From the front line
I plan to write a series of stories to illustrate the rise, and if necessary the fall, of the Almohad Kaliphate. The stories will be first person accounts from a variety of viewpoints. I suppose that would be obvious, since no one individual can last long enough to chronicle the lifespan of an empire.
To start this tale I've chosen the memoir of Abu Malik al-Sahm, Overseer of the town of Compostella; a quiet town in the province of Leon that is far enough removed from the city to have been mostly sheltered from the havok of war. And so...
I write this for my son. This is the story of your father, which I write now so that hopefully it will be more to you than the wandering of an old man's memories. I wish I had written it sooner, when the sights I've seen where more fresh in my mind. I could not, for then the stench of death was too fresh in my nostrils. There are many who speak of the death of Alphonso VI, last of the Spanish kings. There are as many stories as tellers, and someday you may wonder what to believe. That story is also my story, and I hope that if the day comes that you need to be armored in the truth this will be of help to you.
I retired from active military life to be the second overseer of Compostella. I say 'active', though I was never really very active. I was never meant for the military, all I wanted was to be a hunter. Unfortunately, my skill with the bow was noted, and I became a servant of the Kalipha. I mean no disrespect. Kalipha Yusef is a great man, and himself a loyal servant of Islam and the people. It is just that I had honed my skill for prey other than men and did not get on well with the rougher views of my fellow soldiers.
That difference of views did not keep me from a successful career. Besides being skilled with the bow, I developed a superb eye for judging the flight of an arrow, which eventually brought me to be the left hand man of Amir abu Badis, the governor of Morocco. You may wonder at the position of left hand man, as no doubt the term right hand man has become more familiar. Among the militias, where men are trained to sword or spear, the man on your right will carry a large shield on his left arm. That shield can be as important to you as your own, and perhaps more. But an archer carries only a small shield affixed to his wrist, used for catching arrows in flight during the distant exchanges that sometimes develop with the enemy. As the firing position is turned to the right, so the keen eye and dexterous shield of the man on your left takes on a vital interest. I stood for many years on the left of abu Badis, and can say with pride that I saved his life more than once.
I did not have many opportunities to do so. He was also not by nature a military man, and our company saw little action. The western army in those days was commanded by General al-Mundhir of Granada. The general led his own company of archers, and when the army marched on bandits or rebels, which was not uncommon in those days, our company was frequently left to keep the peace in Morocco. I personally found our occasional forays into the field disturbing, as we almost always faced a rabble of barely armed peasants who withered under the hail of fire that a trained company of archers could deliver upon them. General al-Mundhir had a master's eye for position, and even when the opposition managed to raise some number of bowmen our superior training and a well chosen height to shoot from led to overwhelming victories.
Command of the western army was a position of the highest trust. The eastern army was under the direct command of the Kalipha himself, and then passed to his eldest son. Certainly, al-Mundhir did not rise to such a position of trust without facing challenges. It was the ruthlessness of how he faced those challenges that made him a favorite among his company, but set him completely at odds with my Amir.
My commander had a brother, Ismail. Ismail had more inclination to offer his life in service to the Kaliphate than his brother and I put together. We were very content to provide a garrison in Morocco. The Amir saw to the construction of the stone keep which overlooks the straights of Gibralter today, and brought Morocco to be one of the great cities of the empire. Ismail would curse us, for he was not blessed with a keen eye and could never master the bow. He would regale us endlessly with what he would do with an ounce of our abilities, which he considered wasted. His eagerness to serve did catch the favor of al-Mundhir though, and he was given command of what he glorified by calling a militia. They were no better trained or armed than the peasants we slaughtered in the desert, and the Amir tried desperately to convince his brother that the general's own company referred to this rabble as the 'arrow catchers', and for good reason, but pride is a deadly sin in the eyes of Allah as well as the Catholic's God.
Ismail would return in glory to Morocco and recount his adventures. We knew from our own experiences how the battles went, and how his limited view saw what he saw. His company would deploy on the hillside below al-Mundhir's archers. When the arrows whistling over their heads had done their work the general's horn would blow, and Ismail would lead a mad charge down the slope into the routing rabble below. Each time the army marched out the Amir would live in sick dread, knowing that one day they would encounter a better equipped force, and his brother's illusions would be lost. He prayed his life would not be lost with them.
