THE ALBA CHRONICLES (XVII) ((Private))
The climate was very hot and dry in Morocco today – same as it was almost during all of the year. As a small group of Spanish hussars rode through the sandy plains near Oujda, their young commander was constantly wiping sweat from his forehead and drinking from a flask. It was previously full of cooled wine, with bit of sugar - and yet now it was almost mulled.
- Enjoying the weather as well, Ramon? - the officer asked his sergeant, once again raising the wineskin to his lips. It was none other that Don Ramiro Esteban Carlos Fitz-James Stuart y Soneta di Belmonte, once the socialite star of the aristocratic Madrid. However it was him – and yet not him. Three years in Morocco have changed the Count-Duke of Olivares, making him a hardened soldier. In the dusted cavalry uniform covered by a long cloak, with a sunburnt face (mix of brown and reddish spots) and with a long pink scar left by a lance on his neck during the battle of Tetuan, it was a different person now – grimmer and stronger.
- Yessir. If it is a winter, I am a crocodile! – Ramon Baltestes answered in a sullen way. It was an old trooper, in his fifties, a career NCO of the Spanish Army. Enlisting during the Carlist Wars, he served in all wars since then and has gained many medals and commendations. While he could never become an officer (among other reasons, because being unable either to read and write), this wrinkled sinewy warren was reliable and brave - and the young lieutenant was happy to have him under his command.
The warfare in Morocco has practically ended – the Sultan and his local elites bent their knees before King Carlos, understanding that servitude was better than annihilation. Some of them started to understand the pluses of European culture and rapidly, though Spanish merchants, bought luxury furniture, pianos and even alcohol (which was portrayed as medicine).
And the commoners in this state, based on piracy and slavery, were fucked anyway, whoever they served.
Still, some sources of resistance existed – and today Ramiro and his men were going to destroy one of the principal ones.
The problem was that Morocco was not very centralized. It may be called an Etxeto wet dream, for it was extremely feudal in its nature. The amghars, the local tribal chiefs, held absolute power over their territories, yet had various obligations towards the Sultan, like giving him men for his army. Many of them were slaughtered and taken hostage during the war, others agreed to declare their allegiance to the Spanish King. And yet some defied the will of Muhhamad IV, continuing to resist.
The most fierce of them was the Alawi chieftain, Hassan-al- Taudi, known as Almubaraza (Sabre). A cruel ruffian and Moslem fanatic, he has killed foreigners long ago the start of the war. His gangs caused many problems both to Frenchmen in Algeria and to any Europeans that arrived in Morocco. He kidnapped and robbed Western traders, raped their women – and then either killed them or sold to other barbarians. During the Moroccan war he was one of the generals to Muhhamad – yet after the end of it declared that he no longer recognized him as Sultan and would alone fight a jihad against the foreigners. It was not a wonder – he would have been otherwise hanged for his misdeeds.
And today they finally had the chance to finish with him, de-facto beheading the hydra.
- There is this shrine. – the Count-Duke of Olivares pointed at a small green temple, located near the secluded oasis. Surrounded from all sides by cypresses, it looked unnatural in the center of this desert. As Ramiro was told in the headquarters, this place hosted a certain "old cripple" сalled Ahmad, a mullah who was one of their agents, as well as his two sons. The cleric knew where Almubaraza and his riders were camping – and was ready to spill the beans for a good pay. This is why the lieutenant carried a small bag of gold with him.
When Ramiro and his ten soldiers approached the gates, all decorated with the Islamic moons, they immediately opened – and two men in white turbans, one a boy of seventeen and the other a muscled brute in his thirties, bowed to them.
– Come in, come in . – the older person said in French, probably the only foreign language that was known by some of the locals. The soldiers dismounted – and the two sons of the mullah said to them.
– Father in the garden. We water horses, you talk. Placing most of his men in the yard, the Count-Duke walked into a small thicket of figs and olives. In its middle they saw an old man, with a long bushy beard and tense black eyes, sitting in a chair. He smiled, demonstrating the line of yellow rotten teeth.
– You are Ahmad? - asked the young officer in French, looking at the man. The stranger grinned again. –
Yes. And you are my bag of gold? Don Ramiro demonstrated to him the money, even moving the bag, so the coins would clink – however, did not pass it to the agent. –
Would give it to you when you tell us where is Almubaraza and his bandits.
