Deus Vult

A Story of Jihad, the Crusades,Lust, Cruelty, and Love

Edited by Alejandro Jenkinsand Michael McCurley

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Deus Vult

Preface

The Seljuk Turks, members of a nomadic warring Muslim group from

Central Asia, established themselves in the Middle East during the eleventh

century. They became the guardians of the Abbasid caliphate and founded the

Great Seljuk sultanate in 1055, with a capital in Baghdad. They began a

series of successful military campaigns of expansion under sultan Alp-Arslan,

and by the time of his death in 1072, the Seljuks already controlled Palestine.

The Seljuks were not advocates of religious toleration, and when they came to

control Palestine (the biblical Holy Land) they ruthlessly crushed the

Christian and Jewish minorities that lived there. Also under Alp-Arslan began

the Turkish occupation of Anatolia that continues today.

In Europe, the Christians saw the Turks as a major threat to European

stability. Although there was a Muslim caliphate in southern Spain

(Granada), Europe had practically no contact with the Muslims and feared

them for their obscurity. The Byzantine Empire, covering European Turkey

and parts of Anatolia, acted as a buffer between the Europeans and the

Muslims. Byzantium was the remnant of the Roman Empire, and was

Christian but culturally half way between Asia and Europe. The Church

regarded it as a major insult that the site of the Holy Sepulcher should have

fallen into Muslim hands. Exaggerated stories of atrocities performed by the

Turks on Christians in Palestine, combined with the greed of Europeans for

the mythical gold of the Holy Land, triggered the First Crusade. Inspired by

incendiary rhetoric of Pope Urban II, Christian troops marched to Palestine

in 1095 and succeeded in establishing Christian rule over Palestine, under

the famous cry of ‘Deus Vult’ (‘It is the will of God’).

Slowly however, Europe’s grip on Palestine loosened, and the land

eventually went back to the Muslims. The unsuccessful Second Crusade was

followed by the Third Crusade in 1188 when the sultan of Muslim Alexandria,

Saladin, consolidated his power over much of the Middle East. Saladin fought

in the name of Allah and sought to establish Muslim control of the area.

Alarmed by the sultan’s power, King Philip II of France, Holy Roman

Emperor Frederick I and English King Richard I, ‘the Lion Hearted’, united

to drive Saladin out. The crusade was a failure, except for one respect: the

Christians succeeded in reconquering Acre (Akko in Hebrew), a coastal city

of Israel on the Bay of Haifa. Famed for its beautiful beaches, the city was

called Saing Jean d’Acre by the Crusaders. Today it belongs to Israel, and

contains the Crypt of Saint John, dating from the thirteenth century.

Acre would eventually fall back into Muslim hands, but its capture

constituted the sole victory of the Third Crusade, and prevented a disaster

that would have otherwise wiped the Christians out of the region, possibly

even leading to Muslim expansion into Europe. History usually does not

concern itself with an obscure Spanish heroine figuring in certain dubious

chronicles that attribute to her the Christian victory in Acre. Without her,

though, Muslim expansion into Europe would have been inevitable, even

without the blunders of further Crusades. It is the story of this mysterious

character that now concerns us.

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Chapter One

It was a beautiful morning for the northern Spanish town of Gijón, in the year of

the Lord 1190. Over the horizon, where the majestically blue waters of the great Bay of

Biscay joined the boundless sky, two white birds flew quickly northward. It was that time

of day when it is still not night, but the sun had already hidden itself below the waters of

the immense ocean. At this time all was blue and purple. People could sit to watch the

twilight with concentration, and see the colors of the sky change, without noticing any

variation. It had been day shortly before, but it seemed as if the sky had been of that hue

since morning. This period of the day might last a few minutes, but to those who watched

it, it seemed as if the pitiless flow of time was taking a well-deserved rest. Rosario

contemplated the birds, abstracted. Her body was there in Gijón, but her mind dwelled on

the distant sands of the Syrian Desert, which she had never seen.

Rosario was as beautiful as the women in fairy tales told by troubadours, but she

was too manly. She had a reputation for having a strong will that frightened men in spite of

her tremendous attractiveness. Her personality did not fit her charming, graceful, feminine

form. She had long, silky brown hair, mysterious deep brown eyes, and the face of a true

angel.

The beautiful girl, clad in the dreary rags of the poor, sat dreamily on an old

wooden chair that did not seem capable of holding the weight of a goose feather. Behind

her was her home, fashioned out of crumbling mud bricks, but kept incredibly tidy by her

mother. Gijón was a medium-sized medieval town, with small winding dirt roads only

rarely covered by stone. Rosario’s home sat on a small hill that overlooked countless red-

tiled rooftops of houses like hers. And further on was the port which led to the limits of the

huge Bay of Biscay.

“Rosario, you are neglecting your chores again,” said her mother. “You sit there,

looking at the sky and do nothing. You are sixteen now, and it is time for you to get

married and have a family. But you neglect your duties, and no man will want a lazy wife,”

her mother continued in a harsh yet loving tone that she had heard from no one else.

“I was thinking mother, about my father...”

*

**

It had been exactly five years since Rosario’s father had left to face the unknown in

a faraway and mysterious place they called the Holy Land. Rosario imagined it was a

fertile, green valley where plants grew without need of a human hand to look after them.

She imagined beautiful streams of crystal-clear water murmuring soft lullabies. It was the

place where Jesus was born, a paradise on Earth. Little did she know that the Holy Land

was a tiny strip of half-fertile land along the banks of a muddy river in the middle of the

glittering sands of the Syrian Desert. And there, bathed in the blood of infidels, she

imagined her father.

He was a very kind man. Rosario remembered him as a tall, brown-haired man with

a charming voice and never ending good humor. But his tremendous debts had slowly

distilled the bitterness in his veins and made him an unhappy man. He owed something to

everyone, and he had found himself on the verge of taking his own life during bouts of

desperation at seeing that nothing was his. He did not own his house, nor his horse, nor his

tiny shop in the dingy city market where he offered earthenware that no one was willing to

buy. He was a ruined artisan, but he loved Rosario and his wife dearly, with so much

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strength that the bitterness, which flowed through his body, had not been able to displace

the affection in his heart.

He was a religious man. He prayed day and night for better times that never came.

But he was not a Christian. He was, though no one knew it, a Jew. Abraham had been the

name given to him by his parents, but he called himself Fernando. Nevertheless, Rosario

had been reared as a Christian by her mother, a gentile, who ignored the real identity of her

own husband. Fernando, however, had told Rosario one day, years ago during a trip to the

harbor, that he was a descendant of the biblical Abraham, hiding his true identity to avoid

ostracism from their neighbors, to an even further extent than that of the discrimination

caused by his poverty. Rosario, an authentic gentile, for Jewry is inherited from the mother

exclusively, knew little about her father’s race, except that it was a secret never to be told

to anyone except those identified by her father as fellow Jews. Spain was not a good place

for the Jews, but there was nowhere else to go. Nowhere, that is, except for the distant

Palestine, the land of their ancestors, the Holy Land. When forgiveness of debts had been

offered in exchange for service in the Holy War, Fernando had been the first to go.

As a member of one of the poorest families of Gijón, Rosario’s mother had been

able to exercise little choice in marriage, but she had come to love Fernando, the sweet and

slightly ridiculous young man who had fallen madly in love with her during a town fair.

She had been flattered to be loved by anyone, for she had come to accept her position at

the lowest level of the medieval social structure. They had married quickly, with no dowry,

very little ceremony, and had enjoyed a short-lived happiness. Their first son had coughed

himself to death at the age of two. Children not living to the age of three were boringly

common in medieval Europe, when diseases razed entire cities, and yet Fernando and his

wife had suffered so much, they had vowed never to have another child. Then came

economic troubles, debts mounted, credit all but disappeared, and Rosario had been a little

but lovable accident that sweetened their lives but worsened their economic condition.

Now, twenty years later, Rosario’s mother was virtually an old woman at the age of forty,

at a time when few would make it to thirty. She had seen her husband pack off to Palestine,

leaving everything and everyone behind.

“I will go to the land of your parents. I will go, and would take you with me, but I

cannot,” Fernando had said with tears in his eyes, whispering to his daughter as he walked

away into the unknown. He was carrying an old sword and battered armor, which gave him

a touch of sweet pathos. “I will pray that the Lord may protect me, and when I crown

myself with riches, I will send for you, and we will live a better life than any of us has

dreamed possible. This is my chance, my only opportunity. I will write often. I cannot do it

too well, but you will understand me. Every ship that sails from the Holy Land to Spain

will carry word from me. And one day, I will tell you to come along too.”

He had walked away into the horizon, leaving his wife and daughter with a

troublesome sense of void. They had never heard anything from him again.

*

**

“Yes, I was thinking of thinking of him too. But at least, Rosario, you could think

of your father as you work. You are pretty and nice, but no one will want you if you are

lazy and daydreaming,” exclaimed her mother, waking Rosario from the dreamy sentiment

into which she had settled.

“I am going to look for him,” said Rosario, with such suddenness and decision that

she surprised even herself.

Rosario’s mother ignored the comment, hoping she had heard her daughter

incorrectly.

Rosario insisted. “I want to look for my father.”

“The heat really makes you behave in strange ways,” said her mother, as if Rosario

came up with such resolutions every half an hour.

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“I am convinced that God wants me to look for father,” exclaimed Rosario with

utmost decision.

Her mother could no longer dismiss those statements as products of the stifling

head affecting Rosario’s mind. She suddenly sensed her daughter was serious and resolute,

and a cold fear crept into her heart.

“Are you crazy? How are you going to look for him? We do not know where he is.

We do not have the money to make the voyage. There is a war taking place over there.

You are out of your mind!”

“No. I am going there, no matter what the cost. I will find father and bring him

back. If he hasn’t written in five years, after dozens of boats have come and gone, he must

have a good reason, and I will find out.”

“But you are too young Rosario! You are ready to marry! You have a life to lead.

You cannot chase will o’ the wisps. Have you realized he might be dead?”

“He is not dead.”

“How can you know?”

“He is not dead and I will find him! I am convinced of that.”

“You have gone completely crazy.”

“No. I will sell my furniture and have enough money to board the next ship leaving

for the Holy Land. I cannot live without knowing where he is. I am incomplete without

him, and you are too. There is no option. I know he is not dead. If I can get help for him,

he will be well. I know this, God has told me this. I know this is the will of God. All this

time, until a few seconds ago, I had not realized it, but now I know I must go, no matter

what.”

“Oh Rosario,” exclaimed her mother, struggling to keep back her tears, “I already

lost Fernando, do you think I am ready to lose you?”

Rosario approached her mother, who had buried her face in her hands. She put her

hand kindly on her head, ignoring the oblique looks of the neighbors who watched the

strange spectacle from the other side of the street.

“Mother, it is fine. I will not go. I realize I am being terribly illogical and cruel to

you. I am sorry. I did not mean it seriously. My father will write, don’t you think?”

