Grudging (22 page)

 

CHAPTER 24

“Y
ou didn't need to come along,” Julian said. He'd decided to walk for exactly that reason: an attempt to dissuade his wife. The early-­morning air was cool and refreshing, but his knees suggested a carriage would have been wiser. It was a long downhill route from the citadel to the wall. Another scheme that didn't go as planned. His bodyguards kept well back like distant shadows, giving them the illusion of being alone in the city.

“As if I would leave you,” Beatriz answered, matching his strolling pace. A hush of gloom and depression hung over the city. She'd substituted her small dog for an equally useless tiny parasol, which she supported over their heads to block the low morning sun. “Trading yourself to the Northerners. There will be no more of that.”

“
Alcalde.
” The grizzled, white-­haired man pushing the handbarrow of turnips across the cobblestones smiled and tried to bow, only to have his cart wobble dangerously. Ever since the group of children returned, Julian's popularity with the ­people of the city had risen exponentially. Beatriz and her loud voice had guaranteed enough ­people overheard to spread the tale of his attempt at sacrifice all over the city. Though he, like Beatriz and the tradesman, wore black in deference to the children they had lost.

Julian returned the bow, giving his politician's smile. “I'm only going to check on a project,” he said to her as the tradesman passed. “It's too early for you.”

“A lot you know. It's perfect timing for you to escort me to church after seeing this project of yours.” Beatriz sighed, and her parasol dipped, allowing the sun to shine in Julian's eyes. “Though it won't be the same without Father Telo.”

“I apologize again for involving him. It was one in a long string of bad outcomes.”

The parasol came back up. “Not at all. Sending the children was the right decision. Most of them made it safely, and I don't believe for one minute those barbarian Northerners would have returned any children if it weren't for the wisdom of Father Telo. No doubt he carried the day and, even now, converts the heathen. He is my preferred priest, you know.”

Julian smiled sadly. Did his wife give any of the credit to Telo, or did she consider it all due to her patronage? Likely the bet tipped heavily toward her sponsorship. He drew her arm tighter against his side. “He's a credit to you. I found him quite . . . enlightening. Since meeting him, I no longer feel the need to attend church. Why, I got all the salvation I needed just looking at the man.”

Beatriz bumped him with her hip. “Just like you to be light-­minded.”

“
Mi amor
, with you I'm positively ridiculous.” Beatriz sniffed but laughed right along with him. “In all seriousness,” he said, “I pray that Father Telo is safe. That I haven't sent . . .”

Her grip on his arm tightened again, tears shining in her eyes. “The Lord protect and guide us. It shall be as He plans.”

“Amen.” Julian drew in a deep breath of fresh air as they entered a plaza. The square was nearly empty. All the vendor sheds closed. No crushed ice with fruit juice was for sale. No wine available at shady tables in corners. It might be early, but still, other strollers or shoppers should be out taking advantage of the cooler air. Julian sobered further. Times were too frightening; ­people kept close to their houses. He couldn't blame them. He, too, fought the urge to hunker down and surround himself with those he loved. Perhaps a walk with his wife was not a waste of precious time.

Several boys had taken advantage of the plaza's emptiness to shed clothes and splash in the large fountain at the heart of the space. Water flew, but they kept their delighted shrieks to whispers, less the first woman to see them drag them out by their ears.

Julian's throat tightened as he remembered his own small ones, escaping vigilance to participate in just such a lark. From childish joys to grown soldiers. His son's pursuits were no longer carefree—­or safe.

Beatriz dropped his arm. Parasol held straight upright, she headed for the fountain. Julian caught her skirt and pulled her back. “Let them play. Let them enjoy their day. Someone should.”

Her face went white as she subsided against him. She crossed heart and mind. “Aye. Someone should.”

