The Moon Worshippers (5 page)

The old warrior rambled on about the rapid conquest of Spain by the Moors when they had invaded in 711 AD and the progressive power of the Emirate of Cordova under Rahman I.

“He was a caliph of immense gifts, particularly in war. Would it astonish you to know that to be a Moorish caliph, you have to be a direct descendant of the prophet Mohammed?”

“I know nothing of Mohammed,” the monk said with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Then you are an ignorant man. You must always know as much as you can about your enemies,” he rebuked the monk.

“It was Rahman who drove the Visigoths towards the Cantabrian Mountains, where they took refuge. The mountains saved the Visigoths.”

The old man continued his rambling. “They have the most wonderful horses.”

“Who has?” asked the monk, a little bewildered.

“The Moors have, you fool.”

The old warrior seemed lost in his thoughts for a time. Then he began talking again by saying that, this new enemy that the Visigoths had created for themselves had brought the Basques some relief from the attention of the Visigoths. Although, they still remained mortal enemies, the Visigoths had now to look to their own survival. However, as is often the case in desperate situations, it was in these mountains, that a warrior chieftain emerged. A Visigoth noble started slowly, to gather a group of Visigoth nobles and the Asturian tribes under the massive heights of one of the mountains of the Cantabrian region. The Visigoths were Christian, and the rock under which they gathered they called Pena Santa, which means ‘Holy Rock.’

That Visigoth nobleman was called Pelayo and at the end of the eighth century, he, with an army of 1600 men, defeated an army 20,000 Moors at the foot of the Holy Rock at a place called Covadonga. As a result of that victory he became their king and the aid given to him by the Asturians, the natives of that region, was rewarded with the creation of the little kingdom of Asturias.

Its first capital was Cangas de Onis, then Pravia and finally the great city of Oviedo. The old man was speaking lucidly and warming to his story.

“There are lessons to be learned here, don’t you think my little brother?” The old warrior asked the monk.

“What would they be?”

“You cannot fight a conventional war in the mountains. You cannot deploy the greatest and most fearsome weapon effectively.”

“What is that?” the monk asked, faking ignorance.

“Cavalry and don’t pretend you don’t know. Because I have long suspected that sometime in your past life, you too have seen military service. You have that look about you, of one that has served a warlord. Also, and most importantly, is what a few determined and desperate men can achieve.”

He continued. That battle was, he said, the start of the recovery of the lands the Visigoths had lost, and since they were Christians, it spread the Christian church as well as them retaking their land. The Asturias did well out of this and it enabled them to expand their lands and fortify their borders. It was at about that time, 778 AD, that another threat would appear. Charlemagne would cross the border into Spain, with the great Hruodlandus, better known as Roland, at his side. The Basques played no part in this, other than to keep their boundaries secure from and all and sundry. They raided the Visigoths mercilessly and in turn were raided back. The Asturians were more akin to the Basques and so war between the two parties was less frequent. Anyway, they were still worried about the Moors entering their country and kept their armed men at their mountain borders, leaving them time for little else.

“Do you know what I find interesting, monk?”

“What?”

“That the Visigoths, they who sacked Rome, and defeated the mighty Romans, are Christians and yet invited the Moors who are Muslims, into Spain. The Moors are one of the cruellest and most vicious races that I know, but they are great warriors. It has created a land that has remained war torn and unhappy.”

The old warrior fell silent for a moment.

“But this you know, little brother,” said the old warrior with a wink to the monk, “for all this happened only twenty-two years ago. It was the start of our troubles again.” He fell silent again. Then he said: “I will tell you about things that few know, since I am close to death. What I shall tell you is how a young Nagusi warrior made it possible for us to defeat Charlemagne, safeguard our two provinces in France and the part he played against the Sisters of the Moon.”

At the mention of the Sisters of the Moon, the monk shuddered and turned pale.

“I see that you have heard of them,” the warrior said with a small knowing smile. “Now, I am tired and must sleep for a while.”

“Rest my son.”

The monk left the infirmary with its stench of sweat, vomit and urine. He hurried along the stone passage that led to the library. He went through the great library, passed the scriptorium, where his fellow brothers were working making copies of the great books. At the far end he entered a corridor. He turned sharply left and went through an entrance to a tower at the corner of the building. He climbed the stairs to the upper level and moved out of the tower and along the upper corridor of the building. Towards the end of the corridor he knocked on the door of the Abbot’s study. He waited.

“Come!” said the Abbot.

He entered. At a table surrounded by parchments sat a tall, thin man. He was bent over a book that his monks had just completed. He was in his early thirties, young for an Abbot, but with an enormous intellect that had been recognised from an early age. The Abbot had a long face, deep black eyes and a thin mouth. The top his head had been shaven with the usual tonsure that they all had. His hair was as black as his eyes.

“I have a Basque warrior in the infirmary,” said the monk as he entered and shut the door.

“Oh, is he very ill?” said the Abbot without looking up.

“He will die within the week, I think,” said the monk.

“What ails him?” asked the Abbot.

“I think that he has been poisoned,” said the monk solemnly.

“Deliberately?” asked the Abbot.

“It would appear so,” replied the monk.

“Can he be cured or saved?”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Perhaps not. If it is poison, as I suspect, it is of a provenance and complexity that is unknown to us.”

“Are you certain? Is there no antidote?” asked the Abbot.

“None that I know of, My Lord Abbot.”

“Then why have you come to me?”

The words were spoken with a hint of annoyance in the Abbot’s voice. The monk related quickly and precisely the story he had been told by the old warrior.

“He has mentioned the Sisters of the Moon. He seems to know a great deal about them,” replied the monk.