Her mother did not answer. She sat there, with her face in her hands for a few more

seconds, then got up and wiped her tears with her shawl.

Finally, she walked inside from the balcony and said in a low voice, “I know it was

the heat that made you say that.”

Rosario watched her mother as she walked into their small home. She did not like

hurting her mother, for she was old and had no support in life. But she knew she would

make it to the Holy Land, for she was convinced that it was the will of God. She had to

escape, she had to leave. She felt that God wanted it, that He, who knew better, had meant

her to go.

“Deus vult,” she said very quietly to herself.

She had made a decision that would emancipate her from the beast of uncertainty,

or seal her misfortune forever.

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Chapter Two

It was not easy to prepare for the journey to the Holy Land. Rumors had it that the

Crusaders were in a dangerously difficult situation in their war against the infidels, and few

ships were sailing in that direction. The share was expensive too. But Rosario had made a

resolution she was not willing to waive.

Rosario went to the port the next day, looking for the ships that were available.

Practically all of those that were headed to the Holy Land refused to admit her, a woman

on board.

“You know what the sailors would do to a woman like you, Rosario? Take that

crazy idea of sailing to the Holy Land out of your little head. It is crazy,” Rodrigo had said,

the captain of the Espiritu Real, whom Rosario knew as a friend.

The only captain who accepted to take her on board was an Englishman who spoke

little Castilian, and who had stopped at Gijón on his way from London to Palestine, taking

with him a number of soldiers under the orders of King Richard of England. He asked, in

his incorrect macaronic Castilian, for seven gold pieces. No more, no less.

After days of endless walking, pleading, bargaining and arguing, Rosario had

obtained nothing beyond the Englishman’s offer and only had three gold pieces for all her

furniture. Meanwhile, Rosario’s mother brooded quietly at home. The poor old woman

knew nothing for certain about Rosario’s plans, but she suspected that she had not given up

her scheme. She knew her daughter, and she would often admit publicly that she was very

‘pig headed’. Very, very silently, she asked the Lord for a miracle that would give them

word from Fernando, that would make Rosario forget, once and for all, about the crazy

enterprise. She too wanted Fernando back, but she felt she was about to lose Rosario.

On the second day of June, Rosario finally convinced herself that she would not get

any more money from anyone without resorting to Francisco, the usurer. He was a small,

balding, ugly man with a reputation for insensibility and avarice. Rosario’s father owed

Francisco a considerable amount, and the girl was sure that the man was not happy about

Francisco running away for the Crusades to get the usurer off his back. But she had no

choice.

Frightened, Rosario walked timidly into the small, dark, cramped shop whose

appearance contrasted with the sunny midday outside. The door was open, and Francisco

was bent over a small table, performing some arithmetic calculations with parchment, ink,

a feather quill, and a handwritten copy of the multiplication tables. He was having a

difficult time, for his brow was furrowed, and he constantly stroked his scarce hair as he

scratched out one calculation after another. He did not notice Rosario.

She had little confidence that Francisco would be helpful, and she shivered a little

despite the heat as she stood there in the userer’s shop. Gathering all her courage, Rosario

approached Francisco after taking a long deep breath.

“Good morning, Francisco, I need your help,” she said bluntly, doing a good job at

appearing calm, while her heart was beating like a caged wild bird. “You know that my

father has not written to us for years, and I am afraid he is having a lot of trouble in the

Holy Land. You knew him, didn’t you? I am sailing to the Holy Land to look for him, and

I need your help. I can’t pay for the trip. It will cost me seven gold pieces, and all I got for

my furniture was three pieces…”

“You mean, Rosario, that you actually sold your furniture to board a ship to

Palestine?” asked the unbelieving Francisco, a fellow Jewish usurer, who knew the true

identity of Fernando.

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“Yes, I did. Anyway, I also need some money to leave for my mother, so that she

can live while I am not with her. I was wondering if you could be so kind, for my father’s

sake, for the sake of your friendship…”

“I wasn’t your father’s friend, for one. He never paid me back a real of what he

owed me. But just because he was a fellow Jew, and because Jews should help one another

to survive in this inhospitable place, I am willing to lend you six gold pieces if you help me

around in the shop for a month. I understand the ship is leaving in June. You’ll have time.

When you come back, if you come back, which is doubtful, you will pay me eight gold

pieces and the deal will be closed. If you don’t come back within a year I will keep your

home. You will present a little statement to the bailiff to that effect. Is that a deal?”

“But, Francisco, that is too harsh of a deal! I am willing to work day and night for

you from this moment until I have to leave. I am willing to do anything you ask for, but if I

don’t return you cannot take my home because it is the only place my mother has. Please

Francisco!” pleaded Rosario, with tears rolling down her cheeks as she kneeled in front of

the small, fat Jewish usurer. All her false courage collapsed, leaving her exposed as the

frail girl she really was.

“You are free to leave when you stop crying,” answered Francisco coldly.

For a few minutes the shop was completely silent except for the muffled sound of

Rosario’s sobs. Francisco looked down at his calculations, and attempted to resume them,

but then turned his attention towards Rosario. His expression changed slightly. Finally he

talked.

“Fine. You be my maid around here until you have to leave, and I will pay you

what you need. But I hope you do a good job, because you are the most expensive maid

anyone ever hired!” said Francisco, still stern and cold on the outside, but somewhat

moved on the inside by the young girl that was about to get herself killed in a distant land

just to try to get her father, a dull, unlucky, lazy man, back.

“Thank you, sir,” said Rosario, rising and drying her tears with her shawl.

“Be here tomorrow when the sun rises. I will have work for you. Can you add and

subtract?”

“A little sir,” said Rosario with the broken voice of those who have cried.

“I hope so. If you can’t do arithmetic, you can help organizing things. Be prompt.”

“I will be, sir.”

“Be off.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rosario walked out quickly, but not before she accidentally knocked over a pile of

account books that lay by the door. Francisco watched her stooping to collect and organize

them, admiring her youth and beauty, with desire creeping into him stealthily. Rosario

finished her task, embarrassed, for she had noticed Francisco’s glances. She guessed their

meaning and felt a shiver run down her spine as she thought about her work the next day.

At home, Rosario told everything to her mother.

“Mother, I cannot lie to you, I have managed to get a place on an English ship that

will sail to the Holy Land. I sold all my furniture for three gold pieces, and I convinced

Francisco to give me enough to pay for the ship and leave some money for you, so that you

will sustain yourself...”

“My girl, you are very stubborn,” said her mother, calmly unexpressive, not lifting

her eyes from her sewing work. “I suspected this all along. You are much like the mules.

All I can say is that I am your mother, and I forbid this. However, I realize that there is

very little I can do to stop you. I have already done all my weeping over you and your silly

plan. I give you a choice. You can go, and disobey your mother, or you can stay and make

her happy. It is entirely up to you. What I do not understand is how you got anything out of

Francisco.”

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“I agreed to work for him during the month that I have left before departure,” said

Rosario, her eyes fixed on the dirt floor, ignoring her mother’s initial statement. She felt

embarrassed.

“I am waiting, Rosario, for you to explain what your choice is.”

For more than a minute, there was absolute silence. Rosario could hear voices from

nearby homes. She wondered why God made it so difficult for her to achieve His will.

Then she realized He was testing her.

“Mother, God tells us that we must obey our parents, but He says it is even more

important to glorify Him. I know God wants me to bring my father back. I must obey Him.

I have had dreams.”

Her mother did not move or speak. She continued sewing. After a few minutes,

Rosario realized the conversation was over, and she left for her room, troubled.

The next morning, Rosario woke up very early. Her weekly bath was due. Quietly,

not to wake her mother up, Rosario stood up from bed and picked up two large tin pails

lying in her room. She opened the door of the house, walking away with her pails to the

town fountain, fed by an old Roman aqueduct. She filled both pails as the rest of the city

slept. The sun had not yet risen, and she guided herself with the pale light of the stars and

the moon, now low on the horizon. The night insects sang their monotonous songs over

and over again. Rosario took the heavy pails, and walked to her home, bent by the weight

of her watery cargo. She had left the door open and walked in easily. Then she set both

pails on the earthen floor, closed the door, and walked into the small bathroom, picking up

the pails again.

Closing the door to the bathroom, she took the small porous rock she used to bathe

with. Sometimes she used lye soap, but that was difficult to buy, very expensive, and

generally needed for the clothes. She took her garments off slowly, lazily, and admired, in

the dim light, her own naked beauty. Her skin was alabaster white, her flesh young and

firm. She was the incarnation of health. Rosario poured water on herself and scoured her

skin with a small porous rock, turning her skin reddish with the friction. She finished her

bath, dried herself, and put on clean clothes. Leaving some water for her mother in the

bathroom, she prepared her own breakfast, as well as her mother’s.

By the time Rosario walked out of her house and headed for Francisco’s small

cramped shop, the sun was already rising and a rooster cried in the distance…

*

**

The day of the departure eventually came. Francisco had given Rosario the

promised gold in exchange for her faithful work. She had taken the three gold pieces her

furniture had amounted to out of a cupboard in the kitchen, and placed the money in a felt

bag that hung from her waist. On the ground, by the bed of her sleeping mother, she placed

the eight gold pieces that Francisco had finally given her. She took four for herself, which

she put into the felt bag. The other four she left on the ground, next to a note she had

written the night before. She scarcely knew any writing, since it had been her father who

taught her to read and write, and he, himself, knew little of it. In her own illegible and

babyish penmanship and spelling she had written:

“Mother, I am leaving. I know I am not making you happy,

but this is my duty. I am sure I shall not fail in this task, and

I am sure I will bring my father back so that we shall all be

reunited and happy. I leave four gold pieces for you. I cannot

estimate how long it shall take before father and I come back,

but it will not be long because I know God is kind.

I love you.”

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She was on her way to port. Her mother had cried the night before, embracing her,

wishing her luck. No one had come to see her off though. She was all alone on her way to

Palestine.

The English captain was happy that morning. He received Rosario’s money, saw

after her as she climbed aboard, and showed her what would be her berth, a tiny nook close

to the Captain’s quarters. He recommended not leaving her compartment during the trip

except for meals.

“The soldiers can be dangerous,” the captain said in his barely intelligible Castilian.

“Specially you being so pretty…”

The sea was calm and beautiful, and a fresh breeze blew. The ship was a large

galleon, but scarcely large enough for the number of passengers aboard. That morning,

Rosario, the captain and crew, and three-hundred English soldiers left for Palestine.

Chapter Three

Alexandria was a busy port city. In the middle of all trade routes in the area,

Egyptian Alexandria was the richest and most prosperous of the cities dominating the

Mediterranean. Thousands of inhabitants walked through the streets of the city daily.

Mainly Muslims, Alexandrians were happy people. They had money, prosperity, and love

for life.

Abdul Al-Adid was not an Alexandrian by birth. He was Syrian, but his military

career had taken him to Alexandria that year to advise the Muslim leaders who were

directing the war in Palestine against the Christians. The war was going exceptionally well.

