The Horse Healer (51 page)

III.

D
iego was happy. It had been years since he had gotten up at dawn and galloped alongside his master, sharing his worries and all that he had learned. Galib, in spite of his age, had continued prospering in his profession. He was always close to the upper nobility and to the wealthy Muslims and Jews, but recently his fame had spread in Toledo and he was now the preferred albéitar of the king.

As Galib told Diego, Alfonso VIII had tried to convince him to work for him alone, and even to accompany him on his travels, but Galib never wanted to abandon his home or his independence.

They arrived at a magnificent palace on the outskirts of the city at the edge of the Tagus River. The building had been constructed by the final Muslim king in the days before Toledo's recapture by the Christians, and it was surrounded by an immense garden with a variety of trees, flowers, and bushes. At one time, it was meant to be a representation of paradise.

Diego felt overwhelmed. He had been in many noble houses, but this place was truly beautiful, or maybe he just felt awed because he was back with Galib in the stables of Alfonso VIII, whom he had heard so much about.

Once they were inside, the royal stable keeper awaited them with a gatekeeper and a steward. They were immediately taken to a sick horse.

“Diego, I'll let you do the honors.” Galib pointed out the animal.

The patient was a precious Arabian mare, white, lying on a bed of hay and looking listless.

Diego approached, talking to her softly. The mare met his eyes and tried to whinny but couldn't; she was too weak.

Her ears were cool to the touch.

“Until yesterday she had a high fever,” the stable keeper mentioned, “and last night, she peed blood.”

When he observed her, Diego could see something strange in her gaze; it seemed more clouded than normal. He knelt to feel her eyelids. The mere touch of his hands made her jerk uncomfortably. Her conjunctiva were yellow and he found a small sac with cloudy liquid inside it.

“Bring me a candle.”

Galib knelt and looked in her eyes while Diego examined the rest of her body.

“Muscular pain.” He pressed on her neck, and the mare pulled away. “Inflammation of the eyes.”

Galib had an idea of what was causing it but waited for Diego to speak.

The steward arrived with a lit lamp and a round mirror to reflect the light. Diego brought it close to one of the animal's eyes and she turned away, closed her eyelids, and kicked, showing her agitation.

“She has an illness of the veins …”

Galib looked at him, surprised. He had never heard such a sickness mentioned before.

“What do you mean?”

“It's something I saw in Albarracín. I still don't know what it's actually called. It's not written about it any books, though I suspect it's produced by a parasite, probably something too small to be seen. I studied it in depth and I suspect it enters the animal through an open wound and then migrates to another spot, and it causes all sorts of disturbances as it progresses. It shows up first as fever, which is the organism's defense reaction. If the kidneys are affected, there will be blood in the urine, and an attack on the liver will show in the yellowish color of the mucus. If they finally lose their sight, it's because of an inflammation of the inside of the eyes.”

“Do you know how to treat it?”

“Nothing has ever worked. She will go blind and then she'll die. We can alleviate her pain, but that's all. But that's not the worst thing.” He sighed, discomfited. “In this state, the animal is a danger, because this illness can be easily passed to man.”

“What?” The stable keeper became worried; one of his workers was suffering from fevers and a stomachache.

“You need to isolate her immediately,” Diego said, pointing to the mare. “Her disease could reach anyone who comes in contact with her, including the king himself.”

A sudden presence interrupted their conversation.

“How is my mare?”

That voice could only belong to one person. King Alfonso appeared in the company of a man of enormous stature.

“Your Majesty …” Galib gave a long, low bow. “It seems we have bad news.”

“Explain. …”

“Better if my former pupil, and now colleague, Diego de Malagón tells you.”

Alfonso VIII looked at Diego with little interest. The king was wearing a long garment of red and white with two golden castles embroidered on the breast. His mane was long and gray, his beard thick, his skin dark, leathery, and wrinkled. Diego saw immovable authority reflected in his gaze and felt proud to be so close to someone he admired so deeply. He knelt and caressed the neck of the animal affectionately.

