there had to be some kind of register where the documents compiled throughout the kingdom were kept, and that evidence of what had happened in Cuéllar must be there.

Marcos told her there was such an archive and where she could find it. Mencía saw a gleam of hope. Maybe among those papers she could find something that would tell her what had really happened during the trial and especially in the days just before his execution.

To reconstruct the facts she only had two clues: the fake burial in the cemetery in Cuéllar and the mysterious existence of those men who had paid off the gravedigger to keep silent. She determined she would begin with the registrations of the prisoners and then look at the trial records, studying everything to the last detail.

Marcos promised her he would help her get access to the documentation through his contacts in the city government.

She would give it time and persistence; there was no need for anything else.

For the next couple of years, her efforts were as disappointing as they were slow. But Mencía was still able to discover something, thanks to a contact of Marcos's: the chief registrar for Castile, García Rodríguez Barba.

The institution the man represented had great influence in the royal court. He was the first among the king's functionaries, and one of the few who oversaw every royal document and edict. As justice of the court, he was charged with leading investigations as well as prosecuting those guilty of high crimes against the crown. And though Diego's case had been outside his jurisdiction, the story of that terrible poisoning in the town of Cuéllar had been much talked about even there.

Mencía went to see him two or three times a week. He worked in one of the outbuildings of the convent of Santa María la Real de las Huelgas, close to the royal palace and built at the express wish of King Alfonso VIII and his wife, Leonor. That beautiful building had been raised as a monument to the crown of Castile and was the most important of the Cistercian convents in the land. Its grand prestige meant that it was soon chosen as a retreat for the daughters of the nobility.

Thanks to its extensive archives and the help of the registrar, Mencía was able to begin tying up loose ends and figuring out a good deal of what had happened.

“Marcos, I think I finally know who helped him.”

One afternoon in the spring of 1211, Mencía entered the main room of his house like a whirlwind, kissed his cheek, and sat on a stone bench beside the window with a splendid smile on her face.

“What?”

Marcos closed a thick book where he made note of his accounting and looked at her expectantly. She was wearing a dress of lilac and white, with gemstones trailing down her collar and a translucent veil. She seemed more beautiful than ever. She had been in Burgos for four months now.

Mencía looked out into the garden and inhaled the sweet scent given off by the honeysuckle in the hours before night fell.

“The Calatravans!” she exclaimed immediately.

“You mean that ill-famed military order?”

Mencía was shocked. The news could not be better, and yet Marcos had added a disagreeable note to his commentary.

“Do you have something against them?”

“Not at all,” Marcos said, hiding the tension he felt when the subject of Diego arose.

“I don't know, I feel like you're not happy about what I've just said.” Mencía got up, feeling nervous. “I just had in my hands, finally, the register of entries and exits from the jail in Cuéllar for those days, and all thanks to your friend the registrar. The poor man has no idea what my interest is, though I explained to him already the nature of my friendship with Diego.”

“And what have you figured out for certain?”

“A Calatravan by the name of Bruno was held there for a minor crime those days. … offenses against authority, I believe. The coincidence­ of the dates makes me think he may have met and possibly spoken with Diego inside the dungeons. The list has other names of prisoners alongside their crimes: a highwayman, two Moors who hadn't paid their taxes, and a Jew described as ‘the magician.' None fit the description the gravedigger gave me.”

“Efraím!” Marcos commented sharply. “That magician you just mentioned was friends with Diego; he had shared his secrets with him. I remember he was a strange, shadowy man.”

Mencía served herself a glass of water and offered one to Marcos. He preferred wine.

“I've asked everyone about the Calatravan, but no one seems to know anything about him. As if he was a ghost!” She gathered her skirts in her hand and sat down again. “Nor do I understand why people grimace when I mention that order. Can you tell me what's going on?”

Marcos wasn't knowledgeable about political matters except for those that pertained to his business, but this was an exception, as he had heard the story more than once.

“When a castle is under siege by an enemy, its defenders can fight to the death or else turn it over intact and save their own lives. The Calatravans tend to do the second, especially since the defeat at Alarcos. That is the bad reputation they have gained.”

Mencía listened without wanting to give an opinion. She just wanted to know how to find the man. Then she remembered something.

“Isn't the monastery of Fitero the place the Calatravan order was founded?”

Marcos nodded.

“Give me a name, quickly!” Her face lit up. “Right now I will write and ask for help. There they will know how to find Bruno de Oñate.”

“Friar Jesús, the cook. He knows the order well.”

Hundreds of leagues to the south, another woman was also thinking about Diego. It was his sister.

For the first time in sixteen years, Estela was leaving Africa behind, to travel to Seville with the majestic fleet of the Caliph al-Nasir. It was March of 1211 and sixteen years had passed since her imprisonment. Sixteen long years …

After two heat-racked days journeying overland, they had arrived at the port of El Jadida, to the northeast of Marrakesh, and five days later they were entering into the mouth of the Guadalquivir River to follow it upstream to the port at the capital city of Al-Andalus.