Abdul was on his way to the Caliph’s mansion to receive orders. He believed he was about

to be promoted to General Commander of the troops in Jerusalem, directly under the orders

of the Sultan of Alexandria himself: Saladin. Abdul had performed brilliantly against the

Christians as a soldier and officer. As adviser, he had earned the Caliph’s respect and

admiration. He had killed hundreds of enemies with his own hands.

However, Abdul did not have the characteristic look of a soldier. He was

handsome, tall, jet-black haired and with large black eyes. But he had the expression of an

artist, dreamy and imaginative. His intelligence and dexterity with the scimitar had earned

him a reputation as an optimal soldier. His looks and abilities at conversation had won him

the sympathy of all, including his enemies, making him a good diplomat. A cultivated

man, Abdul spoke Arabic, Castilian, Hebrew, Persian and Turkish. As Abdul strolled

nonchalantly through the streets of Alexandria, his mind wandered off to Jerusalem and the

war going on hundreds of kilometers away from him.

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The Caliph’s mansion was an incredibly large building. On the outside it was

covered with colorful blue and golden tiles adorned with inscriptions from the Koran,

written with beautiful calligraphy. Plants of all sizes and colors grew around the Caliph’s

mansion. Tall minaret towers stood on each corner of the square shaped building. The

windows in the mansion that faced the streets showed a luxurious and rich interior. Once

inside the mansion, the visitor contemplated a beautiful inner courtyard with a fountain in

its middle, out of which flowed a refreshing stream of water. Through the open space

above the courtyard shone the bright sunlight of Alexandria. Again, lush vegetation

arranged in playful patterns attracted the attention of the visitor. Around the courtyard

were beautiful arches, and behind them stood the rooms of the Caliph, with walls full of

calligraphically exquisite inscriptions and arabesques.

“General Commander of Allah’s troops in Jerusalem, and aide to the Sultan,

warrior of Islam,” Abdul said to himself, moving his lips but barely making a sound,

savoring every word of what he thought would be his new rank.

Abdul entered the mansion and did not fail to be impressed by the beauty of the

building he had contemplated so often before. He reached the exquisite courtyard, and

stood there some seconds, hypnotized by the reflection of sunlight on the constant flow of

water from the fountain. It reminded him of the Alhambra of Granada he had known as a

youth. He crossed the pebble-covered path that lead to the fountain, and drank from its

fresh water. Then he walked lazily through the arches surrounding the courtyard into the

corridor that separated it from the rooms inside. Finally, he crossed the corridor and

entered one of the rooms of the mansion with large windows facing the street outside. He

could feel himself being contemplated by an unseen presence, since Muslim mansions

often had hidden peepholes in their adorned walls, through which the host could see a

visitor without being seen.

As Abdul stood staring out from the window of the room, the Caliph himself,

unaccompanied by any guards, walked into the chamber from an adjacent one.

“Zalam aleikum, Abdul, may Allah bless your person,” greeted the Caliph in the

traditional Muslim custom, ‘zalem aleikum’ meaning ‘may peace be with you.’

“Aleikum essalam, your Holiness. May Allah bless your exalted person too,”

responded Abdul, bowing in front of the holy Caliph, Allah’s representative on earth.

“I called for you.”

“You did, oh great Vizier!”

“Please follow me,” said the Caliph, guiding Abdul into the adjoining chamber.

Abdul followed the Caliph, who sat on the floor, surrounded by comfortable

cushions. The room was furnished with expensive silks and other fabrics. Abdul waited for

the holy Caliph to be seated, and then took his place in front of the Caliph.

“Abdul, I have been able to confirm during your stay here as my advisor that you

are not only an excellent soldier, but also a man of admirable intelligence and skill at

diplomacy.”

“You honor my humble person with your praise, oh Sheik.”

“I have also noted that you are seeking to be promoted to commander of the forces

in Jerusalem, which is a post that would indeed suit you, as an admirable soldier and

tactician.”

“Your holiness is being too flattering to me!”

“By no means am I being an objective judge of your abilities. Anyway, I was

willing to give you that post, which you would have been sure to fulfill with utmost

dignity,” continued the Caliph, as a subtle sign of disappointment appeared in Abdul’s

face, hearing the Caliph suggest that he had been chosen for a different assignment.

“However,” said the representative of Allah on earth, confirming Abdul’s fear, “A

different person was recommended by the Sultan for the post, and I have no authority over

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the Sultan who, although otherwise is a most holy and worthy leader, sometimes does not

heed the voice of Allah, which I transmit. Therefore, I have been compelled to send you

back to Jerusalem with a different task. You will, as soon as your caravan reaches

Jerusalem, be appointed Ruler of Acre. I am sure that you will do an excellent job in this

position too, although you might have preferred a different assignment.”

“By no means, your Holiness. Allah has chosen me for that post, and I humbly

accept it,” said Abdul, hiding his disappointment.

“I am glad to hear that. I will give you a letter that you shall present to the current

ruler of the city, when your caravan reaches Acre. I will provide you with forty camels,

food and water for the journey, gold, and fourteen able diplomats and officials who will

help you in your new job. As ruler of Acre, you will also play an important role in the war

against the Christians. They are attempting to retake the city as part of their fruitless

endeavor to conquer what Allah has chosen to be ours. You will be a most wise and

excellent ruler, Abdul. I sincerely wish that the all-powerful Allah will benevolently smile

upon your new endeavors. Be here tomorrow at this same time, for I shall present you to

your caravan and your helpers, among whom is one of the best astrologers of the

Caliphate.”

“I will be here promptly, your Holiness.”

“May Allah guide your way, Abdul!” said the Caliph as the disappointed Abdul

walked from the adjacent room into the corridor that surrounded the courtyard.

“Ruler of Acre, bah! I am a soldier, not a bureaucrat,” said Abdul to himself as he

disappeared through the door of the Caliph’s mansion.

*

**

Meanwhile, Rosario was well on her way to Jerusalem, secluding herself from the

rest of those on board the ship, and leaving her little nook only to eat. She had made

friends, however, with a certain Englishman by the name of William Holland, who spoke

perfect Castilian and seemed to like the company of Rosario.

Over their meals, William and Rosario would converse placidly in Castilian.

William was blond and blue eyed and beardless, somewhat short and of a vaguely childish

complexion. He had a particularly quick mind, and was full of witticisms that allowed

Rosario to forget the endless boredom of the trip. William had found a particular interest in

this woman who had done something no other female he knew would have dared to do.

There, riding the waves of the blue Mediterranean, William and Rosario established

a friendship that would tremendously influence the outcome of the girl’s quest.

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Chapter Four

It was a sunny morning when Rosario started the difficult search for her father. She

had slept her first night ashore in a shabby rented room with doors and windows about to

fall to the ground. Rats roamed all over the place, scampering into crevices, and coming

out when they believed they were unseen. The sticky stench in the room caused a strong

feeling of nausea in her. The waves of the sea monotonously struck the brown sands of the

beach outside, tirelessly, as they had done for thousands of years and would do until the

day of Doom. Rosario heard the sound of the waves, and was thoroughly depressed,

ruminating upon the events that had led her to where she was at this point.

*

**

Incredibly, she had not considered how she was going to live during her stay in

Palestine. All her money had been spent on the boat trip. She had not been gripped by the

thought of it until she was two days away from the Holy Land, sailing with the strong

winds of the Mediterranean, in the middle of that great expanse of blue. She had almost

collapsed with anguish. But William, the gentle Englishman, had lent her seven gold

pieces, out of his own pocket.

“Are you crazy, William? I cannot take this from you. What are you going to live

with?” she had said, surprised by the generosity of the man she had met such a short time

before.

“I am going to war, remember? The loot will be plenty. Even if it is not, I will be

clothed and fed by the army. I have no use for that money. An uncle gave it to me when he

realized I was leaving. We are a rich family, you know. I came here not because I needed

to do so, but simply because I am looking for the adventure. Being penniless will make it

even more interesting.”

“Are you out of your mind, William? We have become friends, but if you think of

it, I hardly know you, and you are giving me all of your money.”

“If it makes you happier, I will ask you to repay it if we ever meet again.”

The two of them had looked into each other’s eyes as the waves crashed against the

wooden hull of the ship.

Two days later, the ship along with its cargo of soldiers had made it to a small port

city on the Bay of Haifa, south of Acre, where Rosario now found herself. She had not

been allowed to follow the English soldiers on their way to Jerusalem. The commander

would not take a woman with him. He had taken her to the room where she was now,

telling her that no amount of crying would make him take her with his troops. The

commander was young, about twenty five, small and prematurely gray-haired, and as stern,

inflexible and unsentimental as a Roman concrete wall.

“Of course I will not take you! Don’t cry anymore. You would be raped by the

soldiers. You are a woman, anyway. I can’t take you with the soldiers. It will ruin their

morale. You would be killed in Jerusalem at any rate. Stay here. If you find someone else

who is willing to take you, that is fine with me. You will not go with us, though.”

“But sir,” Rosario had said with teary eyes. “How will I talk with these people who

do not even speak Castilian? I have had a hard time getting along on the ship where most

people speak at least a little of my language. What will become of me here? All along, I

counted on the Christian troops taking me. Otherwise, I would not have come. Can’t you

help a fellow Christian?”

“You rely too much on other people. For all I care, you may grow old and die in

this place. Why should I be compelled to help you? Are you a soldier? No. I am a

commander, not a charitable monk.”

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Deus Vult

The pitiless commander had turned his back and slammed the door of the dingy

room, making the complete structure of the building rattle thunderously. He had left

Rosario in that room, crying soundlessly on the stone-hard bed.

*

**

There she was, Rosario in a meager rented room, in the middle of nowhere, two

days from Jerusalem, with no knowledge of Arabic. All she had was six gold pieces (what

William had given her, minus the rental of the room and the cost of the food). She did not

even want to wake up. Why had she chosen to make the trip? What was there for her to

do? The Christians had all departed for Jerusalem. The English captain had stocked up on

supplies and sailed back to his country. There was no one. She just walked to a chair next

to the window, and looked out into the sea.

Hours passed. Rosario sat there, doing nothing, thinking of nothing. Then, out of

the reining silence interrupted only by the tireless crashing of the waves, came a boisterous

uproar. Men shouted and the air was filled with all sorts of exclamations of surprise and

admiration. Rosario did not know what to make of it. The people shouted in Arabic, but

out of the confusion, she could make out a name, ‘Abdul’.

Her curiosity was piqued by the sudden pandemonium, and with absolutely nothing

better to do, Rosario opened the door of her room shyly, and descended the stairs onto the

street. She expected not to be noticed, to mix herself with the crowd. She turned towards

the direction of the noise, which was opposite the window of her room. There, above the

heads of the small crowd, she saw a camel caravan.

The uproar continued; the caravan was moving in her direction. Forty camels were

moving slowly, laden with expensively-dressed men, food, and luxuries, as they made way

through the small crowd that had gathered in front of the caravan. The uproar continued.

