The Horse Healer

by Gonzalo Giner

  “Delicious and refreshing.” Don Diego licked his lips.

  After those introductory courtesies, Diego began to translate the tactic they had in mind to detain the advance of the Aragonese. Abu Zayd, dark faced but with smooth features, almost Castilian looking, had plans brought over where they could study the distribution and location of the various troops.

  “He wants to show you”—Diego turned to the lord of Biscay—“that he has three hundred men on horseback and a thousand infantrymen. He proposes that his horsemen attack from the flanks and rear, while yours face off in a closed formation directly from the front.”

  Diego listened to the governor again. He pointed to a specific place on the map he assigned enormous importance.

  “He’s pointing out a streambed just three leagues from here. He says it is the ideal place to defeat them if you can drag the troops from Aragon this far. The north face is high and steep, as are the east and west. Once they’re there, they can’t escape.”

  “And how does he propose that we corner them there?”

  Diego translated the question.

  “He thinks you will figure out how.”

  “Great. So he’s leaving me the easy part.” His expression tensed. “Don’t translate that please.”

  “He’s asking what you’re thinking.”

  Don Diego paused for a moment. He looked at the map over and over while Abu Zayd waited anxiously for some response.

  “There it is! We’ll set up tents inside with fires and horses, making it seem like we’ve camped out there. We’ll also set up blankets, branches, and bundles to look like men. From their position, they won’t see well and when they notice how hard that position is to defend, they’ll strike. … The most important thing is to make everything look real, but I believe it will work.”

  After listening to Diego’s translation, Abu Zayd looked satisfied.

  “He agrees with this idea and would like to know when the deception will begin.”

  “Tell him immediately.”

  “He thanks you again for your help and encourages you to rest awhile to recuperate from the long voyage.”

  When they were getting up to leave the tent, Don Diego was struck by one last question that he had forgotten to ask.

  “How many enemies does he think are with King Pedro?”

  “Five hundred cavalry and two thousand infantry, he says.”

  “It’s a lot … a lot, by God. … Too many.”

  They took leave of the governor with lowered spirits after hearing what the dimensions of the enemy’s army were. They left the governor’s tent and went to their own, where they could rest.

  “Congratulations, Diego. You’ve been a good translator.” Though the boy was there for other reasons, Don Diego had to admit that he was skilled.

  “It was an honor to be able to serve you.”

  “Have you ever been in war before?” Don Diego asked.

  “Never, my lord. I am the son of a modest commoner and I have never taken up arms.”

  “War is a part of our lives. I don’t remember five years going by when I haven’t fought in one.”

  “Pardon if my comment seems inopportune, but it seems incredible to me that you see it as something normal.”

  “I never will. …” He stopped short and looked to the horizon. “How could I, if it’s in war that you discover the very worst things about the human condition: hatred, vengeance, avarice, cruelty. In wars, all the mortal sins are combined, but it is true that the highest virtues are present as well. You would be surprised to see people as common as yourself, from the lowest groups, fighting with a valor worthy of heroes. In the heat of battle, generosity, disinterest, and bravery above all spring forth.”

  The last of these—bravery—pierced Diego’s heart. He thought that maybe if he participated in this war, he could cultivate that virtue. For a moment, he was tempted to ask, but when he thought of Mencía, he was afraid of never seeing her again.

  A few hours later, the false camp had been set up. Two of Abu Zayd’s men, who knew the terrain perfectly, hid close by to watch every movement the enemy made.

  Diego used the tense wait to look over the contingents of troops, surprised by their remarkable differences. The Christians were equipped with heavy armor, maces, and swords and rode enormous, powerful, and fearsome horses. But the Valencians rode light coursers, wore thin cuirasses of leather, and colorful, cool clothes, and their animals were smaller and full of energy.

  At dawn, they knew that the Aragonese had fallen into the trap. Abu Zayd’s soldiers had seen them take the road to the streambed and they returned to the camp at top speed to inform them.

  Shortly afterward, they began their march.

  The central corps of the expedition was formed by Don Diego and a hundred horsemen. On the flanks, more disordered, were the troops of Abu Zayd.

  After two leagues, they reached a broad, barren plain where they stopped. From there they could see the streambed. When they saw the enemy plunge into that hollow, they would attack.

  Diego and Álvaro conversed at a distance from the rest of the corps. Neither of them was armed, and they would not participate in the battle.

  Don Álvaro would take charge of the ordering of the troops and maintaining the attack plan they had agreed on beforehand. From where he stood, on an elevation, he could scrutinize the scene of combat, predicting any of the enemies’ movements.

  Diego, at his side, had taken over translating all the changes and new directives that would be issued.

  “Doesn’t it seem terrible to you, the idea of fighting other Christians?” Diego breathed in an aromatic scent of rosemary.

  “We’re knights,” he responded brusquely.

  “So are the Aragonese.”

  Don Álvaro remembered one of the first laws of chivalry.

  “The knight should be loyal in all his pledges.” He gave a long sigh on finishing. “That is one of our commandments. That virtue is the mother of all good customs that a man should possess if he wishes to form part of the order of chivalry. Loyalty is what is owed to one’s master. Necessary in these moments, however cruel the combat may be, and even more today, when our enemies may be, as you rightly say, our brothers.”

