The Horse Healer (56 page)

“I never knew you loved him so much.”

“More than anyone or anything in the world,” she responded, sobbing. “What will happen to him now?”

VIII.

A
l-Nasir himself wanted to meet in person with the alleged Christian deserters who had just been captured by his troops on the La Losa trail at the feet of the Muradal Pass.

On catching sight of that numerous group, the Saracen soldiers hadn't trusted their intentions and had tied their hands and led them to the vizier to allow him to decide their fate. Once they were in the Almohad encampment, they were lined up and surrounded by thirty Berber soldiers with hostile faces.

“Which of you speaks Arabic?” a man with olive skin and a long beard asked.

Everyone looked at Diego.

“Apparently it's you.” He pulled him from the line and forced him to kneel. Then, he had his men do the same and threatened with death anyone who dared look up in the presence of the caliph.

“No one shall look into his eyes, nor speak to him unless questioned first. I advise you to listen.”

All obeyed.

Diego heard some steps and a man whose shoes attracted his gaze, because they were threaded with gold and adorned with gemstones, stopped in front of him. His heart pounded when he thought of the possibility that one of the two soldiers with the caliph could be Pedro de Mora. Diego was aware of the risk he was running after what had happened in Seville. Though not many had seen him before he ran, the Castilian traitor had been one of them.

His desire to arrest the intentions of the Almohad horde had weighed heavier than any other consideration, even his own safety. He also had to overcome the objections of Bruno de Oñate when he found out Diego had been chosen for the mission. The power of Don Álvaro Núñez de Lara had been more important in this case than the opinion of the Calatravan.

“What do you want from Allah's troops?”

“Our gold, sir. We've heard you will pay a thousand
maravedíes
to anyone who fights with you.”

“How can you guarantee me that you don't have different intentions? That you aren't spies?”

“We can tell you the present position of the troops, how much cavalry they possess, what their armaments are …” Diego knew he was risking everything. “Did you know the Ultramontanes just abandoned them? Or that their power has been reduced by half, or that morale has collapsed?”

Without answering, al-Nasir called over the vizier and spoke to him quietly.

“I think they're lying,” the caliph said.

“I advise you to wait for Pedro de Mora. He is the one responsible for our spies and he can confirm whether the news of the Ultramontanes is true. He will also know better how to measure the sincerity of their intentions. He will arrive tomorrow afternoon, and in the meantime, we should exercise caution.”

“Even still, I will use my own methods to test their honesty. … Look at it as a way of gaining time.” Al-Nasir pulled Diego's hair and screamed into his ear.

“Tell them I won't pay a thousand, but ten thousand, three good horses, two female slaves, and a guarantee of freedom to the first one who tells me the truth.”

Diego tried to justify himself before translating.

“Sir, we were hired by the king as mercenaries. For us, war is just money. For now we've only made half, because the other part has been reserved until the conflict is over. The rations were scarce, and we've had one calamity after another since leaving Toledo. When the foreigners left and we received notice of the size of your forces, we knew the war was over. Add to this that the king has only pledged to pay us three hundred
maravedíes
, and you promise three times as much, and victory seems already to be in your hands. Do you not understand our decision? The motives of your fighting don't interest us, be they religious or territorial; we just want wealth. …”

“Translate for your men what I will pay and be quiet!” Al-Nasir slapped him across the cheek.

“Does anyone want to say anything?” he exclaimed aloud. Diego repeated it in Romanic. No one moved or opened their lips.

“I see … You don't want to talk.” With a finger, he signaled one of the Berber soldiers to come close and take out his sword. He asked for the first man in line, the one next to Bruno de Oñate, to be brought forward, and forced him to kneel. Al-Nasir stood back precisely when a sharp blade sliced off the knight's head in one swoop, once the caliph had given the order to one of his men.

“Since I see you have still not understood, I will repeat it for you. The person who tells me the truth will receive three horses, two female slaves, and ten thousand gold
maravedíes
. It's not a bad deal. Think about it.”