The mullah stood up and walked towards the Spaniards. His crooked fingers extended towards the bag – and then moved back.
- Of course. It is nice working with you, kafirs – even though sometimes I wonder… The Prophet has said that we are the chosen ones – and yet now we bow before you. How is it possible? The nobleman looked at the cleric with suspicion. Something was fishy here – and yet he did not know what. He answered, carefully choosing his words
. – Well, one speck of dust in the world would not move without the will of Allah, yeah? So Allah himself has ordained so that we come here…. The mullah once again bared his teeth and nodded enthusiastically, answering in a sing-song voice. He was very happy about something – was it the money or something else?
– Yes, yes, and He, in His omnipotence, also ruled that you would come today to me as well… He wanted to add something, but Ramiro suddenly drawn his dagger and, grabbing the mullah by the beard, pushed him towards one of the trees. –
You are not one who you say you are. Quick, to the yard! The sentries and Ramon, the sergeant, looked at him in surprise - but followed their commander. The Count-Duke of Olivares, still threatening "Ahmad»"with his blade and dragging him forwards, quickly explained.
– He is not a cripple, he walks as well as all of us. It is an imposter!
In the yard they saw quite a peaceful picture. The sons of the mullah have been putting plates with various dishes on the table. There was meat, bananas, a big bowl of steaming soup, a jar of camel milk. The soldiers were chattering among themselves, longing for the feast – and exchanging simple jokes with their hosts. All of it looked so innocent– and for a moment the lieutenant started to doubt his suspicions. And then the old man shrieked, in a loud shrill voice.
– Selim, Abdullah! Run, my children! He has shouted it in Arabic – yet the phrase was not difficult to understand, since Ramiro already started to learn the local language. Immediately the older son lurked towards the gates, but the sergeant and another sentry blocked his way. The brute growled and brandished a knife – and in the next moment Ramon drove the bayonet of his musket into his chest. The man let out some kind of gurgling gasp – and fell. The mullah roared with rage – and the youngest of his sons stood still like a terrified statue.
- Quick! Check the horses! – the Count-Duke of Olivares ordered to one of the men – and then he rushed towards the stables. They waited for several minutes that seemed to be very long - and then the soldier returned, pale.
– Our horses have been poisoned! Some of them are dead and others… neighing and beating hooves in pain! The "mullah" сackled, venom in his eyes and voice. He spit on the ground, his saliva brown from tobacco.
– You would all die here. Allah would laugh when He would see the corpses of such animals rot in the desert! Ramiro knew that all these silly Saracens liked to speak in a poetical way – he was more down-to-earth person.
– Where is Almubaraza? And where is the real mullah and his sons? – he promply asked, piercing a bit of the skin on the old man’s neck. The latter smiled unpleasantly, as blood poured down his chest.
– These sons of donkeys are now in hell. And great Amghar Hassan… I would better die than inform on the Sword of the Faithful!
Ramiro sighed. They could do it the long way – and short way. But they could not afford the short way, otherwise they would fail their mission – and maybe lose their lifes. He gave a sign to his soldiers to bring the youth forward. Clearly the real son to this bastard.
– What is your name? – he asked this wretch, as he trembled.
– Selim-m. – finally answered the boy. Boy… Ramiro was only four years older than him. He threw a glance at the fake mullah, an inquisitive glance.
– You lost one son – do you want to lose another? Tell us where is Almubaraza. The old man once again laughed – a nasty hoarse sound. For a moment he looked at his son, pity and anger in his eyes – but then mastered himself. And answered, defiance in his voice.
– I am not like you, kafirs. I would not sell my soul even for the life of my son. If you kill him, he would feast with houries - for he is a soldier of Allah, like myself. The lieutenant bit his lips. It was a hard nut to break - but he would do it. Is he not an Alba? Is he not of blood of the Iron Duke? He grinned wolfishly and nodded to his men.
- Take off his trousers. As they started to do it, the old rebel looked at him, confusion now replacing contempt in his eyes. And this was good - first confuse your enemy, and then defeat him.
- What... What you are going to do? - he whispered. The Count-Duke of Olivares partly hated himself for he had to do - but knew he would do it anyway. -
I would not kill him, you fool. I would simply castrate him and then cut his eyes out. This is what you did to that German merchant, yeah? He may spend the rest of his life as a beggar, a shadow of a man. There was now total horror in the gaze of the grey rebel. Brandishing his dagger, Ramiro kneeled before the trembling militant.