She could now make out, from the shouting, a full name: Abdul Aldid, or something

similar.

Curious to find out who the men from the caravan were, Rosario mixed with the

crowd that was slowing down the caravan’s progress. She waited there for a few minutes.

The caravan was coming to rest in front of the building across the street, opposite her

room. It was the house of the local iman, or spiritual leader.

Rosario watched the man who rode atop the leading camel. He was dressed with

rich blue robes and a white turban. He was handsome and large, with an abstracted

expression. He was contemplating the sea, as his caravan moved slowly among the crowd.

Then he caught a glimpse of Rosario and was hypnotized by her beauty for a few seconds.

It is an interesting although pointless exercise to consider what would have been if

a seemingly tiny coincidence had not taken place. Modern science has introduced a

concept known as ‘chaos theory’ or ‘non-linear science’ that teaches us that in many

complicated systems such as the weather, a tiny, even immeasurable variation in the initial

condition will lead, given a long enough period of time, to a condition dramatically

different from what the system would have been without that variation. An allegory that

has become something of a cliché is that ‘a butterfly flapping its wings in Hong Kong

affects the weather in New York next month. Often in life we find that we have come to

perform a major achievement, or suffer a terrible defeat, due to a series of events triggered

by a tiny accident. Well, if Abdul Al-Adid had not run low on food after two camels had

been lost in a precipice, or if he had not happened to notice Rosario in the crowd, or if the

iman’s home had not been right in front of Rosario’s room, the poor girl would have

eventually died unnoticed in a tiny town two days away from Jerusalem. But the butterfly,

so to speak, flapped its wings, and it affected the fate of the European continent.

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Deus Vult

Chapter Five

From the very moment Abdul saw Rosario, was attracted by her beauty. He

followed her figure with his eyes as the caravan came to a stop in front of the iman’s home.

When the crowd dispersed, Rosario stayed because she had nothing better to do. About

twenty men traveled with Abdul. They all descended, unpacking their things, and slowly

walked into the iman’s home, which was much too small for the distinguished caravan it

was hosting.

But Rosario just sat down on the front steps of the crumbling house where she was

lodging, and watched without apparent interest as the distinguished guests accommodated

themselves. No one besides Rosario and those in the caravan were on the street. Rosario

played a game with herself by giving a name to each camel.

“That one should be called Martin, and the big one must be Abdul,’ Rosario said

out loud, half laughing at the idea that what Abdul’s people were praising had been the

largest camel.

She talked out loud to herself because her boredom and loneliness had created a

need in her to speak in Castilian, simply to hear the familiar sounds of that tongue, which

she thought she would never hear again.

From the other side of the street, Abdul’s attention was aroused by the mention of

his name, and the sound of Castilian, a tongue he had learned in Granada as a little boy,

son of an official in the service of a Grenadine Caliph.

“You speak Castilian?” asked Abdul, in Castilian, turning and recognizing the

beautiful girl as the person who had spoken his name.

Rosario was completely taken aback. Her desperation at being in an unfamiliar

place, being unable to make herself understood, had turned into a form of hopeless

resignation. She had convinced herself that there was nothing she could do but wait. She

did not know exactly what she was waiting for, but she hardly expected it to come so soon.

“You too speak Castilian?” asked Rosario, after a few seconds of wordless surprise.

“Temo que no he practicado por años. I am afraid I have not practiced it for years. I

did not have the opportunity. You are a very beautiful girl. What are you doing with your

face uncovered? Why do you speak Castilian?”

“I am Spanish, sir. I came to Israel to look for my father, who was lost in the

Crusades,” Rosario explained, unaware that she was telling her story to the enemy, to a

Muslim. She was too excited to think.

“A Christian, ahh… I see,” said Abdul, disillusioned.

“I am looking for a way to reach Jerusalem.”

“Good luck,” said Abdul sarcastically.

“Where are you going?”

“To Acre, just north from here, but I belong to the Muslim army. You are Christian,

an infidel. I do not understand why I am talking to you. I should see you killed,” Abdul

said in sheer disgust, turning his back to deal again with his unpacking.

Rosario broke into tears. It was more than she could take. Her hopes had been

shattered twice. When she thought there were no tears left to cry, a new bout of

desperation had seized her. She burst again into tears yet again. Abdul suddenly turned

back and watched. He had killed a hundred men with his own hands and had directed the

killings of thousands more. He was a soldier, but he could not stand Rosario’s tears. He

was like the murderers who cry over sad songs.

“Now, what is wrong with you? What makes you so sad?” asked Abdul in a

completely different tone.

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Deus Vult

“I sold my furniture, everything I had, left my poor mother, and sailed from Gijón

to search for my father. I have nothing. The commander did not let me go with him. I am

all alone, and I don’t speak Arabic,” said Rosario, her voice interrupted occasionally by her

tears.

“Come now, don’t cry. Tell me about your father. Who is he?” asked Abdul,

surprising even himself, by comforting a poor Christian. He did so, as much out of pity, as

out of attraction for the beautiful girl.

Realizing that the man was paying attention to her, Rosario saw an opportunity for

getting what she had come for. She wiped her tears with her shawl.

“I have some money, six gold pieces,” she said, and showed one of them to Abdul.

“I have hidden the rest. I know we are foes. What is your name, by the way?”

“I am Abdul Al-Adid, future leader of Acre, a few hours away from here. I am one

of Allah’s warriors.”

“Mister Abdul Al-Adid. I have six gold pieces. I am willing to pay them to you as a

ransom, if I can get my father back.”

Abdul was both amused and moved by this. He could simply take the girl and her

money, and do as he wanted with her. She was a Christian, anyway, and defenseless. Yet

she was offering him a petty ransom for her lost father. It was so pathetic that Abdul did

not know whether to be moved to pity or cruelty. He realized, at that point, how much

cruelty resembled pity. Something in the bottom of his heart, something he was not ready

to acknowledge, pointed to pity.

“Who is your father?”

“He is a crusader, fighting in Jerusalem. He came here five years ago. His name is

Fernando. He is tall, black haired. He has a very particular mark. He has the form of a

cross on his right cheek. He got it during a street fight years ago. Some people said it was a

sacred mark.”

Abdul had seen the face. He remembered it. He recalled the sad brown eyes, the

pale moustache, and the cruciform scar. He had seen the man. He knew the man, and a

passion as strong as love stirred in his heart, pointing to cruelty, which resembled love in

all but appearance. It was as powerful, as satisfying, as animal, as irrational, and as

blinding. Yet love could destroy the one who felt it, while cruelty destroyed he that

received it. Love is masochistic. Cruelty is sadistic. But halfway between love and cruelty

is lust.

“I know him.”

“You mean you know who I am talking about?” asked Rosario, her heart beating

with joy.

“Did he have sad brown eyes and a pale mustache?”

“You know him! You have met him!”

“I know where he is right now, and I can take you there.”

“Oh my God! You will take me to him!”

“The only true God is Allah. Yes, but I ask for something in return,” said Abdul

dryly, dispassionately, plainly.

“What? I have the gold.”

“You do not have enough gold. Six gold pieces are not enough.”

For the third time, Rosario’s heart sank. She fell prostrate onto the pavement.

“I will do anything. I will do anything at all if you give me my father back. You

just ask me. I will give it. I don’t have gold, but I will do anything,” said Rosario, again in

tears.

“Marry me.”

Of all things, Rosario was not expecting that request.

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Deus Vult

Chapter Six

Rosario was in her room under the constant supervision of one of Abdul Al-Adid’s

guards. Abdul kept Rosario under watch day and night, and according to strict Muslim

traditions and Abdul’s own possessiveness. She could not leave the premises by herself to

go anywhere, except once a week when she was allowed to buy goods at the market. Abdul

worked all day. Acre was a difficult place to rule, for it was under the threat of an

impending Christian invasion. While Abdul worked, Rosario performed petty chores to

keep herself busy and away from her husband’s three other wives. The wives hated each

other, but they especially despised Rosario, who was Abdul’s favorite. She was also the

newcomer. Most important of all, Rosario was a Christian.

Acre is a beautiful city, a few kilometers away from Haifa. It is famed for its lovely

beaches, and the view of the sea from Rosario’s window was enchanting. At times the

sheer contrast between the beauty of the sea and a bloody war, taking place not far away,

seemed impossible. But Rosario overheard about the war every day from her husband’s

conversations.

From the window of her room, Rosario could observe much of the city, as she used

to watch Gijón from a chair just outside her home. Sometimes Rosario would look out the

window and wish she were back in Gijón, and imagine that her mother was about to scold

for the millionth time that laziness was the surest way not to get a husband.

Acre was a city built of mud bricks and clay, like her native Gijón. From her

window she could see the busy market, countless people walking in all directions, the

caravans, and the children playing in the backstreets. Rosario sometimes wondered how

each person of the nameless masses was an individual who also had conscious thoughts,

fears, and loves, not unlike herself.

Abdul’s home in Acre was nearly a palace. It had a beautiful rectangular courtyard

that morning bathed with warm sunlight. In the courtyard grew countless flowers and

palms Rosario had never seen before. The four sides of the courtyard were bounded by

ornate Arabic arches of white rock, which led into a corridor surrounding the courtyard,

separating it from the rooms outside. If Rosario had seen the Caliph’s mansion in

Alexandria, she would not have found it any more beautiful. Gravel paths led from each of

the archways on the sides of the courtyard to the center of the quadrant. A fountain stood

where the paths met, sculpted in the form of a basin supported by four lions. Out of it came

forth a small, constant stream of water. Abdul had made his home resemble, as closely as

possible, his memories of the Alhambra in Granada where he had spent his childhood.

The home had two stories. The first one contained numerous rooms furnished with

tapestries, rugs, and cushions, where he met with important figures, over one of Rosario’s

dishes, or while smoking a hookah. The walls of each of the rooms had two windows, one

leading to the outside on the street, the other leading to the inner corridor. The walls were

decorated with complex calligraphy from the Koran, like most rich homes in the Islamic

world. The second story contained large windows that received the morning sun. Rosario’s

room contained a large tapestry depicting an Arab victory under the Sultan Saladin. Once

Saladin himself had paid a visit to Abdul, to excuse himself for not having named Abdul

leader of the forces in Jerusalem, and to ask how his job was going. But Rosario had not

seen him, for Abdul had asked her to stay in her room and not to bother the important

guest.

It had been seven months since the wedding, and although she saw him only at

night, and although he had coerced her into marrying him, Rosario had come to love

Abdul. It is a strange thing about love that a lover actually finds pleasure in denying one’s

own self and being governed or even sometimes hurt by the beloved. Rosario loved

fervently, but she ignored how close she was to hatred.

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Deus Vult

Still, as the days went by, she became more and more anxious about her father.

Abdul had promised to bring him to her. When she asked, Abdul responded that he was

still working to recover him, although he was sure he would eventually accomplish her

father’s release. As time went by, Abdul’s lust had moved slowly in the direction of love,

and he became more and more troubled by the thought of Rosario’s father.

