The Moon Worshippers

THE MOON WORSHIPPERS

Aitor Echev
arria

Copyright © 2012 Aitor Echevarria

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Chapter One

The Fugitives from Navarra

In the year of Our Lord 800 AD, Charlemagne, a king who had carved an empire with his sword by bloody slaughter, went to Mass in St Peter’s Basilica in Rome on Christmas Day. He entered the Basilica by the north door, with his personal bodyguard and accompanied by his nobles. He was resplendent in his fine clothing. About his shoulders he wore a long, blue, woollen cloak, trimmed with wolf fur, to keep out the cold day. Under the cloak, he had a black, long-sleeved woollen tunic embroidered with silver thread, on top of which he wore a black, soft, deerskin jerkin. Around his waist he had a black leather and silver belt which was encrusted with precious stones; and from that belt hung a sword, called Joyeus, with the most exquisite silver hilt and a large ruby for its pommel.

The redness of that ruby could only be matched by the crimson of the blood on his hands, from the many Visigoths, Saxons and other peoples that he had defeated in battle. Thousands of them had been put to death for refusing to pay homage or refusing to embrace the Christian faith. For the past thirty years he had been in the saddle, engaged in continuous warfare. In that time he had fought fifty-four great battles, all of which he had won. He ruled most of France, and his many victories had given him vast territories in Germany and in Italy. From an early age, Charlemagne had been taught to become accustomed to war and to killing. On the shield that he carried into battle was painted a black raven with outstretched wings: the ancient symbol of death. Death, it must be said, had a way of sitting easily on Charlemagne’s shoulders.

As he knelt in prayer, after Mass on the steps of the High Altar and much to his surprise, the Pope in a spontaneous gesture, took the golden crown from the head of the statue of Saint Peter. He came over to Charlemagne and placed the crown upon his head, adored him and acclaimed him as Charlemagne, “
imperator et Augustus
” by the people.

For what seemed an age, Charlemagne remained kneeling in silence.

The Pope became increasingly uneasy and his growing discomfort was plain for all to see. After what seemed like an eternity to the Pope, and as cold beads of sweat started appearing on his brow; Charlemagne suddenly looked up into the face of Pope Leo, and to the Pope’s immense relief, he smiled. Charlemagne then rose slowly to his full height of over six feet and turned to face the crowded Basilica.

As he rose, the two rows of monks who stood at each side of the High Altar started chanting. They chanted in Latin,

“Carolus, piisimo Augusto a Deo coronato, magno et pacificio Imperatori, vita et victoria
.”

Time and again, the acclaim rose from them, until it reverberated around the stone walls of the Basilica and very soon the whole congregation joined in.

“To Carolus Augustus crowned by God, mighty and pacific emperor, God grant life and victory.”

The Basilica then erupted into cheering, clapping and stamping of feet. Charlemagne stood for some time at the top of the steps of the High Altar, anointed and crowned. Arms folded, with his golden hair flowing over his shoulders, he accepted the accolade of his subjects. At that very same moment, in a remote fortified monastery in the Pyrenees, not far from the Roncesvalles pass, and many, many, days journey from Rome, a Basque warrior died. The two events were not unconnected.

At the isolated monastery in the high Pyrenees, a Benedictine monk covered the old warrior’s face with an old, dirty and tattered woollen blanket. Slowly and carefully, he left the small cell where the warrior’s body lay dead. He walked down a long, cold, stone corridor, passed his own small cell and walked towards the Abbot’s private rooms at the other end of the monastery. In his hands, he held tightly a bundle of parchments which he had taken from the scribe’s table. As he made his way, his brow began to crease with worry. His head was bent forward in deepest thought.

He felt a shiver pass through his body. Not against the icy cold, although it was a very cold winter’s day, but because of what he held in his hands. The parchments, in his bony weathered fingers, contained the revelations that the old warrior had made and they were dumbfounding. Not only because of what they revealed, but also because they had been so unexpected. His story had been related gradually whilst he was dying and completed just before his death. If true, the story would shake the very foundations of Charlemagne’s empire and the Christian world.

The revelations the old warrior had made had started simply enough, and at times he had thought they were the imaginings or the ravings of a dying man. But as the story unfolded, he realised that he had been wrong. It was much more. It could be the story of the age. Few would believe it; many would doubt its authenticity. Nonetheless, who would have believed that they would be revealed in this manner? Or that a simple, uncivilised, disrespected pagan and barbaric race could be responsible for so much? It was simply unheard of. The warrior had begun simply with:

“I am a member of the First Race. I am a Basque; a people who have a language and past, which are like no other. I have not much time left, so I must tell of our shame and our glory. For it is a duty and a tradition amongst the Basques to tell the whole truth before we die, unlike those who, in this age, only tell that which glorifies them. We don’t do that. We are different. We are Basques.”

