Traitor (Bastard Brothers of Carnage

Book 5) Blake Blessing

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 Blake Blessing

Traitor

Copyright © Blake Blessing 2024

All rights reserved
First published in 2024

Blessing, Blake
Traitor: Bastard Brothers of Carnage #5

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor
be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.

Cover: Vicious Desires Design

Editing: Heather Long
Editing & Proofreading: Lunar Rose Services, LLC
Created with Vellum
To all the readers who stuck with the Bastard Brothers this long! It takes a special girl to see their redeeming qualities. ;)
 CONTENTS
Foreword
Recap
Prologue
1. Lafe
2. Amorette
3. Grey
4. Andre
5. Lafe
6. Amorette
7. Parker
8. Amorette
9. Grey
10. Amorette
11. Parker
12. Grey
13. Amorette
14. Andre
15. Parker
16. Lafe
17. Amorette
18. Parker
19. Andre
20. Amorette
21. Lafe
22. Parker
23. Amorette
24. Amorette
25. Grey
26. Andre
27. Amorette
28. Lafe
29. Amorette
30. Parker
Epilogue
Snatched Prologue
Burn Prologue
Afterword
Other Titles
Who is Blake?
 FOREWORD

THIS IS NOT A DRILL. We are at the end of the series.

In just a few pages, you’ll embark on the final leg of the journey for the Bastard Brothers. You have 300ish pages ahead of you
full of action, smexy times, and yes, some heartache.
I can’t believe we came this far. I can’t believe it’s almost over!
But don’t worry. There’s still a whole f’in book left for you. And who knows what the world will bring after this?
I mean, I have some ideas, but you’ll just have to wait and see. ;)
Now, for housekeeping. There are no new triggers to add to the list, and going forward, they will be listed on my website
instead of in the foreword or on Amazon. It can cause some issues that I think we would all like to avoid.
And lastly, this is a reverse harem. Amorette will not have to choose between her love interests, although it’s not an easy ride
to get there. But it’s worth it.
Now, happy reading and I’ll see you on the other side!
 RECAP

At the end of Psycho: Andre, Parker, and Amorette are at the Dirty Dogs’ club. They needed Amorette away from the mansion,
but they also wanted to secure Javier’s help.

What leads to the death of the one man who haunts Amorette, finally brings Parker and Amorette together, only to end in Parker
being shot to save Andre.

Meanwhile, back at the mansion, Grey, Lafe, and Matías are waiting for the heads to descend, but they never come.
Instead, they’re ambushed and realize all too late that they’ve been set up.

One of their worst nightmares has taken place. Valentina has taken over the Institution.

“Oh good. You’re awake.” I lifted my gaze, and there was Valentina, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. “Welcome to
my Institution.”
 PROLOGUE
ANDRE

uck!”
“D At the exact moment I was shoved forward, my knees collided with the cold, wet pavement and a muted gunshot
reverberated through the air. My head smashed against the side of a car, and Amorette cried out at the unexpected
shove.
Even silent, I knew what that sound was.
The crack of the whip stopped my heart as I watched it land against Grey’s back. That fucking bastard. He was so
goddamn stupid. He knew Vicente would retaliate.
We just hadn’t known how…
Grey threw his head back as a strangled cry tore from his throat. His back arched even as blood streamed down his back
in pink rivulets as it mixed with the rain.
The torture master was new, and he salaciously grinned as he adjusted his dick.
Fuck, he was getting off on it.
“You don’t have anything to say?” Vicente brushed his dark hair off of his face as he leaned forward. His expression
was bored but his eyes twinkled with excitement.
Grey spit more blood onto the concrete and laughed, looking up at Vicente with a smirk. He didn’t say a fucking thing.
SPEAK! APOLOGIZE! I chanted over and over in my head. Grey had intentionally beat the shit out of Vicente’s head
guard. He knew he’d be punished.
“Very well, then.” Vicente motioned for the whipping to continue.
The next crack had me crawling out of my skin. Then the next one came. And the next. And the next.
This couldn’t be happening. It needed to stop but my body was locked up and I couldn’t do a fucking thing to intervene.
The cords of my muscles were strung tight as I forced myself not to move.
Who was I kidding. I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to. I was too afraid of what my actions would mean for Grey.
Fucking bastard for doing this to me.
His head fell forward. Fuck. Was he awake? My lungs screamed and I started breathing again.
They were going to kill him. He was literally going to be whipped to death and if not that, die of infection.
My chin and bottom lip trembled as the urge to rip him from the post and run away flashed through me. But I couldn’t
do that. One, I wanted to shoot each man in the head who laughed at Grey. Two, I’d be shot myself before I made it three
steps from this spot.
The very next blow came and Grey didn’t even twitch.
Horror swept over me as I scrambled to turn around. Amorette was still too far in the street. I yanked her next to the car and
when I turned, my vision darkened around the edges.
No, no, no, Lafe.
You pendejo estupido.
I ran across the room and slipped on my knees as I dropped beside him. He curled around the toilet, vomit painting the
rim. His blue lips were slack and his chest wasn’t moving.
“Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!”
My throat seized up as I turned him over. I slapped him across the face and his head rocked back and forth from the
motion, but he didn’t open his eyes.
 He’d only been over the drug business for six fucking months. Vicente had to know what this would do to him. And the
cabrón probably laughed.
I’d told Lafe not to dabble in his product, but he had so much pain, he couldn’t resist. But he was smarter than that. He
knew better.
How could Lafe do this to me? To all of us?
I searched for a pulse, ignoring the crushing fear trying to take over my mind. The worst thing I could do for Lafe right
now was to freeze up.
Where was his fucking pulse?
Parker groaned as he hit the ground. His body crumpled just behind the tail end of the car. Once he was down, he didn’t
move again.
Parker’s head was barely visible around the corner. But no one could mistake those black eyes for anyone else. There
was only ever one reason he camped out like this. He was trying to kill someone.
I discreetly glanced around, making sure no one was in the hall. We were just outside of the locker room and I didn’t
need three guesses to know who he was after. He hated Gregor for all the irritation and pain he caused us.
Specifically Parker.
When Parker saw me, his eyebrows shot up and he jerked back. But I didn’t let him get far.
“What are you doing?” I hissed and shoved him against the wall.
“You don’t understand,” he sneered. When he started to tell me exactly what I didn’t understand, the door opened
around the corner. Parker tried to shove past me but I pushed him into the closet as Gregor let out an angry yell.
Parker snickered, but I shut the door quietly as I pressed my back against the door. There wasn’t a lock on it, and I
wasn’t very big. Not next to someone like Gregor, but I needed to do something.
“Shut up!” I snapped at Parker. Angry footsteps were coming closer and my heart beat so hard, it felt like my sternum
was about to crack. Gregor would hurt Parker. He’d hurt his own kid last month, so what would he do to Parker?
He’d kill him and Vicente wouldn’t care.
The footsteps stopped right outside the door and I closed my eyes.
I opened my eyes like I’d somehow lost minutes. What I saw nearly broke me.
Parker face down on the pavement.
And his blood on my hands.
My worst nightmare.
 1