When Estela saw the city from the deck of the ship, the bustle, the scent, the grand shipyards next to the port and its contrasting vivid colors, she fell in love immediately.

Almost thirty now, she has resigned herself to her concubinage and for months now had been taking advantage of her position as al-Nasir's favorite.

The caliph's sister, Najla, journeyed at her side, dressed in a dark niqab. For some time now, she had been wearing the niqab, to avoid men's gazes but also to hide the scars that had been left on her by a poisoned henna. Her skin had been left a taut and dry mask, changing her expression completely and inalterably.

The person responsible for it hadn't been found out. The slave who painted the princess was found dead, as well as the two women whose task had been to mix the henna. Her brother al-Nasir had ordered an investigation into the events without any success, and as time passed, everything remained hidden under a cloak of mystery, forgotten by almost everyone but Najla, who had to see her own face daily and whose life had been converted into bitterness.

“You know why we're coming to Seville?” Estela asked the princess. Her blue eyes shimmered beneath her black niqab like two stars. While she waited for her answer, she saw that the Imesebelen Tijmud was approaching.

“My brother wants war,” Najla answered drily.

“My ladies …” Tijmud interrupted. “I have very bad news.”

“Tell us, quickly, what is it about,” Estela ordered.

“I have just found out from one of the slaves that—”

A high-pitched whistling cut his words short. The sound announced the arrival of the governor of Seville, the brother of al-Nasir and of Najla. The two women saw a young man jump onto the deck from another ship. He quickly came over to Tijmud and the ladies and discreetly pulled them apart.

The man who had just arrived looked a great deal like Najla. His features were softer than those of his brother the caliph, and they reflected a calmer and more cheerful character. He kissed his sister without lifting her veil and introduced himself to Estela as al-Nasir arrived. The two brothers embraced and, after looking at each other, joked at the growing size of their respective bellies.

After those courtesies, the host encouraged them to take a look at the city's magical outline against the sky, with its palm trees and minarets, before they docked.

“Our grandfather transformed this city into the capital of our empire. He paid for the walls that protect it from the river, made of pebble and limestone and crafted by the most skilled hands. He also had an aqueduct raised, a new bridge, and the Great Mosque. You will see the beautiful citadel and the gate of Yahwar, which are also among his works.”

He turned to the women with emotion in his face.

“I came to love Seville like a favorite woman. …” He turned his gaze to Estela, approving his brother's taste. She lowered her head timidly.

Najla looked at the stepped paths on the edges of the river where thousands of people had congregated to greet them. Never had such a consort of ships as this been seen in Seville, nor such pomp in the caliph's court.

When al-Nasir had embarked, he was accompanied by thirty ships transporting fifty horses, two hundred Imesebelen, his retinue, sixty concubines and fifty other slaves, as well as his porcelain and silver and all he would need to remain away a long time without yearning for Marrakesh.

A sudden breeze from the west swelled their sails as they arrived, bringing the coolness of the distant ocean. When she breathed in, Estela broke into tears. After so many years of confinement and humiliation, for the first time, she felt a little freer. Seville was not so far from her land, from her people. It made her feel closer to home.

When Estela saw the various palaces forming the citadel, she couldn't imagine anything more beautiful. There were more than a dozen buildings surrounding a number of cross-shaped courtyards connected by curving underground passageways. Each had distinct vegetation and its own aroma. One abounded in scents of jasmine, another of iris, a third of basil. Each of the buildings also had distinctive decorations on the floors, walls, and arches. Al-Nasir's father had been responsible for those changes to the Umayyad buildings that they referred to as Al-Mubarak. Above them rose that fantastic residence.

Estela was lodged in an outbuilding close to Princess Najla and, of course, the caliph's rooms. Following the advice of his sister, Estela had gone back to al-Nasir's bed, and since that time she let him love her, although she found no pleasure in the act.

For the first few days in Seville, she enjoyed the gardens passionately. She tried to feel their plenitude, excited to be in some place that wasn't the harem in Marrakesh. She listened to the fountains and saw herself reflected in the ponds, amid the chants of finches and swallows.

On one of her walks during her second week there, she received a secret visit. It was Tijmud, who had managed to slip out of his quarters to warn her.

“Señora …” he called to her, protecting himself behind an enormous sheet of honeysuckle under the shadow of a wall.

She turned without knowing who he was.

“Here! Behind you.”

Estela saw the Imesebelen and walked toward him cautiously.

“What is it, Tijmud?”

“Come closer. I have to tell you something important; the thing I couldn't tell you on the ship. … Remember?”

Soon they heard voices coming toward the courtyard and Estela became very nervous. She feared being discovered with the guard, and to avoid it, she pushed him quickly into the vegetation, and then entered behind him. They gazed carefully between the branches, and to their shock they saw the caliph appear together with Pedro de Mora.

“Either we do it next spring, or you will have serious problems with some of your governors, believe me,” Don Pedro explained to him. “I have learned that many are making pacts with the Christian kings, even paying them not to be attacked. As you see, the situation is critical and it is beginning to seem more and more like the one that existed before the glorious Almohad conquest, when other governors named themselves kings of their small territories.”