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Campeador - The story of El Cid

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Auray said:
Good update. What means Campeador? Conqueror?
Click to expand...

According to Wikipedia (which may or may not be right), it is in Old Spanish, and means "Master of military arts", or more directly, "The Champion."

El Cid means "Lord" or "The Master" in a Spanish dialect of Arabic, also according to Wikipedia.

So the entire title, El Cid Campeador, means "The Lord, Master of military arts".
 
Auray - Like SplendidTuesday said, it basically means 'Champion', and that's the meaning I'm using. Moreover, it's a very personal title. When talking about 'el campeador', they most likely talk about Rodrigo, not about some other champions that may be around.

Enewald - Women can peek at women too, right? Jimena is just young and curious, and wary not to break some social barriers.

Iain Wilson - Thanks :) Rodrigo is still pretty young of course, and hasn't really had that much experience on the battlefield, not to mention leading men into battle.

Kazmir - That's the real question, now is it? For Castile's sake I hope so, or they'll be hopelessly outnumbered.

SplendidTuesday - Yeap, that seems to be right. His titles (though he doesn't carry 'El Cid' yet) coupled with being the marshal of Castile, indicate to the people of Spain that he's pretty much the military big shot around :D
 
Zaragoza

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Zaragoza​
Just outside Zaragoza – 12 October, 1067
It was very early in the morning – perhaps only a few hours after midnight. But most of Rodrigo’s tiny siege camp awake, or as awake a soldier could be at this hour. Most of the men had assembled around the central circle, where a fire was roaring and several servants were passing along cups of hot honeyed water. It was chilly, but thank god the common ferocious autumn winds had not shown up for a week. Rodrigo anxiously walked up to his men, who were either talking and singing, or staring into the fire. There were only about five hundred of them. Far too little to take a city of ten thousand souls, Rodrigo had known when he first arrived at Zaragoza about a month ago. In the previous weeks he had mostly been able to control what got in and out of the city. The farms had been scavenged already, and knowing he lacked the manpower to lay siege and starve the city into surrender, he allowed most food transports to pass into the city. His men had captured some Moorish weaponry, as well as a whole variety of ‘tribute’ he would soon be sending to King Sancho’s men who were still besieging the Qal’at Ayyub. In the past weeks his men had also thoroughly scouted both the countryside as well as the city walls. These trips revealed the walls were guarded only by a skeleton crew. More importantly, they had revealed some very useful weaknesses in the city’s defenses. Rodrigo walked to the small platform in front the campfires, and asked the men’s attention. Then he and Gómez began explaining their plan to the soldiers, who listened anxiously. When they were done, the men cheered enthusiastically. Zaragoza could be theirs before noon.
---​
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In the east, the sky was slowly becoming clear blue already. Which meant they would have to hurry. The four footmen who stood in the dry but muddy moat looked up to Rodrigo. “It’s fastened, sir” The alférez nodded, and then signaled to the men behind him. The two oxen, who had been claimed from a local farm a few days ago, were pushed forward by the solders. The beasts grunted and moaned, not knowing what these men wanted from them. Rodrigo had not wanted to force the peasants to betray their lord by having them mend the beasts. And it wasn’t really necessary anyway. The soldiers – most of whom still farm boys at heart – managed to get the oxen moving. When the oxen stopped grunting, a surprisingly similar noise came from the iron grate that was stuck in the side of the city wall. Behind it was their way into the city. For it led to Zaragoza’s elaborate water system, which Rodrigo believed would lead them all the way to the Emir’s palace. It was his luck that this part of the moat had been drained because of renovation work; the passage would be submerged otherwise. For a moment it seemed as if the iron grate would remain in its place in the wall. But when Rodrigo ordered a couple of his men to assist the oxen, and the soldiers in the moat to use their spears to chip away the mortar that kept the anchors in the wall, it began to move. With one big pull the oxen jerked the grating loose from its top anchors. The soldiers helped break away the rest of the grate, and pull it out of the moat. Several men with torches jumped into the moat. Gómez squatted and held a torch into the darkness. The passage was low, pitch black, and covered with mud and all sorts of indefinable waste. The lieutenant grinned at Rodrigo as he held his torch up again. “Your way into the city, sir!”