- I ask for the last time - where is Almubaraza? You answer NOW! The fake mullah opened his mouth and finally uttered.
- He would be here in half an hour, with twenty horsemen. Would come from the direction of these mountains.
The Count-Duke of Olivares stood up and sighed. So it was not them coming for this jihadist now - it was him coming from them. They were outnumbered. What to do? Flee, leave this hound as victor? Never - for now they have the greatest weapon, weapon of knowledge.
- You two, guard this scum. Others, follow me. - the officer led his group towards a small hill, covered by trees, not far from the shrine. Here they could easily hide without being detected. He told his men-at-arms to load their rifles - and took one himself. In the Royal Guard he was considered one of the best marksmen, like father, like son. Today it would be seen if shooting living targets is as easy as the colored shields during regimental tournaments.
Some time passed before a small cavalcade appeared. Twenty dark-faced warriors, in loose djellabas and traditional red caps, armed with spears and old guns. Their leader was, however, different. With a proud and cruel face, he sported a tunic of red silk over an ancient chainmail - and even from distance one could see emeralds and rubies shining in his turban. It was Amghar Hassan. the Almubaraza.
- Each pick a separate target and shoot. One of you shoot the horse of Almubaraza. The soldiers raised their rifles - and Ramiro did so as well. They waited for a moment when the group was completely close to them - and then their weapons thundered. Loud shrieks, cries and moans soon eliminated the silence of the desert. Many of the rebels were now only blood heaps of flesh and cloth, lying on the sand. Some of them tried to return the shots - but the Spaniards had time to fire again before they could, and the corpses and wounded invalids covered the ground. Some of the ruffians turned their mounts round and spurred away - but not their chieftain, Hassan. The first shot killed his steed and knocked him from the saddle, and when he tried to stand up, a bullet sent by Ramiro crushed his knee, making unable to walk. When the triumphant Spaniards walked towards the newly created field of death to pick him up, he was rolling his eyes, hissing and cursing in Arabian - but nobody feared him now.
Returning to the shrine, Sergeant Baltestes started to prepare their return to the headquarters. The hardest part was horses. Most of their died after being given poisoned water. They caught some of these that belonged to the bandits, but most managed to run away. And there clearly was not enough.
- Sir, it is a problem. - Ramon said, concern in his voice. He threw a glance at the prisoners - five wounded militants, Hassan, the old bogus mullah and his young son.
- Even if we put some of the horses in the carts, we would not be able to bring these to our place fast enough. And in an hour or so the other men of Almubaraza would come, a hundred at least... He did not finish the sentence, yet Ramiro understood what he meant - and nodded. -
... And if we leave them there, they would tell our numbers and describe where we went. He stayed silent for a moment, lowering his head and taking gulps of the warm air, as if it was best champagne. When he looked up at his soldiers, there was dedication in his gaze - as well as coldness, similar to the one of his fathers.
- Well... If they WOULD try to run, we would not have to bring them alive, would not we? Lots of voices confirmed his words, agreeing with the idea.
Ramiro was the first to pick the target. And he decided to take the hardest one - not one of these smelly long-haired long-bearded reapers, not the old liar, but the frightened youth, his son. He walked towards him, studied his face for a few moments - his brother would be that age in two years. Then took his sword out - and with one sharp slash cut his throat open. In a few minutes his soldiers shot the other prisoners. They now did not have heavy luggage - save for Almubaraza, who was left alive and tied to one of the saddles, Soon the detachment rode away, as speedy as they could.
In the headquarters Hassan was interrogated and soon gave the authorities the neccessary information, before the military tribunal condemned him to hanging for various murders of civilians. His men were hunted and slayed, other resistance groups were soon dealt with as well. Ramiro was commended for his excellent leadership during such a delicate operation - and for not losing one soldier in it.
He answered them politely - but did not tell anyone that at night he saw nightmares. Felt the sweetish smell of corpses, quickly rotting under the hot Moroccan sun, saw the frightened face of the young rebel - and his blood on his sword. Sometimes he woke up with tears on his eyes.
Some time passed and Ramiro was recalled to Spain. He felt that the service within His Catholic Majesties Army in Morocco changed him a lot. Made his stronger, more serious, more responsible - and yet left the part of his soul there.