LAFE

he needling pressure banding around my head constricted my pulse. Was that my pulse or some other kind of…Fuck, I
T couldn’t think.
I raised my hand…
No, it was too heavy and when I tried to move, it hurt. I groaned as awareness slowly seeped into my mind.
One minute I was blissfully riding a dark wave of unconsciousness and the next my head pounded.
Then my joints and muscles were stiff and my entire body felt like one big bruise.
After what seemed like a few more minutes, the cold set in. The moldy, damp air filled my nose.
“He’s waking up.” Matías was close, but his voice was wavy, like he was speaking through water as the light rippled
through it.
Someone grunted. Was that Grey? Shit, I wasn’t sure. I wanted it to be him, I just couldn’t remember why.
Their voices floated away and came back. But it seemed like more time had passed.
“You awake?” Grey asked as something nudged my leg. Probably Grey’s foot.
“No,” I croaked. My throat was dry and scratchy. I was also dehydrated.
I opened my eyes and dull yellow light highlighted the gray ceiling. Great. Just fucking great.
I’d never been inside one, but I’d been down here before. We were in the cells. It wasn’t quite a dungeon or the chambers
that Maikel operated, but it was close enough. And when people came down here, it was to die.
After lots of pain.
“Water?” Damn, the raspy thread of a voice was pathetic. “And how long have we been here?”
“No water, unless you want to try and catch some of the water dripping from the ceiling over there.” I slowly turned my
head to Matías. He sat in the far corner closest to the bars and faced the drip of water just outside our cell.
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” he continued. “Who knows what nasty stuff that water has in it.” His voice was neutral and his
expression was blank. Not what I would have expected from him after being thrown in a cell.
“We’ve been here for a good twelve hours.” Grey bumped his head repeatedly against the wall where he was sitting.
The space wasn’t large. Maybe a five-by-five cell. All of our legs were tangled up, and even though I was supine, my legs
were all twisted to make myself smaller.
There were no luxuries here.
Grey’s words started to filter through, and I—” Fuck!” I meant to shout, but my voice was low and gritty.
Where was Killer? What about Andre and Parker? They could have been ambushed.
“Whe—where are they?” I groaned as I clumsily pushed myself up. Grey and Matías, on either side of me, reached out and
pulled me up.
“We don’t know.” Grey locked his jaw and turned away from us.
My heart skipped a beat. That was the only explanation for the feeling in my chest. It was like my heart was rolling over but
in unequal patterns. I weaved and Grey shoved me back up to a sitting position.
“They’re safe.” Matías sounded so confident I wanted to beg him to tell me how he was so sure or smash his face for
giving me false hope. If we’d been in here for hours, he wouldn't know that.
I patted my pockets, but my phone was missing. That meant all of our phones were missing. “How do you know that?” I
tried to be firm, unyielding. But the whine in my voice was pathetic.
He sighed and closed his eyes. “Right before everything went to shit, I got a text from one of my buddies in the Dirty Dogs.
They went there first. If they make it there, Javier will protect them.”
 “So you say,” Grey said scathingly as his top lip peeled up. He looked like shit. The skin pinched around his eyes and his
body was strung tight. A collection of bruises spattered on his body.
Hell, we all probably looked like we’d been battered by a Mack truck.
“You think I’d lie about that?” A stiff note in Matías’ voice overshadowed his question as he straightened up from the wall.
“Lie? No. But give too much credit to someone you shouldn’t trust? Hell fucking yes.” Grey met Matías’ gaze, and they
started a staring battle.
“Just because you all don’t trust anyone outside of your very small circle doesn’t mean⁠—”
“Like you fucking trust anyone either? You lived by yourself and had men fully in your corner. It wasn’t like you could
parade the Dirty Dogs under Vicente’s nose. So, I’ll ask it this way. How well could you really know Javier and his people?
You think because you fucked his daughter, he’d want to see you ride off into the sunset now that Vicente is dead?”
Matías bristled.
“Stop. Please.” I cupped my forehead. “You’re all making my head hurt. Before you have that discussion, tell me what
happened. The last thing I remember is…” I searched my thoughts.
Like waking up from a long, unsatisfying dream. The reality was groggy, as if there were missing pieces.
We’d been sitting in the conference room. Waiting. Then the screaming.
“Valentina successfully staged a coup,” Matías answered drily.
“Giving up already?” Grey was just as disgusted as I was. If it were just about me, I’d give up. The thought of letting the
darkness overtake me had a certain comfort to it.
But with my brothers and Killer on the line with me? Hell fucking no. I was not going to lie down and take it. I couldn’t.
That wasn’t who I was.
It was who I used to be, but not anymore.
“Absolutely not,” Matías snapped as he relaxed back against the wall. “But you can’t deny, she won this fight. Maybe not
the war, but definitely this fight.”
“And that fucking attitude is going to get us killed.” Grey got to his feet and walked the few steps to the bars. He gripped
them, and his arms flexed as he pushed against them.
Knowing him, he was probably questioning if he could use brute strength to get us out.
“How do you know it was her?” I jumped in. The last thing we needed was to be fighting among ourselves. They knew that
too, but it was as if they had so much anger they had to direct it somewhere. “And where is Sebastian?”
“Who the fuck knows,” Grey grunted. “He’s not here, that’s for fucking sure. And we know it was her because she was here
not long after we were tossed in. You’re the only one who slept for fucking ages.”
I tucked my chin as heat flamed over my face. I hadn’t been sleeping. Grey had been trying to wean me off the coke, but I’d
found my own stash. I was fucking weak, and sheer willpower couldn’t erase a lifetime of history.
Apparently, I needed the sleep and my body took the time to recharge.
Grey didn’t say anything else, and Matías had nothing to say either. We sat there in fucked-up silence. The longer it went
on, the more I started to itch.
We should be planning right now. There were no guards down here with us; the other two cells were empty. Why not try
and figure out a plan?
But I was too cowardly to say anything. They might toss my drug use in my face, and though I’d never cared about it before,
our current situation made it feel shameful.
I turned my mind to other things. If they didn’t want to talk about how to get out and get back to Killer and the others, I
needed something else to occupy my time.
And damn if what took over my mind was any better. It wasn’t. I shoved it out, but no matter how hard I tried to stop
thinking about it, I couldn’t.
Like a snake slithering through the cracks in thoughts, it coiled in the center and refused to leave. It felt vile and dangerous,
like any answers would be worse than not knowing at all.
Chewing my lip, I rubbed my hands down my jeans. The fabric was cold, and the friction heated up my legs. I didn’t even
realize they were chilled.
I kept doing it, because it was the best distraction I had.
“What’s up with you?” Grey snapped. “You’re anxious as fuck.”
“Leave him alone. We have enough problems.” Matías tossed a pebble Grey’s way.
He didn’t like that as he whipped around to face him. “You can’t tell me how to talk to my brother.”
“Our brother,” Matías emphasized. “And I can when you’re letting your anger get the best of you. That’s not going to get us
out of here.”
I almost stepped in to take up for Matías. Almost. But the scenarios of what Valentina had meant when she mentioned my
mother stopped me.
Grey’s brows dropped low over his eyes as he glared at him. Whatever he wanted to say, he held his tongue. I let out a soft
exhale as I turned to Matías.
I didn’t want to ask. I didn’t want to know. But I couldn’t leave it alone. Not when we had hours and hours to sit here and
stare at each other. It was like a form of psychological torture.
“What happened to my mother?” The words still found their way out of my mouth.
Matías twisted his lips to the side as Grey stepped closer. This entire time he’d been standing at the bars or pacing the
small space. He said I was making him anxious, but he wasn’t acknowledging his own behavior.
When Matías didn’t say anything, Grey took one more step until his toes touched Matías’ legs. “You know what, I want to
know too. What happened? The only reason Valentina would bring it up is because she knows we’ll flip our shit.” He crossed
his arms.
There was a pause, and I clamped my lips shut, waiting for whatever hell he was about to share with me. A minute passed,
then two. He wasn’t looking at anyone.
“Your nonanswer makes me think you fucked up.” Grey’s lips turned down in a frown.
I knew what he was thinking. That Matías was somehow complicit in her death because he didn’t want to tell us what
Valentina meant. Maybe he was. Except his face and the tips of his ears darkened and he swallowed hard while refusing to
look at us.
Grey didn’t say anything else or make any other moves. It seemed we both were willing to wait Matías out.
Eventually, after one more audible swallow, he cut his eyes to me, as if he couldn’t bring himself to face me fully. Our
whole lives, Matías had been closed-off and cold. Seeing him vulnerable like this made it seem like Matías and this one in
front of me were two different people.
I didn’t even need to ask myself which one was the right one. That was a facade, and he had learned to hide himself away
from the vipers in the Institution.
As much as I wanted to know what happened to my mother, no matter what he did, I didn’t think I could hold it against him.
We were all victims of our father. That would never change.
How many evil deeds had I committed because I had to? Matías was the same. In that way, we were the same.
“It’s not what you think?” His voice was so low it was just above a whisper.
My heart jumped into my throat. “What am I thinking?”
“That I somehow caused your mother’s death. I didn’t. Not really.” My chest squeezed. What did that mean? “It was my
inaction that Valentina wanted to paint in the sky. And blow it up to make it seem more than it was.” He shook his head. “It was
terrible. That’s not a question. Valentina is just blowing my part out of proportion.”
My breath turned shaky and I pinched my nose. I almost asked him not to tell me, but that would mean it would constantly
stay in the corner of my mind, taunting me.
I needed to know. I had to. The compulsion was too strong and I’d make mistakes if I didn’t.
“Then what was it?” I steeled myself. I didn’t blink as he searched my face and Grey took a seat so we were in some kind
of fucked up triangle.
“I was,” he coughed, “I was in the main hall with Vicente and Maikel. Valentina came in later, but we were getting ready to
meet with some of the leaders of a new local gang.” He curled his fingers into his palms. “One of the guards pushed your
mother in. He kept pushing her until she fell on her hands and knees in front of our father.” Then he squeezed his eyes shut like
he didn’t want to share the rest.
“He’d caught her trying to make a phone call. You know how Vicente was about contact outside of the Institution…” He
kept his eyes closed as he tipped his head back and leaned it against the wall. “I guess that wasn’t the first time. She’d tried
before. When he asked her about it, she said that her family wouldn’t stand for it, that they would find a way to save her.
“She was so…fiery. In a way I’d never seen her before. You know, like I do, that Vicente spent a lot of time breaking
certain women. At first, I was glad to see her with some fight in her. But it angered him.”
“I don’t want to hear the rest.” I shook my head violently. Any rebellion in front of Vicente was often met with violence.
For women, there was one kind of violence the Institution thrived on, and I didn’t want to hear it.
My mother never said, but I thought she willingly slept with Vicente. At least in the beginning. I was sure it turned to rape
later, but in the beginning, it wasn’t. I didn’t think he stole any of our mothers.
He seduced them and lured them in. When they trusted him, that’s when he broke them.
“Just, let me get this out here. Now that it’s coming to the surface, you need to know.”
I didn’t want to, but Grey placed a hand on my shoulder. It was so foreign, but I needed it at the same time.
“Go on. Tell us again why we should dig his grave up and piss on him.” Grey lost some of his anger and it seemed to be
simmering below the surface now.
Matías had so much sadness in his eyes, I didn’t want to hold his gaze, but I did. I had to.
“Vicente didn’t like that. He started berating her. This is when Valentina came in. She took a seat behind him and watched it
all like she enjoyed the hatefulness he spread. I think she’s like him in that way.” He shook his head again as if he wanted to
dislodge thoughts of her. “Then he asked Maikel what he thought an appropriate punishment was.”
 I covered my ears. I didn’t want to hear this. I wanted to bellow to the ceiling as much as I wanted to carve up Maikel.
How many times had he smiled at me like we were family since then?
“Listen.” Matías pulled my hands down. “I want you to hear this from me so Valentina can’t use it against us anymore.” My
chest ached and my stomach twisted into a disgusting knot. I let him lower my hands. He was right.
“Maikel said she needed to be broke like his girls.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. If I had to listen, I didn’t want to see. I need the darkness to get through.
“This is when the men they’d been waiting on showed up. As a…treat for the guests, he let them and Maikel put her through
the same treatment the girls go through when they’re abducted. It was,” he sucked in a long breath, “brutal. I couldn’t stay. I
refused to watch it. A few minutes in, I pretended to get a call and ran from the great hall. I fucking threw up as soon as I got to
my room. I—I’ve never seen that part of the Institution before. I’ve only seen the girls in the Gallery once they’d been broken.”
What the fuck? What the actual fuck? How had he stayed so naive growing up in Vicente’s pocket like he had? It was like
he was a puppet that Vicente purposefully kept blind.
Jaded and fucked up in so many ways while only being exposed to the lighter crimes. I didn’t understand it.
At some point, his words stopped making me want to scratch the top layer of my skin off. This was nothing new for Vicente.
In the back of my head, I always knew something must have happened to make her kill herself. I just hadn’t thought it was
something like this.
I hadn’t seen any marks on her body. Her face had been so peaceful. And I wanted to cry because she knew she’d be
leaving me behind.
They’d raped her. Publicly. In such a gross and shameful way that she couldn’t go on living anymore.
I wished Vicente was still alive. So I could be the one to kill him.
A swift onset of rage filled my body to the point that I trembled.
This wasn’t Matías’ fault. Like everything else in our lives, everything went back to Vicente. That fucking—fucking
skitstövel.
Steps echoed down the stairwell across the room, and we all snapped to face it. The sound of heels was unmistakable.
First, Valentina’s feet appeared. Then her legs. Finally, her damn face with a twisted evil smirk. Three guards followed
after her, but I didn’t pay attention to them.
Just like my brothers, my anger needed an outlet, and she was the next best thing since Vicente was dead. We all stood. As
soon as we got close to the bars, I charged, gripping the cold metal and shaking them back and forth. No, I was shaking myself,
but the motion felt good.
A release.
“You evil, twisted cunt! You watched my mother be raped! I’ll kill you for this! If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll slit your
fucking throat!”
“Ah, so Matías filled you in on how much of an asshole he is for allowing it to happen.” She tutted like he was a naughty
child.
The edges of my vision darkened and I bared my teeth. Every single cell in my body was on fire with the need to cause
violence. I punched my arm through the bars, hoping like hell she was close enough.
She wasn’t, but two of the guards caught my arm. I tried to yank it back, but they were too fucking strong. Grey pummeled
one in the shoulder, but he didn’t release me.
Valentina pulled a syringe out of her pocket and uncapped it. “You made this too easy.”
She was going to drug me. I still fought, but I also eyed the drugs.
She jabbed it into my arm and depressed the plunger. The cool sensation acted faster than I thought it would. Heroin had
never been my drug of choice, but the effect was immediate.
All the rage, anger, and care I had for the world around me disappeared.
Before I stumbled back, the last thing I consciously remembered was another dark head entering the room.
 2

AMORETTE

leven hours earlier.