One day, Abdul arrived home from his difficult work as ruler of the imperiled city,

to find Rosario in a corner crying and mumbling something about their marriage. Abdul

knew his other wives had been torturing her with terrible tales in his absence. Cruelty is

often a weapon against unrequited love. Abdul went to Rosario, and approached her

kindly, asking what troubled her. His young and loving wife burst into a sudden fit of rage

and struck Abdul in the face! Abdul was taken aback, and was about to hit her when he

realized what his other wives had made Rosario go through. He knew his wife Benazir was

especially cruel. A previous wife had hanged herself two years ago, because she could not

take Benazir’s constant attacks. He had married Benazir for her expensive dowry, and was

not willing to give it back in order to get a divorce, for that was the law in the Islamic

world. He realized, however, the peril Benazir posed to his happiness. But ambition is also

love of wealth, and when this kind of lover knows the sacrifices he makes for his beloved,

he feels pleasure.

Abdul contained himself and ran over to the adjacent room. He burst through the

door to confront Benazir.

“What you have done to Rosario will not go unpunished! How dare you do such a

thing? You will pay dearly for this!”

He went back for Rosario, but could not find her. He summoned a guard and asked

for his wife. When he did not get a positive response, he slapped the poor man with such

violence that half of the man’s face turned a glowing red. Then Abdul ran outside, where a

rare rain storm was taking place. In another context, this shower would have been a cause

for celebration. On this day, however, Abdul watched a distant figure who ran and tripped.

He ran as fast as his legs allowed him to. He ran, although he felt the pain in his chest,

running like he had never run before, until he reached her and grabbed her by the arm.

Rosario struggled for a few seconds, the violence in her subsiding. She raised her head.

Abdul and Rosario stood beneath the heavy rain.

Rosario let herself fall into Abdul’s arms.

“I am sorry. It was all due to your infernal wives. I am so sorry Abdul. How could I

have hit you? I was out of my mind. I am sorry.”

“It is fine. Everything is fine. You should never have learned Arabic. That way they

would not have been able to bother you with their stupid tales,” said Abdul soothingly.

He loved Rosario and Rosario loved him.

“What did they say this time? What made you so angry?” asked Abdul.

“Oh, it is all so ridiculous. I don’t understand how I could have become so upset

about it,” said Rosario, reclining her head on Abdul’s shoulder, almost laughing in the

middle of her tears.

“What is it?”

“They said that my father is dead, and that you knew it. They said you had hidden

that information from me so I would marry you. It is all so stupid and childish.”

Abdul looked uneasy.

“That is very stupid,” he said. “I know where your father is. I saw him. I will bring

him soon. He is a prisoner. I need to convince the prison guard to let him go. It will take

time, but it can be done.”

“Oh Abdul, I love you. Let us forget that I ever hit you.”

Abdul would have given anything to make that moment last forever. There, under

the rain, he and Rosario were truly happy.

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Chapter Seven

Benazir’s body strongly resembled her personality. She was small and hunch

backed, with untidy brown hair, small fiery brown eyes, a long and pointed nose, and

extremely thin lips. She was only thirty, but she seemed incredibly old. Disease, her own

ugliness, and her internal corruption contributed to her repulsive figure. Inside, Benazir

had an immense, almost infinite ability to perform evil with no remorse. Benazir had never

been loved, so she learned to hate. And one who has never been loved cannot bear the sight

of a happy couple. She had the key that would release a shower of misfortunes upon Abdul

Al-Adid, ruler of Acre, and Rosario, his seventeen-year old wife.

“Come, Rosario, I have something to show to you,” Benazir said maliciously one

day, as Rosario did some minor chores in the kitchen and she pretended to practice sewing.

“Leave me alone.”

“It is about your father.”

“I told you to leave me alone. Remember what Abdul did to you for what you said

the other day. Just leave me alone and be quiet.”

“I can take you right to where your father is.”

“If you don’t stop doing this I will cry for help.”

“I am being totally serious. I know where your father is, and why Abdul has not yet

brought your father to you.”

“Yes, he is in a prison, and Abdul is having a hard time liberating him. I know that.

Now, be quiet.”

“That is not true. I know you don’t trust me, so I will do the following. On a piece

of parchment, I will write down where your father is. I will leave it in your room. When

you have to bring water or leave the house for any other reason, you can simply go ahead

and check the place. I’m not lying, and you will see that for yourself. If you don’t want to

go, don’t go.”

“Do that, and go away.”

Benazir did so. For the entire day, Rosario kept herself busy with menial chores to

forget about Benazir and her supposed knowledge of her father’s whereabouts. That night

Abdul came home and they made love. When Rosario woke up in the morning, Abdul had

already left, but there was a piece of parchment on a little table in her room which read:

“If you want to see your father, go to… I’m not lying.”

Rosario couldn’t help it. She understood that it was, very probably, a new malicious

prank by Benazir. However, her curiosity nagged her day and night. What if it were true?

Why is it so difficult for Abdul, one of the most powerful leaders in the region, to get a man

out of prison? Could Benazir be telling the truth?

Curiosity is one of the guiding impulses of mankind, and the love she had for her

father did not allow her to stay calm with a piece of paper in her hands, which could

conceivably reveal the whereabouts of her father. The place mentioned was definitely not a

prison. It was an empty lot at the edge of the city. It was a place where Christians were said

to live in relative secrecy. When it was her turn to fetch water, she purposely broke a large

jug to have an excuse for wandering into the outskirts of the city, for there the potters had

their businesses.

She walked for about an hour before she reached the place she was looking for.

Acre was a relatively small city, and her home was not so far away. The piece of paper

said she needed to look for an empty lot, but she did not find any. She approached a

merchant on the street, with her newly-learned Arabic.

“Sir, could you perhaps tell me where this place is?” asked Rosario, showing him

the parchment.

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Deus Vult

The turbaned merchant turned towards Rosario. He was small and bearded, but

strangely familiar. He was not only blond, which was uncommon among Arabs, but his

eyes were also blue, something almost never seen in such a place of the world as the

Middle East. He did not answer Rosario’s question. She thought maybe he was not a

Muslim.

“Are you are foreigner, sir?” asked Rosario, whose face was almost completely

covered by a traditional Islamic veil.

“I am Turkish, Lady. What do you want from me?” the man asked in good Arabic.

Rosario had heard that Turks were often blue-eyed. She showed the man the piece

of parchment she was holding in her hands.

Again, she asked in Arabic, “Would you please tell me where this place is?”

“I am sorry. I do not understand writing.”

“It is supposed to be an empty lot around here. I am looking for my father.”

“Who is your father? Perhaps I have met him.”

“I don’t think so. He is Spanish, a Christian.” Rosario did not consider that she was

probably addressing a Muslim.

The man took Rosario by the arm, and more or less forcefully conducted her to the

inside of his shop, which was really a space on the street covered by a large cloth, full of

pottery items. Rosario did not know what to make of it, and began to fear she had made a

mistake by telling the merchant she was a Christian. Hundreds of people continued their

noisy buying and selling outside. The inside of the shop was empty except for the

merchandise. Rosario at first could hardly see anything, for the sun was shining hot and

bright outside, and the shop she had entered was relatively dark. Her pupils enlarged

slowly, allowing her to see the face of the Turk.

The merchant lowered his voice. “So are you a Christian?” asked the man.

“Please sir, let me go!” pleaded Rosario, who feared for her physical integrity.

“Do not worry, I do not wish to harm you. Are you a Christian?”

The merchant’s tone was reassuring, and Rosario had heard that this area of the city

was full of Christians, most of them living undercover. If the man intended any harm, she

would just yell for help. She was convinced that the man was most probably a Christian

like herself.

“I am a Christian, sir. I am really Spanish,” Rosario said in a low voice, her heart

beating quickly, hoping she had not made a mistake by revealing her true religious

identity.

“I am a Christian too,” said the man quietly. “I am an Englishman. I pass for a

wandering merchant. This place is full of undercover Christians. My name is William

Holland.”

“William! Do you not remember me? I am Rosario,” said the girl in Castilian,

amazed by the presence of the familiar soldier in Acre. She proceeded to remove her veil.

Until that point she had not recognized the vaguely familiar face of the merchant as that of

William due to his turban and dense beard.

“Oh my God! Rosario, the Spanish girl from the ship. I didn’t recognize you!”

“I have money to pay back what you lent me. I am married…” Rosario stopped

herself before telling the Christian solder that she had married a powerful Arab.

“You are married?” said the other. Laughing at Rosario’s willingness to pay back

money he did not need.

“No. Eh, that is not what I meant to say. You see, I have not spoken Castilian for so

long. I am confused.”

“I see,” said the other, doubting the girl’s veracity, but smiling at the thought of

being in the company of the beautiful Spanish girl once more.

I am definitely a lucky man, thought William to himself. Then his face became very

sober, his smile faded completely. He added aloud, “Are you still looking for your father?”

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Deus Vult

“Yes, well one of the other wives,” said Rosario, again making a mistake, “I mean

the wife of a man I met, told me to look for him here.”

William adopted a solemn tone. “Well then, Rosario, I have a very nasty secret to

tell you. If I remember well, your father was a certain Fernando Morera, who had a scar in

the form of a cross on his left cheek.”

“Yes, that is him,” said Rosario, her heart beating with anticipation.

“I fought for some months on the front before going undercover in Acre. We are

planning an attack. It is good you told me who you are. That way you will be spared when

we invade the city. Anyway, when I fought at the front, I heard stories about a man named

Fernando Morera, with a scar in the form of a cross, who fought with incredible courage

against the enemy. Then, he attempted a one-man raid that would drive the Arabs out of

their hiding place. He ran into the enemy’s arms with a sword and little else, except his

tremendous courage. The Muslims were hiding, so anyone who tried to approach them

would be swiftly knocked down. But Fernando was not killed by just any soldier. He was

so courageous that one of the commanders of the Muslim unit killed him. He forced the

enemy out of hiding, and the enemy suffered a major defeat. Fernando is something of a

hero now.”

Surprisingly, Rosario did not cry. She remained very silent. All along, she had

thought he was alive and well. Something inside her had told her that. But now what she

felt was not sorrow, only a boundless void…

“That was five years ago,” William continued. “It was one of our only victories.

That was long before I came. The Christians managed to recover his remains from the

Muslims, and he is buried in a secret tomb, right in the place you have written on the

parchment. I was afraid you were a Muslim spy of some sort. I pretended not to know. The

tomb is something of a secret shrine for the Christians now. He is almost a saint for some. I

can show you the tomb if you want. I was surprised you knew where the tomb is, but not

that your father was buried there. I am afraid that the place is already too well known. The

Muslims might find it. What I cannot bear is that the commander, the man who killed

Fernando is now the ruler of Acre.”

“What do you mean? Who is he?” asked Rosario, a fear that had long been hidden

in her heart rising to her brain. “The ruler of Acre?”

“Yes. His name is Abdul Al-Adid, a most excellent soldier, and one of our prime

targets.”