Diego translated it again, emboldened by the victim's silence. If anyone spoke, it would mean death for all of them. Al-Nasir waited awhile, but no one said anything.

“Now it's your turn. …” He personally approached the Christians and selected Bruno de Oñate, tugging at his tunic.

“We are telling the truth. You won't get anything by killing us.” Diego repeated in Arabic what Bruno had said and saw the bravery shining in his eyes.

“Kill him!” the caliph responded coldly.

The steel whistled again and Bruno's head flew off through the air.

Diego closed his eyes and felt wounded inside. That senseless death, of a man he owed his life to, was as cruel as it was pointless. That immeasurable violence, that hatred so deep that seemed to reside in their dark hearts, was exactly what he wanted to fight against and the reason he was here. He regretted not repairing his disagreement with Bruno when he found out they would be sharing a mission, not showing sufficient gratitude for all he owed him or his admiration for Bruno's work at Salvatierra. The short journey from the Christian encampment to the Saracens' had not been enough to melt the frozen feelings that divided them.

Bruno's death was followed by twelve others, but no one opened his mouth. Diego watched in dread as the heads of his companions rolled away only a few feet from him, and he prayed for it to finally be over.

“Now let's try with the translator, to finish off …” Diego's breathing stopped. His eyes lowered, he saw the caliph's shoes again, now splattered with blood.

Someone close to the caliph spoke.

“You possess a firm hand and wisdom in your heart, but listen a moment to what your humbler counselor has to tell you.”

“Speak …”

“I believe they are telling the truth. I've never seen anyone resist so much. If you go on killing them, they won't serve us for anything, and none will make it into Pedro de Mora's hands.”

“Prepare the sword.” Al-Nasir ignored his words.

The soldier raised his arm, trembling, exhausted by the effort. When he saw this, the caliph himself took the sword from his hands and raised it decisively. Diego, unflinching, fearless, thought that everything was finished for him. He commended his soul to God and waited for the end to come, his breath halting and his pulse racing.

But then they heard an intense shouting and saw a group of soldiers galloping toward the encampment. They had just spotted enemy troops on the other side of the mountain, ready to enter the pass.

Al-Nasir looked at Diego's neck, then the saber, and was tempted. Dust from the cloud kicked up by those soldiers made it into his lungs and caused him to cough. Angry, he lowered the weapon and turned to the recent arrivals to see what they had to say. Once he'd heard them, he sent his vizier to his tent to talk, and ordered that the deserters be kept under watch until Pedro de Mora arrived.

Diego sighed, relieved, though he knew that worse awaited him when he was seen by Pedro de Mora.

They lifted him from the ground and tied him with the rest of them in a long line that they then led to one end of the encampment.

On the way they passed by numerous tents where the troops were resting, and of all of them, the one that caught their attention was huge and decorated with hundreds of beautiful woven rugs. Not only was it huge, but it was protected by a palisade of thick logs wrapped in chains and a numerous contingent of armed Imesebelen. It was undoubtedly the tent of the caliph himself.

They advanced through a crowd of soldiers of different origin and appearance. Some wore turbans; others, like the Turks, had darker skin and darker eyes. There were also women with them, numbering in the thousands. The esplanade where the encampment lay was a half league long and equally as wide and had a small hill at its center where the caliph's tent was placed. They were taken to its southern edge, where there were fewer but larger tents that were used for storage.

Of the fifty men who had begun the mission with Diego, only thirty-six were left.