Allah did not see fit to grant that prayer. In 1092 the army marched to defend some unknown from a band of bandits which had emerged from the Sahara. The general's company decimated the bandit archers from their lofty perch, while the bandit's arrows fell short, raining death on Ismail's company. Ismail lies somewhere in Algeria, with more than three fourths of his men. When he returned in triumph to Morocco the general had already picked a new commander, and refilled the ranks of the company with villagers who had lost their homes to the bandits.
As it turned out that was the last major rebellion in north Africa. Kalipha Yusef's aggressive building programs had brought prosperity, and the armies had brought security. The people were content, and our duty as a garrison declined even further. With no rebellions to quell the western army lingered in Morocco, and the friction between the Amir and the general mounted. An awkward situation that could have been resolved by al-Mundhir taking his company back across the straights, but they enjoyed the 'hospitality' of Morocco far too much.
No situation, bad or good, lasts forever. In 1094 al-Mundhir did cross the straights, but so did we, along with the Kalipha himself. The army of the west joined a force of Nubian spearmen that the Kalipha had raised on his journey from Tunis, and when we crossed the straight we were met by an army of hardened militia recruited from the sprawling slums of Cordoba. Though Granada produces harder men, it was only later that they had the facilities to train and equip such a force. The following year this combined army marched into Castile and took Toledo without resistance. You may hear that the Spanish King fled out of cowardice, but it was wisdom. He gathered his forces together in Leon, where they would have a chance. To have half his forces slaughtered at Toledo would have gained him nothing.
For four long years we were again performing garrison duty, but the challenge was much greater. The Kalipha appointed a Nubian, ibn Idris, as Amir of Castile. Again, no disrespect, but this was perhaps a mistake. The new Amir's devout beliefs lead him into conflict with his subjects, and he was in no position to question General al-Mundhir. How the general ever governed Granada is probably best answered by the fact that he was never there. He and his company leaned far more to pillage and plunder, and Castile was ripe.
Though he could not hope to match what we had accomplished in Morocco, Amir abu Badis gave every effort. He will probably never be more than a footnote in the military histories of our time, but he is a great governor for Morocco; and if peace is ever really brought to conquered Spain it will be through him and those like him. As overseer I try to live up to that.
In 1100 the Kalipha returned to Castile, and marched on Leon with a thousand men. We joined Prince Ali in the border hills with an additional force of eight hundred. This combined force approached Leon, and was met at la Colina del Muerto by the Spanish King. Of course at the time it was not 'the hill of death', it was just another wooded slope in the hills of Leon, not much different from any other.
The Spanish army was made up almost exclusively of jinetes, the mounted javelin men for which Leon is known. They were deployed in our path, along the ridge of the hill, in excellent defensive position. To our right the ridge rose to a crest, which was shrouded in woods. Our right flank would be vulnerable to troops infiltrated through the wood if we tried to climb the ridge in the clear. The Kalipha's reputation in the field had been built on his mastery of defensive positions, and many of us who stood and waited for the commanders to rejoin us expected them to bring word from him that we would withdraw. He did not give that word. Instead our commanders brought us orders for the battle, and that wooded hill became forever La Colina del Muerto.
Amir ibn Idris lead four hundred spears up the hill, driving the inevitable rabble of peasants ahead of them. It is no wonder the peasant levies can never be counted on in battle. Even the dullest among them had to see that their ordered task, pulling the jinetes from their saddles as they tried to approach the spearmen to launch their javelins, would likely never happen. Their real task was to force the jinetes to pull up short so that even with the slope they could not harm the Nubians. Within minutes after the battle started the javelins began to tear through the peasantry with devastating results, but the Nubians marched on, with over four hundred archers under al-Mundhir's command tight on their heels.
We could barely make out what was happening on the ridge. Companies of jinetes would appear against the sky and roar down the slope, launching their javelins. We would pepper them as best we could before they wheeled and raced back over the top, and the spearmen ground on. I think the peasants would have broken and ran, as their terror was a palpable thing, but turning and running downhill into the spears was probably more frightening than the unknown at the top of the hill.