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Chapter Eight

Hate resembles love so closely in some ways, that someone can go from love to

hate or from hate to love with only a minor stimulus. A name, just a name, made Rosario

switch from love to the basest form of hatred. Now she wanted revenge at all costs. She

would not be content with killing Abdul. She wanted revenge on all Arabs, including

Abdul. She hated. And it was easier to passionately hate what she had once loved. Hate

breeds cruelty. One is crueler to what once was loved than to anything else.

She had arranged for William to meet her again, disguised as a merchant. She

waited for him impatiently in her room. At eleven, one of the guards came to her with the

message that a potter was at the door, waiting to see her. Love is the cruelest prey of

cruelty. Rosario realized that Abdul loved her, and this ignited the cruelty in her. She also

knew that William loved her, that he had given her all his money, that his eyes lighted up

when he saw her, and that he thought of her at night. Then she understood she could use

William as the instrument of her revenge.

When William came, Rosario offered him breakfast. The guards were not watching

them, for William looked exactly like a Turkish potter. He said he had already eaten.

Rosario had stayed up all night, plotting her malicious revenge. Again, it is interesting to

note that if Benazir had not tried to hurt Rosario by leading her to her father’s tomb, or if

Rosario had not approached William in her search for the address, Acre would never have

fallen to the Christians. And the Third Crusade would have ended in such a crushing defeat

that the Arabs would have expanded into Europe.

In front of Benazir, Rosario pretended she had never gone to the place she had

indicated, believing it to be another of her cruel jokes. She pretended she had thrown away

the parchment, unread.

William had joined Rosario, and together they plotted a dangerous and secret

revenge. By then, Rosario had admitted that Abdul was her husband.

William was not sure why Rosario was planning such a major revenge. In her case,

he would have simply murdered Abdul. But he was grateful that the wife of the ruler of

Acre had become an ally of the Christian forces. Rosario felt a deep hatred toward those

who had made her suffer, and toward all of their race.

They made a deal. William would carry water and provisions every week, and leave

them in the early morning, hidden in a little outhouse right outside Abdul’s mansion. That

way, Rosario could pretend to go out for water and provisions, but really she conferred and

plotted with William. After an hour or so had passed, she would pick up the water and

provisions, and then pretend she had made the usual long walk to bring them.

For three months, they planned the revenge. William loved Rosario, and he would

stare into her rich, brown eyes while she talked about her hatred for the Arabs as a race, for

the Turks, and for everyone. They sat in the little room where William lived. Rosario felt

nothing for William, but she pretended to enjoy his company because he was her weapon

with which she would destroy the Arabs and Abdul.

William was a good soldier. Even if he had not loved Rosario, he would have

helped with her revenge. He was a Christian spy, fighting against the Muslims. Yet, sitting

there against the window, looking into her Rosario’s eyes and holding her hand, he was

convinced that he had a new purpose and reason to fight.

Three months passed. The plan was ready. It would work just as they meant it to.

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Chapter Nine

William had sent a message to his commander, who was outside the walls of Acre

along with most of his soldiers. Every month, a Christian envoy disguised as an oil

merchant was let into the city. He took messages back and forth between the commander

outside, and soldiers like William who had been sent to infiltrate the city and investigate

every possibility for invasion. William had something very urgent to report.

He wrote in English.

Commander: I have very important news. The Ruler of Acre, Abdul

Al-Adid, married a Christian girl by the name of Rosario. She is the

daughter of Fernando Morera. It seems the wretched ruler promised the

girl to bring her father back to her if she agreed to marry him. When she

found out about her father’s death, she decided to take revenge for him

by facilitating our invasion. I have no doubt she is sincere. The city is

very well protected and the army is large. Abdul is also a very skillful

ruler, we must admit, and he suspects an invasion. Every time the gates

of the city are opened, a hundred guards are posted to ensure its safety.

However, Rosario and I have come up with a different plan. Rosario has

access to the keys for the city gates.

The message went on for pages, carefully detailing the plot they had concocted. It

was in English, and William felt sure that even if the message were intercepted, it would

not be understood.

It was two hours after midday, and William and Rosario were reviewing the details

of the complex plot. William was dying for more intimacy with Rosario, but they only had

an hour a week, and they had serious business to deal with.

William looked at Rosario, distracted from their conversation. Finally, he said,

“Rosario, I know that you have already noticed that I am not indifferent to you.”

Rosario remained silent.

*

**

That same day in the afternoon, Rosario began to think about William’s remark.

She realized she was safe as long as William was in love with her and did not recognize

she was using him.

Abdul, on the other hand, was becoming more and more paranoid. He had sent

troops to attack nearby territories and had killed numerous colonists and Bedouin nomads,

suspecting them of harboring Christian invaders. Little did he suspect how close the

invaders were.

*

**

Two evenings later, Abdul came home particularly late. He looked worried and

haggard.

“Rosario, I have something to tell you. It is very important. It is about your father,”

Abdul said, gathering courage to tell his wife the whole truth.

“Do you love me?” he asked suddenly.

“Immensely,” lied Rosario.

“I do not know how to tell this to you. It all happened long ago, before I had even

met you.”

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Rosario almost laughed when she saw all the difficulties Abdul was having to tell

her what she already knew well: that he had killed her father and had lied to her.

“What is it?”

“Well, how can I put this? Your father, your father is dead...”

“Really?” asked Rosario in mock amazement.

“I… I saw him die,” suddenly Abdul’s expression lost its haggardness. He

composed himself and said, “Your father died in prison two days ago. I saw him die. He

contracted a disease.”

The courageous Abdul had not been able to tell the truth. He had retracted like a

coward at the last minute. He was obviously lying. He had been about to admit the whole

truth, but he failed miserably.

“But you said it happened many years ago?” teased Rosario maliciously

“Well, that was something else I was going to tell you. I will talk to you about that

later,” said Abdul uneasily.

He left, surprised that Rosario had not even shown any amazement. He thought it

was the shock which had frozen her cold.

Next week, Rosario had news for William. She had overheard Abdul conversing

with the leader of the army in Jerusalem, Saladin’s right hand man. Abdul knew there was

going to be an invasion soon. He said he had seen disguised Christian soldiers everywhere.

He wanted troops to exterminate the soldiers surrounding the city.

William was alarmed. He notified his commander and recommended a change of

plans. He was sure that Abdul and his forces would find the Christians and attack them

without mercy, completely ruining their plans. He recommended moving all the Christian

troops out of the area, and disembarking, four days before the actual invasion at a place

near the Bay of Haifa, located about twenty kilometers north of Acre. The troops would

have to march a long distance, but that way the army would be led by Richard the Lion-

Hearted himself, undetected by Abdul and his men until it was too late.

In fact, William’s suggestions were followed exactly as if they had been express

orders, which surprised him because he was only a common soldier, not a commander.

Rosario reported that Abdul had noticed the dispersion of the Christians and had

interpreted it as a sign that they knew they had been noticed and had scattered. He had not

deceived himself into believing they would not come back, but he suspected that they

would be gone for a long time, until they came up with a more sophisticated plan in their

bid to defeat him.

“I am convinced,” Rosario had heard Abdul say to the Muslim commander, “that

they will eventually attempt a new attack, probably some months from now. But for the

meantime, we are safe. I strongly doubt they will risk coming back in less than six months,

and hopefully we will be well prepared. What I want you to insist upon to Saladin, is that

we need strong troops when the time comes, so we can intimidate them again as I was able

to do this time. Then they won’t be able to return before our troops finally and decisively

defeat the Christians and drive them back into Europe. The final victory is not far, and then

Acre will be safe for good.”

Dear Abdul, thought Rosario, you think you are so intelligent, yet you are so

mistaken this time!

*

**

William was doing everything he could to attract Rosario’s love, not realizing the

truth about his position. Rosario was well aware of it, and every day that went by, she

became more tired of William’s attentions. They still met once a week for an hour. But he

was looking for much more intimacy than Rosario was willing to give.

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Benazir, meanwhile, had noticed something was very amiss with what Rosario did

on the days when she went to fetch water and provisions. She had said so to Abdul, who

had refused to listen to her.

“Shut up, old hag. You are simply jealous,” Abdul would yell in Benazir’s face.

Benazir was accustomed to such treatment, but she was sure that Rosario was doing

something that if noticed by Abdul, would cause her deep trouble.

It was July first, three days before the invasion. Christian troops had disembarked

the day before, and were marching stealthily to an unsuspecting Acre. That day, Benazir

woke up early and followed Rosario.

Chapter Ten

That morning, as many before, Rosario awoke early. She left when she thought

everyone else was still asleep, checked the outhouse for the provisions and food, and

walked hurriedly to William’s home. This time, however, Benazir was behind her.

She was in such a hurry that she did not notice Benazir, who followed two blocks

behind. All was silent, for the sun was not yet up, and the city was still asleep. Rosario’s

feet moved quietly on the cobblestone road. She could see, from where she was, the dark

sea whose crashing waves reminded her of Gijón. Two birds flew one after the other over

the horizon, like those she remembered seeing one late afternoon in her native city. The

sun was about to rise, for those birds were not nocturnal. A house in the next block emitted

a pale yellow light from an oil lamp, whose flame flickered in the morning wind that

entered the house through a window. The light flowed out that same window and drew a

trapezoid of light upon the street. Rosario did not look back.

She stopped in front of the house with the yellow light, then knocked on the door.

Three long knocks, two short, and two long. It was their code.

William, the young, small, blued eyed Englishman opened the door. A broad smile

appeared on his lips as he saw the beautiful girl.

Benazir was close behind. When William closed the door, she advanced to it and

leaned carefully, placing her ear against it.

“Rosario,” she heard William say. “Everything is ready. The plan is the following:

on the night of the third, the day after tomorrow, you will pretend you are going to bed

early with a headache. Our troops are presently marching to Acre, and Abdul will not

notice them until tomorrow, when it will be too late to ask for more soldiers from

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Jerusalem. You will go to bed, and when you are sure no one notices, you will leave your

room. Make sure to tell everyone you must not be disturbed. Make it a tremendous

headache. Tell everyone to leave you alone. This is very important; if anything fails we are

dead. We may have underestimated Abdul. As a matter of fact, if you had not overheard

that conversation some time ago, the whole operation would have probably failed. If you

hadn’t helped us, we would have been wiped out long ago.

“Now, remember, make sure no one bothers you. When everyone has left, you will

walk silently out of your room. Calculate with the sky, about ten hours past noon. By that

time Abdul will have been informed of our advance, and hundreds of guards will be

protecting the city. You will cause a fire, forcing the soldiers off their guard. With Abdul’s

copies of the keys to the city gates, you will open them. We will be on the other side.”

Benazir put her hand over her open mouth in surprise. She too spoke Castilian.

Chapter Eleven

Benazir ran crazily back home, tripping several times on the uneven cobblestones.

She went to Abdul’s room. He was still asleep.

“Abdul, Abdul, wake up!”

She shook Abdul’s sleeping body.

“Wake up, Abdul!”