As soon as they left the colorful tents behind them, they saw two women come out of them and walk in the same direction. Diego was at the front of the line and he looked at the taller one. She was in a black tunic and a niqab from which a curl of red hair emerged. When she was closer, he looked at her more closely, searching out her eyes, which were hardly visible through the slit. She felt the insistence with which Diego was looking at her and curiosity made her turn back toward him. Her eyes were large and of a blue as familiar as it was magical. Diego knew it could be none other. A lash of emotion buckled his body. He would have liked to shout, to tell her who he was, but fear of what might happen made him hush, and he just smiled sweetly. Estela took a moment to recognize him, but then she realized that the man with the black hair and dark eyes, the olive skin and warm smile, was her brother, Diego. He had changed a great deal, but it was him. She brought her hand to her mouth, feeling tempted to run and greet him, to squeeze him in her arms. Diego could tell, and when they were close, he made a sign for her to be calm. Estela felt the brush of her brother's hand as he passed by her. And when she turned afterward, she saw his gaze full of love and joy.

Estela stopped for a moment to see where the group was being taken and asked her companion, Princess Najla, who they were.

“I don't know what you're asking me.”

“Those men we just saw.”

“I don't know, but if it interests you so much, let's ask. Soldier!” She shouted to the man following in the rear of the group.

“Who are you escorting?” Najla was brusque.

“Christian deserters who are trying to pass over to our side.”

Estela was shocked. She couldn't imagine what Diego was after, but she was sure that wasn't why he was there.

“Where are you taking them?” Estela was calm, concealing the anxiety she felt.

The soldier found her interest strange, but he answered.

“They'll be watched in the big tent where we keep the grain for the horses. That last one.” He pointed at a long tent away from the rest of them.

Najla said good-bye to the soldier and took Estela's arm, asking her why she cared about those deserters. Estela hesitated for a moment but then was convinced that without Najla's help, she could do nothing, and so she decided to be sincere.

“I saw my brother among them,” she whispered in her ear.

“Are you sure? Many years have passed since you were separated.”

“It's him. There is no doubt.”

“What could he be doing here?” That question provoked a certain confusion in Estela.

Najla observed her friend and envied her. She was sure her brother would never do something like that for her. On the other hand, at that moment, her situation was somewhat burdensome: She felt the duty to tell the caliph of what she had just learned. She thought about it in silence. She was sure the man was there for military reasons, not personal ones; it wasn't reasonable to imagine an expedition of that scale for the mere purpose of saving one woman. Najla also thought, horrified, that they might have come to assassinate the caliph, her brother. At that moment, her chin trembled, and Estela seemed to guess what she was thinking.

“Najla, I need you. … My brother, Diego, is the most important person left in my life. I only want to talk to him. We've spent many years together and I've come to love you like a sister. I've never asked you for anything, but this time … you know I can't get to him without your help.”

“And if he's here with other intentions … how will I forgive myself after?”

“What can thirty men do against the eight thousand that form this army?”

Estela took her hands, begging for her help.

“Not much, that's certain … but I don't know …”

Najla felt doubts though she knew how happy it would make her if she said yes. … She thought of Estela, and then of how hard it had been for she herself to know in her own life the meaning of that word,
happiness
. When she lost her only love, King Sancho of Navarre, she didn't imagine how she could live without his sweet presence. And then, years later, when she had suffered that terrible crime that almost turned her into a monster, she realized that the feeling was gone forever. She had never understood what motives could lead someone to destroy her face, nor the lack of interest her brother had shown in finding the person responsible. She would never forgive him for that. Her desperation had been so fierce that for months she refused to see anyone. She forsook all contact with the world and didn't even want to see Estela. For that time, her hatred encompassed everything, including the people around her.

“What do you say?” Estela, more nervous than ever, awaited her response.

Najla needed to ruminate on her decision.

“We'll see. Let me think …”

“No. … Promise me you will be silent, I beg you.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I lost my sisters, I lost my father. … I don't want to lose him, too. Help me, I'm begging you.”

Najla sighed, saddened, and finally told Estela what she wished so much to hear.

“Tonight you will speak with him.”

On the other side of the mountains, to the north, the Christian armies already knew where al-Nasir's encampment was located, where they would need to descend to arrive at the plains, and the enormous difficulties they would face crossing through the narrow pass at La Losa.