E The skin ripped at my knees as I landed hard against the concrete. I screamed even though my brain was delayed.
What the hell? What the–what the hell? I was on the ground before I realized I’d even been pushed.
Andre jerked me next to him as I started to piece it all together. My mind spun as my knees burned and my palms ached.
Andre turned.
Time seemed to slow down. He twisted with excruciating slowness. Each second felt like an hour. My heart thudded
painfully against my ribs. People screamed around us, and feet pounded the pavement, but I watched Andre.
His eyes widened and his mouth opened. He bellowed, the sharp note of fear piercing my ears.
The sound was ugly and heart-wrenching as he fell forward.
I couldn't waste any more time. Squeezing my eyes shut, I knew what had happened.
That noise that popped right before we were shoved–was a gunshot.
Scrambling to turn around, I tried to stay close to the car.
Parker was face down. My chest constricted as he lay there, unmoving.
Please don’t let him die. Please, please, please. I repeated the mantra over and over in my head.
It was too dark to see his form clearly. His clothes were black and the streetlights were too far away. Andre had parked us
on a strip of sidewalk perfectly situated in the shadows.
Where was my phone? Fuck, we needed light. If I reached out a hand, his back would be wet with blood. I knew it would.
Oh shit.
Was that blood underneath him?
I fumbled to pull my phone out and then turned on the light. We were wasting time. We needed help. Parker couldn’t die. He
couldn’t leave his brothers. He couldn’t leave me.
Gasping, I worked hard not to have a full-blown panic attack. There was no time. I could fall apart later if–fuck that. I
could fall apart later when Parker could hold me and Andre in his arms.
I started shouting to anyone who would listen.
"Help! Help! He's been shot! Somebody help!" I sucked in a breath. "Ayuda!" I screamed so loud, my voice cracked and my
throat strained.
My light popped on and I shined it on his back. There was a hole up on his shoulder, close to his armpit.
That was bad. That was so fucking bad. I reached over to Andre, who now had his hands in front of his face, staring
blanking at the blood coating his hands.
"I need your jacket!" I gripped the collar and yanked down as hard as I could. He didn’t move, and I tugged harder. "Your
jacket, Andre!" I fell back on my butt as he dropped his arms and it ripped from his body. I balled it up and scooted forward,
pressing it down on the wound.
Stop the blood loss by applying pressure. That was the best thing I could do for Parker right then.
Stop the blood loss. Apply pressure. Call for help.
My body quivered but my hands stayed strong as I leaned my weight into his shoulder. I screamed for help all over again.
"Call 911. Andre!" I turned because he didn't answer. He was still staring down at his hands even though my phone had
dropped, so he couldn't see the red anymore. "Andre!" I kicked out my leg in an awkward motion.
He had to snap out of it.
Shouting came from the front of the club and I glanced up. Men raced across the street and separated as they busted down
doors for all the buildings next to us.
Two figures raced our way. I couldn't make out anything other than the fact that they were women and blurry as hell. There
was too much light behind them to see anything else. Aw damn, I was crying and I couldn’t see shit with both my hands on
Parker.
They slid on their knees and I sucked in a breath.
The girl from the warehouse, the one who had just been in Randall's hands, sat across from me as she added her hands to
mine, increasing our pressure. Where had she come from? She should have taken the opportunity and ran when she had the
chance.
Staying here would get her caught again. But I couldn’t think about that right now. Keeping Parker alive was more important
than keeping her free of the Institution.
I gasped. I was going to hell. Condemning her to save Parker. Yet that was my decision and I’d make it every single time.
Instead of yelling at her to leave, I gritted my teeth and pressed down.
Was there such a thing as too much pressure? God, I hoped not.
She met my gaze, her mouth set into a firm line.
The girl knew. And she chose to stay and help. Something beautiful in the dark recesses of my soul broke free.
The woman who dropped next to her checked Parker's pulse. Out of the corner of my eye, I recognized the dark hair and
full features. It was Rita. The woman who should be an enemy was making sure Parker was still alive.
I should have done that. My heart cracked painfully.
No, pressure was better. Pressure to stop the bleeding could save his life.
"The ambulance is almost here. There's a private hospital down the block. He's going to live." As soon as Rita started
speaking, I flicked my gaze to her. Why was she helping us? Nope, I wasn’t asking that question either. It didn’t matter as long
as we got Parker to a hospital.
Her voice was commanding as she kept her fingers on his throat.
She couldn't know he’d be okay. There was already a pool of blood underneath him. Why was he bleeding so fucking
much?
Tears burned as they tracked down my face and I forced air through my nose to try and stop them. They helped no one right
now.
Sirens started in the distance. Then they were closer. And closer.
On the next block over, flashing lights lit up the buildings in red and blue seconds before the ambulance whipped around
the corner and raced to us.
More men ran out of the front doors of the club, but I didn't pay attention to them when they didn't come our way.
The ambulance skidded to a halt and EMTs jumped out. Three of them swarmed Parker, knocking us out of the way.
I wanted to shoulder my way between them, but I didn't. Even though it killed me not to be able to see what they were
doing, they knew how to keep him alive better than I did.
Falling back on my butt, I scooted backward. Andre had been shoved back too, but it was like he hadn't even noticed.
He still stared at his hands.
Rita came around and grabbed my shoulders as she helped me to my feet. "We're going to find out who fucking did this,"
she snarled. "An attack on our property is an attack on us. I don't give a fuck who they shot at."
Her fingers bit into my flesh. I didn't turn to face her. I couldn't. My gaze was glued to the workers who now had Parker on
a gurney, racing him to the ambulance. In less than two minutes, they had him loaded up. At the last second, I ran forward, but I
was too late.
They slammed the door shut and started driving. Through the windows, the EMTs zipped around the small space, calling
out to each other in Spanish.
How had I let that happen? I froze. I zoned out. I didn’t know what the fuck that was, but I needed to be in that fucking
vehicle with him!
"Wait! I need to ride with him! Stop!" I chased after them and the heel of my shoe snapped, catapulting me forward.
"Stop." Rita caught up and helped me up, but she refused to let me go. She knew I’d start after them again. “Here comes
another ambulance. They'll take you and Andre. I'll meet you at the hospital."
How could I have let them leave without me? I was so lost in–hell–I didn't even know what that was. I had no thoughts as I
watched them try to save Parker's life.
I needed to be in the ambulance with him. What if they couldn't save him. Or worse, what if they didn't even try because of
who he was?
Were the brothers known here?
I had no idea, and I was so fucking stupid to let my body and mind lock up.
Another ambulance slammed on their brakes right in front of me. Suddenly, I was the one being swarmed. Questions in
Spanish were being fired at me and I didn't answer a single goddamn one.
 Rita stepped in and started speaking for me.
I was ushered into the ambulance and an EMT was leading Andre by the arm. He wasn’t even aware of what was going on
around him, he just stared blankly down at his bloody hands. I reached out to him to touch him, to let him know it was okay, but
he was too far away with people trying to check us over.
After a short exchange with the EMTs, Rita joined us. There was so much talking, and I didn't have any clue what they were
saying. I didn't care.
The only important thing was getting to Parker.
He was so witty, too smart for his own good, and too much of a brat. Fitting for the baby brother. Of all of them, he seemed
like he wanted to live life the most. Not just day-to-day, but actually enjoy life's experiences.
Seeing him on the ground like that...
I sucked in a wheezing breath and bent over.
Rita moved next to me and shoved my head between my knees. "Deep breaths. It's fine. You're fine, and Parker's too much
of an asshole to die now."
One of the EMTs tried to pull her back by her arm, but she jerked, and they grunted as she growled at them. I wasn't sure,
but I thought she told them to fuck off.
The ride to the hospital was short.
Within minutes, we were at the front doors being wheeled in.
Andre was finally snapping out of it because as soon as they had him in a wheelchair, he jumped up and raced inside.
Shouting at everyone.
Nurses ran out, and some of them tried to get him back in the chair. He refused.
Once the wheels on my wheelchair passed through the doors, I got up and ran to his side.
I slid my hand in his. He started to jerk away, but when he saw it was me, he yanked me into his side and curled his arm
around my shoulders.
Rita sighed as she sidled up next to me.
Andre barked at everyone until someone who looked like a doctor came through the double doors to the back. Streaks of
blood slashed across his top and I pushed all thoughts away. Otherwise, I would crack right there.
He stopped in front of Andre and, in a much calmer tone, started explaining something to him.
Andre started to relax, then stiffened.
"What are they saying?" I twisted my head without taking my attention off the doctor to ask Rita.
She stepped closer, and after a beat she started to translate. "Parker's in surgery. The gunshot wound nicked the brachial
artery. It wasn't an instant bleedout, but bad enough if he didn't get here when he did, he would have died. He's asking if Andre
wants to be tested for blood matches–"
"Yes. I want to be tested too."
She made a noise of frustration. "Andre said that." Andre turned his glare on Rita and snapped something at her. She
responded in kind with her own glower. "I'll get tested too."
Nurses came out and escorted us to a room just past the double doors. They almost had to wrestle Andre in a chair. He kept
eyeing the hall like he wanted to run and find where they had Parker.
Andre shrugged off their hold, running his hands through his hair until it stood up on end, collected himself, and sat in the
chair. He seemed ready to come out of his skin with a fierce scowl and nervous twitches. The nurse closest to him started firing
off a list of questions as she pulled out her tray and supplies to take his blood.
A different nurse came over to me, and Rita and Andre paused long enough to bark, "In English!" before turning back to his
nurse.
Everyone in the room except for Rita and me jumped. Then, our nurse started reviewing questions with us.
Had we traveled outside the country in the last two weeks?
Did we have any diseases or known issues with blood draws?
Are we taking any medicines?
Is there a chance we could be pregnant?
We answered no to all of them, but they apparently didn't want to take our word for it. They escorted us to a small bathroom
and handed each of us a cup.
I went first. Breathing became problematic as I tried to clean myself up. His cum was still inside me. We’d just–I couldn’t
call it making love. What we did was too primal. Too public. But I had a feeling that was as close to lovemaking as Parker
could get.
Luckily, filling up the cup didn’t take much time. When I stepped out, I handed it to the nurse and held the door open to
Rita.
Once she stepped in, I went over to Andre. They were taking his blood pressure as he tapped on his phone.
"No one is answering my messages." A deep divot formed between his brows as he frowned at his phone.
 "If the meeting is tense, they wouldn't be able to answer." I leaned against the wall.
Now that there wasn't anything I could do as I waited on the nurses to take my blood and Parker was in surgery, fear and
worry sat in my stomach like cold stones.
Parker had pushed us out of the way. He'd gotten shot saving us. He'd saved me. And I had been an ass to him over the last
few months.
His dark smirk irritated me as much as it turned me on. He irritated me as much as he turned me on, and I'd let so much time
pass without acting on it.
A third stone dropped to my stomach. Regret.
Parker wasn't who I thought he was. I couldn't act otherwise, not when he had killed Randall for me.
This is one of the best things I could do for you. Kill the man who hurt you. I will always do that. So will my brothers.
We will kill anyone who even thinks to hurt you. Because you’re ours.
When the tears came this time, I didn’t try to stop them. I found comfort in the sadness.
All the very worst things, followed by the best things, fought for space inside my head. It was my fault it took as long as it
did for us to come together. If he had his way, I would have been his months ago.
Now, I might never get to tell him how I feel. That I was an idiot. God, this hurt.
I had too many regrets. After losing so many people in my life, I, of all people, should know time was precious.
Never again. If he made it through this, the first thing I was going to do was make sure he knew exactly what he meant to
me.
It wasn't pretty. Or beautiful. Or sweet.
It was dangerous. Consuming. Toxic.
It was ours.
The nurse returned, and when I glanced up, she met my stare. An odd look crossed over her features.
"Miss, can you sit down?"
Andre was done with his blood draw, and he snaked his arm around my waist and pulled me into his lap.
"Your pregnancy test came back positive." She continued speaking, but I couldn't hear anything with the wind rushing in my
ears.
Andre’s arms tightened almost painfully around my stomach before he immediately loosened his grip.
She couldn't be right. I had an IUD. Pregnancy was impossible.
We couldn't bring a baby into this world. I would never subject a child to this. It was too much pain and suffering. Too
much looking over our shoulders.
The men had never asked me if I wanted kids, and I'd never thought to bring it up with the IUD.
But...oh fuck.
I knocked the nurse to the side as I ran to the bathroom. I slammed the door and locked it with one hand as I yanked down
my panties with the other.
The remnants of Parker's cum coated my fingers and my cheeks burned. I shoved in as far as I could, twisting my fingers.
It was gone. There was nothing there.
The warehouse had taken it out.
No. No.
It was true.
I was pregnant.
 3

