The Horse Healer (53 page)

Don Álvaro had everyone come over and apprised them all of the situation. Seated on his horse, he transmitted bravery and poise as he explained to them what he expected.

“Now there's no time for long discourses, so I will be short and precise. We have to get these animals across the river safe and sound. That means that from now on, you have to form an iron rearguard that will prevent the Moors from reaching them. If they try to reach the herd, make a wall, kill their horses, I don't care. … Do you understand?”

A single voice rose up in agreement, sounding with the fury of war.

Don Álvaro encouraged his men to get into position as quickly as possible and encouraged them with a few last words.

“These animals represent the freedom of our people, the possibility of defeating the enemy. They form part of our last cry for victory if we can manage to get them to Toledo. … Help them across the river, and you will help our brothers in the faith.”

They began to hear the first cries of the Saracens, and Don Álvaro called for them to spur on the mares, pushing them to race north, as they did.

Seated on Sabba at a rapid gallop, Diego looked back and saw how the group that had gathered in the rear was assailed by enemies.

The animals sweated and ran, terrified by the blows the horsemen were giving them, stunned by the screaming surrounding them. They were less than half a league from the banks of the river. If they made it, they would cross through a shallow zone that Diego had recommended. He approached Don Álvaro and observed him. He rode with his eyes narrowed and his jaws clenched. The tension in his muscles and the courage he exuded made him seem like one of those Greek statues Diego had seen in the portals of the buildings in Toledo.

“I have to get to the head of the herd,” Diego screamed in his ear. “We need to be sure the herd doesn't disperse before we get into the water; if that happens, they'll never go through the riverbed, and it will be a complete disaster.”

“Good, that sounds good. … Go on ahead, there's not much more.” The first arrows could now be heard. Some horses, frightened by the noise, ran even faster, pushing the ones at the head of the group. When he saw that, Don Álvaro had an idea and fell back to explain it to his guards.

Diego knew, like the rest of the horsemen, that life lay on one side of the river and death on the other if they didn't make it and fell into the hands of the Saracens. The horses would go back to the Marismas, but the men would saturate the ground with their blood.

Diego spoke in Sabba's ear.

“Show everyone you're a daughter of the wind. Show them the greatness of your blood, your name, your breed that was born to fly. Run! Run faster than you ever have, tear through the air!”

Sabba responded with renewed vigor and took the lead of that powerful herd, pointing them toward the best place to cross the river. At her back there was a deafening roar of horses, a dry thumping of thousands of hooves breaking the earth, making stones fly off in all directions.

Diego studied the riverbanks and decided to go through a clearing among the trees that ended in a patch of sand on the river's edge.

Following on the heels of the herd, some of the riders armed with swords jabbed at the rumps of the mares, and their panic rose. The animals ran in fear and the emotion spread to the other horses, which sprinted to keep up with them.

When the first horde of Saracens reached them, the Christian swords gleamed in the air, carrying out the death sentences of their enemies. Without halting their gallop, the knights pushed them away with such bravery that nothing was left in their path but a long line of dead and wounded men, and only two of the Christians fell.

They caught sight of the river and prayed to reach it soon, because the second wave of the enemy attack was about to descend on them, and it could be thirty times larger than the previous one.

A new cloud of arrows slew a number of horses and wounded others, and the dread among the animals mounted. They all sped up further as the swords of the Saracens clashed with those of the Christians. In just an instant, the situation had gotten so bad that some thought all was lost.

Diego made it through the trees, and Sabba's hooves felt the soft earth and then the coolness of the water. He looked around anxiously, wondering where the help from the Calatravans could be, and he saw no one; but just then, over the crest of a gently rising hill, he saw pennants waving in the wind, and then lance tips and an immense group of knights in their suits of armor, full of bellicose fury.

“Hold out!” he shouted to his men, turning around. “They've come to help us!”

In just a few seconds, the river was filled with thousands of horses kicking their legs amid waves of foaming water. A great sea of manes and heads beat the surface, a sea storm of sheer bravery. Don Álvaro, almost at the shore, was being chased by three enemies who had come very close. One took his bow and tensed it to fire an arrow at him when another man stabbed the enemy in the neck, killing him at once. Don Álvaro was filled with hope when he saw more than a hundred Calatravan knights on the other bank of the river. While some were clearing a path for the enormous herd of mares, others crossed the water to repel the enemy's advance, and the rest, atop a hill, fired a ceaseless hail of arrows on the Saracens unlucky enough to have fallen behind.