Our company was deployed at the far left of our line, and was not actually behind the spearmen. I may have been just as scared as the peasants. A company of jinetes pouring over the lip of the ridge directly above us would have been devastating. I drew some comfort when the hardened militia slid in behind us. The opposite end of the line also extended past the spearmen, and they had the woods on their right hand, and no militia to fall back behind. I am sorry for the men there, but I admit I breathed a sigh of relief when there were clear signs that the Spanish on the ridge were shifting that way.
Like a stroke of lightning a company of armored knights burst over the ridge and charged between the flank of the spears and the wood. Our fellows were decimated, mowed down like grass. But apparently this was the plan. The horns sounded and the spearmen wheeled to the right, and our commanders wheeled us as well. The peasant's formation disintegrated as the spearmen drove it sideways into a second company of knights that was trying to follow the first. Suddenly, the knights found themselves in a litter of bodies, with spears closing from one side and the woods on the other. We archers had rallied behind the spearmen and launched volleys into the infantry that was trying to follow their knights into the breach. As the trap closed our own javelinmen swarmed in and destroyed the knights. Later I learned that those knights were the royal guards with the princes, Alphonso and Sancho. The battle was hardly begun and it was already a black day for the king of Spain.
The hardened militia stormed the slope behind us, and off to my right I could see the Kalipha's own sons as they headed off a company of jinetes that had ridden hard around the wood. Most of the Spanish infantry had been forced into the woods, which instead of giving them our flank was now the objective of two companies of charging spearmen. Their orderly ranks get shattered in the wood, but they were sorely aware that their own flank was now completely exposed to the top of the ridge and whatever lay upon it, so I think they mostly wanted out of the open. Fortunately for them, and we archers who were sheltering behind them, our militia managed to break the top before the Spanish could take advantage. They ran along the ridgeline and plunged into the woods as well. Hundreds of men from both sides poured into the shadows beneath the trees, and only a fraction ever came out. The javelins and horses of the jinetes did not serve them in such close confines, and the battle became a slaughter.
There were difficult moments. A company of jinetes plunged over the top of the ridge far behind us after the militia had passed, and only the Kalipha and his guards kept our company from being crushed under their hooves. Once our own javelinmen had them controlled we followed the Kalipha around the wood, a trail clearly marked in dead horses, to come to the aid of the princes, Ali and Idris, who had held the right flank against the swarming jinetes and were by then sorely pressed.
It was then that King Alphonso himself, grim and terrible, entered the fray. When his infantry poured from the woods he and his knights charged, and began laying waste to our infantry as they emerged in pursuit. The spearmen's ranks were in disarray, the militia scattered and exhausted, and the knights lances sheared through men to great effect, leaving a bloody froth of trampled flesh behind their raging steeds. Had more of the fleeing Spanish army rallied to their king they may have carried the day, but it was not to be. Swarmed from every side his guards were brought down one by one. To their credit, none surrendered.
The king swung a huge blade in wide arcs that kept him free of our grasp until Kalipha Yusef rode through the mass of struggling bodies to face his foe. You may hear that the Kalipha brought down the King, but it is not so. I cannot say with certainty that he would have eventually, though I believe it myself. Before that extremis though the King was pulled from his horse by the infantry swarming around him, and disarmed in the fall. He had no choice but to be taken.
On that gory hillside the last king of Spain was pulled roughly to his feet. Many who were there jeered, and would have forced him to kneel. You may hear that he was tortured, and there were those present who would no doubt have accepted the task. It is a credit to our empire that that did not happen. The King and the Kalipha stood eye to eye. Alphonso did not ask for mercy. In fact he did not speak at all.
The Kalipha sheathed the battered blade that he had used so heavily that day as he walked to his horse. From his saddle hung the scabbard of his jeweled scimitar, more symbol than weapon. In one flowing motion he brought the great curving blade out, up, and around through a glittering arc that severed Alphoso's head cleanly before he could even recognize that it was coming.
There were people on that hill who wanted some barbaric price to be paid, and many of them saw what they saw and believe they got what they wanted, but I see it differently. The Kalipha lost a son that day. As he stood with the king the crowds parted, and Ali rode up with his brother's body wrapped in a linen cloth and slung over the back of his horse. Idris was not yet twenty when he fell. Alphonso had sent both of his sons into the jaws of the trap that claimed their lives. They were not much older. As a father, I believe the Kalipha granted the mercy that had not been asked for.
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