711

Everyone had to pay for their sins. Unfortunately, Spania had to pay for his king's.

Everything was fine until King Roderic fell for that girl, La Cava and, despite her virtuous resistance, took her by force. As it was completely understandable, her father, count Julián, found out about it and became furious. His daughter had been dishonored and, with that, his own honor had been damaged. His vengeance would be terrible.

The Arabic tribes installed at the North of Africa had been trying to get into Europe for quite a long time. Driven by hate, count Julián showed them the way through Gibraltar into Spania's home.

Well, that was what they said. Deep inside, Spania had the horrible feeling that the coming of those Berbers to his land was something he had brought upon himself. God was supposed to be on their side. He was supposed to protect His children. Yet he had given victory to the infidels. The people said it was King Roderic's sin which had offended God...but what if it was him? What if it was something he had done? If it was so, he didn't know what he had done to offend him so. He followed the precepts and did so many works of piety.

What was sure was that the noblemen had been questioning the way the monarchs were taking care of Spania for long, the kingdom was divided, the monarchy weak, and the Moors took this chance.

The King fell at the Battle of Guadalete. Spania saw it with his own eyes, couldn't help it. He killed as many Moors as his sword allowed him, but found himself surrounded. He had no one around to protect him. He was tired and wounded. Panting, he had to accept his fate was sealed.

Two of them, dressing sumptuous clothes and helmet, dismounted and walked to him. Spania knew who they were. Ṭāriq ibn Ziyād and Musa ibn Nusayr. The commanders of that bunch of mercenaries only together because of Allah and money. The ones who started all of this. Spania's chest swelled. He couldn't fight anymore, but if he was to be claimed, he would retain his honor.

Much to his surprise, Tariq and Musa removed his helmet and knelled down before him. Their men mimicked him, leaving Spania unsure of what to do or say.

"Sidi" Tariq said. "You have shown much courage at war. But you have lost, and now we have to request you to come with us."

793

Spania was claimed as the new property of Bagdad. He had to see the Muslims take control of everything because he could do nothing. His villages, one by one, accepted the control of the invaders with little resistance, because it was futile, because they had no chance against them, no authority that could organize and help them. Even some Christian noblemen and kings married their daughters to the new rulers.

With them, new customs came. Christians could keep praying to their God and live with them as long as they accepted their supremacy and pay a special tribute. Ablutions were mandatory and even though he was given the freedom not to do it and any other good Christian wouldn't have touched the water in order not to imitate those Arabs, the first time he visited one of those Muslim baths the experience was so strangely delightful and refreshing he prayed God for forgiveness for wanting to repeat the experience. His clothes also changed. He found himself dressing colorful, exotic silk which was pleasant to the eye. Even his name changed at that time: he was referred to as Al-Andalus. He was given a few servants, but his closest ones were Akheem and Raghid, which were comical to see together because the first was tall and slim and the other, short and fat. They made sure that he had everything he wanted or needed.

It was funny. In those streets he found so many Christians like him. Even Jewish people. It seemed the new emir had no problem with other religions co-existing with them...as long as they kept to themselves which religion they thought was the true and only one. However, he found that the majority of his people had converted to Islam.

"Sorry, my lord, but if we can avoid paying taxes that way..."

"Our God proved to be inferior to Allah..."

Sometimes guilt bit him and he felt angry at himself, at his excuses. Why did he live with the infidels so comfortably, why did he let them perform all those impious rituals like there was not a one and only God but others of equal dignity and importance? Why didn't he fight from the inside, even at the cost of his life? Some of the Christians—not many—, either inspired by him or them being the inspiration of these thoughts, revolted against the invaders, but these showed their overwhelming superiority and executed them all. The rest decided it was best to just pay the tribute and live many years.

The first years Al-Andalus was not collaborating and secluded himself in his chamber. The regents then thought if the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad would have to go to the mountain, and made slow advances to bring him out of his shell. They were really patient, Al-Andalus didn't appreciate it until much time, centuries, passed.

These new governors were men of science. Al-Andalus learned a lot with them. The emir would often receive lots of wisemen in his court to debate philosophical and practical matters. He made sure Al-Andalus had the best mentors. The new rulers created a factory for a new writing support, made of linen rags: the paper, in Játiva. In his land new plants, unknown to him until that moment, started to grow, called rice, cotton and sugar. Al-Andalus realized that those had a great culinary potential—not only him, it seemed his neighbors were not so upset about him being under the rule of Moors, because they always wanted to trade for them! Bizantium, the Arabic countries, even the Europeans had a rich communication with them. Thanks to that, Al-Andalus could still be in touch, even just for small whiles and under the supervision of his guards, with his old friends.

