José Saramago - The History of the Siege of Lisbon

Knight Heinrich's corpse was carried to his tent, where Ouroana, already informed of the tragedy, wept as was expected of a concubine, and that was that. The knight was laid out on his bunk, his hands joined in prayer and bound to his chest, and death having come so quickly, the expression on his face was quite serene, so serene that he might have been asleep, and, looking more closely, ' even wearing a smile, as if he were before the gates of paradise, with no other tower or weapon than the worth of his deeds on earth, but as certain of enjoying eternal bliss as of being dead. The heat is so intense that within hours his features will become distorted, his happy smile will disappear, between this illustrious corpse and another devoid of any special merits there will be no difference, sooner or later we all end up as equals in the face of death. Ouroana had uncombed her hair, as fair as that of any fair Galician, and she was weeping, somewhat weary of feeling no sorrow other than quiet pity for this man against whom her only complaint was that he should have abducted her by force, otherwise he had always treated her well, if we can imagine what the relationship must have been like between a concubine and her lord and master eight centuries ago. Ouroana was anxious to know what had happened to the faithful squire, for he must either be dead or gravely wounded not to be here mourning for his master, and they told her his body had been carried off immediately to the cemetery on the other side of the estuary, using this opportunity to clear away the charred beams and trunks lest they should impede the manoeuvre, so that both debris and intact corpses were removed in a single operation, while any smaller remains encountered were rapidly buried in a depression on the slope on this side, where it will be difficult for them to rise when the trumpets are sounded on the Day of Judgment. So Ouroana was now free of any master, direct or indirect, as she was at pains to show at the first opportunity, when one of knight Heinrich's armed guards, disregarding any respect for the deceased, tried to grab her when he found her on her own. In a flash, Ouroana was brandishing a dagger which she had removed with providential foresight from the knight's belt when they brought him to his tent, a crime that fortunately went undiscovered, for a knight must go to his grave, if not with all his weapons, at least with the smaller ones. Now then, a dagger in the frail hands of a woman, even if accustomed to working the land and looking after livestock, was not the kind of threat to dissuade a Teutonic warrior, undoubtedly aware of the superiority of his Aryan race, but there are eyes worth all the armaments of this world, and if the latter were incapable of scrutinising the heart of this wicked man, they could intimidate him from three paces away and their message could not have been clearer, If you lay a finger on me, I either kill you or I kill myself, Ouroana told him, and he drew back, less from fear of dying than for being held responsible for her death, even though he could always allege that the wretched woman, beside herself with grief, had taken her own life before his very eyes. But the soldier preferred to withdraw, imploring God that if he should survive these adventures on foreign soil, he might one day meet here, if here he were to remain, or in distant Germany, a woman like this Ouroana, who even if not Aryan he would accept with the greatest pleasure.

Rairriundo Silva laid down his biro, rubbed his tired eyes, then re-read the closing lines, his own. He was rather pleased with them. He got up, placed his hands on his hips and leaned backwards, sighing with relief. He had been working for hours on end, had even forgotten dinner, he was so absorbed by the subject matter and the words that sometimes escaped him, had not even thought of Maria Sara, an omission that would be quite unforgivable if her presence inside him, save for the exaggeration of the metaphor, were not like the blood in his veins, something we had not really thought about, but which, being there and circulating, is an absolute condition of life. We repeat, save for the exaggeration of the metaphor. The two roses in the vase are standing in water from which they draw nourishment, it is true that they do not last long, but relatively speaking, neither do we. He opened the window and gazed down at the city. The Moors are celebrating the tower's destruction. The Amoreiras, smiled Raimundo Silva. On that side yonder stands the tent of knight Heinrich who will be buried tomorrow in the cemetery of'São Vicente. Ouroana, not a tear in her eyes, keeps vigil over the corpse which is starting to smell. One of the five armed guards who has been wounded is missing. The one who tried to grab Ouroana stares at her from time to time, and remains pensive. Here outside, keeping out of sight, Mogueime prowls round the tent like a moth attracted by the light of the torches coming from the opening in the canvas flaps. Raimundo Silva consults his watch, if Maria Sara does not ring within the half hour, he will telephone her, How are you, my love, and she will reply, Alive, and he will say, It's a miracle.