GREY

ou fucking bitch!” I stretched my arm through the bars and grabbed the shirt of the closest guard. Yanking him to me, I
“Y grinned as his face smashed against the metal. I wished I could reach the other guard.
Before he had time to step back, I took his head in both hands and twisted.
I eyed the other man, who gulped and stepped back, still holding Lafe’s arm. My brother was slack. Whatever she had
given him wasn’t what he normally took.
“If you don’t let him go, I will kill you,” I spoke straight to the guard. “I know where your family lives too, Eduardo. I will
make them all pay.”
His face lost its color, but he didn’t let Lafe go.
“Mia, be a dear and call the other guards,” Valentina called over her shoulder.
Mia, the traitorous bitch, had just stepped into the room. Her face was a cool mask as her gaze swept over all of us.
Pushing a lock of hair out of her eyes, she walked to Valentina. Her hips swaying side to side as she came closer.
How the hell had I ever fucked her?
She was nothing like Amorette. And that was never more apparent than right then as she watched Valentina play with us
like trapped mice.
We were, but we wouldn’t be this way for long. We just had to get the cunt to open the door.
I cast a sidelong glance at Matías, and his glare was so hot on Valentina that I was surprised she didn’t react.
“Sure.” Mia pulled her phone out and sent a text before depositing it back between her tits. She stopped next to Valentina
and twisted her lips to the side as she took in Lafe’s drugged-out form. When she met my gaze, I sneered.
What. A. Snake.
I didn’t expect anything different, but my gut still burned at her betrayal.
“Parker’s going to be fucking pissed.” I shook my head. She’d always been tight with him. At one time, I would have said
she craved his approval, that she had actual affection for him.
As much as anyone could in this hell hole. But I should have remembered, it was the fucking Institution.
No one had any allegiances to anyone except themselves.
My brothers and I were the exception.
Another glance at Matías and I corrected myself.
My brothers—including Matías. He was one of us. We just hadn’t known it.
A few guards came down the stairs, and trailing behind them was Maikel. His eyes lit up as he saw us standing off with
Valentina. Instead of stopping behind the guards, he shifted around them until he was next to Valentina. Unfortunately, not close
enough to grab.
Maikel crossed his arms, watching me with a smug expression.
“If you come a little closer, I’ll show you exactly how much I’ve always enjoyed being forced into your company.” I
motioned forward with my fingers.
I was the quiet brother. I didn’t run my mouth; I showed my anger with my fists. But I was so fucking antsy with everything
that had gone wrong over the last few months, that I couldn’t help myself.
Trapped in a cage, I could only think of one way to get them to come closer.
To run my fucking mouth.
Maikel scoffed. “Please. Like I need to prove anything to you. Clearly, you don’t have any sense about business or how to
survive because you’re on the wrong side of the bars.”
 “A place you’ll be as soon as I get out of here.”
“Big promises,” he shot back. Valentina just rolled her eyes.
“What, nothing you want to add?” She directed her question to Matías.
He slowly shook his head. “No. I’d rather wait until we get out. Then, when I have your throat between my hands, I’ll tell
you exactly what I think as I squeeze the life from your body.” His posture was as neutral as his voice. If I hadn’t heard the
words myself, I would have assumed he was bored out of his fucking mind.
Her brows jumped up and she waved her hand like she didn’t believe him. “I’m impressed. But you’ve always been too
soft to be the heir. Consider this my correcting Vicente’s mistake.”
“I just wanted to see what all the commotion was about. I’m going back upstairs,” Mia announced, like we gave a fuck
what she was doing.
“One second.” Valentina stopped her with a hand on her arm. Mia angled toward her, a soft smile curving her lips as
Valentina cupped her face. Leaning closer, she slid her lips against Mia’s. It was a sensual move, making promises for later.
Mia moaned against her mouth and I rolled my eyes. What a fake sound. Mia had used them with me enough, but I also
knew she came on my dick. So the fake noises hadn’t mattered.
“You fucked Grey. Tell me, who was the better lover?” Valentina grinned as she cut her gaze to me.
No one cared except for Valentina. This was all some screwed-up competition to her.
“Mm. It’s close, but I’ve never had as many orgasms as I’ve had with you.” Mia bit her lip to dampen the smile trying to
break free.
Valentina laughed, the sound too throaty to be anything other than suggestive. Matías gagged. She ignored him.
“That’s the thing with men. They don’t have the creativity to use toys. Not to the extent that we do. That’s the beauty of
knowing a woman’s body.” She released Mia in an apparent dismissal as she turned back to us.
Whatever fun that was for her, she was over it as more guards flooded into the basement. I narrowed my eyes on her.
What did she have planned?
Mia shrugged like none of this mattered to her and the guards cleared a path so she could head back up the stairs. All the
while, Maikel stood off to the side like he was important instead of the worthless pawn he was.
“Now, boys,” she addressed the guards but kept her gaze on Lafe and me. “I need three of you to go in and secure Grey.
Another guard needs to help hold Lafe.” She turned to Matías and a shrewd look came over her face. “And maybe one guard
for Matías. He’s too weak to actually be a threat.”
That caused Matías’ lip to curl.
The guards stepped forward and Maikel grunted as one bumped into him. No one was showing him any deference, but it
hadn’t made it through his walnut-sized brain. It would, when he was dead.
Whatever her plans were, Maikel wasn’t part of them. Just from her body language and the way she spoke to him, she
seemed to hate him as much as we did.
“Why not put us in different cells in the first place?” Matías cracked his neck like he was getting ready to fight.
“I wasn’t the one who threw you down here, or you would have been.” She shot a glare at Maikel, who didn’t even have
the smarts to look sorry. “I’m correcting it now.”
“The second you open that door, I’ll be on you so fucking fast, you won’t have a chance to blink.”
Lafe was still being held against the bars, but he was slack, high out of his mind. I stepped around him to stand right in front
of her.
She smirked. “Assuming you could take ten men. You’re a great fighter, a moneymaker, but you’re not invincible when you
don’t have any weapons at your disposal.” She pulled another syringe out of her pocket and uncapped it. “Anyways, that’s not
going to be necessary.” She depressed the plunger enough for a small amount of liquid to squirt out. “There’s enough heroin in
here to kill him. I just gave him a dose to help him escape like the weak bastard that he is. Do you want to take a chance that
I’ll administer a killing dose before you reach me?”
Ice filled my veins as I stepped back.
Lafe still had some coke in his blood. There was no way he didn’t. With the dose she gave him before, that was already a
dangerous cocktail.
“That’s what I thought.” She tossed the keys to Maikel. “Open the door. Then the guards are going to bring out Matías and
Grey, one at a time.”
Maikel had his shoulders high and chest out as he moved closer. One side of his lips even tugged up as he turned the key in
the lock. He stepped back as the door swung open.
Ten seconds was the time that there was no one between us. Ten seconds before the guards moved in. Standing still grated
against my spine, but when I glanced at Lafe, my hands were tied.
I wouldn’t be the reason Lafe died.
At least he wasn’t aware of anything happening right now. His head was bowed and pressed against the bars. He just stood
there, riding the fucking wave of euphoria. This was better for him until I figured out how to get us out of here.
 The guards took Matías first. He went with them willingly as they moved him to the next cell over. Then three men grabbed
my arms and led me out.
“Take him to the center. I have plans for him.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor right where she wanted me.
Everyone made a giant space in the center of the room. I peered over my shoulder to make sure Lafe was okay. A few of her
people had gone into the cell and dragged him out.
“Put a chair for me by the door.” Valentina used a sweet tone as she caressed the arm of the man closest to her. He blushed
and darted out to go find a chair. “Take Lafe over by the door, too. Lean him against the wall.”
The guards were efficient in carrying out their orders. I eyed them all, committing their faces to memory. I didn’t remember
any so quick to follow our orders.
She took her seat with a flourish and crossed her legs as she petted Lafe’s head. I didn’t have to say a word. She smirked,
taunting me.
I would kill her. My brother was not a goddamned dog.
I would kill her, and I would make it hurt.
“Did you bring it?” She turned to a guard that had stood against the wall the entire time.
“I did, miss.” He held up a coiled whip.
Valentina scrunched up her face in a sneer. “You can call me Madam. That’s who I am in the Institution. The leader. And I
better get the respect I deserve or you’ll be right there next to my waste of space brother.”
He bowed his head. “I’m sorry, Madam.”
After staring at him a beat, she turned to the other guards. “Since Bruno’s dead, one of you boys will have to impress me.”
None of them seemed up for the challenge. A few of them even looked green in the face.
The guard holding the whip extended his hand, but before any of the men could take it from him, Maikel snatched it away.
“Let me do this, Valentina. I have a lot of anger I’d like to work out on my nephew.”
She gave one slow nod. “I think that would be better than any of the guards. What do you think, Grey?”
I thought it would be fitting to string her up by her intestines and let the birds peck at her decaying flesh. But I didn’t say
that. I’d said as much as I had to say. The anger was burning me up from the inside out.
Let them whip me. I liked the pain. Thrived on it even.
They didn’t seem to know that. As long as Lafe still breathed, then they could strip the skin from my back.
“Put him on his knees.” She motioned to the guards, losing some of her amusement as intensity took its place.
My knees were kicked, and I grunted as I hit the hard floor.
“Why the fuck are you doing this?” Matías shouted from his cell as he gripped the bars. His eyes were wild as they darted
between me and Lafe. I almost had to laugh.
Where was the cool, unbothered brother we’d grown up with? If he didn’t dial it back, she was going to use that against
him. And us. I was sure Lafe and Andre would appreciate the unusual show of emotion that meant he cared. I just wanted him
to shut the fuck up before he made this worse.
Valentina shifted her gaze to him for the briefest moment before coming back to me. She leaned forward, still stroking
Lafe’s blond hair.
“Because I can,” she said with so much anger that I realized what this was.
She wasn’t doing this to me or to Lafe because it played into a bigger scheme to take over the Institution. She’d spent her
whole life being second to Matías, less than the men, and unappreciated for her intelligence.
This was nothing more than an angry, bitter woman taking out her pain on others. Because she was a heartless bitch and if
she suffered, she wanted to make sure everyone around her hurt ten times more.
The right side of my top lip lifted as I glared at her.
Wicked Love saw day in and out how women were treated. She experienced some of it herself. Instead of letting it turn her
heart to ash, she fought harder than she thought possible to make it right for the ones she could.
She was reckless in the worst way. The selfless way. But I loved the fuck out of her. She was everything Valentina would
never be.
