Advancement of the first chapter of Pérez-Reverte's new novel, 'Sidi'

From the top of the hill, making a visor with one hand on the edge of the helmet, the tired rider looked away . The sun, vertical at that time, seemed to undulate the air in the distance, thickening it to an almost physical consistency. The small brown spot of San Hernán distinguished itself in the middle of the calcined and straw plain, and from it a column of smoke rose to the sky. It did not come from its fortified walls, but from something located very close, surely the barn or the stable of the monastery.

Maybe the friars are still fighting, the rider thought.

He pulled the reins so that the horse returned rump and descended the slope of the hillside. The friars of San Hernán, meditated while attending to where the animal put its legs, were hard people, made to fight. They would not have otherwise survived by the only well of good water in the area, in the usual way of the blackberry algae that crossed the river from the south in search of loot, cattle, slaves and women.

Win or lose, the rider concluded, when we arrive everything will be over.

The host waited dismounted so as not to fatigue the horses, at the foot of the hill: eight mules with the impedimenta and forty-two horsemen clad in iron and leather, the lances attached to the right stirrup and the chair, with the dust of the horseback riding men and animals; adhered to the bearded faces covered in sweat to the point that only the red eyes and mouths penetrated the unaffected gray masks.

"Half legua," said the rider.

Without needing to give the order, silent by custom, everyone climbed into the chairs , asserting themselves in the stirrups while accommodating the weary members. They formed a line without too much order and carried the shields hanging behind their backs. The rider splashed up, taking his head, and the host set in motion following him with the rumor of horse hooves, leather crunches on saddles and the sound of steel as they brushed their arms on the mesh dimensions.

The sun had dropped a little when they reached San Hernán.

He approached the column slowly, with the swinging ride of his mounts. The last fire was still crackling in the burned barn, between smoking woods. Twenty steps further, the stone and adobe walls of the monastery were intact. The first thing the riders had seen when approaching, without anyone commenting but without the detail escaping any, was that the cross was still at the top of the small bell tower . When the Moors did something, it was the first thing they threw down.

Even so, the last section had been done by folded people in battle, watching the landscape with blank, empty eyes, but attentive; shield to the arm and lance crossed in the arzón, in case a hidden enemy looked for to rise early . Prevented man, warned the old saying, half fought.

That you didn't see Moors didn't mean they didn't see you.

The door was on the north side of the wall. As they approached, they found the friars waiting for them, dirty with dirt and smudged with their scamming habits. There were a dozen and some still wielding rodeos and swords. One of them, young, hairy, held a crossbow and carried three bolts tucked into the cingulate.

The abbot came forward . Long beard with gray strands, tired eyes. His bald and roasted skull saved his tonsure. He looked at the head of the horsemen unprepared.

"Good morning," he said dryly.

The other shrugged his shoulders under the chainmail, without responding. He contemplated two bodies covered with blankets , placed in the shade that began to widen at the foot of the wall.

"They are ours," said the abbot. Brother Pedro and brother Martín. They were surprised in the garden and had no time to take refuge inside.

- Any Moors?

-There.

He walked a few steps before the rider, who followed him with a loose rein, pressing his legs against the sides of the horse to guide him. Next to the eastern side of the wall were three bodies lying between the dry jaws. The head of the host looked at them from the chair : they were wearing brown beans, and one the turban had slipped out until he discovered a large brownish pit that split his forehead. Another was face down, with no visible wound. On the third, fallen from the side, a crossbow bolt poked from his chest and his eyes were half-open and glassy. The sun began to swell and blacken them all. The blood was almost coagulated, and a mad swarm of flies made zumzumzumzum on the bodies.

"They tried to assault this part," said the abbot. They thought it would be easy because here the wall is lower.

-How many were they?

-A thirty aceifa, or maybe they were more. They attacked at dawn , with the first light, when the two brothers went out into the garden ... They wanted to take them alive and get inside, but ours shouted to alert us. So they were killed and they were waging us all morning, trying to get in.

-When did they leave?

"A while ago," the abbot looked at the host, who was waiting a few steps in conversation with the friars. Maybe they saw them coming, or maybe not. The case is that they left.

The rider ran a hand over his beard. He reflected on the tracks of the fugitives , who moved away to the west: horses, and many were wounded. The abbot looked at him from below, inquiringly, his eyes narrowed by the sun.

-Are they going to chase them?

-Clear.

-Well they are leading.

-No hurry. These things are done slowly. And my people are tired.

The friar's expression had softened a little.

-We can give them water and some wine ... We haven't baked bread, although there is something left three days ago. Also bacon and beef jerky.

- It will be enough with that.

They returned with the others , walking the abbot next to the rider's stirrup. He nodded to the one who had been in front of the troop: a blond, broad-shouldered and waist-type guy, who wore a frayed gray gonela over the hem, and who in turn gave the order to dismantle. The riders came down from their mounts to stretch the sore limbs, dusting off the dust and removing the helmets, almost all lined with cloth and still burning in the sun.

