Chapter 14 — The Battle of the Ebro
Summer, 1253 — on the plains of Tudela, where the River Ebro runs like a silver blade between Castile and Aragon.
Dawn came pale and heavy with smoke.
The sun rose red, like a wound, and through that crimson haze two armies faced each other across the river.
On the western bank, the Holy League stretched in glittering ranks — banners of Castile, Portugal, and Rome fluttering in the wind.
Priests in white vestments walked before them, chanting the Te Deum, sprinkling holy water on the armored men as they knelt.
Trumpets blared like a hundred church bells.
On the eastern bank, Aragon's host waited in grim silence.
No chanting, no priests — only the rhythmic clank of engines being loaded, and the low hum of men whispering the Creed of Iron:
"Faith is fire. Iron is will.
Let Rome speak. We shall act."
The Opening Shot
Leon watched from a hill overlooking the river, mounted upon a black destrier draped in steel barding.
At his side rode Fatimah, in engineer's mail, and Father Tomas, carrying a banner marked with the crowned forge-cross.
"Are they crossing?" Leon asked.
"Not yet, Majesty," said Don Esteban, peering through a spyglass.
"They're forming ranks… wait… the priests are raising the relic!"
Across the river, the Pope's legate, Cardinal Gregorio, lifted high a gilded cross said to contain a splinter of the True Cross itself.
The crusaders knelt, crying out: "Deus Vult! Deus Vult!"
Leon closed his eyes briefly.
"Then so be it."
He raised his arm.
A flagbearer snapped a crimson banner into the wind — the signal.
Moments later, thunder erupted.
The Iron Batteries of Zaragoza, forty bronze cannons lined along the ridges, fired in perfect sequence.
Smoke and flame belched across the valley.
The first cannonballs tore through the crusader vanguard, shattering shields, splintering ranks, tossing men and horses into the river.
The War of Faith had begun.
The River Burns
The Holy League advanced regardless.
Under a hail of shot, they built floating bridges across the Ebro, wooden pontoons lashed together by chain and prayer.
A young commander at their front — Rodrigo de Ávila — rallied his men with fire in his eyes.
"Forward! The forger's flames cannot burn the righteous!"
He spurred his charger onto the first bridge.
Behind him surged a thousand crusaders.
Leon watched, jaw tight.
"Ready the arquebusiers."
Ranks of Aragonese infantry stepped forward, priming their matchlocks.
At Leon's signal, they fired — a rolling volley that sounded like God's own thunderclap.
Smoke engulfed the river.
When it cleared, the bridge was gone, and Rodrigo's men were floating downstream, their banners burning.
Still they came.
The crusaders rebuilt.
For every bridge destroyed, another rose.
The Ebro became a boiling cauldron of smoke, flame, and floating corpses.
The Turning of the Tide
By midday, the League's right flank found a ford downstream, crossing under cover of smoke.
Leon saw the movement immediately.
"Fatimah!" he called.
"Wheel the Iron Carts! Now!"
Fatimah's engineers shouted commands.
Wooden wagons reinforced with iron plates — cartas de fuego — rolled into formation, each fitted with a rotating volley gun.
Cranks turned. Sparks flew.
A storm of lead poured forth, mowing down knights like wheat.
Rodrigo, miraculously unscathed, rallied what remained of his cavalry.
He drew his sword toward Leon's standard.
"For Rome!" he cried.
"For Aragon!" Leon answered.
The two forces collided on the plain in a clash that shook the earth.
Blades met gunfire, prayers met screams, and the air filled with the smell of blood and saltpeter.
The Duel at the Ford
As the lines broke, Rodrigo and Leon found each other amid the chaos.
Their horses crashed together, swords flashing.
Rodrigo struck first, his blade glancing off Leon's pauldron.
"You betrayed the faith!" he roared.
"I reforged it," Leon hissed back, parrying, sparks flying.
They circled, hooves churning mud.
Rodrigo's eyes blazed. "You think God favors machines? Steel cannot save your soul!"
Leon met his gaze. "Then let God judge between us."
Their blades locked one final time — and Leon drove Rodrigo's sword aside, striking deep.
Rodrigo gasped, clutching the wound, the crucifix around his neck glinting in the smoke.
Leon caught him before he fell.
"Your faith was pure," he whispered. "But the world has changed."
He laid Rodrigo's body gently upon the ground as cannon fire thundered overhead.
The Collapse of the Holy League
By late afternoon, the Holy League's formations shattered.
Cannonballs tore through their rear lines; arquebuses cut down retreating men.
The relic of the True Cross fell into the mud, trampled by horses.
Cardinal Gregorio fled, his crimson robes streaked with ash.
When he reached safety, he looked back at the burning plain and muttered, "Aragon fights with the devil's hand."
But the devil's hand had won.
The River Ebro ran black with smoke, and red with blood.
When the sun set, its reflection upon the water looked like molten iron.
Aftermath
The field was silent but for the moans of the dying.
Leon dismounted, walking among them, his armor blackened, his sword broken.
Father Tomas approached, face pale.
"It's victory, my king. But at what cost?"
Leon looked to the horizon, where the ruins of the Holy League's camp burned like candles before a dark altar.
"At the cost of innocence, Father," he said quietly.
"And innocence is the first thing every kingdom must sacrifice."
He knelt, drew a cross in the blood-soaked soil, and prayed.
"Forgive us, Lord — not for what we've done,
but for what we'll do to keep it."
The wind carried the smell of powder and sanctity, mingled like incense and ash.
End of Chapter 14