Though it killed me, I held my tongue. I wouldn’t make this situation worse for my brothers and Wicked Love than it
already was.
“Take his shirt off. The whip does the best work when it touches the skin.”
The guards bent down to grab the hem on either side of me and yanked it over my head. The shirt was still around my hands
when the first strike landed.
“Argh!” I yelled as I threw my head back.
The first strike was always the worst. Especially when it was unexpected.
Maikel didn’t hold back, making more noise than I did after the initial blow.
With each hit, my body jolted. I made sure to hold Valentina’s gaze through it all.
At some point, the skin broke. Then Maikel did his best to strike that same spot as much as possible. I pursed my lips and
Another random document with
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of his soldiers with their array of spoil and captives, he died, after
having committed to the faithful Abd-al-Mumen the accomplishment
of the task of conquest and reformation which he had so successfully
begun.
Of all the prophets and reformers, the progenitors of dynasties,
the conquerors of kingdoms, the restorers of the Faith, which from its
origin have appeared in the domain of Islam, none possess a greater
claim to distinction than Abu-Abdallah, surnamed the Mahdi, the
founder of the sect of the Almohades. Without the commanding
genius and originality of Mohammed, he equalled that remarkable
personage in keenness of perception and energy of character, and
far surpassed him in education, in eloquence, in practical
acquaintance with the foibles and the prejudices of humanity. The
suggestive examples of his predecessors, who had attained to
supreme power through pretensions to inspiration and martial
achievements, incited him to establish for himself a political and
religious empire. With more of the charlatan and less of the soldier in
his mental composition than had characterized many reformers, he
retained to the last his retiring asceticism, but in case of emergency
he did not hesitate to boldly risk his life on the field of battle. No
scholar was better versed than he in the literature and science of his
age. His sagacity was proof against the insinuating arts of the most
accomplished negotiator. In the prosecution of his ambitious projects
he never considered the comfort or the safety of his followers; in the
exaction of his vengeance every sentiment of pity and indulgence
was ruthlessly cast aside. His influence over his disciples was
maintained by appeals to superstition and by arts of imposture
congenial with the temperament of the ignorant and the credulous.
To conceal these frauds, the wretched instruments by whom they
had been effected were promptly put to death. Such persons as
were so unfortunate as to incur the enmity of the false Prophet were
buried alive. Such was the extent of his power over the masses, that
the crimes perpetrated by his orders or with his sanction were
regarded in the light of virtues; that his spurious claims to divinity
were accepted by entire nations who revered him even more than
his great prototype Mohammed, and who demonstrated their
enduring faith in his mission by raising his friend and successor, to
whom his authority had descended, to an equality with the greatest
potentates of the age.
While the victories of the Almohades in Africa were undermining
the already crumbling empire of Ali, his Spanish dominions were
overrun and wasted by Aragonese and Castilian armies. The
supremacy of the clergy which followed the rise of the Almoravide
dynasty was the signal for Christian persecution. In Andalusia, and
especially throughout the principality of Granada, where the
Mozarabes abounded, the Moslem theologians exercised with
unrestricted severity the congenial privilege of oppression. Churches
and monasteries were confiscated or destroyed under pretext of their
construction since the Conquest, acts of encroachment which,
although in contravention of the stipulations of Musa, had been
tacitly ignored for centuries. Taxes far in excess of those prescribed
by Mussulman law were imposed on the Christian tributaries. Under
the most frivolous accusations their property was seized. Every
indignity which popular envy or religious hatred could contrive was
inflicted upon them. Their endurance exhausted, the Mozarabes of
Granada, who, through the medium of Jewish merchants, had long
held secret communication with their Castilian brethren, an
intercourse which had suggested and promoted many a predatory
expedition, now began to meditate permanent freedom from
conditions scarcely less intolerable than those of servitude. The
serious difficulties in which the Almoravide empire was involved; the
contemptuous indifference of its ruler to the complaints of his
subjects; the succession of Almohade victories; the withdrawal to
Africa of the flower of the Andalusian troops for the defence of
Morocco; the advance of the Castilian outposts, in the face of whose
encroachments the frontier was continually receding; the reconquest
of Saragossa, the last important Moslem bulwark in the North, all
encouraged the hope that the Christian domination and the Christian
faith might now be easily re-established from the Pyrenees to the
Mediterranean. Excited by ill-timed dreams of liberty, the Mozarabes
brought to bear every resource of solicitation and argument to tempt
an invasion by the Christian princes. They despatched secret envoys
to the court of Castile. They sent to Alfonso I., King of Aragon,
topographical descriptions of the country, enumerations of its armies,
information of the locations of its magazines and of the relative
position and respective strength of its fortresses, its castles, and its
arsenals. They promised their services as guides and pioneers. They
pledged the support of the Christian tributaries of Granada, who,
through the favor they had enjoyed under Hebrew ministers,
exceeded in numbers and wealth those of any other province of the
empire. To assurances of success, the Mozarabes enlarged upon
the attractions which characterized the most fertile and beautiful
valley in Andalusia. It was not strange that the cupidity of the
Aragonese cavaliers should have been excited by such a picture, or
their sovereign tempted by a prospect so flattering to his ambition.
An expedition was hastily organized, and at the head of twelve
thousand cavalry Alfonso entered the country of the enemy. But the
enterprise which promised such magnificent results terminated in
inaction, which was even more discreditable than defeat. The
Mozarabes, faithful to their engagements, joined the invader in
multitudes. They conducted his forces by unfrequented paths
through the perilous defiles of the mountains. They furnished their
allies with money, provisions, horses, and beasts of burden. Forty
thousand volunteers swelled the ranks of the Aragonese army. But
for some inexplicable reason this great force accomplished nothing.
The King, whose resolution seemed to have failed him before the
bold provincials of Granada, retired discomfited from the walls of
Valencia, Xucar, Denia. The citizens of Baeza, whose city was
unprovided with defences, repulsed with severe loss the formidable
chivalry of the North, fighting under the eye of a sovereign
accustomed from boyhood to the perils and the stratagems of war.
The time lost by the Christians, who seemed incapable of
appreciating the advantages of surprise and attack, was diligently
improved by their adversaries. Temim, the brother of the Sultan and
the governor of Granada, collected reinforcements from every district
of the Peninsula held by the Almoravides. The troops which had
been sent to Africa were recalled. The fortifications of the capital,
which at that time were far from possessing the finished and
impregnable character subsequently imparted to them by the military
genius and profuse expenditures of the Alhamares, were improved
and perfected as far as time and circumstances would permit. The
Mozarabes were placed under rigorous espionage. The most
obnoxious were imprisoned. Others were expelled from the city. A
large force was encamped on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada, but
the proximity of the Christians, whose outposts could be distinctly
seen from the battlements of the citadel, and the presence of
thousands of secret and implacable enemies, raised the most
gloomy apprehensions in the minds of the Moslems. In hourly
expectation of an assault, crowds assembled in the mosques, where
the imams offered the supplications prescribed by the Koran for
seasons of extremity. Although the numbers of the Christian army
reached fifty thousand, the great majority of which was composed of
Mozarabe rebels, not ignorant of warfare and nerved to despair by
the remembrance of recent persecution and the hopelessness of
future immunity, it remained idly in its intrenchments. Familiarity with
the enemy gradually removed from the minds of the Moors the fears
which had been excited by overwhelming odds. The flying Arab
cavalry swept the plain of subsistence and forage. Small parties of
Christians were cut off. The rainy season arrived; the streams
overflowed; the dry ravines became impassable torrents, and
disease and want began to invade the hostile camp. Then Alfonso
determined to retreat. One way alone was open, for the mountains
which separated him from his kingdom were already white with
snow, and the active Moslems, anticipating a favorable turn of
affairs, had long since occupied the passes in his rear. Abandoning
his allies, who had sacrificed honor, allegiance, and liberty in
obedience to his summons, the King of Aragon marched southward.
Threading the perilous defiles of the Alpujarras, the Christians
emerged at length upon the tropical coast of Velez-Malaga. The
cavaliers of the inhospitable North were enchanted with the delightful
prospect presented by the plantations of cotton and sugar, the
groves of oranges and palms, and the profusion of odoriferous
shrubs and flowers whose blossoms filled the air with their fragrance.
But the pleasures of this paradise could not be long enjoyed by the
invaders. Behind them the entire country was in arms. All the forces
available for that purpose had been collected throughout the Moslem
dominions to intercept their retreat. It was certain death for a
straggler to venture beyond the limits of the camp. Provisions could
be obtained with the greatest difficulty, owing to the fears of the
Mozarabes and the vigilance of the enemy. To add to the
embarrassment of the King, his following had been increased by the
undesirable presence of a great number of non-combatants, who
consumed the supplies while hampering the movements and
diminishing the security of the army. Ten thousand Mozarabes, many
of whom were accompanied by their families, preferring the doubtful
issue of a military campaign and the hardships of a long and tedious
march to the certain severities of Moorish vengeance, impeded the
march of the Christians. It was hardly consistent with the dictates of
humanity to desert these refugees, connected with his race by the
double ties of blood and religion; and Alfonso was forced, much
against his will, to tolerate their presence and assure them of his
protection. After a few days’ sojourn at Velez-Malaga, the army
began its homeward march through the mountains of Guadix. From
that moment until the boundary of Aragon was reached, its progress
was marked by incessant battle. The country swarmed with Moorish
horsemen. The camp was repeatedly stormed. The noonday halt,
the passage of a stream, the approach to a mountain defile, was
certain to provoke a bloody encounter. Hundreds of exhausted
women and children, unable to bear the fatigue of the march, were,
with the wounded, daily abandoned to the rage of a vindictive
enemy. When Alfonso entered his capital, it would have been difficult
to recognize in his emaciated and dejected followers, whose ragged
garments and battered armor bore evidence of many a hotly
contested skirmish, the splendid array of knights which almost a year