As Rodrigo dragged himself through the mud and God knows what, trying to keep his torch dry and his sword from getting stuck, he couldn’t help to feel sorry for the squire who was to be cleaning his hauberk. He also chuckled about the irony that some parts of the most splendid cities of Spain smelled worse than the most disgusting back alley of Burgos. He didn’t know how far they were in, but they were moving slowly. For all he knew, they could be crawling straight across the city. Suddenly the line stopped. “Sir? Alférez?” a voice came from the front. “Yes?” “There’s some kind of chamber here. It’s bigger… and there is... a way up I think.” There was some mumbling. “You think?” Rodrigo asked anxiously. For a moment there was just the sound of splashing. It seemed to last for an hour to Rodrigo. “Sir?” “Yes?” “There’s good news and bad news”. Rodrigo held his breath. “The good news is that there is a way up. The bad news… sir, this seems to be the cesspit.”

As more and more soldiers climbed out of the pit, Rodrigo’s heart raced. Nearly a hundred men were here already. It was a kind of washing room, he reckoned. The men were excited, but they were hushed. So far, it seemed they still had the element of surprise. But for how long? Gomez, who had been waiting at the door, came to him. “Sir, the men I sent out confirm we’re actually inside the palace. The morning watch is about to come in, so we have to hurry, he whispered. Rodrigo nodded, and in a soft voice instructed the men – who had mostly been busy using the clean linen to whip the waste off their gear – to get ready. “Listen, I don’t want anyone to kill any unarmed courtiers. We’ll lock them up in here if we must. If we can capture the Emir without murdering half his court, I think I can persuade him to surrender and declare fealty to the king.” “Couldn’t we just lob off the head of any Moor in this palace, loot their rooms, and take this city ourselves? Sir?” one of the soldiers asked anxiously. Some men laughed, though they were quickly hushed back to silence. Rodrigo shook his head. “No… though that will probably be our backup plan.” The men mumbled, and Rodrigo was very well aware most of them would not think twice but to kill the Moorish nobles and take as much loot as they could carry back to Burgos. “Listen, when this is done I promise you more wealth from the Emir’s treasury than you could imagine possible.” The men mumbled again, more appreciative now. Rodrigo nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”

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It seemed so surreal. Three dozen dirty, stinking Spanish soldiers followed Rodrigo through the beautiful new marble palace of the Emir of Zaragoza. Rodrigo had been there years ago, of course, but so much was changed. Four years ago the palace was still very much under construction. But now… it was so… beautiful and refined. Plastered, decorated arches, carried by red marble columns lined the corridors that led through the immense palace. Rodrigo was sure his village of Vivar would easily fit inside. And all the way… no palace guards, or any people for that matter. Was he walking into a trap? The men were on their guard. But they would not… suddenly a door busted open, and a dozen men, both armed and unarmed, entered the corridor. They were obviously as startled as Rodrigo’s men. One of the armed men – a palace guard, surely – shouted something in Berber. It sounded like an alarm. Then he and the others ran back the way they came from, yelling the same strange, gluttonous alarm. “Stop them!” Rodrigo yelled, and at that time chaos broke loose. While the first small group of Moors ran into a group of new palace guards, another door suddenly busted open and with a terrifying war cry two dozen men charged into the guards. An older, bearded man laughed loud as he ferociously swung his sword through the startled group, whose decorated leather armor cut like parchment. Gómez. “Charge!” Rodrigo and his men rushed to aid their comrades.

In the heat of battle, especially in the narrow confines of a palace corridor, distinctions like ‘armed’ or ‘unarmed’ or even ‘friend’ or ‘foe’ mean little to a soldier. The only distinction to Rodrigo was the dirty hauberks of his comrades and the leather and silk armors of the palace guard. But when his sword ricocheted off the wall – chipping away two handful of plaster – it found the shoulder of his lieutenant. “Gómez!” For a split second it seemed as if the battle had frozen. Gómez gave an uncharacteristic, high-pitch scream and dropped his sword, as the Moor opposite of him heaved his own sword over his head and prepared to finish the man off. Rodrigo’s sword missed Gómez’ scalp by only a few hairs, though preciously striking the Moor’s pulse and in an instance severed it from the guard’s lower arm. It then crashed against the opposite wall, and came to rest on the floor amongst more plaster. Rodrigo kneeled before Gómez, ignoring the wailing guard next to him. “Gómez, my brother…” The man just shook his head, grimacing as he fought the pain. The sword had split open the mail hauberk at the place where his right shoulder and neck connected. Beneeth it, there was clearly a very messy, bloodied cut. “It… it’s nothing, sir. It’s just my sword arm,” Gómez grunted.