FRAY ROGEIRO STATES that it was about this time that signs of famine in the Moorish stronghold were becoming apparent. And no wonder, if we consider that imprisoned behind those walls as if held in a garrote, were over sixty thousand families, a number that at first sight seems alarming and when looked at a second time seems even more alarming, inasmuch as, in those backward times, families consisting of a father, mother and one child were dubious exceptions, and even if we were to estimate such a low number of people in each family we would arrive at a population of two hundred thousand inhabitants, a calculation in its turn called into question by another source of information, according to which the men alone in Lisbon numbered a hundred and fifty-four thousand. Now then, if we consider that the Koran allows each man to have as many as four wives, all of whom naturally bear him children, and taking into account the slaves who although scarcely treated like humans still have to eat, and therefore must have been the first to feel the want of food, then we end up with numbers that prudence tells us we should treat with extreme caution, some four or five hundred thousand persons, just imagine. In any case, if there were not quite as many, we at least know that the number was high, and from the point of view of those living there, too high by far.

Were it not for that constant thirst for glory that from time immemorial gives not a moment's peace to kings, presidents and military leaders, this conquest of Lisbon from the Moors could have been achieved with all the tranquillity in this world, after all, only a fool steps into the lion's cage to engage in combat instead of depriving it of food and sitting down to watch it die from starvation. It is true that with the passing of the centuries we learn something, and nowadays it is fairly common practice to use the privation of food and other necessities and such other reasons as a means of persuading those who out of stubbornness or a lack of understanding have refused to capitulate. However, these five hundred thousand are different just as their history would be different. What is important here is to observe the concurrence of two quite distinct episodes, such as the destruction and burning down of the tower at Porta de Ferro and the first signs of famine in the city, which, united and compared in the minds of the king's chiefs of staff, made it clear that while they should continue with the struggle, in the strict meaning of the word, for the honour of the Portuguese army, good strategy would dictate intensifying the siege, because in due course not only would the Moors have devoured everything down to the last crumb and rat, but they would end up devouring each other. If the French and the Normans were to carry on building their towers, if the Lusitanians for their part were to apply the lessons learned from knight Heinrich in order to erect their own war machine, if the artillery were to keep up regular bombardments, and the archers were to throw darts, arrows, spears and javelins, thus putting to good use the daily output of weapons workshops of Braço de Prata, these would be nothing more than symbolic gestures to inscribe in the epics, when compared with the last and conclusive solution, famine. And so the various captains gave strict orders to their armies that they should guard the outer walls day and night, not just the gates, but above all any secluded corners, certain hidden angles that might afford protection, and also any stretches facing the sea, not because any supplies could be brought into the city by that route, for there could never be enough of them to meet their needs, but to prevent any messengers from getting through the blockade and carrying pleas for help to the villages in the Alentejo, both for provisions and volunteers to attack the assailants along the coast, the one being as welcome as the other. Their caution soon proved to be well-founded, when at dead of night with no moonlight a tiny canoe was discovered trying to sneak out between the galleys of the fleet and when the oarsman was brought before the admiral, he confessed to carrying letters addressed to the mayors of Almada and Palmela, from which it became clear how desperately the wretched inhabitants of Lisbon were in need of food. Despite the vigilance, the odd messenger must have crossed the lines, for weeks later, floating at the bottom of the wall that looked on to the river, the corpse of a Moor was picked up and when hoisted up on to the nearest watch-tower was found to be carrying a letter from the King of Evora, that fortunately never reached its destination, so cruel, inhuman and hypocritical was its message, considering that these were brothers of the same race and religion, and this was what the letter said, the King of E/ora wishes the inhabitants of Lisbon their freedom, for some time now I have held a truce with the King of the Portuguese, and I cannot go back on my word and trouble him and his subjects with war, ransom your lives with your money, so that what should be used for your salvation is not used for your downfall, farewell. This man was king, and in order not to break the truce he had drawn up with our Afonso Henriques, forgetting that this same Afonso had broken it to storm and capture Santarém, he allowed the doomed populace of Lisbon to die an ignominious death, while the courier who had left Lisbon with a plea for help did not take advantage of the opportunity to escape to safe territory, but returned with the evil tidings, only to die before delivering the message announcing abandonment and betrayal. How true that men are not always in their right place, this Moor would have rushed to Lisbon had he been the King of Evora, but the King of Evora would obviously have fled right on the first mission, were it not for the fact that they brought him under escort as far as Cacilhas with the reply and told him, Go throw yourself into the sea and make no attempt to come back.