Thanks to that, he saw a ray of hope.

"Everyone is too busy at Middle East to care about the Moors here, since France managed to contain them and they are not going to go beyond the Pyrenees, but..." Lusitania said to him one day. "Vatican City has convinced the Pope that your case is another Crusade. He is to send money and men. The Christian kingdoms of the North, France and I will get you out of there, don't worry."

"That is, if all those people stop fighting each other..." Al-Andalus smirked. "By the way, who is this France you are talking about?"

"Gaul. Remember who?"

"Oh, yes...So many things have changed..."

Lusitania had changed as well. He didn't go by that name anymore, actually, but Portugal. He looked like a seventeen-year-old, practically a man now. His voice was masculine and he had gained a lot of muscle. His hair had grown and now reached his shoulders. His eyes never looked as similar as Al-Andalus', reminding him of their mostly sure blood ties. Thank God he hadn't lost him, in spite of the circumstances...His brother would come and save him...

Thanks to the money from trading and his own power, the emir one day decided that there was no reason to depend from Bagdad any longer. His name was Abd al-Rahman ibn Mu'awiya ibn Hisham ibn Abd al-Malik ibn Marwan, but that was way too long. Luckily, Al-Andalus could call him just Abd al-Rahman. Prince. Emir. What was easier to him. He hated to speak so nicely about an infidel, but the man was really kind. He thought that Al-Andalus was a great power and deserved to be treated that way.

This flattered Al-Andalus so that he got a bit more comfortable.

1002

Abd al-Rahman the Third inherited the throne from his grandfather. Al-Andalus feared this would end like the way things were back when he lived with the Visigoths, and his uncles would get rid of him and claim the power, but Abd al-Rahman knew how to impose his authority. He was the last of the Umayyad dynasty, which had ruled Damasco in the past.

So sure of his power and Al-Andalus' potential, he proclaimed him independent and him, his khalif.

He ordered to build a palace in Córdoba for Al-Andalus, which he called Medina Azahara, and gave him even more freedom than his ancestors. He ensured that the nation learned everything a cultivated power should know—most of alll, he gave him the cultural head of the world.

"Hospitality links the guest, the host and God. By pleasing your guests you shall please God. So it is important to give people who come to you food and drink before they have to ask for it."

Al-Andalus didn't remember the name of the bearded old man laying in front of him. Arabic names were still a tongue-tier to him. But the man was really nice and he was glad he came.

"Then eat and drink as much as you please."

"You never know what the person in front of you is going through" the man finished his allegation with a smile.

"And I think you are right. You know? I didn't greet your people with open arms precisely..."

"You were doing right, defending your land from invaders. Any other choice would have been a cowardly thing to do.

"Antonius..."

"I beg your pardon?"

"A great man used to call me that once."

"That is Latin for 'brave'..."

"I know. I don't think I am. I...only have hot blood."

Al-Andalus paused to eat a date.

"I have had enough time to get used to it, but sometimes I don't know my own name. I was Argantonio at first. Then, suddenly, I am Hispania. Other people come and I become Spania, now Al-Andalus..."

"Don't you like your name?"

"It's not that. Al-Andalus...Guess it's not that bad. It's just...well...I always wonder if it is going to be always like this. If I am supposed to be always changing."

"Everyone changes. Everything changes. The universe moves. Nothing is static."

"But wouldn't it be comforting to have something to hold onto? I don't mean God. He will always be there and stay the same. But...I-I mean us. I don't know if you get me."

"I think I do."

"I don't want to lose myself with each different regent..."

Al-Andalus smirked.

"Antonio..."

His eyes turned to the Muslim.

"Maybe it's my destiny to be in the hands of whoever claims this land, but I still have some control on my destiny. And as long as I am alive, I know I'll have the chance to create the life I want. Whatever people call me, I will still be myself. I will still be Antonio."

He chuckled.

"Sorry, you were not invited to presence my epiphany...What were we talking about?"

"We were talking about making a connection with God." The man replied. "And it seems you have just done it."

"Well, I remind you that our concepts of God...uhm...differ a little bit." Al-Andalus smiled before sipping from his cup.

"Perhaps we are praying to the same god and we don't know it." The man smiled too and his remark made Al-Andalus chuckle softly. "Knowing oneself is key to get to know God."

It was the man's turn to make a long pause to savor the delicious dates in front of them.

"You may be centuries old but you still have a lot to learn, sidi..."