Rodrigo had not even noticed the battle had been over. Suddenly time seemed to defreeze again, and he looked around. Most palace guards were dead. Others had probably ran away, either to get help or to simply safe their hides. But there were dead Spaniards too, as well as these unarmed men they first saw who Rodrigo now identified as artisans. The white plaster and marble hallway had been painted scarlet. But they had to hurry. New guards could be coming down those doors any moment. Gómez took a deep breath. “Sir, we found a stairwell in the next room. We were about to climb it until we heard… you know.” Rodrigo nodded. He remembered that when he was at the old palace during his last visit, the Emir’s chambers were on the upper floors. Big chance they would find the Emir upstairs. “Okay… soldier, escort lieutenant Gómez back to the washing room and see to his that his wounds are treated. And send any men there to this corridor,” he said to one of Gómez’ men. The man complied, and he and one of his comrades helped their lieutenant back to their hideout. “The rest of you, follow me.” It was time to give the Emir a rude awakening.

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With his sword in one hand, and his men having his back, Rodrigo pushed open the large decorated wooden door at the end of the main corridor. Judging by the sheer luxury and wealth gathered in the room, he knew this must be the Emir’s quarters. Silk covered sofa’s, golden and marble reliefs, even potted plants decorated the bright, light room. Even the pope in Rome would be jealous a retreat like this, Rodrigo reckoned. “What is the meaning of this? Guards!?” a voice suddenly said in Berber. A young man with a small beard and more silk and jewels on him than Rodrigo had ever seen (well, perhaps on the Emir during his last visit), stepped in from the adjacent room. “I dispatched your guards already, sir,” Rodrigo politely said in broken Berber. It seemed the man suddenly realized who these intruders were. He shrieked, and did a step back, incidentally bumping against one of the large potted plants. “What… what are you doing here, Spaniard? What do you want? Go… gold?” The dirty, bloodied bearded soldiers clearly scared the hell out of the man, who was trembling and now apparently tried to take the money pouch from his belt. Rodrigo smiled and looked at the soldiers behind him. “Maybe later, Moor. Now we’re just looking for your lord, the Emir. He and my king have some business to discuss.” The man laughed maniacally. “The Emir? Ha…. Hahaha… ah, I mean, he isn’t here.” Rodrigo frowned. He hadn’t even considered that possibility. “Listen, I have no time for games. Nor do my men here have reservations for pillaging this place and cutting you and whoever else in the palace into very small pieces.” “Yes… yes, I understand that…” the man fidgeted, “but the Emir left, you see? A month ago, to Tarraco. He… he left me in charge.” “You?” Rodrigo asked surprised. “Yes! I mean, I’m the vizier, you see? The Emir’s right hand. And… and cousin too, actually.” “Really?” Rodrigo said with a big grin. “Well, then maybe your Excellency would like to sit down and have a good long talk with me and my friends here?”
 
Ah, the good old aqueducts of Caesaraugusta. :cool:

So now our heroes can loot the palace after all, and bring forth European civilization by first tearing the Moorish crap down? :rolleyes:
 
Small drawback to the spaniards, I see. Great, well written update again, sir!
 
Hmm... can they topple the Emir and use the vizier for their plan or similar? Or do they have to think of something else - such as looting and killing? ;)
 
Enewald - Well, that's how western civilization came to fruition - by stealing and looting from other cultures :p

tuore - I totally agree! I also think AOE 2 was one of the first games I played that actually taught me historical things.

Auray - Thanks :) And it's indeed a small drawback, countered by the big advantage of holding the richest, biggest, most glorious city of northern Spain :D

Kazmir - With the vizier, they control Zaragoza. Doesn't mean there isn't going to be killing and looting though. They are northern barbarians, after all.

... pious Christians. I meant pious Christians.
 
Excellent so far, you have a compelling story forming and I can't wait to see how it turns out.
 
My guess - Emir clearly defaulted on his feudal vows, so let's see if the Vizier holds them up better?

Excellent story. Well-crafted (just like "The Potter" was), and engaging.

Tarraco?
 
Saithis - Thanks, glad you like :)

General_BT - Thanks a lot :D Tarraco is actually the antique name of Tarragona. Since I couldn't find the Moorish name, I figured the Roman name would do.

The next episode should be up tomorrow, by the way.
 