His companion talked the whole time. He was explaining the difficulties they would have in improving the public militias and maintaining the Ultramontanes that were now in Córdoba after the declaration of the crusade. He insisted on the necessity of providing them with good horses, shields, and swords. The person speaking was the first sergeant to the royal master-at-arms, who was responsible for feeding and arming the troops during the campaign. Given the magnitude of the battle that was coming, he was getting more anxious by the day.

“You shouldn't touch her, Your Majesty!” Diego exclaimed.

“Would you mind explaining to me why?”

Diego detailed the nature of the illness the mare was suffering and the danger of contagion that was present. He was surprised by the monarch's good manners, his simplicity, and how comfortable it was to talk to him.

“Give her whatever cures as necessary to ease her pains,” King Alfonso concluded. “She has been a good and faithful mare. She has seen me through difficult times. You can no longer find animals of this breed …”

“Do you mean her Arabian blood?”

“That, yes. She's a unique specimen, a gift from the former governor of the
taifa
of Valencia. Her name is Faiza. According to what they told me, she descends from one of the five mares of Habdah, the originals. There is a legend that attributes the origin of the most beautiful race of horses, the Arabian, to those five. Do you know that story?” He looked at Galib. “Surely you do. …”

“Our Prophet named the others Obayah, Kuhaylah, Saqlauiyah, Hamdaniyah,” Galib said. “One day, Muhammad had a hundred mares chosen from among all those of his army and closed them in a corral next to a freshwater stream. He kept them there in the heat of the sun, without access to that vital liquid for days, and then had the gates opened. The mares, called by their thirst, galloped toward the water like mad. But at that moment, he had the horn blown to call them to his side. All ignored it but five that came to him without drinking. Their obedience transcended their instincts. Since then those became his favorite animals and they never left his side.”

“Faiza has been as great as they were,” the king continued. “I regret her loss like she was a member of my family. …” His gaze fell on Diego, and then he remembered where he had heard of him, from his own ensign, Álvaro Núñez de Lara. “Weren't you involved in that failed mission when we tried to take the Koran from Muhammad al-Nasir?”

“Yes, my lord.” Diego lowered his head, humiliated.

“In Don Álvaro you have a great ally, for he has spoken well of you to me despite that failure, and even stated you were blameless for that mission's lack of success. In any case, you must know your debt to the crown of Castile is great and has yet to be paid.”

“I shall do what you ask of me.”

“For now, make sure she doesn't suffer.” He said, pointing at his mare.

“I can alleviate her pain, but I must tell you that sooner or later, she will die.”

“Galib, do you agree with this diagnosis?”

“Diego is as skilled as I am, maybe more. Sometimes things don't go as we would wish, Your Majesty.”

“But this mare … cannot die!”

“We will treat her with a number of compounds, but you have to be ready to see her suffer, and soon die.”

The monarch was sad and disappointed. If those two albéitars, certainly the best in all the kingdom, could not heal his animal, then certainly there was no cure, however much it hurt him to say so. He approached her. He didn't want to touch her in case she might try to get up, but tremendous grief ran through his body.

“Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Diego replied.

“Do what you can for her. I beg you.”

On their way back to Galib's house, they talked about the case of the mare.

“I will never get used to the feeling of impotence when I come on a problem I can't cure.”

“Me neither,” Diego said, “and I am still asking myself what the true causes of illness are. I now reject completely the humoral theory of Hippocrates, and of course the other one relating illnesses to the mood of the gods. But I have discovered some writings of the Persian doctor Avicenna that have captivated me. His words are glimmering with truth. After reading them, I've come to the conclusion that in horses, other than the outward complaints, the causes and signs of which are already visible to us, the internal diseases arise from the effects of two essential principles. One of them is in the malfunction of the essential organs, like the liver, heart, and brain. And the other I attribute to the intervention of certain determinant agents, invisible but real, that produce disorders within these organs.”