The conversations, hearing the philosophers talk about how the world worked, reading Greek and Roman books which would have been lost forever if it wasn't for the Arabs, were nice, but Al-Andalus still felt like an outsider in his own home, surrounded by people that would always be strangers. In spite of the cordial coexistence, he still dreamed of the day apostle Santiago came in a white horse and freed him.

One of his favorite stories, in spite of the khalif telling him they were just fairy tales, was about Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar. He was King Sancho's champion, brave, fearless! Then, one day, King Sancho was murdered in cold blood and his brother Alfonso VI got the throne of León. But don Rodrigo made him swear that he did not take part in the plotting which killed his brother. The King was forced to swear, and he didn't forgive the knight for that...Rodrigo was banished. He was forced to leave with his wife, daughters and servants. He fought for the Moor king Al-Mu'taman to survive. Then the Almoravids came and Alfonso saw his mistake, and pardoned don Rodrigo and asked him to fight on his side. His victories in the East were glorious, I am telling you. His power was so great that the king, afraid of it, seeing he was becoming too powerful and disobedient, exiled him again, but don Rodrigo became a commander, his own lord and master. Sidi, is what the Moors called him in Valencia, which he earned. 'Master' in their language. El Cid. One day, an arrow pierced his chest and before dying he made up a plan to give his men a last victory. He died, the Moors were sure of that, and for that reason they attacked with everything they had. But don Rodrigo made his men put his corpse on his horse and dress him with his armor and carry his weapons and when those infidels saw him coming right to them, they were so scared they retreated.

He got news from his friends, and what he could hear the soldiers say. The kingdoms of León, Castile and Navarra were coming for him. A whole troop of Cids was coming their way, claiming Moorish territory.

In the meantime, he prayed day and night, underwent this mortification, to repair the sin that brought him to this situation.

It seemed God was satisfied because with the death of Almanzor, the khalif's right hand, commander of his army, his heirs and the khalif's started fighting for the control of Al-Andalus. Almanzor was extremely influential, Al-Andalus had noted it. He was extremely cunning and even he couldn't even dream of disobeying him. Many thought his family had more rights over him than the khalif. They were so busy with their wars of power that they didn't prepare themselves for the coming of the Christians.

One night, there was this big commotion in palace and before Al-Andalus could open his eyes and remember where or even who he was, a group of soldiers stole him from his bed and galloped away, to Valladolid, Castilian territory. On their chest was Santiago's cross.

1326

The celebrations for his return were endless, God received so much praise and glory. And again, he had to readjust to a new way of life. His Arabic fashion was quickly changed for a more proper attire—attire meaning Christian, Occidental. He recovered the name their ancestors gave to him, Spania, although now it seemed it was much easier to pronounce and write as Spain.

Spain saw how the kingdoms almost went back at their civil wars because all of them wanted to keep him. In the end, he suggested a way to please everyone: he would stay with each one of them taking turns, for half a year each. It seemed the monarchs accepted the conditions and were happy with the result. But thinking pragmatically, Spain started to think about the convenience of an union between these kingdoms. It would make things so much easier.

From his new home, he heard that the once glorious empire was starting to fragment into taifas, small kingdoms. Sometimes they started fighting each other and even asked the Christians to fight in their favor, which they took advantage of as much as they could. Soon, only Granada was left, and it was surrounded. It wouldn't take long for them to surrender.

"Your Greatness, Sardinia is ours."

The messenger brought great news indeed. Not only had the Christians recovered their nation, but also it was expanding. The crown of Aragon had been able to conquer that island which would provide him with salt, silver and was geographically, strategically perfect.

"Bow down to your new master."

...Well, not that perfect...

"Bow down? To that idiot? Cut my head instead, right now!"

Spain gazed at the child that was brought in with a grin. He had lost the war but it seemed he still wanted to fight. His words were bigger than he was.

He recognized him almost immediately thanks to that curl in his hair.

"Say, aren't you Romano, Rome's grandchild?"

"Yes I am!" The boy grunted. "That's why I am not going to be the slave of a heathen, stupid, ugly rat like you!"

"I can certainly see old Rome in you..." Spain chuckled.

"You'd better watch your mouth before your master." King Alfonso reprimanded the child.

"Shut up, you big old idiot! I'm not talking to you! You'd better not speak of my grandfather with your dirty lips, you hear me?!" Romano ran towards Spain and started to kick him in the legs, to which Spain laughed even louder. "Idiot! Stupid! I'm sure you don't eat pork! Bastard!"

"This one is in need of a good slap." The king shook his head.

"Nah, don't worry about it. Let him release all his frustration...He really looks like his grandfather, poor Rome..." Spain smiled. "I'm sure you and I will be good friends one day."

"NEVER! YOU HEAR ME?!"

It would probably take long...