986 A.D. Coimbra, Kingdom of León.

  The stench of death and fire still lingered across the land; hundreds of unburied corpses—peasants, laborers, and all those who had tried to defend their city—were now rotting outside Coimbra, which lay in ruins.

  The wall had been destroyed, and Moorish soldiers had entered the city, looting and searching for women and children to enslave, because their leader, the warlord Almanzor, allowed them to take them as payment for their service.

  Salamanca, Cuéllar, and even Barcelona had already fallen to his terrible hand. To the Spaniards, Al-Mansur—or Almanzor, as they called him—was the embodiment of the end of days, the Beast foretold in the Book of Revelation.

  The Muslims had arrived from the deserts of the Maghreb in North Africa more than two centuries earlier and had taken control of nearly the entire Iberian Peninsula. True, the Christian kingdoms had managed some victories since then, but they were scarce compared to the might of what was now called the Caliphate of Córdoba in the south—seen, moreover, as one of the most advanced civilizations of the world. Yet, their military tactics always ended in disgraceful cruelty, as was the case here.

  The soldiers wore elegant tunics, turbans, and white, blue, and ochre zaragüelles. They were armed with scimitars, spears, bows, triangular shields, and chainmail—far superior to the feeble defenses the townsfolk could muster; many had fought with nothing more than farming tools. Since the Kingdom of León was exhausted from its constant struggles against Córdoba, there were too few soldiers left to defend its cities. Thus, Coimbra had effectively been abandoned to its own fate.

  The Moorish warlord, Almanzor, slightly overweight, entered the city riding a splendid white steed, accompanied by his personal guard. All of them wore conical helmets that covered part of their eyes, carried spears, and dressed in elegant white tunics.

  Al-Mansur himself wore a red tunic and turban, and at his left hung a golden scimitar engraved with the face of some pagan deity. He claimed it was a jinn—a mythical spirit from Nabataean folklore said to torment humankind.

  Almanzor ordered his soldiers to clear the way, for he was heading toward Coimbra's cathedral, which stood atop the city, to give thanks to Allah for his victory. His elite guard followed him like shadows, watching with disdain the barbaric behavior of the common soldiers as they abused those who begged for mercy, or preyed upon the women and children.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "They are animals, but we need them to achieve our goal of seizing this entire peninsula," the Moorish warlord had told his elite soldiers.

  Behind Almanzor followed an imam and a retinue of women covered head to toe in dark veils.

  Meanwhile, crows descended to feast on the corpses lying outside the city. Some had fallen into the river, which now ran red with blood spilled on the battlefield. Within the city walls, women wept and begged for the chance to bury their husbands—men who had died defending Coimbra—but their pleas were answered only with beatings and abuse at the hands of Almanzor's men.

  In the city square, the soldiers began gathering the survivors—mostly women, children, and the elderly. They tore at their clothes and shackled their hands, preparing to lead them away as slaves.

  The city of Coimbra lay beside a river called the Munda, which served as a natural barrier against invasions. The soldiers of Córdoba had entered the city using the bridge that spanned the river, which had become their gateway into the town.

  A handful of soldiers guarded the bridge. These were Berbers, natives of North Africa, generally looked down upon by the Arabs and forced to take on the dirtiest and most humiliating tasks. As expected, they were assigned to watch the bridge while the Arab soldiers enjoyed plundering and choosing slaves. The Berbers were forbidden from taking part in such spoils.

  "They must be having a lot of fun, with all that noise reaching even here," one soldier muttered in Berber to another.

  "One day, if Allah wills it, we'll be at the top of this empire. Don't forget that. Just keep your head down and stop complaining," the other replied in their tongue.

  Unlike the Arabs, the Berber soldiers did not wear chainmail. They only had gray tunics and white turbans, and carried spears for defense. Their skin was noticeably darker than that of most Arabs.

  Suddenly, they heard a strange sound, like the rushing of wind. They turned toward the far side of the bridge but saw nothing. Perplexed, they looked back—and before they could say a word, they dropped dead, one by one, never realizing what had struck them.

  The soldiers in front of the town entrance then noticed a solitary figure standing on the bridge over the Munda River. The summer heat shimmered, making it hard to see clearly, but they could make out a youth wearing a brown cloak. He held it closed with his left hand, the hood covering his head, fluttering in the dusty wind. In his right hand gleamed the blade of a sword.

  "Hey, boy! What business do you have here?" shouted a guard in Arabic, yanking a blonde girl by the hair. She had sneaked out of the city to search for her father, but the soldiers had captured her and planned to abuse her.

  "This city now belongs to the great Al-Mansur! Leave now, or we'll kill you!" the soldier continued to yell.

  But the youth stood utterly still, as if he hadn't heard—or was simply ignoring them.

  "Do you not understand Arabic, stupid Christian?" the guard barked, as the other men laughed at the sight of the boy defying them.

  "Fine, we warned you, brat," the guard sneered, shoving the girl aside and drawing his scimitar.

  Yet, before he could take a step, the boy vanished—like lightning before their horrified eyes.

  A scream erupted: the soldier's arm was spinning through the air, still clutching the scimitar with which he had threatened the hooded youth. The arm hit the ground as the man wailed in agony. The boy now stood behind them, sword in hand.

  The soldiers instinctively charged him, but when the boy turned, his green eyes blazed with fury—and in an instant, the men fell, some decapitated, others cleaved in half.

  The girl watched, sobbing, as the stranger cut down her captors.

  "Run," he said to her in Old Galician, his bloodstained cloak slipping from his shoulders. "I'll deal with all these bastards."

  Traumatized, unable to form words, the girl nodded through her tears and fled.