Abdul sat up in bed, and asked, irritated, “What is it now?”

“It’s Rosario!” said Benazir, visibly agitated.

“What lie about her is so important for you to wake me up so early in the

morning?”

“She went over to a house eight blocks from here along the road to the market. She

is there right now. She is part of a plot to let the Christians invade the city! A man was

talking to her in Castilian, telling her about a plan to open the city gates to the invaders…”

“Now you really have gone crazy. Are you telling me Rosario has plotted against

me and the whole city to let the Crusaders in? When, say is that imaginary complot taking

place?”

“The night after tomorrow.”

“Please go back to bed. You must have been dreaming.”

“It’s true!”

“Why do you suppose my wife, who loves me, would help the Crusaders to see me

and the rest of the city killed?”

“She knows you killed her father.”

Abdul suddenly froze. He did not speak or move. For a moment he could not think.

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“Is this true?” he finally asked, with an audible tone of fear in his speech.

“I have seen it with my very eyes. She hides water and provisions in an outhouse.

Then she goes off to the Christian’s house and stays there. She comes back, picks up the

water and provisions, and pretends she bought them. I can show you the outhouse.”

Tired, but sick with fear, Abdul let himself be led by Benazir out onto the street in

his robe. They walked hurriedly in the direction of the outhouse. Benazir opened the door.

There was a large jug with water and the provisions Rosario was supposed to bring home

that day.

“For the love of Allah!” exclaimed Abdul.

“Where are the keys to the city’s gates?” asked Benazir.

“Why do you ask?”

“Just check and see where they are.”

Adbul ran into the house, up into the room he used as his office when he was home,

and opened a drawer. The keys were not there.

“Rosario took them. She plans to let the Crusaders in!” said Benazir.

“For the love of Allah!” Abdul exclaimed again. “I knew I couldn’t trust that girl.

Why wasn’t she surprised when I told her that her father died? I knew then that something

was terribly wrong. What I cannot understand is how she came to know that I had killed

her father.”

Benazir, who had been unusually talkative, did not speak. For a few seconds there

was complete silence in the room. Then the truth dawned on Abdul.

He shouted in uncontrollable wrath: “You stupid old hag! You told her, didn’t you?

You told her I killed her father, and now see what you have done! You stupid donkey! I

should kill you! All the money in the world would not prevent me from killing you! Filthy

whore!” Abdul screamed with such rage that the walls seemed to shake. He slapped

Benazir with such force that she collapsed to the floor. Once she was down, Abdul kicked

his wife again, crazy with fury, drunk with the cruelty into which his love for Rosario had

turned. Nothing could stop his rage. He had taken the fatal step from love to hate.

He kicked her again and again.

“By Allah! Stop it!” screamed the poor woman. “You’re killing me!”

“Please, stop!”

“You and your idle tongue!”

“Stop!”

All the guards had run upstairs to check what the matter was with all the screams.

They watched, hypnotized, as Abdul kicked his wife to death. After a few minutes it was

all over. Benazir’s body was still and lay on the floor in a pool of blood.

Abdul made his way past the guards and ran outside. He had a dagger in his hand

and was looking for Rosario.

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Chapter Twelve

Abdul, drunk with rage and cruelty, was looking for blood. He remembered that

Benazir had said his wife met with the Christian in a house that was eight blocks away,

along the road to the market. He felt absolutely no love or pity, but that void was amply

filled by his boundless hate. He imagined no greater pleasure than plunging his shining

dagger into Rosario’s warm and palpitating body. As he walked, his wrath caused the

blood to rise to his face, making it a bright red. His previously handsome face was now

that of a mad dog.

Rosario was still in William’s home. They were seated next to one another, in front

of the window, as always. An apparent madman raced by the house. The sun had come up,

and Rosario was about to leave. She was saying good-bye to William, who was bidding her

farewell.

As Abdul ran past the house, he heard a stray phrase in Castilian, “Dios te bendiga

y buena suerte.” God bless, and good luck.

It was Rosario’s voice. He turned back suddenly, looking for the source of the

sound. There he saw Rosario, behind the window, with a man.

The hearts of both Rosario and William almost burst at the sight of Abdul, who was

brandishing a dagger and had the facial expression of a madman. He beat at the door

violently. Rosario and William stood by the window, sick with fear, not knowing what to

do. Abdul beat the door with his fists again and again. He thrust his body three times

against the door. The fourth time it collapsed. William and Rosario were there by the

window, holding hands, unable to move, not knowing what would happen next. Abdul was

coming up the stairs quickly. They could hear his heavy footsteps.

He appeared beneath the doorframe, with a truly diabolical grin on his face.

“You cheap prostitute! So you know I killed your father! You tricked me! You

have sided with these filthy Christian pieces of scum, have you not? You have betrayed

me! I killed your father, yes! Now it is your turn!” Abdul pounced at the couple with his

dagger.

William, thinking quickly, deflected Abdul’s wrist as he raised it to plunge his

dagger into Rosario’s body. Briefly, he was stronger than Abdul. For half a minute, which

seem like half an hour, William and Abdul struggled, William pinning Abdul’s wrist as the

Arab exerted himself to use his dagger. Rosario needed those thirty seconds to run away.

But she didn’t.

Rosario watched from the door frame, terrified, as the struggle between Abdul and

William continued.

“You no good, filthy Christian scum! Let me kill her!”

William made a great effort to point Abdul’s dagger toward the Arab’s own body,

so he could shove the dagger in and kill the attacker. Abdul, however, was very strong, for

he was also a soldier. Neither of the two could overcome the other. Then Abdul resorted to

a low trick he would never have considered during his days as a warrior of Islam. He

positioned himself so that he could dig his teeth into William’s arm, which was holding

Abdul’s wrist, and bit him. William screamed in pain, involuntarily releasing his grip.

Abdul kicked William, making him fall backwards on the floor. Then Abdul flung himself

on top of William, before the Englishman could react, and suddenly shifted his weight,

pinning both of William’s arms to the floor. Then he raised his wrist and plunged the

dagger into William’s chest.

“Rosario, run, run!” William yelled with his last breath.

Rosario was bewildered. She stood still beneath the doorframe, watching in horror.

William was dead. For some seconds, Abdul lay over William’s body, overcome by the

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physical exertion and his own fulfilled hatred. After the orgasm of rage and violence,

Abdul was subdued and tired.

What would have caused another person to run or become frozen with fear and

confusion, simply convinced Rosario that she had to react quickly. That was to be her

finest hour. Years later, she would marvel at her own equanimity and quick mind at that

crucial moment. She was the same girl who had cried uncontrollably when the usurer had

set too harsh a condition on her loan. She was only seventeen. Hate, however, had changed

her completely. Rosario felt one need only: that was revenge. The girl who had moved

Abdul to pity with her tears was now a merciless and stone-hearted woman who observed

William’s inert body with enough presence of mind to plan her own escape within seconds.

Realizing that Abdul was satiated and exhausted, she ran over to him. The murderer

was not holding the dagger, which was a few centimeters away from his hand. She ran up

to Abdul and kicked him straight in the nose, breaking it, as it spurted blood, which threw

the ruler of Acre into a paroxysm of pain. He writhed on the floor. Between the time when

William had yelled ‘run’ to Rosario, and the time that she kicked her husband in the face,

at most ten seconds passed. But to those involved, it seemed to take a year.

As the once glorious Ruler of Acre continued his contortions, Rosario took the

dagger into her own hands. She had never used a weapon before, and it took some

knowledge to kill someone with a dagger. However, with the demeanor of an experienced

killer, she walked up to her writhing husband who was face down on the floor.

She raised the dagger and drove it into Abdul’s exposed back, into his lungs.

Abdul’s mind was flooded by the physical pain.

“Rosario, Rosario…” he said, his voice choked, as he lay dying from asphyxia.

“Rosario…”

The girl ignored the agonizing Arab and thought with incredible lucidity. With

Abdul dead, the attack would be easier, but there were several problems to deal with. She

would have to do it all herself, since William had been killed. Eventually, the Muslim

Troop commander would notice that Christian soldiers had surrounded the city. People

would know Abdul had gone, and would look for him. She had to leave the house

immediately. Abdul had evidently found out about the plot and could have told others. If

the invasion was to take place, it had to be that same day. She could not give the Muslims

any time to act. She had to contact the Christian commander immediately, telling him that

everyone had to prepare for attack that night. She had learned some English from William.

She picked up the parchment, a feather quill, and an inkpot from a writing table in the

room, and wrote hurriedly:

Commander: This is Rosario, Abdul’s wife. Abdul found out about the plot

and killed William. I managed to kill him, however. He may have told other

people about the plot, so we must not give the Muslims time to act. We must

attack tonight. Everything else should go as planned before, except for the

date of attack…

Rosario contemplated the sight of the dying ruler of Acre lying in a pool of blood

next to William’s body. Abdul was still agonizing.

Almost inaudibly he mumbled, “Rosario, Rosario, I love you…”

It had taken stabbing him in the back to change Abdul’s boundless hate back into

love. It was probably the physical weakness of the agonizing man, which brought about

that change, for he who is tired and dying is more likely to love than to hate. Hate takes a

tremendous amount of energy, but love is passive and self-contemplative. That is, perhaps,

the greatest difference between the two leading passions of human beings, a rule that often

determines which sentiment will be uppermost in our hearts.

Maybe it was simply the mental confusion caused by the pain that caused Abdul to

speak words of love to his murderess. Rosario ignored him.

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“Rosario, Rosario, I love you…” he continued, in an even weaker voice. The once

mighty Ruler of Acre, by now, was almost inert.

Rosario finished her letter to the commander, pretending to herself that she had not

heard Abdul’s words, for her mind was full of hatred, plotting, and revenge. And it

especially feared the tiny, almost invisible speck of love that was still in Rosario’s heart.

She realized, though not consciously, one of the greatest truths of all: it takes very little to

switch from a passive masochistic love, to a powerful sadistic hate. For both sentiments are

integral parts of our animal conscience. Her hateful brain still feared her remotely loving

heart, for the latter under such a minor stimulus as the feeble words of a dying man, might

overcome the former.

Rosario sang out loud to drown out Abdul’s last words.

When she finished the letter, she turned back towards William. Putting her hand on

his neck to be sure that he was dead, she said to herself, “Poor William, he never found out

I felt nothing for him.”

Rosario dashed down the stairs.

Chapter Thirteen

The time arrived. Rosario sent the message off with one of the spies, telling him

that the piece of parchment should reach the commander before noon. The spy swore he

would take it as quickly as he could. Then, Rosario traveled to the edge of the city, where

she hid all afternoon. The news of Abdul’s death spread quickly. She heard about it several

times from passersby. It was assumed that a group of Christians had murdered him as he

entered one of their hideouts and killed an ‘infidel’, whose body had been found next to

his. The guards had not heard much about the plot, and were distracted because Abdul had

killed Benazir in a jealous rage. It was supposed that Rosario had been kidnapped by the

Christians. To his subjects, Abdul had always pretended that Rosario was an Arab girl with

the name of Khadija.