-Where do they come from? - the abbot wanted to know.

The head of the host had also set foot . He passed the reins in front of the horse's head and patted his neck gently. Then he removed the helmet. Although the hood of the chainmail hung behind him, between his shoulders, under the hood of coarse cloth his shaved hair was damp with sweat.

-We were paid to pursue the blackberry game. And in that we are.

- Are they only your Mercedes?

-I have more people and baggage in Agorbe. But we take care of the Moors .

The abbot pointed west.

-There are several new places in that direction. I fear for the settlers.

The chief of the host looked where the friar indicated. Then he took off his hood, wiped his forehead with it and shrugged again.

-Well, pray your fatherhood for them, Mr. Abbot. That will not go wrong.

-And your Mercedes?

- Everything in its time .

The other looked at him carefully, the air of value.

-You still haven't told me the name, Mr. Gentleman.

-Ruy Díaz.

The friar blinked, surprised. Or rather impressed .

-De Vivar?

-De Vivar.

At nightfall they camped more west , sheltered by cuts that allowed to light fires without being seen from afar.

The men unscrewed the horses, loosened their harnesses and lay down on their ruanas to eat and drink some watery wine. Almost everyone did it in silence, because they were too tired to talk. They left the legs of the animals locked and the weapons at hand. Two horsemen with war horns hung around their necks guarded the small camp. At times the sound of their horses' hooves could be heard as the mounted shadows passed slowly at night, under the stars.

The second of the host approached: Minaya, they called him, and Alvar Fáñez had his name. Its massive silhouette, crouched next to Ruy Díaz, was trimmed in the glow of the nearest bonfire. The cross of a dagger gleamed the belt. It smelled of sweat, metal and leather, like everyone else. He had the small features of smallpox and scars of steels: one of those faces that needed a helmet and a chainmail to look complete.

-What's the plan?

-There is no plan, at the moment.

They looked calm, without taking off their lips . Crouched Minaya, lying in the chair and saddlebags the chief of the troop. Motionless and knowing each other. The reddish flames danced lights and shadows on their bearded faces.

"That aceifa is going to do a lot of damage, meanwhile," Minaya finally said.

"Haste also kills," Ruy Díaz objected. He hesitated one moment the other.

"It's true," he said.

Ruy Díaz bit a piece of dried meat, chewing to soften it. He offered his second, who shook his head.

"The friar says there are four new places from here to the mountains," he said.

They looked at the men lying around the fires. The friar was there, with a blanket above. He was the redhead who had fired the crossbow during the defense of San Hernán. The abbot allowed him to accompany the host, as he was young and knew the territory. He was going to do well as spiritual help . He had followed them on the back of a mule, with the crossbow hanging from the box.

-With women and children? Minaya shrugged.

-Some there will be.

-Bad thing.

-Yes, for the life of. Very bad.

Ruy Díaz calculated in his head days, paths and possible and probable incidents. Chess to play on a barren terrain board, sparse water and rocky hills, daytime heat and cold at night. From a week ago, according to news, the Moruna game ran the field between the river called Guadamiel and the Sierra del Judío: an extensive no man's land, border between the Christian Castile and the Muslim kingdoms, where some poor and desperate people - settlers Christians fleeing from misery, Mozarabic families escaped from the south, adventurers of various kinds - settled with small farms to break the land and raise some cattle with one hand in the farm implements and another in the pada, sleeping with one eye open and living, while still alive, with suspicion in the soul and Jesus Christ in the mouth.

"The bourgeois of Agorbe paid us to hunt those Moors," said Minaya.

-And we will hunt them. But I don't intend to bust men or horses. Six leagues per day ... Six or seven in a hurry, at most.

-The longer we take to find the aceifa, the worse it will be.

-For whom?

-For the settlers.

-Look for the good part. The longer we take, the more loaded with loot and the slower they will go ... Women, slaves and cattle.

The second smiled. He spit again at the fire and smiled again.

-For life of. That is your plan, then.

-More or less.

-English the pig before killing it.

-Something like that. And then stay with the sausage, ham and tripe.

Minaya glanced at the friar.

-Better not talk about that to the vermilion. He keeps asking why we don't bite spurs.

-Well tell him the truth, or part. That these things are done slowly so as not to deplete the troop and not to fall into an ambush. The other you can save.

A horse was hunted outside the cut, it was heard rolling stones and the two men looked in that direction, half incorporated, suddenly tense. But then came the reassuring voice of a sentry. His mount had tripped in the dark.

" We have barely spoken since we left Burgos, " Minaya said.

-We talked about many things.

-Not of all.

There was another silence while Ruy Diaz finished eating the jerky. His second kept looking at him in the firelight, and it seemed to accentuate the smallpox bites on the tanned skin.