  With the echo of his words, Diego heard a stern chorus of whinnying. Hundreds of horses, upset, began to smell the intensity, waiting for the orders of their riders. They were loyal to their masters too, and ready to face the unknown, perhaps to receive a lance in their breast or a fatal arrow in the neck, but always obedient. Diego’s stomach sank when he thought that something like that could happen to Sabba.

  “A knight lives loyally, heroically, for three reasons, Diego.” Don Álvaro counted them on his fingers. “The first, because he understands he has been chosen to watch over and defend others. The second, to preserve the honor of his own bloodline, protecting his good name and the memory of his ancestors as well as his descendants. And last, to avoid shame, which is what would come to us were we to falter in the duties we have contracted toward our master.”

  Diego thought on it with all his good faith, but it remained incomprehensible. No pact of loyalty could require another person’s death. He never would understand it.

  He stroked Sabba; he could see she was nervous. She seemed to have been affected by the general agitation of all present, men and animals, during the anxious wait. He spoke to her softly, whispering sounds that he knew would calm her down, while Don Álvaro observed him.

  When the mare shook her head three times, snorting and grunting three more, Diego imitated her. It seemed as if they shared their own language, different from all others.

  Once more Don Álvaro felt admiration for Diego. The boy possessed a brilliant mind, he was responsible and discreet, also humble, but above any other consideration, what most impressed him was the peculiar rapport he had wit
h the horses.

  “Horse and horseman,” Don Álvaro added, “a beautiful relationship, even more so in wartime. Do you know how you measure a horse’s ability for war?”

  “I do not.”

  “The Greeks recommended that the warhorse have three qualities: good color, a big heart, and powerful legs to respond properly to the hard labor. I would add one more: that they have good lineage, like their masters.” He stroked his horse, sorrel with a lovely profile and tall stature.

  “And in the relation you just mentioned, what does the horseman need to give the horse?”

  “A lot. He must reinforce its generous character. He must correct its bad habits, and protect it from illnesses, which, naturally, he has to know.”

  “According to what you’ve said, there is a color that will make a horse into a dignified companion to its master. Are there other colors that make them poor ones?”

  Don Álvaro was going to answer when a long trumpet blast sounded out. All looked at Abu Zayd and Don Diego López de Haro, awaiting the signal.

  The white banner of the governor rose up amid the cavalry and flapped frantically. When they saw it, a few horsemen galloped quickly toward the streambed, followed by the rest of the cavalry of the lord of Biscay. The main part of the Valencian army hung back in reserve. Don Álvaro looked for the highest point on the hill to be able to see the battle lines in their entirety.

  Diego went to his side and watched, impressed by the first clash with the Aragonese troops. First the swords sounded, then hundreds of arrows whistled, fired from bows and crossbows. The first men fell to the ground while the horses trotted furiously; some fallen men asked for help, others walked on as if doomed, missing an arm, bearing horrible wounds. He saw one with a mace stuck in his back, trying to extract it without success. Diego gave thanks to God for saving him from that slaughter.

  The Castilians, sheltered by the advantage of surprise, had descended down the only usable slope. The first line of them had attacked the Aragonese and the second was on the point of doing so. Each row consisted of twenty-five men on horseback and three reinforcements. Behind them, the infantrymen followed.

  At one moment in the struggle, the Aragonese believed they had managed to stop the attacks by breaking their order and surrounding them.

  “They just committed a fatal error,” Don Álvaro thought out loud while he observed the movements of the various groups.

  He looked for the standard bearers of Abu Zayd’s troops and found them waving their banner up and down excitedly. That signal called forth another three hundred furious horsemen, bearing down, toward the thick of the Aragonese troops. Suddenly they saw themselves trapped between two forces: on the inside, the Castilians, now greater in number, and on the outside, the Saracens, who were attacking them without mercy.

  From there the blood began to stain the steel, the bodies, everything. … It even reached the manes of the horses, and the earth welcomed innumerable broken and dead bodies onto its surface.

  Don Álvaro pointed to one side of the struggle, where King Pedro II was fighting.

  “Watch what happens now. …”

  They saw Don Diego de Haro come close to the position where the Aragonese king stood. Luck had changed quickly, and the life of the king was in serious danger. Don Álvaro was sure of what his father-in-law would do.

  “You’re going to be witness to a remarkable rescue. Watch. …”

  They saw the lord of Biscay with a dozen knights take on the Valencian troops. Once beside the king, they dismounted and began to fight hand to hand at his side, protecting him with their lives. Abu Zayd’s warriors, stunned, fought back with greater fury. One touched Don Diego with his weapon but was then pierced by the sword of the king of Aragon.

  “Now! Now or never!” Don Álvaro exclaimed.

  And then they saw the king mount a horse, along with two other knights, among them his ensign García Romeu, Diego’s old acquaintance. Two Castilians opened an escape route, and they all fled at top speed.

  “Imagine the anger of Abu Zayd …” Diego commented.