The monk had thought it an unusual boast, but it caught his attention. It was a story about a strange and little known ancient people. Later and in truth, he realised it was an epic of a tale. They were a people about whom no one really cared, especially in those turbulent and troubled times. Until now they had remained insignificant. Strangely enough, he knew a little of the Basques. Their mountainous region was not that far from his monastery. In fact, it was very close to what could be considered one of the Basque borders. Although, the borders of countries were in a constant flux as baron, earl, count or king fought each other and in so doing, the victor would add to their lands and change borders. Even so, contact with these Basques was rare; even elusive. They kept to their mountains and did not welcome strangers. There were many rumours about them. Some said that they practiced revolting rituals with animals, and treated strangers and those they captured in the most disgusting and savage ways.

Travellers told stories that in secret caves the Basques met with demons and performed strange rituals. But then they were a simple race, mostly sheep herders and fishermen. What more could one expect from such an ignorant and barbaric people? Yet, what if the old warrior was right? If his story was true, then these people had a culture and a military knowledge which had been totally overlooked. Not only overlooked, but completely underestimated. What was more, if it was true; they had men amongst them who were skilled in the Black Arts and with immense and far-reaching powers. The parchments he held in his long thin fingers revolted him, intrigued him and frightened him.

He tried to compose himself. Then he had a thought that comforted him. If they were so few, then they could be compared to fleas. The thought brought him much welcomed relief. Until it struck him that fleas can become extremely irritating as he knew. He scratched himself involuntarily under his armpit. Still, he liked the thought of them as fleas. They were small and could be crushed between two fingers. The thought soothed his troubled mind, but suddenly his mind sobered and he was struck by thoughts that were like buckets of ice cold water poured over his head.

He rapidly re-evaluated. He inwardly shuddered. Could it be that, they, the Basques had remained dormant and unnoticed? Could it be true that they had destroyed so much, and penetrated so far with so few? It was unbelievable! Could they have done what the old warrior had said? How could they? They were nothing but fleas! Just that. What was more, the victim they had bitten and sucked blood from had been Charlemagne, Charlemagne no less! His Latin name reflected the man. He was Carolus Magnus, ‘Charles the Great.’ It could not be! They were the Devil’s children. They were pagans and would remain cursed until they received Christ’s grace. He cursed them all!

“May they all roast in Hell!” he said in a low voice and then he crossed himself involuntarily. At that point he felt disgust. Christ would not forgive such thoughts and the condemnation of a whole race to Hell. He would ask Brother Francisco to apply ten lashes to his back before matins for impure thoughts. The thought of Brother Francisco’s strong right arm applying the lash, subdued him.

His mind jumped, jolted and floated as if in a fever, as he wandered slowly along the cold stone passages towards the Abbot’s room. Yet he had to admit, although it irked him, from what he had learnt from the old warrior, they were independent, strong and fearless.

Now could they be a danger as well? It could not be true! It must not be true! But, his head and common sense told him that it was. It was a tale that he and his Abbot had started to listen to as disinterested parties, out of curiosity. Towards the end they had listened intently and had begun recording the old warrior’s words.

It was a story that had been told over five days by an old dying man and had started by what had seemed, at first, like a series of pointless recollections. At this remote monastery on the French side of the Roncesvalles pass, in the high Pyrenees, a man had been left at the monastery door, in the cold, on a simple pallet.

Was it unusual for a sick man to be left at a monastery door? No. Was it uncommon to have an infirmed person brought to a monastery and left? No. Why? Because, it was only the monks that had, at this time, some knowledge of cures, and the only established infirmaries. The poor knew that every monastery had an infirmary. Monks were the providers of care and cure and it was free in the name of God. So the old and infirmed flocked to the monasteries. A warrior had been left at the outer door. He had died. Nothing unusual in that. Recovery rates were poor for the sick. Death often beckoned. What had been unusual was the man and his tale!

The old man had started with an angry tirade against many of his enemies. This then moved on to a series of, what seemed, unrelated recollections. Then slowly the whole story had come together. At first they thought that he was mad. He was, after all, very ill and dying. He rambled in periods of delirium, but he then had times of perfect lucidity and even eloquence. The first part that made any sense, recalled how a young woman had returned to her small community of clan farms and villages; a woman who had left to marry.

Her husband had been murdered and she had returned to live with her brother. She was still young and very beautiful and much sought after. With her she brought her boy of eighteen months. He had the black hair and the green eyes of his father. He was well-formed and even at this tender age, it could be seen that he would have his mother’s good looks.

She had travelled far to come home. The journey had been perilous and hard and taken its toll. She had been pursued by her husband’s killers and if she had been captured, she too would have been killed. To escape she had taken the most dangerous route and had risked capture by the Moors, who would have sold her and the child into slavery. She arrived on a stormy night, her clothing wet and in threads. The boy was strapped to her back, cold, hungry and half-dead. Nevertheless, she was strong and after care and rest, she and her son soon overcame the pain and exhaustion that the journey had inflicted on their bodies.