“I promise it, Your Majesty,” Diego affirmed resolutely.
Even if he would have to share his fate with Bruno de Oñate, whom he still had his doubts about, he was proud to take part in an action that would help to put an end to the Almohads’ ambitions.
King Alfonso captured Alarcos the next day without great difficulty. It seemed that word of what had happened in Malagón and the later surrender of Calatrava had spread through the Saracen ranks and that, from fear, they were giving in quickly.
From there, the royal army moved on to Salvatierra, that emblematic post whose loss had provoked such pain in the Christian world that it was compared with the fall of Jerusalem at the hands of Saladin.
Unlike the previous fortresses, this one was well defended and the difficulties of laying siege seemed impossible to overcome.
The Castilian king decided to camp nearby and await the arrival of the allied monarchs. Together they would decide what to do, attack or continue on.
The Aragonese troops, together with five hundred Navarrese knights led by King Sancho, arrived at Salvatierra on the eighth of July. Alfonso VIII greeted Sancho like a brother, proud to have him there, and immediately organized a meeting to be attended by the royal ensigns. In one tent there were six men who together represented the better part of the territories of Visigoth Hispania.
The meeting didn’t go on long before they all came to the same conclusion: they would leave the sack of the fortress for later, knowing that al-Nasir was only six leagues away, on the other side of the sierra.
In the meanwhile, the Christian camp was filled with tension and anxiety; some readied themselves to attack Salvatierra while others sharpened their lances and swords and repaired the suits of armor that had been damaged in the previous clash. Among them, a blond woman, of noble aspect and forlorn face, tried to find Don Álvaro Núñez de Lara to figure out what he knew about Diego de Malagón.
“He just left the king’s tent a second ago,” a solider said, pointing to where the meeting had just been held. “He’ll probably be in that one over there now.”
Mencía didn’t understand why she’d had such bad luck since her departure from Burgos. When she arrived at Calatrava, the Castilians had left for Alarcos not long before, and with them the knights led by Bruno de Oñate. After that, in Alarcos, she also found they had left, that time heading for the fortress of Salvatierra, and now that she was there, no one could tell her where Bruno was, let alone Diego.
“Mencía?” Don Álvaro doubted whether the woman he found outside his tent could possibly be who he thought she was. Her hair was shorter and she looked different from how he remembered. “Can you tell me what you’re doing here?”
“I’m looking for Diego.” She answered without mincing words. “Do you know where he is …? I never believed in your letter.”
Don Álvaro held his silence while he tried to decide what to tell her. The surprise of seeing her there, her hope-filled face, and the fact that he had lied to her in that letter pained him greatly. She wanted to know the truth, but if he explained it without being careful, it could be a terrible blow to her.
“I didn’t know you had lost your husband, I’m sorry. I found out from others.” Don Álvaro tried to buy a little time.
“It was three years ago. He suffered a fatal accident and died as a consequence. It was very sad. But, Álvaro, don’t avoid my real reason for coming here to speak with you.” She grabbed him by the wrists and looked at him, letting him know she would not accept any further evasiveness.
“I suppose there were many other things you should have explained in that letter …”
“It may be. … At the moment, though, I don’t consider it necessary; my only goal is to find the love of my life, Diego. I’ve traveled from Burgos and faced all types of dangers to arrive here today. I followed the trail of a Calatravan, Bruno de Oñate, all the way to this encampment. Álvaro …” She looked into his eyes. “I’ve risked a great deal and I believe I’ve suffered enough along the way. No one seems to know anything about him. And believe me, I’ve asked everyone. I don’t understand; I’ve looked in the stables, in the tents, and no one seems to have seen him. I don’t know what else to do.” Desperate tears filled her eyes. “Inside, I know he’s alive, but nobody gives me any reason to go on believing it. Please, speak to me, don’t hold back what you have to say.”
“All right … at the time I deceived you when I told you Diego was dead. I did it to protect you, and with your interests at heart, because no one had told me about what happened to Fabián.” Mencía’s face lit up when her suspicions were confirmed. “Diego was very lucky to land in jail with the Calatravan you’re following, Bruno de Oñate, who saved him from the gallows and then brought him here.” He pointed to the magnificent outline of Salvatierra. “He sheltered him here, taking advantage of its remote location and its independence. At that time, we were looking for a man with his abilities, and we knew this was the best place to keep him safe from the courts.”
Don Álvaro told her another detail or two about Diego’s activities in those years and finished by informing her that he had departed the encampment the day before to carry out a delicate mission.
“What could be more delicate than this war?” she asked him, full of anxiety.
Don Álvaro looked around, asked her to lower her voice, and invited her into his tent.
“I can’t tell you. His mission may be decisive for all of us. Don’t treat my discretion like a lack of confidence in you. We’ve learned that al-Nasir has placed spies among our troops. Do you understand? If by some indiscretion our plans reached his ears, he would kill Diego with his own hands. I have to keep his safety in mind.”
“From what I’ve just heard, I presume you’re trying to infiltrate the Saracens.” Mencía brought her hand to her mouth, terrified, and her eyes filled with tears. So many years searching for him, so much effort to be with him, and now the risk of losing him was greater than ever. Overwhelmed by the gravity of the situation, she could no longer hold out, and she cried in Álvaro’s arms.
“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.
Al-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 o
pinion 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 b
rush 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.
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