Granada, Spain – December of 1491
The fire reached the city earlier than expected. There was nothing to see except the night sky being painted with red shades. The smoke blurred the view of the stars. But it was the noise that woke up the little girl.
“Mama!” she screamed, getting out of her bed, her little feet still running uncertain to the door. “Mama! Help me!”
Her lady-in-waiting opened the door, in a hurry, and reached her hand to the little girl, but she ran through the corridor, ignoring her.
“¡Madre! Mama!”
A female scream from outside made the lady-in-waiting cringe in fear.
“It’s them!” she cried. “The Moors!”
As she heard that name, the girl ran across the place, desperate. “MAMA! MAMA!!”
The figure of a tall woman appeared on the other side of the dark corridor. She was wearing a heavy silver armor, only with the helmet missing. The little girl ran to her, knowing it was her mother.
“Mama, take me with you! Please! Don’t leave me here, they will kill me!”
The woman looked around. “I cannot take you. You must stay here with Maya and be a good girl. I must go.”
“No! Madre, please!” she cried. “Don’t leave me here! Please! I am scared!”
“I must go. Spain needs me.”
“I do not care about Spain!” the girl cried.
Her mother looked down. “Stay here. Stay with Maya. Nothing will happen to you. I must go now, I need to fight. The men need me.”
Without kissing her daughter, the woman turned around and left on a hurry. The girl was left sobbing, quietly, looking surprised at the figure of her mother disappearing.
“They will kill us!” The lady-in-waiting cried. “They will rape me and kill me!”
“Can’t you shut up?” The girl said, suddenly irritated and filled with pride. “If I, the Infanta of Spain, could be left alone in danger, certainly you don’t matter!”
The little girl wiped her tears; Maya suggested they would go back to her bed, where it was safer.
“You can go there, if you want. I will go see the battle.”
“Infanta, please!”
“I want to see!” she insisted.
“A battle is not for a child’s eyes!”
“Might not be for a common child. But I am the Princess of Spain, and one day, I will be Queen, like my mother. I must see.”
“Catalina!” the lady-in-waiting tried to call the little stubborn girl back, but she had already run away, her long white nightdress barely touching the floor. “¡Infanta!”
Catalina quickly ran to the nearest window she could find. She sat on the rail of the window and observed.
The fire had been controlled, apparently. From behind the thick colored glass, the little Infanta of Spain saw what a battle was.
In the six years of her life, all she knew was that she was a princess, daughter to King Ferdinand of Spain, the greatest commandant who reigned Aragón, and Queen Isabella of Castille, the most powerful woman in Europe, who held her own kingdom. They were the greatest monarchs that ever were, fighting against the moors who wished to overcome their lands and destroy their kingdom. Her mother had told her the Moors were bad people, against their faith, and it was their duty to stop them from conquering more lands.
And now she could see for herself how bad the Moors were; she had heard about their cruelty and merciless, but she never had the opportunity of seeing it. The Sun was starting to rise, and Catalina saw, with admired eyes, the giant flying caravels approaching on the horizon. She saw, from a distance, her father, the brave King of Aragón, on his white horse, leading his army. The girl touched the window, looking for her mother, but she was out of sight. Her little blue eyes were startled, admiring the giant caravels slowly approaching the field. There were huge hot-air balloons holding their flight, and red wings, the color of the Moors, proudly shown.
But the Infanta had no time to admire the caravels; she saw shadowed figures appearing from the horizon, coming from behind the hills of Granada; with her little mouth opened in surprise, she saw the creatures she feared the most in life; never had she seen them, but heard horrible tales about them from the careless maids.
The Mechamoors.
They were giant mechanic destruction machines the Moors had built specially to defeat her parents; unbeatable devices, controlled by hundreds of men inside them. They were so tall that they could reach the Sun, or so the little Infanta thought, with her childish mind. And the Moors had designed them to look threatening, precise, lethal.
“Padre…” She whispered, looking at her father, still on his horse, up on a tall rock so he could have a good vision of the attacking Mechamoors. “Papa, do something!”
There were so many… Catalina tried to count them. Ten, maybe twelve? Enough to kill them all and give the Moors what they desired so much: the Aragón and Castille’s territories.
The Mechamoors started their attack; furious fireballs were spit on all directions, destroying the green field. Catalina saw her father waving from his men; she desperately tried to find her mother, but without success.
She saw the army of her father regrouping, and her eyes ran to the caravels, that were surrounding the area, forming a circle with the Spanish army on the center; they had no way out. If the Mechamoors did not kill them, they would be exterminated by the caravels’ cannons, pointing directly at them.
The Spanish army separated in small groups. Catalina thought they were running away, until she realized they were walking in circles around the giant Mechamoors, that kept on shooting enormous fireballs, trying to reach the enemies. Incredibly, they did not seem to be aiming properly, for the Spanish army of over ten thousand men was almost intact. The small troops were running around the Mechamoors; it looked like a game for Catalina’s eyes, but then she realized what they were doing: by surrounding them like that, the Spanish were provoking them, making them follow them and trying to exterminate them.
And they made their clever move: all the troops moved simultaneously to the central point of the battle field, and the Mechamoors followed them. Catalina knew what was about to come; innumerous fireballs were shot at the same time, and the brave Spanish army was exterminated; as well as the Mechamoors, who ended up setting fire to their own selves.
The fire alone was obviously not enough to destroy the metallic giants, but it was enough to confuse them. Soon enough Catalina saw them disorientated, falling off the ground and provoking small earth shakes. Some fell on top of others, and large pieces of metal were flying away. It would be comic if it wasn’t so tragic.
The caravels moved to assist the men who were inside the Mechamoors, desperately trying to escape. That was the Moors’ great weakness; they cared about each one of their soldiers. They were not like Spanish men, who would die for their king and Queen, as thousands had just done. With that, the Spanish men who survived the strike were able to run away.
Catalina sighed in relieve. It was over. She looked for her parents once again, and finally found them leading the small army that was left, looking triumphantly, on their way back to their camping.
With her little boy jolted with excitement and relief, she ran to the door.
“Mama! Mama, I am here!”
Queen Isabella of Castille went to her little girl, resisting the urge to hold her in her arms and kiss her rosy cheeks. Catalina was her youngest daughter, the baby of the family; but Isabella of Spain was raising queens, not scared little farm girls.
“Did you see it all?” She asked. Catalina nodded.
“Sí, Madre. I saw it. I was on the window.”
Her father looked at her curiously. “Were you scared?”
“No.” Catalina smiled. “I was not.”
“Good.” Her mother approved. “This is what I expect from a Princess of Spain.”
“And Queen of England.” Catalina added, as her father laid a tender kiss on her fair head.