Not with Trumpets, but with Chants

Mérida, Hispania. 713 AD.

The seventh seal had broken. Leovigildo knew this with the certainty of prophecy. We are monsters now. The prophecies had spoken of tribulation, of kingdoms falling and false prophets rising. But he had never imagined it would look like this—not fire from heaven, but starvation within walls. Not the Beast rising from the sea, but the beasts rising within his own men.

He stood frozen, watching in horror as the Vese warrior feed on the dying woman in the shadow of Mérida's walls, his eyes wild with desperation. The woman in his grisly embrace was silent, too weak from hunger and already near death, and neither fought nor cried out as he fed on what little blood remained in her wasted body. Leovigildo stood frozen in the doorway, watching in horror.

He should stop this abomination. Pull the warrior away. Maintain some shred of humanity in this nightmare. But what honor was there in starving? He had kept his need at bay until he could control it no longer. Most of the blood-vassals of the city had grown too weak to provide sustenance to their Vese lords, too starved to sustain a vampire's need for blood, and the Vese nobles would not further weaken their loyal retainers. So they now turned to those already approaching death, feeding from the dying rather than killing the living.

Leovigildo turned away and climbed the steps to the parapet where Alarico stood watching the city die. His ally. His oldest friend. Alarico had fought at his side for centuries, since before the Romans had withdrawn from Hispania and throughout the bitter feuds for power that had plagued the Visigothic nobility. They had guarded each other’s backs at Gaudalete, watched in horror as the last king of Toledo fall on the battlefield, consoled each other when the Moors overtook the walls of the Visigothic capitol.

When Alarico, Dux Asturiarum, had first ridden over the ridgeline with a column of his levied warriors to reinforce the city garrison, hope had surged within Leovigildo, believing that his ally’s Cantabrians could turn the tide of the invasion. He had been wrong. Together, they had held Mérida for eight months against Musa ibn Nusayr's siege, but the Umayyad forces were too great, and their battering rams too efficient in their work. The garrison was broken.

Behind the stone walls, people moved like ghosts. Hollow-bellied. Hollow-eyed. An eerie silence signaled the end of the siege. Within Mérida, horses’ hooves no longer stamped the cobbled streets, dogs no longer barked, the common livestock having been consumed in the previous weeks. Only in the citadel stables did a handful of war horses remain, guarded by the garrison and reserved for messengers and the final defense. In the city nothing remained that could be slaughtered and eaten.

Alarico turned from the wall, and Leovigildo knew what was coming before his friend spoke. He knew Alarico's silences as well as his words. And he knew that grave look.

"The walls will not hold much longer," Alarico said quietly.

I know. "Then I shall die defending them."

"Don’t play the martyr with me. Dying here accomplishes nothing, no matter how honorable it may seem. We need you alive."

The words hit like a blow. As if his survival mattered more than duty. As if practicality could outweigh his honor.

"I am Dux Emeritensis." Leovigildo kept his voice flat, controlled, though rage and grief churned beneath the surface. "This is my city. My people. My responsibility. I swore an oath before God, and I will not dishonor that oath!"

"And if you die here, what happens to them?" Alarico stepped closer, his voice dropping. "Our Kingdom has fallen. There is no one left to come to your aid, Vese or human. Bring your people, my friend, and come north with me, to Cantabria."

Leovigildo said nothing. His hand tightened reflexively on his sword hilt, his fist aching to strike out at his friend with all his might. I should draw on him. I should tell him no. I should die here as a Dux should die—defending his city to the last.

But Alarico continued, relentless in his calculating logic. "Your best service to God now is to survive, to protect the Bishop, help him escape to Asturias or Galaecia safely, with the treasures of the cathedral. The relics of St. Eulalia and St. James cannot fall into Umayyad hands to be desecrated. Moreover, you and I and all our Vese cannot fall into their hands or we expose our very existence. You know this, Leo. You see it, too, I know you do. Face the truth and do what must be done."

What must be done. The words echoed in his mind, bitter and true. He did know. He had known for days, perhaps weeks. But a chasm of shame stretched between knowing and surrendering.

"I would be abandoning every sacred principle I've ever held true."

"No, you would be using your strength and resolve to save what can still be saved." Alarico's voice softened. "Leo, I know what you are thinking. Dying here would be the easier choice. I am asking you to consider the harder choice, the more courageous path of putting your warrior pride aside and retreating to protect those who can rebuild our society. We will reclaim our lands, but it will not be today."

Warrior pride. The words stung because they were true. It would be easier to die. Easier to fall on these walls with his sword in his hand and his honor intact. Easier than living with the knowledge that he had fled, that he had left his people to the enemy advance.

Leovigildo turned away, looking out over the citadel courtyard where refugees from the countryside huddled in the shadows. Families. Children. The people he had sworn to protect. All starving now, and desperate.