before had with exultant confidence set forth, as upon a holiday
excursion, to capture the city of Granada. No enterprise in the wars
of the Peninsula was inaugurated under more brilliant auspices and
was more unproductive of results. The indecision with which its
operations were conducted was itself a precursor of disaster. The
valor of the Aragonese chivalry was expended in a series of fruitless
and inglorious contests with Andalusian mountaineers. The
accomplishment of the main object of the expedition was never
seriously attempted. No victory contributed its lustre to the waning
reputation of the Christians. Not a foot of territory had been added to
the realms of the invader. No spoil consoled him for the loss of glory,
no prisoners swelled his train. Cities unprotected by fortifications had
successfully resisted the assaults of his bravest soldiers. No
substantial benefit could be derived from indecisive engagements,
protracted sieges, difficult marches through a hostile country, forays
unrewarded with either captives or plunder. It was true that the
Moorish states of Andalusia had been traversed from end to end;
that a portion of their territory had been desolated; that the emblem
of Christian faith had been displayed, for the second time since the
rout of the Guadalete, on the shores of the Mediterranean. These,
however, were but evidences of a barren triumph. The vulnerability
of the Moslem empire, since the fall of the khalifate, had been
repeatedly demonstrated. Predatory expeditions undertaken without
the prestige of royalty had often inflicted far more damage on the
enemy than that which had accompanied an invasion by picked
troops of the Aragonese kingdom. The only real advantage remained
with the Moslems of Granada, who were made acquainted with the
disaffection of their Mozarabe subjects, and were enabled to provide
against future outbreaks by the permanent suppression and removal
of a treacherous population, which had long been a menace to public
security. The Mozarabes expiated by poverty and chains, by exile
and death, their ill-timed effort to escape the vexations of Moslem
rule. Their lands were forcibly occupied by their Arab neighbors.
Their effects were seized and sold at auction. Hundreds expired
amidst the noxious vapors of subterranean dungeons. Such as had
openly joined the Christian army were, with their families,
condemned to slavery, and were purchased by Jewish traders to be
again disposed of in the markets of Asia. The majority of the others,
by order of the Sultan, were banished to Africa, where, in the vicinity
of Mequinez and Salé, many of them eventually perished by disease
and famine. After the lapse of eleven years a final deportation of
these troublesome subjects, who seem to have given renewed
cause for offence, was effected; and the kingdom of Granada, which
formerly possessed the largest number of tributary Christians in the
empire, was now almost entirely deprived of this element of its
population. The places of the exiles were supplied by African
colonists, whose modern descendants, in their swarthy complexions,
their curling locks, and their general mental characteristics, have
preserved unmistakable tokens of their Mauritanian ancestry.
In the midst of his foreign and domestic tribulations, the death of
Temim, the Viceroy of Spain, brought fresh perplexity and sorrow to
the heart of Ali. A worthy successor of that able warrior was found,
however, in Tashfin, the promising heir of the Almoravide throne. The
youth of that prince proved rather an inducement than an objection
to his appointment to a responsible command. He gained several
victories over the Christians, ravaged the valley of the Tagus as far
as the gates of Toledo, and in a few short campaigns added to the
possessions of his father more than thirty fortresses and castles.
Aragon, long involved in hostilities with Castile, had recently
obtained an important accession of territory and power. Saif-al-
Daulat, the son of the last Emir of Saragossa, unable to hold the
remaining cities of his principality, harassed by Christian and Moslem
alike, surrendered them to Alfonso. The latter, desiring
communication with the South,—still closed by Moslem occupation,
—pushed his advance along the valley of the Ebro. Mequinenza was
taken after a short resistance and its garrison massacred. Then the
Christian army invested Fraga. This fortress, situated on a lofty and
isolated mountain, was considered one of the most impregnable
places in the Peninsula, and, commanding the navigation of the
Ebro, was the key of Southern Aragon. The Moors, recognizing its
value, had removed all persons unable to bear arms; had provided
its magazines with provisions sufficient for a long siege, and had
manned its fortifications with a force of several thousand veterans,
who, warned by the fate of their brethren at Mequinenza, were
nerved to an obstinate defence. The siege was signalized by a
series of desperate encounters, in which both parties utilized every
resource of military stratagem and personal prowess. At the first
appearance of the Christians before the principal bulwark of the now
contracted Mussulman frontier, a general alarm had been sounded in
all the cities of Spain and Africa. The Emir, relieved for the time from
apprehensions of the Almohades, despatched a powerful army for
the relief of Fraga. With its ranks largely reinforced by Andalusian
levies, the Berber host, whose supplies were transported upon
hundreds of camels, advanced rapidly along the Ebro until it came in
sight of the besiegers’ camp. Contrary to custom, but with a design
whose wisdom soon became fatally apparent, the convoy with the
baggage preceded the main body on the march. The soldiers of
Alfonso, presuming that the camels were loaded with provisions for
the garrison, and deceived by the feeble escort which protected
them, rushed forward in tumultuous disorder and attacked the guard.
The latter retreated, and the Christians, unwarily drawn into the
mountain ravines, were surrounded. Almost helpless in their
confined situation, with enemies swarming on every side and the air
darkened with clouds of missiles, their army was soon annihilated.
The situation, which forbade alike successful defence or orderly
retreat; the bewildering sensations produced by the unexpected
apparition of myriads of ferocious warriors; the repeated charges
which by sheer force of numbers overpowered at once the foremost
ranks of the Aragonese; the countless stones and arrows which
poured down from crag and hillside, soon decided the bloody and
unequal contest. Scarcely an hour elapsed before the Christians
succumbed to the superior numbers and equal valor of their foes.
One after another the bravest knights of Aragon, together with the
flower of the French and English chivalry, whom crusading ambition
and the love of adventure had allured to the standard of Alfonso,
were killed while protecting their king and their commanders. With
them were not a few of the highest dignitaries of the church, who,
exchanging the mitre for the helmet and the crosier for the sword,
had been accustomed, since the Visigothic domination, to share the
fortunes of the most arduous campaigns, and to unite in the field and
in the camp the duties of their peaceful profession with the stern and
merciless demands of war. These martial prelates nobly sustained
upon this occasion the reputation for courage which had for
centuries distinguished their order above that of any other country in
Europe. The bishops of Rosas, of Jaca, and of Urgel fell side by
side, sword in hand. The King, supported by fifty devoted followers,
resisted with desperate courage and hopeless firmness the assaults
of the Moslems, exasperated by the valor of a handful of determined
men. His fate, like that of Roderick the Goth, is unknown. The
ecclesiastical legends of the time have celebrated, as the most
glorious events of his life, his abandonment of the throne and his
retirement to the cloisters of a monastery in expiation of the sins for
which his defeat was assumed to be a token of divine displeasure.
But the monkish annals of the Middle Ages are notoriously
unreliable; the minds of their authors were clouded with ignorance
and warped by prejudice; the critical faculty, so indispensable to the
correctness of historical narration, was unfamiliar to them; and, to
accomplish the degradation of an enemy or the exaltation of a friend,
they were capable of the most disreputable inventions and the most
extravagant perversions of the truth.
From the character and the life of Alfonso, it is probable that he
perished with his attendants, and that his body, stripped and
unrecognized, was confounded with the thousands of other corpses
which encumbered the field of battle. The King of Aragon, who had
won the proud appellation of El Batallador, was not the man to retire
in the face of the enemy, even had it been possible. Still less would
he have been willing to surrender, that the captivity of the most
formidable of Christian champions should contribute to the glory of a
Moslem triumph. The temper of the age was pre-eminently favorable
to the exercise of imposture; an escape, procured through the
miraculous intervention of saints and angels, was perfectly congenial
with the superstitious ideas of the masses; and the selection of a
religious house as a place of refuge and voluntary penance by an
humiliated and contrite monarch could not fail to enhance the
importance and extend the influence of the ecclesiastical order,
already becoming intolerable for its arrogance and power. But,
whatever may have been the ultimate fate of Alfonso, it is certain
that his disappearance dates from the battle of Fraga. The most
exhaustive historical research has failed to establish his existence
subsequent to that melancholy and eventful day. His loss was a
great but not an irreparable misfortune to the cause of the
Reconquest. Although at the time of his death he was the most
conspicuous figure in the Christian armies, others were soon found
capable of prosecuting the work he had so gallantly begun, and of
carrying to a successful issue the fierce and relentless crusade
which only ended under the walls of the Alhambra.
 As in former ages the progress of the Moslems was retarded and
the stability of their empire endangered and finally undermined by
intestine quarrels, so now, on the other hand, the jealousies and
contentions of the rival kingdoms of Castile and Aragon were
destined to prolong for centuries their struggle for national and
religious supremacy. The intrigues of hostile chieftains, the greed
and ambition of the clergy, the passions of dissolute and unprincipled
women, the unnatural aversion of two nations identical in origin,
proud of the same traditions, professing the same theological
dogmas; the prejudices of the fanatical masses, absolutely controlled
by a despotic and ignorant priesthood, were all-important factors in
determining the policy of the as yet unorganized Christian states of
the Peninsula. The mutual hostility of the kingdoms subsequently
united under Ferdinand and Isabella insured the continuance of
Moorish dominion far more effectually than the levying of
contributions, the forming of alliances, the enlistment of armies.
Bodies of Moslem mercenaries served alternately with the troops of
both contending parties, and those who fought side by side to-day
might meet as enemies to-morrow. Not infrequently impoverished
and unscrupulous vassals of the Christian monarchs were induced to
revolt before a projected invasion by the judicious employment of
Moorish gold. Thus arrayed against each other, with treachery in
their camps and foes in their rear, the Spanish princes were
constantly hampered in the execution of their plans of conquest.
Other causes contributed to their want of success. The Christian
generals could often win, but were seldom disposed to improve a
victory. Feudal independence, now first interposed as a disturbing
force, was implacably hostile to discipline; the vassal obeyed his