Once on the other side, Diego stopped and took in the astonishing scene. The waters had been dyed red with blood and were stirred up by the passage of that enormous group of animals. Hundreds of horses crossed onto the shore and walked by him, shaking off water and mud. He didn't care, he was happy to see them make it. He heard the final clashes of swords on the other side of the river and the final call to retreat from the enemy army.

The Yeguada de las Marismas, the dream of Abderrahman III and plaything of the later Muslim caliphs, the most beautiful union of Arabian blood ever brought together, was now in Christian hands.

And in that moment, Diego burst into tears and embraced Sabba.

His joy was immense.

V.

T
he Christian world had been commanded to meet in Toledo for the sake of a crusade on the twentieth of May of the year 1212.

The response could begin to be seen days before, as the first caravans of Ultramontanes arrived from Gascony, Provence, and Languedoc. These were followed by others, less numerous, from the faraway lands of Pomerania, Bohemia, and Germania.

In only ten days, more than three thousand knights had amassed on the banks of the Tagus, with ten thousand cavalry troops and fifty thousand others, including pages, squires, women, and all other sorts of companions.

King Alfonso VIII of Castile received everyone with great attention, as he had promised he would for any crusader who came to fight at his side, offering twenty
sueldos
daily to each knight and five to each page. In addition, each morning they distributed biscuits, salted meat, cheese, garlic, and water to maintain the men. It was an impressive outlay, knowing it was all being funded by the king's treasury.

“Your Majesty, tonight they have come into the ghetto again,” the Jewish representative said, taking off his hat and wrinkling it in his hands, enraged. “They raped … they raped more than two hundred of our girls, and … they also took three of our businessmen from the neighborhood, dragged them along like beasts, you hear, and then … they skinned them alive, jeering at them and insulting them the whole time.” The man was sweating and his teeth were chattering from pure impotence. “During the day they laugh at us and throw stones—”

“I imagine you're talking to me of the Ultramontanes,” the king interrupted. “Have you identified any of them in particular?”

“They wear hoods, but we suspect by the accent they're the ones from Poitou.” He took out two bags full of gold coins. “You know we've responded generously to the requests you've made of us to help financing the new war, and we've never complained, but if we don't have the least security for ourselves and our businesses, understand that we can't go on supporting you.”

The archbishop of Toledo, Don Rodrigo Ximénez de Rada, entered the meeting room with a worried face.

“Your Majesty … I've just seen fighting in the street.”

“Explain yourself better, Your Eminency.” The monarch rose from his chair.

“Urban militias have organized, commoners and farm people, and they're putting the sword to any Ultramontane they come across. They're tired of their outrages, of the horror they produce wherever they go, and the violence they practice against your Jewish subjects; they're trying to protect them.” He gave a compassionate look to the treasurer, who had just lent more than eighteen thousand
maravedíes
to the cause against the Almohads.

King Alfonso clenched his fists with rage. There were still three weeks until the troops arrived from Aragon and the volunteers from Portugal and León. He was also waiting for the archbishop of Narbonne, Arnault Amalric, who was bringing a number of knights from Lyon, Vienne, and Valentinois. He was anxious to have the churchman by his side, because he was the only one who could rein in the excesses of his countrymen, and he was also supposed to arrive with news about King Sancho VII. Arnault had planned on stopping in Navarre on his way down to convince the king to participate, and the Castilian still knew nothing about what had been decided.

“I will order the Ultramontanes to leave the city immediately. I will have enough tents set up for them outside the walls, and I'll get them victuals and hay for their horses. From now on, the gates of Toledo will remain closed from midnight till dawn.”

Alfonso had them call his friend Don Diego López de Haro and give him the necessary instructions. Somewhat relieved, the treasurer left the king alone with the archbishop.

“You look too tense, Your Majesty.”

“How could I not be, Rodrigo? … We aren't aware of the magnitude of the undertaking ahead of us.”