“Oh!” said the Abbot, placing his hands inside his habit and bowing his head slightly. “Do you think he is telling the truth?”

“Dying men seldom lie. The truth has a way of sitting on the lips of a dying man. Apart from which, telling the truth before dying appears to be a duty amongst his people.”

“The truth a duty in these times? Now that is interesting. What sort of a man is he?”

“A warrior, who has commanded men, is much travelled and speaks several languages. He must be well over sixty years of age. He has a battle-torn body which bears the scars of many battles. A Basque from Guipuzcoa,” replied the monk.

The Abbot thought out loud and said: “A Basque from Guipuzcoa you say. I wonder what he is doing so far from home. Did you see who brought him here?”

“We saw no one. He was left at the door.”

“You say he mentioned a Nagusi?”

“Yes, but I’m not quite sure what a Nagusi might be. Is it some sort of demon? Do you know, My Lord Abbot?”

The Abbot pointedly ignored the question.

“Far from home and left at our door, with a duty to tell the truth. How very fascinating and strange.” He paused in thought. “Have him moved out of the infirmary and to a private cell and I want someone with him night and day. Oh, and report every word that he utters to me.” He paused. “To me and no-one else.”

The Abbot stood up and moved towards some stone shelves at the back of the room and took down a small vial.

“Give him a few drops of this in a cup of water every day. It will ease the pain, fever and fatigue.”

The monk bowed and made to leave the room.

“One more thing before you leave. Write a report of his symptoms and send it to our abbey at Monte Cassino in Italy. They have many ancient medical texts and special medicines. His symptoms will be of interest to them.”

“It will reach them too late to save him, My Lord Abbot.”

“Oh, I’m quite sure that you are right Brother Ignatius. It maybe so, but they need to know of him. It is our duty to inform them of something,” he paused, “new like this.”

He had been about to use the word ‘strange’ but stopped himself just in time.

The monk bowed and left. As he left, the Abbot took up this quill and on a piece of fresh parchment he wrote a short report in Latin. He folded the document, melted some red wax over a candle and sealed the document with his ring. The report would be sent to Paris and such was Charlemagne’s communication system that a copy would reach Charlemagne in Germany within twelve days. He then took up his quill again and wrote a letter to the Supreme Abbot of the Benedictines. Next he took another piece of parchment and began to write his own private journal of the events that had been reported to him. He was not sure why, but intuition told him that he needed to.

This was especially since a Nagusi had been mentioned and the Sisters of the Moon. There was a pressing need to know more about the Nagusi. He needed knowledge of what influence and powers they had. After he had finished writing, he remained seated with his thoughts for sometime. He decided that this second parchment would remain hidden and private to him. The Abbot had been selected for this remote monastery by his superiors, not only because of its importance, but also because of the sharpness of his mind. More importantly, his superiors had recognised in him a total devotion to Holy Mother Church.

He could be fully trusted because of his devout and unshakeable faith. His faith was rock solid, unlike some who wavered and were tempted by earthly pleasures. Furthermore, the Abbot had an uncanny ability to spot the slightest inconsistencies in everything he saw or heard. His reports were highly valued and often acted upon. Nevertheless, little did he know at the time, that his would be such an explosive journal that it would be put away and remain hidden, after it had been finished, for nearly 800 years.

Chapter Four

The Raid

It was on a raid, a long time before all this happened, that Inaki would gain his first military experience against the brutal and vicious Visigoths. He had come down from the mountains with Aguirre and into the small town of Urigoiti. They had come from Zeanuri, a small village in the mountains, with his sheep. There, they had met Gortxu and his flock. Aguirre had split his flock into two parts and had entrusted Gortxu with half. In payment he had given Gortxu six lambs. The rest he was going to sell at Urigoiti for food and supplies.

Whilst they were in Zeanuri, something happened that was to make a lasting impression on Inaki. Two women came into the village at dusk. They were dressed in black and had around their necks and wrists, silver jewellery of a beauty and intricacy the like of which he had never seen before. They were leading a packhorse. As they approached Storm’s reaction was totally unexpected. The hair on his back stood on end. His head went down and his ears flattened against his head. He gave the most fearsome growl that Inaki had ever heard. The women stopped. From a pouch one took a piece of dried meat and threw it at the dog. Storm ignored it and retreated towards Inaki standing between his legs, and still making a terrible sound. A village dog ran in quickly, picked up the meat and disappeared. The women moved on.

When they had passed, Inaki enquired: “Who are they?”

“They belong to a sect called the Sisters of the Moon,” replied Gortxu.

From a distance, one of the Sisters looked back and gave a wicked smile. She would remember that boy and that dog. If it were not for the business at hand, she would have liked to have done something about them. Still there would come a time. They had travelled far and they still had some distance to go, and they were under strict orders from their High Priestess, the Mother of the Moon, not to draw attention to themselves. They had to reach Villasuso de Mena before the battle started. The last 200 years of turmoil had provided rich pickings for the followers of the Moon Goddess, the Sisters of the Moon, especially after a battle.

That night over a meal of freshly killed roast lamb, cooked in a baker’s oven with fresh herbs and wine, and with fresh bread, the three friends ate, talked and felt good until the early hours. Inaki, his curiosity running wild, wanted to know all about the strange women. Gortxu proved to be a fountain of information and rumour. He said that the sect they belonged to went back to before the Roman occupation of Spain and their past was lost in time. They always travelled in pairs and they came from the surroundings of the sacred mountain, the Pico de Aneto in the Pyrenees, in the province of Aragon. They were well trained in the use of herbs and cured people of illnesses. They could also set broken bones. For their labours they asked nothing but food and water. They were a devoted sect that worshipped the moon. However, people did not altogether trust them and only accepted their help in dire need.