  “A knight who takes pride in himself would never permit a king to die at the hands of an infidel. That is what we call loyalty. Today, Pedro II of Aragon has been defeated, but who knows whether tomorrow he might not be fighting at our side.”

  The battle over, Diego and Don Álvaro met back with Don Diego López de Haro. He was wounded, but his face reflected the joy of victory, the satisfaction of a duty well performed.

  When he saw him, Diego felt deep pain. While he watched the rescue, he had been thinking of his own situation. He was already an albéitar and was gaining a good reputation, and to that extent, he had obeyed his father’s command. But he still wasn’t truly at peace. His sisters were still present in his conscience.

  He squeezed the neck of his mare and stroked her forehead, and in a low voice, he shared what he felt just then.

  “One day I promised it, and you were the only one there. I will free them, however I can, together we will do it. …”

  VIII.

  Estela was disgusted with her life, with her destiny.

  Every night, for months now, she would go to the caliph’s chambers to sleep in his bed. She hated him.

  He would look at her, smell her perfume, feel her close to him in the cool sheets, but he never touched her.

  Al-Nasir was utterly in love, lost in her, and wounded by her indifference.

  “Estela … if you knew the pain my heart feels …” He looked in her eyes, in that blue sea, and as always he found them empty, almost frozen.

  She sighed. She looked for answers in his as well, for why he had permitted the brutal execution of her sister Blanca. Four months after the terrible occurrence, she hadn’t forgotten. She didn’t want to.

  “I know very well what it is to have pain in your heart; you have given me so much.”

  Al-Nasir was getting tired of it.

  He had humiliated himself too many times asking for forgiveness, though he didn’t feel guilty for what he’d done. He was sickened by her scarce gratitude when he had saved her life from the hands of the vizier.

  He rose up from the cushioned bed where he was resting and exhaled furiously. He kicked a table with a tray of fruit and it went off flying through the air.

  Estela was nervous. He was tense and out of control. He threw a sideboard full of porcelain to the floor and then shattered an enormous glass pitcher. He closed his fists and clenched his teeth, full of rage. He tore his tunic in half and came toward her. She huddled, frightened, thinking he was going to hit her.

  “What do I have to do to make you love me?” He spoke so close to her she could feel his hot breath. Estela didn’t dare to move. “Ask me for whatever you want. I will give you anything. Do you want to be the queen of this city, or maybe you prefer my kingdom? Jewels, precious garments? Everything will be yours, everything. Just love me one day, one night …”

  Estela stood up, raising her chest and chin in a gesture of insolence.

  “What I truly want you will never give me.”

  “Prove it.”

  “My freedom!” she exclaimed, full of despair.

  “Is that all you want?”

  “No, not only that. I also want to see you dead one day.” Now she looked straight at him, not showing an ounce of fear.

  “Quiet!” he exclaimed in despair. “For the sake of blessed Allah, what must I do with you? What further proof must I give you? I have respected you since that tragedy. I haven’t touched you again. I treat you delicately, and after all that, I receive nothing but hate from you, a deep, savage hate.” He walked decisively to a wall where weapons hung. He took down two golden daggers.

  “Do you want to see me dead?” He turned back to her. “That is what you want, right?” He handed her the sharpened steel and opened his tunic, showing his chest. “Do i
t, then, but with your own hands! Fulfill your desire!”

  Estela gripped the daggers’ pommels, entranced by the blue shimmer of the blades. She pointed one at his stomach and the other at his heart. She looked at his skin and imagined it open and wounded, bleeding until he met his death.

  She inhaled a large mouthful of air, but it didn’t reach her lungs. Tension squeezed her chest. Suddenly she didn’t know if that was truly what she should do. She hated that man, more than anything in the world, but if she killed him, she would be as terrible as he was. She would be a murderer.

  “Do it!” the caliph screamed.

  Estela looked into his eyes. She could do it, but she didn’t want to. She threw the two daggers to the floor and wept. Al-Nasir did not know what to do, though he only wanted to embrace her. If she hadn’t attacked him, she must feel something for him, something better than just hate. Whether she didn’t do it because she felt a glimmer of compassion or a lack of bravery, he didn’t care. Estela had taken his life in her hands and she hadn’t disposed of it. He loved her more than ever.

  He brought a finger to her cheek to wipe free a tear, and the mere contact with her skin was like a paradise. He followed the trail of another to her lips and brushed it away slowly and sensually.

  “I want you. …” He pulled a long tress away from her forehead and stroked it between two fingers.

  Estela gave him a serious look, tired of him and his insistence.

  “Look for another who will enjoy you. You will never have me, and though you think you have rights over my body, it will never be yours.”

  “I don’t understand why I have to take this. You know what? I’m tired of you, your pride, your cruelty!”

  He shouted for his personal guard.

  “Shut her up in the dungeon tonight!” al-Nasir screamed, beside himself.

  The two guardians picked her up from the floor and asked the caliph what punishment he wished for her.

  “Whip her in the square tomorrow, first thing, beneath the minaret. That is my will. … Twenty-five lashes. … No, better fifty. And then leave her chained there for three days, so all may see her.”