suzerain; but the noble whose origin was often as illustrious as that
of his king was only too ready to question, or even to defy, the regal
authority. The incapacity to appreciate the resultant advantages of
military success was also a characteristic of the Moors. A great
battle usually ended a campaign. But the enemy was rarely pursued
beyond the field; his camp was overrun by a disorganized mob in
search of plunder; his baggage was ransacked; his seraglio
appropriated; his wounded massacred. The dispersed remnants of
his army were afforded abundant time to reorganize and to again
become formidable. The ability of the Moslems to profit by the
discomfiture of an adversary disappeared with the great soldier Al-
Mansur. Generations were to elapse before the Spanish
commanders, recognizing untiring energy as an indispensable
requisite of permanent success, were enabled to plant their banners
on the towers of Cordova and Seville. In no great contest described
in history were such fierce battles fought, such bodies of men
dispersed, such losses of life sustained, and such paltry results
accomplished. On more than one occasion a sovereign, the moral
effect of whose capture would have been almost equivalent to a
great victory, was suffered to escape from the very hands of the
enemy. In a few weeks a force which had been apparently destroyed
confronted the victor as defiantly as ever. The defenceless condition
of the Moslem states had been thoroughly established. Their territory
had been penetrated in every direction by squadrons of Christian
cavalry, whose numbers, when compared with the inhabitants of the
provinces they despoiled, were insignificant. The invaders dispersed
with ease large bodies of the effeminate Andalusian horsemen. They
encamped with impunity in the vicinity of populous cities. But these
expeditions accomplished but little more than the destruction of a
few harvests and the burning of a few villages. The campaigns on
both sides were ordinarily distinguished by fraternal discord, military
incapacity, and fatal indecision.
The correctness of these observations may be established by
recurring to the consequences of the battle of Fraga. The rout of the
Christians and the death of their king would certainly seem to have
demanded a vigorous prosecution of hostilities by the victors before
the popular demoralization resulting from such a catastrophe
subsided. But nothing of the kind took place. The few survivors of the
defeat which had wrecked the hopes of a nation spread dismay
through the realms of the Christians. In Aragon, part of whose
territory had recently been ceded by a degenerate prince to his
hereditary enemies, and none of which was in sympathy with the
usurpation of their detested masters, the people expected, with
eager but fallacious hopes, the appearance of the deliverer. The
merchants lounged idly in their shops. The peasantry, with sullen
patience, submitted to the extortions of the Jewish farmers of the
revenue. Saragossa was still, in all but name and government, a
Moslem city. The muezzin still announced from her minarets the hour
of prayer. The imam still read the Koran from the pulpits of her
mosques. Her occupation by the Aragonese had only served to
intensify the hatred entertained by her citizens against those who
had profited by their betrayal. The noble recalled with mingled
sorrow and exultation the military fame and intellectual pursuits of
the royal House of Ibn-Hud; the husbandman viewed with
unconcealed resentment the encroachments of the Church and the
Crown upon his small but valuable inheritance. The valley of the
Ebro still possessed many fortresses defended by natural
impediments and Moslem valor. All these considerations invited the
intervention of the victors, but the Moorish commander, satisfied with
the barren laurels acquired at Fraga, neglected an opportunity which
might have restored to the Almoravide Sultan one of the most
important provinces of his empire. For several years the frontier was
wasted by implacable partisan warfare; the Moslems carried into
slavery the populations of entire communities; the Christians,
harassed by the enemy and encumbered with their prisoners,
frequently put these defenceless victims of their hostility to the
sword; in the heat of battle quarter was neither asked nor given, and
the struggle assumed more than ever the character of a war of
extermination. The country devastated by these incessant and
destructive inroads never recovered its prosperity. The once
beautiful regions of the Ebro and the Pisuerga now present to the
eye the sombre and monotonous aspect of a desert, and portions of
the valley of the Guadalquivir, which under Moorish rule were clothed
with extensive orchards and luxuriant harvests, have lapsed into
primeval desolation. The ruthlessness with which these wars were
prosecuted bears ample testimony to the savage inhumanity of that
age. Considerations of mercy seldom influenced the conduct of the
victor. Engagements contracted under circumstances of peculiar
solemnity were violated without provocation and without excuse. In
the perpetration of these enormities the Christians, encouraged and
absolved by their spiritual advisers, far surpassed their antagonists.
No attention was paid to the pitiful appeals of enemies stricken in the
heat of battle. The heads of rebellious princes were fixed on the
battlements of cities; their limbs, embalmed with campher, were
exhibited as trophies in the palace of the conqueror. When a place
was taken by storm, neither age, nor sex, nor infirmity were regarded
by the infuriated assailants. The discovery of hidden gold by the
application of torture was a favorite amusement of the Christian
soldiery. If the number of captives became inconveniently large, the
least valuable were butchered. The licentious passions of the
Castilians were exercised without restraint upon the weak and the
defenceless. Women were violated before the eyes of their
husbands and fathers. The mansions of Christian nobles rivalled in
their treasures of Moorish beauty the harems of the most voluptuous
Andalusian princes. In the alluring diversions of sensuality,
unsanctioned by law and prohibited by religion, the dignitaries of the
Church were as ever pre-eminently conspicuous; and their lovely
concubines, attired with a magnificence only to be procured by the
use of ecclesiastical wealth, appeared at court with their lords,
equally careless of unfavorable comment or of public scandal.
In Africa the movements of Abd-al-Mumen, who had been the
general of the Almohades and was now their sovereign, began to
excite the alarm of Ali. The successor of the Mahdi began his reign
with an expedition whose destructive course extended to the city of
Morocco. Tashfin, the ablest of the Almoravide captains, was
recalled from Spain; but, despite his reputation and the skilful
disposition of his forces, the battalions of Ali, dominated by a craven
and superstitious fear, instinctively recoiled from the presence of the
enemy. All the experience and resolution of the youthful prince, who
had redeemed the Moslem cause in the Peninsula, were insufficient
to counteract the evil influence emanating from religious fraud,
which, by the force of a distempered imagination, could transform a
bold and courageous people into a race of poltroons and slaves. His
continual reverses preyed upon the mind of Ali, and his moments
were distracted by the signs of the imminent and apparently
inevitable collapse of his power. The memory of his early grandeur
offered a distressing contrast to the misfortunes of his declining
years; and, overcome with mortification and sorrow, he passed from
life, bequeathing to his son Tashfin a disheartened army, an
exhausted treasury, and a royal inheritance of diminished jurisdiction
and doubtful value.
The ill-fortune of Tashfin followed him upon the throne. Defeated
by Abd-al-Mumen, he collected all his resources for a supreme and
final effort. Such of the Desert tribes as had held aloof from the
Mahdi were enlisted. Every available soldier in Africa was called to
arms. The garrisons of Andalusia were almost denuded of troops.
With the Moorish squadrons of Spain came also a body of four
thousand Mozarabes, who, accustomed to long service under
Moslem standards, had almost forgotten their ancestry, their
traditions, and their faith. These auxiliaries, amenable to discipline
and experienced in border warfare, were far more formidable than
their scanty numbers would denote.
On the plains of Tlemcen the two armies whose valor was to
decide the fate of an empire faced each other. The Almoravides far
outnumbered their foes, but the mystic spell of superstition more
than compensated for numerical superiority; the soldiers of Tashfin
were terrified by imaginary apparitions and supernatural voices, and
after a brief but sanguinary contest Abd-al-Mumen remained master
of the field. Tashfin was soon afterwards killed in the vicinity of Oran
by a fall from a precipice, and with his death vanished the last hope
of the Almoravide monarchy.
During the year 1145 a famous landmark of the Mediterranean, of
unknown antiquity, but most probably of Phœnician origin, was
destroyed. Near the city of Cadiz, and built in the waters of the bay,
had long stood a structure composed of a series of columns, rising
above each other to the height of one hundred and eighty feet and
surmounted by a colossal statue of bronze. The latter represented a
man with his right arm extended towards the Strait of Gibraltar and
grasping in his hand a key. The entire statue was heavily plated with
gold, and was a conspicuous object for a distance of many leagues.
Its origin was not less mysterious than the reason for its preservation
for nearly four centuries and a half after the Moslem conquest. The
well-known iconoclastic propensities of the followers of Mohammed
were indulged with every opportunity and against every symbol of
idolatrous worship. There was probably no souvenir of Pagan
antiquity in Africa or Spain so prominent and so well known as the
effigy which, for a period unrecorded even by tradition, indicated to
the mariner the gateway of the Mediterranean. The Romans and the
Goths, confounding it with the two historic promontories of Europe
and Africa, called the imposing structure that supported it the Pillars
of Hercules. But it certainly had no connection with that divinity. His
temple stood some miles away upon an island, and it was the
distinctive peculiarity of his worship among the Phœnicians that he
was never represented under a physical form. To the Arabs the
statue was known as “The Idol of Cadiz.” A singular fatality had
preserved it from the zeal and fury of early sectaries of Islam. It had,
no doubt, often awakened the pious horror of devout pilgrims on their
way to the shrine of the western Mecca. It had stimulated the
curiosity of the antiquary during the scientific period of the khalifate.
It had pointed the way to many an invading squadron. It had
witnessed the success or the failure of many revolutions. The
truculent Norman pirates had viewed its gigantic dimensions with
superstitious terror. In the sagas of Scandinavia is preserved the
tradition that St. Olaf and his freebooters were, during the eleventh
century, deterred from further prosecution of their ravages on the
coast of the Peninsula by a vision which its presence inspired. Its
immunity from the effects of fanaticism is not less remarkable than
its long exemption from the violence of rapacious marauders. A great
treasure was said to be concealed beneath the foundations of the
tower. It was also the general belief—not confined to the Peninsula,
but prevalent throughout Europe—that this famous statue was of
solid gold. Its brilliancy, which had remained untarnished by
exposure for so many centuries, tended to confirm, if not to
absolutely establish, this opinion.
At last, in the twelfth century, the Admiral Ibn-Mamun, having
revolted against the Almoravides, caused the statue to be
overthrown and broken to pieces. The material was then discovered