“You should already be proud of it. In recent centuries, you are the only one who has managed to pull together all the Hispanic kingdoms in a single army—those inheritors of the noble empire of the Visigoths.” The archbishop drank a cup of water in one gulp.

“I still don't know what my cousin Alfonso of León is going to do, or King Sancho of Navarre. Portugal is only sending a small group of knights …”

“Whether they come or not, you are going to bring together a huge and powerful army. Two thousand Ultramontane knights, three thousand from Aragon, another three thousand of yours, as well as the Navarrese if they come, and the Portuguese. And you have to add the pages, the squires, and the local militias sent by Segovia, Avila, Cuéllar, Madrid, and the rest of the towns in your kingdom. If the knights are ten thousand, you can count another twenty thousand infantry who will join you in this battle. Imagine, thirty thousand souls pledging to make your dream a reality, thirty thousand men taking back those lands that once belonged to our ancestors.”

The king calculated how much would be necessary to maintain that force. He had contracted the obligation of supporting their expenses once they arrived in Toledo, and the numbers were now double what he had estimated. The financing of the venture fell entirely on his shoulders and was coming close to wiping out his treasury. In spite of that, it would mean little if he triumphed. His lust for victory was such that he would have gladly lent ten thousand
maravedíes
to the Navarrese king to bring him and his army to Toledo—he knew that kingdom had been left poor by its long campaigns against al-Nasir in the east and in Mallorca.

“Calculate that each knight brings his four mounts,” he said, sharing his thoughts with the bishop. “A warhorse, a palfrey for traveling, another for the squire, and a mule for transporting arms and the rest of their necessities. That makes forty thousand animals we have to feed each day, in addition to the three thousand we took from the Almohads and those that the militias bring. I doubt it will be fewer than fifty thousand in all.”

Don Rodrigo was impressed by the number.

“A warhorse needs twenty pounds of hay per day and half as much oats, as well as thirty liters of water. And every ten men will require another twenty pounds of food.”

“I don't know if you're more worried by the amount of money you'll need to finance all this or how to make sure no one wants for anything.”

“Both things worry me. This very morning I calculated the number of carts we would need to transport the food once the campaign begins, and leaving aside the hay, which I hope to substitute with pastureland. Give me a number.”

“Two hundred carts …”

“Just for the horses we'll need five hundred cartloads of grain each day … And another hundred to feed the men.”

“Good Lord!” the priest exclaimed.

“Now do you want to talk about how we'll pay for all this?”

The king had just minted a new gold coin after having imposed a special tax on his subjects to subsidize the war, but he himself was still bearing the better part of the expenses.

“In a few days, I'll demand the contribution from the Church of Castile for this Holy Crusade.” The archbishop hadn't thought of giving it yet, but he could see the situation was dire. “I've decided finally that it shall be half our income over the course of one year, but paid up front.”

The king was astonished.

“Excellent, Rodrigo … Excellent. You've just pleasantly surprised me. That is a great deal of money, and a great relief to me in my present state. And by the way, have you seen the excellent herd of mares we took from the Almohads?”

“Not yet, my lord.”

“Then let's go see them.” He turned to a corner of the room and crossed through a stone arch, entering into a semicircular tower that opened onto a balcony on the eastern side of the castle.

On a swatch of pastureland by the riverside, thousands of mares and stallions were spread out after their long journey from the marshlands of Guadalquivir. For a week now, more than a hundred knights, stable keepers, and squires had been training them for battle.

“Seeing them, I think our lord must have had a special zeal when he created that beautiful breed.” Don Rodrigo, impressed, observed their carriage, their noble strut, their vitality.

“As I've heard, the Prophet Muhammad loved horses so much that he commanded his followers to respect and care for them even at the cost of their lives. With this herd, we've not only robbed them of a powerful weapon, which could have been a terrifying blow against us, but we've also wounded their honor.”

“I never imagined it could happen. … Never.”

“Nor I,” Alfonso VIII recognized. “That albéitar has shown excellent courage and a strong mind.”

“I met him in Zorita de los Canes and even then, I thought I saw something in him, though I still don't know what. Later I found out he wasn't a knight or a nobleman, that he had learned everything at the hands of Muslims, but his knowledge of medicine and his mind were still remarkable. He has something special, maybe the soul of a hero, I don't know. Try to keep him close to you in battle. His intelligence could serve you well.” Don Rodrigo heard bells ringing and knew that he would need to be leaving.