He took them north to a side avenue and away from the gate, and they walked in companionable silence, until at last, the wall loomed overhead. The large stucco buildings became brighter in color as the number of families living inside them increased. Laundry ran from ropes supported from balcony to balcony. Here, as the morning progressed, life and animation returned to the streets, only it was hushed and anxious. ­People huddled on their steps with morning beverages, talking in whispers. Some children ran errands on silent feet, but the majority were held close to their parents. The smell of sausage and bacon drifted from windows.

Several abandoned houses in this crowded section of Colina Hermosa had been torn down. Their absence left a portion of the wall exposed. Julian headed for the spot. Dirt had been piled carefully against the neighboring house, the piles nearly matching height with second-­floor windows. Workmen in sandy boots and dirty clothing hurried with shovels and picks. Twenty feet from the wall foundation, large holes gaped in the earth, big enough to let men walk inside stooped over. Julian nodded in approval at the progress.

“What are we doing here?” Beatriz asked, taking it all in. “What's this about?”

“You'll see.”

A marginally less dirty man approached with a bow. “
Alcalde.
”

Julian repeated the bow. “Master miner. My wife, Beatriz. You've done well.”

“First Wife,” the man said. “Progress, but we've struck rock.”

“Are you stalled or stopped?” Alarm hit Julian. If they had to start again somewhere else, they might not be ready before the Northerners' ultimatum came due. “The timeline?”

“Still on track, just a little delayed.” The man wiped his brow with a yellow handkerchief. “We did expect rock, since the wall had to have been built on a sturdy foundation. But I'm a miner, not a sapper. It's unfamiliar territory for me.”

“For all of us,” Julian admitted. “There is no one experienced in this field to be found.”

“Sapper?” Beatriz asked with a frown.

“A term of war, First Wife,” the master miner said, “for tunneling under city fortifications and bringing them down.”

“Bringing them down,” she gasped. “You're bringing down our wall! I thought you were reinforcing it.”

Julian held up his hands. “A few sections only. And not until the right time.”

“That's what makes it so difficult,” the master miner said. “Controlling the fall.”

“You have my entire trust, master miner,” Julian said. “And you'll be ready when?”

“With the other sections, tomorrow morning. With this one, tomorrow night—­possibly later. If we work around-­the-­clock shifts.”

“You have enough men for that?”

The master miner tucked his handkerchief in a pocket and rocked on his thick boots. “The
concejales
have seen to everything. I have all I need. Do not worry,
Alcalde
Alvarado. Get the ­people here, and all will go as planned. I must get back to supervising. It's a delicate operation.”

As the man hurried off, Julian tucked his wife's arm under his own. He turned for home, waiting for the flood of questions. Her parasol wavered in the air, first riding too high, then too low to deflect the sun.

“The ­people?” she muttered. “The ­people. Does that mean what I think?”

“Our ­people will not burn to death as in Zapata.”

S
hortly after breakfast, Father Telo sat on the steps of the wagon assigned to him. His new home on wheels was in the inner circle of wagons, close to the strange altar carpet. He rubbed his ankle, where already the manacle and chain bolting him to the wagon were starting to chafe, leaving a red welt on his dark skin. The length allowed him to go inside or to venture a foot or so from the steps but no farther.

The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away.

Better to sit here and study what went on than to brood about his self-­imposed captivity inside.
The Lord helps those who help themselves.
And at least it was bigger than the confessional booth. Maybe he could learn something useful or help in some way.

He was reduced to study because no one here spoke his language­—­or no one who approached him anyway. Neither Santabe nor Ordoño ventured close enough for speech. The way the guards pushed food at him, while ignoring him, made him feel more like a pet bear, a curiosity, than an actually hostage.

His wagon was part of the group where Ordoño lived off to the side of their camp yet with clear trails to everywhere, but few Northerners came and went, except the priests. A fact most interesting in itself. At the moment, there was no one else in sight.