Three messengers

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Three messengers​
Sancho’s siege camp near Qal’at Ayyub – 21 October, 1067
King Sancho rode through camp in such a foul mood, that most of the knight he passed didn’t even dare to greet him. Which didn’t help. With a grunt he halted his horse, and he looked over his camp. What a mess. What a bloody mess. Who the hell did he think he was, trying to besiege the most fortified castle of northern Spain with less than two thousand men? Yesterday had been the fifth time since the beginning of his siege in May, that Moorish horsemen had been able to break through his blockades and drive escorts to the castle. He could image his brother or his cousins up north laughing their pants off when they learned he could even besiege a Moorish fort on his own. Heck, even his own alférez, Rodrigo, would probably laugh him in the face. The white banners of the Emir’s cursed brother, Moama, clearly stood out against the clouded sky, as if they were to defy the Lord himself, in addition to Sancho. Damned Moorish horsemen. According to his scouts, there were only a couple hundred of them. But they had ravaged his positions and destroyed most his siege equipment like they were a horde of Huns. It would at least be another week until new catapults would arrive from Soria. By that time Moama might have decided to break the siege entirely, and he would be back in Soria himself. Sancho spit on the floor. If only Inigo of Bizkaya could have been here with his thousand men. Or Rodrigo. But there had been no message from Zaragoza for almost three weeks, and Sancho had become confident his old friend Inigo had pledged himself back to his old lord, Sancho of Navarra. If only there would be good news for a change. King Sancho looked up to the sky, where dark autumn clouds quickly passed by. Oh Lord, just some good news, just once.

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Qal'at Ayyub - impenetrable​
A horseman suddenly rode up to the king. “My liege, there is an envoy here, from Barcelona. And… he seems to be bringing news from Zaragoza as well.” King Sancho looked up to the sky for a second, and then stared at the messenger. “Excuse me?” “That’s all I know sir,” the man apologized. Sancho followed him to the king’s tent, where a number of men apparently waited for him. One of them was clearly wounded and long dirty bandages across his chest. With a shock, Sancho recognized him as one of Rodrigo’s men. “What… what is the meaning of this?” he said with a frown, as none of the men seemed eager to talk to the disgruntled king. The one knight stepped forward, a young but balding men stepped forward. “King Sancho, my name is Pedro Ramon, son of Ramon Berenguer, count of Barcelona. My father dispatched me and my men here to discuss with you the possibility of an alliance against the Emir of Zaragoza.” Sancho looked at the young man for a moment, as he realized his prayer had been heard. Then he smiled. “Interesting. Please follow me, young man, so we can talk.” The knight nodded. “And… this gentleman here?” King Sancho gestured at the wounded man. “Your highness, we found this man attacked by Moors on the road to Zaragoza. We came to his rescue and tended his wounds. I believe he’s here to meet with you too.” The wounded man nodded. “That’s right… Highness, I bring joyful news. Alférez Rodrigo has managed to have the city of Zaragoza surrender to you with only little bloodshed.” King Sancho laughed at such good news. “Really!? Well, you certainly know how to lighten up a horrid day!” Promising to meet Pedro Ramon soon, he led the messenger into the tent for a full report.

The messenger had trouble kneeling, so Sancho allowed him to stand as the king sat in his makeshift throne. “Alférez Rodrigo managed to infiltrate the palace of Zaragoza with little casualties, and took most of the Emir’s government hostage. Zaragoza surrendered… but… the Emir is still at large.” King Sancho frowned. “You mean, he fled?” “Seems like it, highness. His vizier… errr, chancellor… said the Emir fled east to Tarraco.” Sancho sighed. Without the Emir in Rodrigo’s custody, there was no chance for an easy victory. Still, with Zaragoza in his grasp… “What is the Alférez planning next?” “Highness, he plans to spend the winter in the city, try to raise another army, and pursuit the Emir in the spring.” “Good, good,” Sancho replied, as his mind wandered off. In his head he saw his treasury getting drained by years of endless war, Moorish peasant revolts, and the need to bribe off his northern cousins and the Emir of Valencia. “Let the knight from Barcelona in,” he said to the guard at the tent entrance. “Sir?” the man asked, as he gestured at the messenger. “I’m sure he won’t mind! Get to it!” A moment later, Pedro Ramon entered the tent. He looked a bit surprised when he found the messenger still standing there. “Come in, good man,” Sancho said with a big smile. “Now, tell me. How many men can your father raise?” Pedro shrugged. “Three thousand, perhaps?” King Sancho rubbed his hands. There was another way of having this war end soon. “Very good. Tell your father to raise those men and lay siege on Tarraco. If he does, he can considered our alliance signed.” Pedro slowly nodded, confused at the king’s reckless manners. Well, perhaps not reckless. Impulsive. “Yes sir… highness…” he mumbled. “There… there’s another matter that brought me here. Because, errr… my father wishes to offer you the hand of my sister, Agnes.”