to be bronze, but the gold with which it was covered brought twelve
thousand dinars, a sum now equal to a hundred and ninety-two
thousand dollars.
 Relieved of all apprehensions from his most dangerous adversary,
Abd-al-Mumen attacked and captured in succession the great cities
of Africa. Fez offered a desperate resistance, but was taken by
damming the river by which it was traversed, until the pent-up
waters, bursting their bounds, swept away a large portion of the
walls. Mequinez, Aghmat, Salé capitulated. Then the siege of
Morocco was begun. To convince the inhabitants of his inflexible
purpose, the Almohade general caused a permanent encampment,
which resembled, in the regular and substantial character of its
edifices, a handsome and well-built city, to be constructed before its
walls. The enterprise was prosecuted with unusual pertinacity and
vigor. In a sally a large detachment of the Almoravides was decoyed
into an ambuscade and cut to pieces, and, with numbers sensibly
reduced by this catastrophe, the garrison confined itself for the future
to repelling the scaling parties of the enemy. The complete
investment of the city was soon followed by famine. The dead lay
everywhere in ghastly heaps. The living drew lots to decide who
should be sacrificed to provide a horrible repast for his perishing
companions. Such was the awful mortality that two hundred
thousand persons died of starvation and disease. Aware of the
inevitable consequences of surrendering to barbarians without faith
or mercy, the garrison contended bravely against hope and fortune.
Finally, some Mozarabe soldiers entered into communication with
Abd-al-Mumen, and it was agreed that a gate should be opened
during the disorder attending a general attack. At daybreak the
Almohades, eager for revenge and booty, swarmed into the city. The
scimetar and the lance completed the work which famine had not
had time to finish. Seventy thousand defenceless persons were
massacred. Even this frightful sacrifice did not satiate the besiegers’
desire for blood. For three days such scenes were enacted as could
only be tolerated among men insensible to motives of humanity and
ignorant of the laws of war. Abd-al-Mumen decapitated with his own
hand Abu-Ishak, the son and successor of Tashfin. The command
then went forth that not one of the hated sect should be spared.
Great numbers of women and children were slaughtered by the
savage conquerors and the survivors sold into slavery. Every
mosque was levelled with the ground as the only way to purify the
houses of God from the abominations of the heretical Almoravides.
Preparations were immediately made to erect upon their sites others
more extensive and magnificent, and Abd-al-Mumen, who all the
while had remained outside the gates, marched away to other
scenes of conquest.
A century had elapsed since Abdallah-Ibn-Jahsim had announced
to the tribesmen of Lamtounah his mission as the apostle of political
integrity and religious reformation. Based upon his teachings, and
supported by his military genius and the prowess of his followers, a
mighty empire had arisen. With incredible rapidity it had combined in
apparently indissoluble union contending nationalities, hostile
dogmas, antagonistic temporal interests. It had subjugated a great
part of the continent of Africa. It had reconciled the discordant social
and political elements which for generations had disturbed the peace
and diminished the power of the Moslem states of Spain. It had
checked the progress of Christian conquest. By its sweeping
victories it had revived the memory of the splendid achievements of
the Western Khalifate. The largest armies that had ever trodden the
soil of the Peninsula had marched under its banners. Its chiefs were,
without exception, men of signal ability. Some, it is true, were
destitute of experience in the art of government, but endowed with
rare executive talents; others were warriors of established renown;
all had exhibited in the exalted post to which they had been called by
fortune the qualities of great generals, diplomatists, legislators. The
genius of the last of that princely race, had his designs not been
frustrated by the Almohade revolution, promised the eventual
restoration of Moorish rule over much, if not all, of the territory
included in the kingdoms of Aragon and Castile. The rise and
progress of no dynasty to boundless power had been so rapid; the
decline of none had been more decided or its extinction more
destructive and fatal. Mohammedan Spain, still the most civilized
and polished of countries, whose court had once dictated the policy
of Western Europe; whose alliance had been assiduously courted by
Christian kings and emperors; whose armies marched each year to
victory; whose fleets monopolized the trade of the seas; whose
capital was the literary centre of the world, had been degraded to a
dependency of the most ignorant, the most superstitious, the most
brutal of nations. The hazardous experiment of establishing a
peaceable union between such incongruous and inimical populations
must have resulted in failure. Still less could such an undertaking
have succeeded when attempted by force. The ethnical elements of
Spain and Africa could never have coalesced into a single people.
Their enmity was irreconcilable. Their tastes were dissimilar. The
Hispano-Arab was a scholar, a philosopher, a gentleman. In spite of
the evils which afflicted his country, his colleges and academies were
still largely attended by the ambitious youth of distant, often of
hostile, nations. He still had access to the fragmentary remains of
the great libraries of the khalifs. The architectural monuments of his
ancestors still graced, in all their splendor and beauty, the
esplanades and thoroughfares of his capitals. Pilgrims still admired
with astonishment and rapture the most magnificent temple of Islam.
The sacred volume ascribed to the martyred Othman, enshrined in
its embossed and jewel-studded casket, still received, amidst the
lavish sculpture and sparkling enamels of the Mihrab, the reverential
homage of the Faithful. The diminished but not unimportant
commerce of his seaports; the manufacturing establishments, whose
products were largely exported to foreign countries; the contracted
but marvellously fertile area of his agricultural territory, daily
reminded the Spanish Moslem of the wisdom and the enterprise
developed by the subjects of that glorious empire whose institutions,
whose traditions, whose refined tastes, whose intellectual pre-
eminence he had inherited.
Far different was it with the conqueror who had appropriated and
abused the inestimable remains of all this greatness. From first to
last his movements seemed to have been inspired by the genius of
disorganization and ruin. The noble attributes of piety and
magnanimity were absolutely foreign to his nature. He spared no foe.
He forgave no injury. The essential doctrines of the religion he
nominally professed were in reality unknown to him. He was wholly
ignorant of letters. In the gratification of his savage passions the
shedding of blood took precedence of the grovelling instinct of
avarice or the more gentle allurements of licentious pleasures. His
stolid nature could not appreciate the charms of art, the benefits of
science, the delights and the consolations of literature, the
advantages of philosophy. All that did not contribute to sensual
enjoyment he turned from with disdain. Descended from a race of
brigands, who had from time immemorial exercised on the caravans
of the Desert the stratagems and the violence of their nefarious
calling, he considered the menial and sedentary occupations of
agricultural and manufacturing industry as only fit for the hireling and
the slave. Ever accustomed to individual freedom, he obeyed only
the orders of his sheik, who owed his promotion to the suffrage of
the tribe, and who was often elected or deposed with equal haste
and facility. The monarch was frequently as unlettered as his
meanest subject. Yusuf could neither read nor write, and understood
but imperfectly the copious and polished idiom spoken in many
provinces of his dominions. Ali was less intelligent than many a
youth in the primary schools of Cordova. This wide-spread and
deplorable contempt for learning virtually placed the power of the
state in the hands of a class least qualified to wield it; and the
intrigues and exactions of the Mohammedan clergy, supplemented
with African barbarism and rapacity, contributed more than domestic
convulsions or Christian valor to finally subvert the unstable but still
majestic fabric of the Saracen power.
The Moslem factions of the Peninsula joined in precarious union
under the sceptre of the Almoravides beheld with dismal forebodings
the successive and crushing misfortunes which preceded the
extinction of that dynasty. Neither religious accord nor political
necessity would have reconciled them to the domination of a race
between whose members and themselves there existed an
irreconcilable antipathy. But on many points of theological
controversy the liberal views of the most learned Moorish doctors
shocked the strict disciplinarians of Islam. These accomplished
polemical scholars had imbibed in the Universities of Seville and
Cordova ideas highly offensive to the severely orthodox; they had
indulged their wit at the expense of hypocrisy and ignorance in the
intellectual atmosphere of the court, and the vengeance of those
who were recently the objects of their satire had now descended with
redoubled force upon the thoughtless aggressors. All books except
the Koran and the Sunnah fell under the royal displeasure. The study
of philosophy, although prohibited in the schools, was, as is usual
under such circumstances, diligently pursued in secret. The
intellectual habits of centuries were not to be abolished by an
imperial edict, and the reprobation of a band of hypocrites and
zealots who preached self-denial and abstemiousness, and were
notoriously guilty of the grossest offences against morality, was
unable to entirely suppress the accumulation and the diffusion of
knowledge. No country in Europe, however, was more exclusively
and disastrously controlled by ecclesiastical influence than was
Moorish Spain under the rule of the Almoravides.
Aside from theological considerations, as has been previously
stated, universal dissatisfaction with the dominant race existed. The
Africans were regarded as foreigners, invaders, oppressors. They
had, even in their moments of leisure, contributed nothing to the
material wealth of the country. They were unacquainted with the
simplest principles of engineering or the adaptation of the
mechanical arts to the ordinary concerns of life. No structure worthy
of notice had risen under their auspices. Their native ferocity
remained unmitigated in the midst of the humanizing influences of
civilization. They discouraged manual labor and despised the
occupations by which that labor was employed and maintained. Thus
harassed by theological intolerance and barbarian tyranny, every
sect and party in the Peninsula, except the one in power, received
with secret exultation intelligence of the serious disasters to the
Almoravide cause. Public feeling was already aroused to a point
which almost defied restraint, when news arrived of the defeat and
death of Tashfin, whose well-known abilities and courage had
heretofore alone prevented a revolt. It was then that the long
suppressed and furious passions of an outraged people found
expression. In every Moslem community the mob rose against their
African tyrants. Ibn-Gamia, the lieutenant of Tashfin, fled to the
Balearic Isles. Complete anarchy prevailed. Governors of provinces
and commanders of fortresses aspired to independence. Each city
became the capital of a miniature kingdom, each castle the seat of a
principality. Forgetting the imminent peril in which they stood,
environed as they were by powerful enemies, these petty sovereigns
immediately turned against each other. Civil war of the most
sanguinary and vindictive character was inaugurated. Cordova