Galib had also read Avicenna and, being partial to him as an Arab, also believed his theories. In fact, in one of his discoveries, concerning the contagious nature of tuberculosis, he could see reference to the idea Diego just mentioned of certain external agents that caused disease.

“Sometimes I have thought the same thing, but I don't know. … That type of explanation seems to bring us closer to the world of magic than of science. Small creatures … invisible ones, or particles causing illnesses, call them what you want … to my mind, if we embrace this theory, we give more credit to those who interpret diseases as the manifestation of malignant beings, which they call demons or monsters or even wicked gods, and that is the furthest thing from my thoughts.”

Diego argued his opinion more vehemently and gave as an example the illness of King Alfonso's horse.

“That inflammation of the veins could be produced by nothing but an external agent, and as I said, I think it's a parasite. I wasn't able to localize it when I opened some of its victims while I was staying in Albarracín, but I know it was there. … It takes advantage of the animal's weakness to pass through its vital organs and ends up in the eyes, in that sac we could see from outside. Before I came to that conclusion, I followed the classical thinking. In fact, because they had blood in their urine, I thought they might have an excess of that humor, and I bled them. The result was null. The old remedies were useless.”

Galib was content as he listened to him. Perhaps he didn't share Diego's ideas, but once again, he was astonished by his talent. “Therefore, there's nothing we can do to treat the mare the king loves so much.”

“I'm afraid not. She's going to die soon, and as he said, I will go on owing him for my failure on that mission.”

“What does the one thing have to do with the other?”

“When I offered to pay my debt to him, he told me I could do so by curing her.”

“What else would he say, if horses are what you know about?”

When he uttered those words, Diego stopped, silent. An incredible idea had just burst into his head.

“And if we offered him three or four thousand horses of the Arabian race?”

“What do you mean? Have you gone mad?”

“If we go back to the Marismas?”

“Diego, are you running a fever? To go back to that place after what happened. … Do you not remember?”

“After hearing the assistant to the master-at-arms, I think it could be a great help. They need many horses for their troops and where better than—”

“What you say is true, but you don't have to risk your own life doing it.”

“Think about it, Galib, it is my way of helping the kingdom through the one thing that has always been present in my life: horses.”

Galib remembered his own prophecy. Horses would be what would finally show Diego his way.

“And how do you think you'll manage to steal thousands of horses from the very heart of Al-Andalus and transport them more than a hundred leagues back to Toledo?”

“I'll ask the king to put the best knights he has at my service, and for time to organize the mission well.”

“It would be a wonderful endeavor, and there's no one better than you to carry it out. It brings together your two great aspirations: to strike a blow at the Almohads and take advantage of your experience and knowledge. But you have to prepare for it carefully. Know that for al-Nasir, that loss would mean not only great pain but also a serious humiliation. To fail to keep safe that inheritance from his ancestors, and on his own territory, would cause him a dishonor he would never escape.”

“You'll have to help me. …”

“Don't ask me for that. I swore never to return to the Marismas, and I still remember everything that happened. If I did it, I would see Benazir everywhere I looked, and I also don't want to relive poor Fatima's death. No, I'll never return. I'm old now, Diego, but you must go. Those Almohads must be punished. They've proclaimed a holy war against the Christians to return the territories Al-Andalus lost centuries back. They will fight to uproot not only the Christian faith from the kingdoms of the north, but also from any Muslim who refuses their stern practices.” Diego had never heard Galib speak so seriously. “If they achieve their objective, we will be submitted to their way of life, and they'll impose their diabolical version of Islam. They will destroy your culture until not a trace of it is left, they will burn the churches and turn them into mosques and madrassas, they will destroy whatever book they consider impious and enslave whoever doesn't want to embrace their doctrines. Don't doubt it, they will only allow one religion and one kind of society; that's why we have to stop them.”