With the dust of enthusiasm slowly settled in his mind, and he realized that the Count of Barcelona had been serious about promising his elder daughter to him, King Sancho slowly regained his decorum. He invited Pedro for a small feast he had prepared to celebrate the fall of Zaragoza. After the feast, Sancho returned to his tent very contend. It was a miracle how well this day – that had begun to terrible – had ended. Then again, life had the uncanny habit of biting you in the rear when you least expect it. When King Sancho was preparing for the night, a guard suddenly entered the tent. “I… I don’t mean to disturb you, highness. But I think you should come.” “What is it?” Sancho grunted more annoyed than he had intended. The servant that had been washing the king ducked away from him before being pushed aside. King Sancho got up, got a thick woolen robe on, and walked outside. Just outside the royal tent, a small caravan was being unloaded by a number of bearers carrying torches, while a pompous elderly man walked around giving directions. Sancho recognized the man as being a merchant he hired to bring supplies from Burgos. Apparently he was back already. But no one could get to Burgos and back in eight days with a caravan in tow, could they? “Nuño?” The man turned around. “Ah… Greetings, Highness. Sorry to have you wakened.” The king dismissed the apology with a nonchalant gesture. “You’re back from Burgos already? That’s… amazing.” Nuño shook his head slowly. “No, sire, these supplies come from Soria. The reason I had called for you is that I bring grave news from Burgos.” King Sancho frowned, and for a second wondered if the Lord had found a way to offset the good news he had received that afternoon. “Go on!” he pressed the merchant. “Your Highness, a grave disease reached the city about a month ago. From what I heard in Soria, hundreds died, and thousand more are still sick.” “That… that is unfortunate…” King Sancho mumbled. Had he not been fighting a war, he would have been distraught. “And… that’s not all, sire. Your mother… she’s in a very bad shape,” the merchant continued though. And then Sancho noticed how the blood rushed from his face, and he felt compelled to sit down.
---​
Burgos – October 29, 1067
Doña Sancha lay on the bed so still and peaceful, that King Sancho was almost certain she was dead. But the monk who stood beside him assured him she was merely asleep, and that she would pull though. “Your mother is a strong woman, sire. And she seems to respond well to the herbs we prepared. The Lord willing, of course.” The king glanced at the monk for implying that God might not have the best reasons for keeping Doña Sancha alive. But he let is pass, walked to his sleeping mother and placing a kiss on her forehead (which the monk had said was safe). Then he left the room. All around the castle, small braziers were burning, to keep the flies and mosquitoes out. It had been a very warm and wet summer, and the whole city was covered with clouds of those flying pests. But fire seemed to scare them off. King Sancho smiled at the irony that the only way he could rid Burgos from disease and pests was to burn the whole town to the ground. Well, with some luck the flies would all be dead after the first frost.

King Sancho headed back to the royal quarters, where he would have to figure how to deal with this plague before he was to return to his army before Qal’at Ayyub. The whole situation was an annoying distraction from the matters at hand. Why couldn’t the Lord let him finish his war before plaguing his capital? He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, hoping it would help him focus. The next moment someone bumped into him. There were three people, actually; two attractive young ladies and their escort. “Oh, I’m so sorry, sire!” one of them cried. Sancho recognized her as the wife of his Alférex Rodrigo. Wasn’t her name Jimena? The bulge in her dress revealed she had been pregnant for a couple of months. “It was nothing,” the king replied friendly. The other woman laughed. It was a beautiful, sincere laugh. Had she been introduced to him yet? She was gorgeous! “So… Highness, any news from Zaragoza?” Doña Jimena asked. “Rodrigo is fine,” Sancho said fatherly, “In fact, he and his men captured the city of Zaragoza.” Jimena smiled broadly. “So the war is soon coming to an end?” The king grunted. “We can only hope, dear… Who is that lady next to you, Doña Jimena?” “Oh! My apologies, my king. This is Adina, wife of Issac, one of the Jews who keep your treasury.” Sancho remembered the man Issac, a small, twitchy man. How did he deserve such a beautiful woman? “Very happy to make your acquaintance, Doña,” he said chivalrously. The woman (or girl, rather – she seemed quite young) smiled pleasingly. “I’m very happy to meet you too, your Majesty,” she said in broken Castillian, sounding almost avidly. Was… was she flirting with him? “Would you mind if I escorted these ladies to their quarters instead?” Sancho asked the guard. Looking at Adina, he decided to postpone his return to Qal’at Ayyub. This stay might become worth the king's time after all.
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Adina​
 
Sleeping with mistresses seems to have higher priority than winning a war for Sancho. :p
 
When I saw the name El Cid the first thing that came to mind was the campaign in AOE2. Great memories seeing those drawings again interwoven in your great storyline.

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