"And what of them?” he asked, gesturing at the humanity below with a sweeping hand. “What of those who cannot flee?"

"Suintila is trustworthy and capable. He can negotiate the surrender in your place," Alarico suggested. "He's Hispano-Roman, not Visigothic, he is not Vese, and the people trust him. He might be able to secure better terms than you could. Who knows but that your presence might… complicate things. The Umayyads would see the Duke of Mérida and demand harsher conditions, probably take you hostage. But Suintila can negotiate as a military commander and citizen, not a lord. He can protect those who remain."

The rage came then, hot and sudden. "And now you are asking me to leave my second-in-command to face the enemy I should face, my own blood-vassal?” Leovigildo rounded on Alarico, the darkness in his expression turning from grief to indignation. “You've thought of everything, haven't you? How convenient that it is not your city under siege!"

How dare he. How dare Alarico stand there and ask him to abandon not just his city, not just his people, but Suintila—his most trusted warrior, his blood-vassal, the man whose family had served him faithfully for decades.

His oldest friend winced at the slight, but remained calm, as always. "I'm suggesting that you leave Suintila to do what he does best—negotiate, protect, organize, lead frightened people through the inevitable surrender and give them the best possible chance. And I'm asking you to do what you must do, what only you can do now—preserve our people, protect the Bishop, secure the relics, and carry to safety the secret that keeps our kind alive."

Leovigildo glared at Alarico in bitter silence, cursing him for his clarity and his pragmatism. Cursing God for abandoning him. Cursing himself for having lived long enough to see his world end. If the weight of the responsibility had crushed him, the weight of his guilt was now grinding his soul to dust. He turned away from his oldest friend, resentment curdling his words. "I will speak with Suintila."

He found his second-in-command in the shadow of the citadel wall, inspecting the defenses one last time although they both knew it was futile. Suintila looked up as Leovigildo approached, squinting against the bright Iberian sun, his expression revealing that he already knew.

"My lord." He bowed his head in recognition.

Leovigildo stopped a few paces away. For a moment, he could not speak. Could not find the words to ask what he was about to ask.

How do I tell him I'm leaving him behind?

"The walls will not hold," he said, with a soldier’s directness. "You know this."

"Yes, my lord, I do." Suintila's voice remained steady. He had always been steady, even now with the arrow wound in his ribs, blood staining the hem of his tunic. Even now, facing a disastrous end.

"Duke Alarico is taking his comitatus north tonight. The Bishop will accompany him, along with the relics and holy treasures. I—,” his voice cracked, and he swallowed, but he kept his eyes locked on his blood-vassal. “I will be accompanying them, along with my household and the guard. We leave through the postern gate after moonset."

Suintila nodded slowly. "And you want me to stay behind."

He wanted nothing less than this. "No, I could never want this, but I need you here to negotiate the surrender. Secure terms for those who remain. The Moors might offer better conditions if you speak for the city rather than me."

"And you think they will negotiate with me?"

The question hung between them. Leovigildo had no answer. He could not know if Suintila would survive the surrender. Could not know if the Umayyads would honor any terms. In that moment he did not know anything except that he was asking his most loyal warrior to stay behind and accomplish what he himself could not.

"As soon as we are away-- the moment the sky begins to lighten and they can see the walls— signal to the Moors for terms. Do not let them enter the city in a battle frenzy and your chance of success is greater. Suintila, I think you are the best chance the people have," Leovigildo said quietly. "And I trust you to do what needs to be done."

Suintila was silent for a moment. Then he straightened, despite the wound in his side, and placed his open palm over his heart in the salute of blood fealty. "I will do as you command, my lord. My lifeblood for my liege."

The formality of the oath broke open a well in Leovigildo's chest. He stepped forward and gripped Suintila's shoulder, pulling him close. "Send any who wish to follow north to Cantabria," he said, his voice low and rough. "Tell them we will rebuild. Tell them this is not the end. And Suintila, join me as soon as you can."

He pressed his forehead to Suintila's, the wordless intimacy of warriors who had fought together, bled together, survived together. I'm sorry. The words caught in his throat, unspoken. I'm sorry I'm not strong enough to stay.

When he pulled away, he turned before Suintila could see his face, before his warrior could see the grief and shame written there.

They left in the darkest hours before dawn, when even the Umayyad sentries grew drowsy. The postern gate opened silently, oiled hinges making no sound. Leovigildo rode at the head of the column beside Alarico, his elite guard behind him, the Bishop clutching the reliquary containing St. Eulalia's remains following.

I am fleeing my city like a thief in the night.

The thought sat bitter on his tongue. He had imagined his death a thousand times over the past century and a half—falling in battle, sword in hand, defending his king or his walls to the last. But this infamy? He had never allowed himself to consider this. Slinking away in darkness, leaving others to face what he alone should confront, had been beyond his conception.