-They have followed you into exile. What we are your relatives is normal, because the family is the family. But you owe recognition to others. Fourteen days have passed and you haven't told them anything. ”He made a vague gesture, pointing to the bumps lying around the fires. I think they expect a few words on the matter.

-What kind of words?

-I dont know. A harangue Something.

Ruy Diaz rummaged through his teeth.

-They knew what they were coming to by following me.

-But nobody forced them. They came by your name and your reputation. Do not forget.

-I do not forget it.

The head of the host wrapped the remains of food in a rag and put them in the saddlebags.

-And you, Minaya? ... Why did you come?

"I was bored in Burgos," the other issued a short, dry laugh. Since we were kids, I know that one never gets bored with you .

After a quiet moment and thoughtfully, the second laughed again. Stronger this time. Longer

-What are you laughing at now, Minaya?

-From Alfonso's face in Santa Gadea. When, all solemnly, you climbed the three steps of the altar, put your hand on the pommel of the sword and told him to swear ... Remember?

-Well of course. I have not forgotten, and neither has he.

-All those infanzones, gentlemen and illustrious last names, the flower and cream of León and Castilla, murmuring. But underneath, of course. And the only one who dared to say it out loud was you.

Ruy Díaz picked up a dry branch of the ground and threw it into the fire.

-Well expensive it cost me, as you see.

-You couldn't help it, right?

-What?

- Take out the colors of a king. For the life of. You were always an arrogant stubborn.

-Go to sleep, go. Tomorrow the day will be long. Minaya sat up, rubbing her kidneys. Then he yawned as if his jaws were going to disengage.

-Good evening, Ruy. God take care of you.

-Goodnight.

Ruy Díaz prayed silently, barely moving his lips : a paternoster and a Hail Mary, for not neglecting either the Mother or the Son. In that kind of life and in such places, it was convenient to sleep with things in order and the soul lends. After crossing himself he saw that sword and dagger were close to his hands, covered his torso with the ruana, adjusted his head better and stood still looking at the stars. The fires languished and the table snored loosely. Another horse returned. Over the camp, in the black vault of the sky, thousands of luminous stars revolved very slowly around the master star; and Orion, the hunter, already showed his quiver on the shady edges of the cut.

Take out the colors of a king, Minaya had said. And that's why they were there.

It was not difficult to remember, Ruy Díaz thought, and less that night, under that sky that also covered the monastery of San Pedro de Cardeña, where two weeks away, and every day farther away, his wife and daughters were entrusted under cover. of the friars , with money to keep them only for half a year.

It was not difficult to remember, he kept thinking, next to the sleeping bodies of the men who had followed him into exile. Some, as mentioned by the second of the host, bound by honor for being a family: his nephew Félez Gormaz and the other nephew, the stutterer Pedro Bermúdez, Ensign in charge of the flag. The two Álvaros were also distant relatives. The rest of the waiters were criazon people linked to the manor of Vivar , close friends like Diego Ordonez or soldier adventurers who had joined him to earn his bread, for the sake of loot or for admiration for Ruy Diaz; confident that he, without a Christian kingdom to take advantage of, would make a good algara in the land of the Moors.

Forty-two men there, the best, and fifty-five in Agorbe under the command of two other trusted friends, Martín Antolínez and Yénego Téllez, protecting the scarce baggage. That was all.

It was not difficult, of course, to remember the king of Castile and Leon red from anger, put his right hand on the Gospels, forced to swear that nothing had had to do with the murder of his brother Sancho. To confirm before a crucifix that he was a new king by the clean and righteous design of God , not by an intervening murderous hand. The sixth Alfonso had arrived in Burgos waiting for cheers, and he had them from town under exhilaration; but he also ran into a row of notable Castilians who, like those who do not look for the thing, cutting their way to the palace, led him to the church and the oath.

An ambush, Alfonso would later say to his intimates . With their hypocritical smiles and courteous manners, with their mantles of solemnity, those stretched Burgos had ambushed him. The only one who did not smile was Ruy Díaz, Vivar's childhood that had been ensign of his late brother. He stood there before him, sword at his belt, bare head, respectful but deadly, grave and dry like a stick. And once they had him at the altar, he tightened the ropes. Of all of them, he was the only one who dared to do the dirty work:

"Do you swear not to have a part in the crime against your brother?"

"Yes, I swear."

" If you tell the truth, may God reward you . And if you perjure, may it be demanded of you. And like King Don Sancho, villains are also betrayed, not gentlemen."

"You squeeze me a lot, Ruy Díaz."

"It's that the cast is tight."

After which, running the face, embodied as the grana, with fast walking, away from the Burgos while claiming around his Leon, Asturian and Galician knights, the sixth Alfonso left the church.

" Step to the king! " Ruy Díaz shouted, only in the presbytery. Half a year later his banishment was decreed.

According to the criteria of The Trust Project

• culture
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• Arturo Pérez-Reverte
• novel
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