“I want to leave Toledo around the twentieth of this month,” the king interrupted. “If we wait more, the heat will come upon us and the pastureland will dry up. Those who delay past this date will have to meet us on the road.” He looked at the horizon with a deep, serious expression. “It will be the most important battle ever seen on Christian lands. Not even in the Holy Land was such an army ever gathered. … From today, my good friend, you will be named the chronicler of this war. You will be the one to tell future generations what happened in the year of our Lord 1212.”

In Seville, another great army had gathered on the outskirts of the city, awaiting the orders of Muhammad al-Nasir.

On the back of his beautiful Berber stallion, the powerful Almohad leader considered the different positions of his army while he conferred with the lord of the recovered fortress of Salvatierra, the Andalusian Ibn Qadis, a leader with a reputation for nobility and bravery among the troops.

“Andalusians don't understand jihad,” he said to his caliph. “And they're not anxious to regain the territory our Christian enemies have reconquered. They are a peaceful people and they only want to work the land and live without problems.”

“You could say it to me that way or with softer words,” al-Nasir replied. “But as I see it, what you are describing to me is a society of cowards.” He passed by a detachment that had recently arrived from Africa, Zanatas or Gomaras they were called, fierce Berbers from another tribe of Almohads. “So much so that I've had to contract fighters from as far away as Arabia to get the troops I need. Believe me, it is embarrassing to explain that I have to do it because my people do not care for arms.”

He saluted the head of the Agzaz, a group of able Turkish fighters who were the greatest archers on horseback the world had ever seen. Even galloping at full speed, they were able to shoot in any direction without slipping from the saddle.

Behind them was the fabulous Arabic army. He had been told that they added up to ten thousand, arrived there a week ago from the faraway land of the Prophet. Their behavior in battle was irregular, but they were good lancers and they used a sword like no one else. They had come with their women and children and were the loudest and most animated group of all. When al-Nasir walked by the cavalry, he remembered with deep pain the theft he had suffered. The Yeguada de las Marismas … The lone heirs to the horses of Ishmael, son of the Prophet Abraham, had been reduced by two-thirds by the enemies of Islam. As an affront, it had been the worst news he could imagine after the death of his son Yahia a few days before. He had been the favorite of his children, the one who would become the next caliph. His death had disturbed him so much that he said the same thing to everyone: he would dedicate a victory over the Christians to him, as an homage, and bring him the head of the Christian monarch.

“Besides the regular soldiers from Al-Andalus,” al-Nasir continued, “and the Agzaz and the Arabs we have seen, there are the Masmidi Berbers and a multitude of Almohad brothers here from Marrakesh. Of course, we have more Imesebelen and around five thousand volunteers from other places. And last of all, there are three thousand Andalusians and a group of mercenary Christians who take orders from Pedro de Mora; they are few, but very brave.”

“How large, then, will your army be?”

“In person, I will command a corps of twenty thousand horsemen and sixty thousand soldiers. Eighty thousand souls ready to knock down the cross, to kill for Allah if this is what he desires.”

“Would you allow me a comment, which should not be taken in any way as disrespecting your mission?”

“Tell me, my loyal Ibn Qadis.”

“How will you manage to get such a varied army to fight as one? You know the Arabs have come by force, as penance for their rebellious attitude with the Almohads, whom they have never accepted. The Andalusians, my brothers, are only fighting, as I've said, for the money you pay them.”

“It's true that the pay is all that matters to them,” al-Nasir replied. “But of all of them, they are the ones who know the Christian cavalry the best, and they act the same in combat.”

“You are not wrong, sir, but as I say, the motivations held by the groups are too different. And if not, think of the Berbers; they have come here solely in order to defend the Almohad creed, above all else, but if we think of why the other volunteers have done so?” He pointed at one of the detachments that seemed less orderly than the others. “Apart from being almost ungovernable, you can see they have only one ambition: to die in a holy war and gain access to paradise.”

“I have one great motive that will unify them all.” The caliph looked at the outline of Seville reflected over the waters of the Guadalquivir.