They moved quickly through the scrubland, putting distance between themselves and the city. The Bishop's horse stumbled once, and one of Leovigildo's warriors caught the beast, steadied it. The dispirited column pressed on in silence. By the time the sun had risen in the east, the party had reached the high ground north of Mérida, and Alarico ordered them to rest. The Bishop sank to the ground, exhausted and unaccustomed to riding such distances. The warriors checked their weapons, watered their horses, and continuously scanned for pursuit.

And Leovigildo stood alone, facing south, looking back at his city one last time.

Through the dawn light, he could see the ancient walls illuminated by the rose gold of earliest morning, the Roman bridge spanning the Guadiana, the citadel rising against the sky. Mérida stood intact. Unburned. Preserved.

But green banners now flew from the battlements. Umayyad banners. The colors of conquest.

His hand moved to his sword hilt, not to draw it, but simply to rest there, to steady himself with the familiar solidity of his weapon, seeking a soldier’s comfort. There was no purpose now in drawing the blade from its scabbard. The warrior's gesture seemed futile.

And then the sound came.

The sun had risen fully, the first hour of daylight, when Christian bells should have rung across Mérida to announce the office of Prime. But the sound that rose from the city, carried on the wind, was the voice of the muezzin, chanting the adhan in Arabic, marking the hours of a different faith. Leovigildo’s vampire hearing caught every syllable, every note, every word of the Islamic prayer echoing across the valley, the distant chant in Arabic calling the faithful to Fajr, the dawn prayer. The adhan rose in the rhythmic descant that would henceforth mark the hours of Mérida's days. Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar. God is great. God is great.

Leovigildo's shoulders tightened. His jaw clenched. His hand now gripped the hilt with a ferocity that rendered his knuckles white. And the dreadful certainty fell upon him, undeniable, unbearable. The muezzin's voice was not merely a call to prayer. This was the sound of prophecy fulfilled, the end of the Christian kingdom of Hispania made audible. Mérida was praying to a different God now.

Ash-hadu an la ilaha illa Allah. I bear witness that there is no god but God. The muezzin's voice rose and fell in sacred chant.

No! The word screamed in his mind, though he made no sound. No! This is not how it ends! This cannot be how it ends. But it was. The Visigothic world had ended, not with the blaring of trumpets, not with the descent of angels, but in the slow, inexorable submission of everything in the invader’s path.

The adhan paused. Silence settled over the valley while the faithful prayed. And still Leovigildo stood, staring at the green banners flying from his walls. I have failed them. I have failed my city, my people. I have failed you, my God. At long last, the muezzin’s call rose again, marking the completion of Fajr.

The Vese warrior drew a long breath. His hand released the sword hilt. He bowed his head and made the sign of the cross. Forgive me.

Then his shoulders straightened. He turned away from Mérida and looked north, toward Cantabria, toward Asturias, toward whatever future they could build from this catastrophe. He walked past Alarico without a word, without pausing, holding himself with the rigid control of a man carrying a wound that would never heal.

All is lost.

Through the fog of despair, he heard Alarico’s voice. “The Vese nobility is scattered, Leo, retreating while our homelands are overrun.” His friend paused for a moment to nudge his mount closer. “We are too few now, and it is our own rivalries that brought us to this point. Last century, King Chindaswinth’s bloody grab for power over all the Visigothic houses cost us hundreds of Vese nobles— their households, their existing progeny, their blood-vassals— all gone. These invaders are merely finishing what Visigothic feuds started, and we are dying out as a people if we continue on this ruinous path.”

Alarico paused and stared into the distance while his thoughts took form.

“We must find a way to fight from the shadows while we regain our strength,” he continued, and Leovigildo recognized that his friend had already moved past the current disaster, and now gazing into the future. “The Vese rule of Hispania has ended, but our kind can still survive if we can only set aside our individual quests for power.” Alarico looked to Leovigildo for some response, but his friend stood silent as he rode, simply listening through the dull roar of guilt and shame and loss.

But slowly the Dux Emeritensis lifted his gaze to meet the eyes of Alarico, Dux Asturiarum.

And something shifted in his spirit, a pebble rolling down a hill that held within it the power of a rockslide. It was not hope—not yet. But something harder and more insistent, a burden lifted from his shoulders and placed on his heart. The vision seized him with the force of divine revelation, as if God Himself had spoken through the ruins of this apocalypse:

If the old world has ended, then I will build a new one. If this is judgment, then I will make my survival the instrument of redemption.

“The Kingdom of Toledo is dead,” Leovigildo answered, “but upon my oath, we will build something new from its ashes, and it will begin in Asturias.”

It would take years. Perhaps even centuries. But he was Vese, and time meant nothing to him.