A cold wind blew across the Portuguese camp picking up the dust in its path. It was still summer in the plains but this close to the border, winter always seemed to be at hand. The distant snow clad peaks of the mountain ranges spewed forth cold winds from time to time, as if forewarning about the pending winter chills now less than four months away. Close to the officers tents the camp grounds were deserted save for the lone figure walking towards them from the church. Wrapping myself in a blanket to ward off the evening chills, I the newly appointed commander of the 5th infantry, strode towards the command hut. I had just offered the last prayers for the night with my brethren and I was finally free to return to my tent. A closer look at my face would have revealed the dark eyes which were gazing at something miles away. My face was mottled with half a dozen stitched cuts and scratches which told the tale of several years spent in the Lusitanian ranks. What one would not have observed were the scars on my back, a hundred cuts intermixing, giving my skin the appearance of a badly woven carpet. I had been a trifle late to wrap the blanket across myself, when I emerged out of the church, and the caress of the cool wind through my cotton shirt, set fire to my memories. Two years had passed since I had taken the hundred lashes for desertion and two years that I had struggled to prove myself worthy to my King. Now the pain was just a distant memory, finally with my own command, the King himself had sent me to the pass defending the entry to Portugal. The pass the soldiers called Suicide Valley...
3:00 a.m.
The alarm bells rang out from the eastern side of our camp. The Spanish had arrived on time just before the winter winds. Under the direct command of General Francisco, most of our troops managed to awaken and man the walls before the enemy arrived. Night arrows surprised our slumbering men as twenty fell in one foul swoop. The Spanish had managed to gain control of the main gate, with a cunning night raid that even surprised me. Now with the heavy gates slowly opening, the screams of a hundred Spanish foot could be heard through the darkness. Our campfires illuminated the darkness, but only in patches which didn't serve us at all. More arrows arrived, piercing through more armour as more troops fell. The suddenness of the enemy manoeuvre threw our General into confusion as he ran from one side to the other barking orders that no-one could make sense of. Devoid of any useful orders, I called my troops into line facing the main gate and slowly advanced into the shadows. My decision to attack caused a chain of events stretching all the way back to the enemy king. Less than twenty troops of the 5th fought on bravely attacking the enemy when they thought we were beaten.
The dust from the camp rose with the rising sun. The light of the day revealing the real extent of the attack. To the enemies surprise we had fought on and although many Lusitanian soldiers had fallen, many still stood and fought in circular clumps around the camp. Our cavalry units, which we had all forgotten about, gave a whoop of joy for the first time in their lives they had finally routed a mighty foe on our right flank. They lined up their horse in perfect military fashion and prepared to charge again. The sight of the Portuguese cavalry still intact and cutting down their comrades was a huge moral boost for our troops and we watched as the enemy panicked and retreated in order from the field.
Although I hate to admit it, the cavalry regiments had just saved the day and thanks to that we will have to hear their boasts for the next few weeks...
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