Everything was to be done as planned. Rosario went that night to a place not far

from the center of the city, which she had prepared for the fire. She dampened part of a

small, uninhabited hut with lamp oil, and added some wood. She was hiding from the

troops, her face covered, for she thought they might know she was involved in a plan for

invasion. It was not improbable that the Muslim commanders knew much more about the

plot than they claimed to have discovered. That way, they would give the attackers a false

sense of security that could signify a defeat.

Never underestimate the Arabs, Rosario thought to herself.

The slightest mistake or noise would lead her to a complete failure. The sky was

clear. Judging from the position of the moon, Rosario could tell when it was time to

implement the first step that would lead to the invasion.

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She was inebriated with fury, as Abdul had been. She expected nothing less than

the destruction of the Arabs, for a boundless need for revenge now occupied all of her

thoughts and feelings. The void that had been left in her soul by the deaths of William and

her father, along with the disappearance of her love for Abdul, was filled by a tremendous

and destructive hate.

The first step of the complex plot was to light up the hut. Rosario ran to a nearby

street lamp and lit a torch. She threw it into the hut and made sure it caught fire. Running

toward the city walls, Rosario found the rope she had prepared. She tied a stone to the end

of it, and then managed to get it over the wall. Around her, the city of Acre was asleep, the

streets deserted except for the guards whose footsteps she heard in the distance. The

Christians outside had been noticed, so the city was being patrolled and the gates were

closed. For a second, Rosario felt a sense of doubt. She was not so sure now—maybe she

had really loved Abdul? After all, she had been his wife. Out of the disorganized jumble of

these thoughts, a clear image emerged. She remembered her father, who was always kind

and gentle to her. And then, she imagined his death. She felt no fear any more. She was

sure her actions were correct, for she thought they had a justification. Moral indignation is

particularly destructive because it allows humans to perform the worst acts of cruelty under

the guise of virtue.

At that moment, she felt a pull on the rope that she was holding. She turned back

frightened, for she thought she heard the guards approaching, but she reassured herself it

had only been her imagination. She felt the tug again. It was a soldier on the other side.

She made sure the rope was securely tied to a nearby tree. The pull became stronger. Some

minutes later, the face of a soldier appeared over the wall.

They ran together toward the city gates, not far from where the soldier had climbed

the wall. The guards had been distracted from their posts around the gates due to the fire;

everything was turning out well. Rosario had stolen the keys to the gates from Abdul.

Together, Rosario and the soldier opened the heavy metal and wooden doors.

Almost instantly, Christian soldiers poured into the city. It had been so simple!

With Abdul as ruler, the invasion would have been difficult, for he would have found a

way to prevent it. But now the guards, without direction from the able Abdul, had become

easy prey.

The crusaders showed no mercy. They began to burn and sack the whole city. They

broke through the doors of homes, killing and raping those inside, taking all their valuables

with them. The alarm soon spread throughout the city, but the Muslim troops were not

even remotely able to control the Crusaders. They were swiftly killed or captured, which

was only a procrastination for death.

The destruction was brutal and complete. For love of God and money, the

Christians displayed immense cruelty. In their religion, they found the justification for

their hate and cruelty. They deceived themselves into mistaking hate for the love of God.

Rosario and the Englishman stood on a little hill, wordlessly contemplating the destruction.

The Christian soldiers numbered about a thousand. Most of them had done their

best to hide before the invasion to convince the Muslims that the attackers were too few to

pose a serious threat. Even at the time of the invasion, many soldiers still wore the

garments they had used to disguise themselves as nomads. Once the gates of the city were

opened, they marched from their hideouts outside the city, joining the soldiers already in

Acre. The Muslim guards were at most six or seven hundred, and lacked any form of

coherent leadership. An hour and a half after the entrance of the Christians, almost all

Muslim soldiers were either dead, captive, or in hiding.

As Rosario watched, a patrol formed by about twenty crusaders marched down a

nearby street that ran in front of the hill on which she was standing. The men knocked at

the doors of each house along the path. Sometimes those inside would come out pleading

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for mercy, kneeling in front of the soldiers, bursting into tears. Those were taken captive.

More often, the soldiers would get no response. They would then proceed to force the

doors open, and pour into the hapless houses, looking everywhere for hidden Muslims.

They pulled out the unfortunate people they found, dragging them onto the street. In the

case of some of the women, they were pulled by their hair, hollering in pain. Once outside,

the soldiers would place the family members next to one another, killing randomly, by

having a victim kneel in the Islamic prayer position, face down towards the pavement.

Then a soldier would proceed to behead the victim with the single stroke of his sword. The

other family members would scream in terror as they were sprayed with blood, being held

tightly by other soldiers.

On one occasion, the victim chosen happened to have a particularly strong neck.

The first blow of the sword was not enough to kill him. It took four strokes. The rest of the

family screamed with such energy that some of the soldiers covered their ears.

The commander who was carrying out the execution, hollered in English, ¨You pig-

necked bastard! What does it take to kill you?”

By the time the patrol reached the end of the street, at least ten people had been

executed. It had taken less than an hour. Forty people were held captive, their hands tied to

a line by ropes. They were so terrified that they would not have tried to escape even if they

had not been tethered.

The soldiers proceeded to choose the women who would be raped. They were

taken one at time. They were stripped in front of their husbands and children, as the

soldiers proceeded to make obscene comments.

“Look at that body! I wouldn’t feet that meat to my dog!”

The soldiers then continued about their dirty business, often beheading the women

when they were done. Some of the children watched, hypnotized, out of their minds,

wordless, appalled. Others averted their gaze.

When the turn of the fifth woman came, and she was stripped, her husband, blind

with fury, threw himself at the soldiers, screaming in Arabic, “You filthy dogs! You

worthless swine!”

The soldiers, surprised, barely had time to react. One of them had enough presence

of mind to strike the man dead with his sword. When the soldiers were finished, only a few

children and old women remained. They were taken as prisoners for later torture and

execution.

The heads of those who had been killed still lay on the pavement, with contorted

faces of unspeakable pain and fear. One of the soldiers, made jolly and drunk by his own

cruelty, skipped down the street and picked up one of the heads, carrying it about while

singing:

¨God save the king…”

As the patrol marched down the street again, its members followed the example of

the first soldier. Soon, all of the English soldiers, except for those who had their hands full

taking care of prisoners, were carrying the heads, which dripped with blood, singing

together as a nightmarish choir:

“God save the king…”

A few minutes later they were gone. Rosario, still accompanied by the English

soldier, wordlessly stared at the bloody pavement. She felt no remorse, only fulfillment of

her overpowering hatred. There she stood, living proof that hatred could be just as

important in shaping human character as love. She had changed in a few months from an

obstinate but tearful young girl into the woman who made Acre fall to the brutal

Christians.

“This one is for you, father. It was really you who took this city back. Thank you,

for now we know you sacrificed your life for something. I love you,” Rosario said softly to

herself in Castilian, so that the soldier near her would not understand her words. Then, as a

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justification of her own role in the occurrence of the atrocities she had just witnessed, and

as a justification for the morbid pleasure her hating soul had taken in them, she pronounced

the Latin words:

“Deus Vult.”

She did not believe herself, for she realized that what she had done was not out of

love for her father, but simply out of selfish hatred for Abdul and his race.

The girl, who had aged twenty years in less than a day, turned to the soldier and

said, in her poor English, “Did you know William?”

“Yes, I did. He was a neighbor of mine back in England.”

It was then, and only then, that Rosario fully and consciously realized the conflict

was over, that cruelty had used love, and that cruelty had triumphed.

The End

DEUS VULTA work written and published by students of

English I period 4, at Lincoln SchoolMoravia, Costa Rica

© 1994

Chief editor: Alejandro JenkinsAdvisor and proofreader: Michael McCurley

Illustrations by Alejandro Jenkins and Alfonso PérezTypesetting and printing by Alejandro Jenkins

Proofreaders and editors: Rebeca Murillo, Carlos LacayoAlejandro Pacheco, Federico Penón

Writers:

Aimée Uriarte Melanie PireeIfigenia Garita Alfonso PérezMarialaura González Roberto SolanoAlejandro Pacheco David AriasOctavio Rodríguez Alejandro JenkinsFederico Penón ilegibleIrene Salgado Ana Carolina WangGeorgina Dengo ilegibleRonald Matamoros Rebeca MurilloKatherine Fernández Carlos Andrés LacayoJacobo Murillo Manfred Freer

Carolina Leitón

This is a work of fiction. The setting of the work, and the historicalinformation given in the preface, is taken from non-fictional sources.

However, the main characters of this work and their exploits areproducts of the imaginations of the authors. Not all details of the work’s settingare necessarily historically accurate. Any resemblance of the plot of this work

to events in current or past history is merely coincidental.

This novel was typeset with Microsoft Word.

PRINTED IN COSTA RICA BYTHE COTTLESTON PIE PRESS

The Cottleston Pie SocietyLincoln School

San José Costa Rica © 1994

Revised and Released for Open Source Internet Publication: March, 2010 This text may be used freely for personal or educational purposes only.

Royalties for any commercial use must be donated to the Cottleston Pie Society.

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Afterward

Just before the turn of the millennium, I motivated my high school English students

in Costa Rica to take on unlikely writing projects, which included publishing magazines,

newspapers, novels, and short stories. Some of the resulting works from these projects

were surprisingly good and deserve to be shared with others. In my opinion, Deus Vult

stands out among the rest as a novella that tells a good story and points to a fundamental

dichotomy in human nature. As such, the story never grows old because it is as relevant for

us today as it is for the historical setting and context my students chose to write about.

This publication is a testimony to the creative and intellectual endeavours of those

students, and perhaps even a taste of foresight. It is also a tribute to Benjamin Hoff and a

few brave souls of the Cottleston Pie Society. The text has been revised and edited, but it

does not deviate from the original intent of the authors, regardless of any personal views or

reservations. Since it is a collective work among 23 people, it is not intended to be perfect.

None of the prejudices exhibited are intended to reflect negatively on any race, religion, or

nationality. It is important to keep in mind that a unique perspective from adolescents,

while inexperienced, is less likely to be biased by the more selfish ambitions and learned

preconceptions of adults.

‘Deus Vult’ (the will of God) is now a catch phrase that produces extensive search

results on the Internet, which include a video game, historical references, encyclopedia

entries, blog commentaries, and at least one or two novels. Its use as a title for our novella

is still appropriate and predates most of the material that has been posted. I hope readers

around the world will appreciate the story and message of Deus Vult in this open source

publication. More than 800 years later, Christians, Jews and Muslims still contend with

one another in the Middle East. The fact that countries like the United States and Great

Britain are again involved militarily in the Middle East speaks for itself. Perhaps we might

pause to consider that the issues we face are not new ones at all, but are simply different

forms of the same ones we have faced throughout history all along.

Michael McCurleyLiberia, Guanacaste

Costa Rica

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