A priestess, in the plain white robe they all wore, came out of a wagon and set a platter of sliced fruit upon the carpet. She was careful not to touch the edge of the rug. A slim slip of a girl, unlike Santabe, her hair was shorn short. One of their white weapons was belted at her hip. She disappeared back inside her wagon and reappeared with a large copper chalice. Telo watched as she sat and washed her feet in the chalice. Only then did she stand and move onto the carpet, retrieving the fruit and taking it to the large table at the center. There were many priests, but only the ones with the large sun-­image earring ever ventured onto the altar. It must indicate some type of hierarchy. Telo watched, anxious to learn more.

The girl looked too innocent to be a fanatic like Santabe. Surely that bloodthirsty woman was an aberration and not the normal priestess.

As she vanished behind the screen—­to pray, Telo assumed—­a voice spoke at his elbow. “Deceptive, at times, how alike you look.”

Telo jumped at this echo of his own thoughts, making his chain rattle. “Lord Ordoño. What do you mean?” The man stood at the corner of his wagon, exploring his teeth with a toothpick.

“The priests of Dal. The priests of the
ciudades-­estado
. How alike you look with your devotion. Tending your altars. Serene and calm in your prayers.”

“But you don't find us alike, my son?”

Ordoño removed the toothpick and leaned against the wagon. “Your sort is all talk. Talk a man into believing. Talk a man into goodness. Talk a man to forgiveness. Trying to talk to a priest of Dal is like holding a conversation with a wall. And about as entertaining. They neither argue, nor do they compromise.”

“Intractable?” Telo asked. “Perhaps they take their version of ‘The Lord God raised you up. It is to Him you will listen.' too literally. But they cannot be so inflexible. Whose idea was it to give Colina Hermosa seven days to surrender? Not yours, I take it. That does not seem like the act of a completely unkind ­people.”

Ordoño laughed. “It is proof of their obstinacy. True, I would have attacked the moment we had the siege engines. Seven days. ‘And Dal did appear before them, and lo, He did give them seven days to decide to worship Him.' Their kindness is an act of superstition, nothing more or less.”

Before Telo could answer, a group of soldiers arrived, bearing one of their own between them. They threw the man to the ground in front of the carpet, where he remained prostrate. The priestess reappeared from behind the screen and joined them. She picked up the chalice from the sand and stood on the carpet, holding it.

“What is this about?” Telo asked, waiting for her to offer water to the poor soul.

“A case of blasphemy, Father.” Ordoño pointed at the scene with his toothpick. “Watch and learn.”

The priestess gave a long speech, then she gestured. One of the standing soldiers said some words in their harsh language, pulling his sword as he spoke. The prisoner kept his head bowed and never tried to escape as his right hand was cut off. Telo climbed to his feet and backed against the wagon, touching his forehead and heart.

The man's scream drowned out the solid thunk as they took off the other appendage. In agony, he reared upright. Quickly, the soldiers stretched the prisoner's arms before him. The priestess knelt with her bowl and caught the bright blood as it spewed forth from his stumps.

Telo wanted to vomit, wanted to look away. The sight of blood had always had that effect on him, worse now that the blood came from a child of God—­all men were children of God, no matter their faith. And to see this childlike girl participate in such cruelty somehow made it all the more sickening.

Ordoño's stern, unmoved visage held Telo solid against the wooden wagon as the soldiers struck off the man's head and let the body collapse. Blood sprayed across the spotless robe of the priestess, across the carpet. Telo saw now why they had chosen red cloth.

“A waste of another soldier,” Ordoño commented with a sigh. He moved to stand by the steps. “Are you quite well, Father?”

“May the Lord take pity on his soul,” Telo said, his voice sounding high. He wondered the man hadn't made an escape for the edge of the quarry and a quick end, instead of suffering such a painful death. “God alone has the right to cast such a judgment. Life is sacred. To do this for a minor sin?”

“For any crime, but blasphemy is the most common. Your compassion is foreign here. Dal must be fed.”

Telo shook with suppressed emotion. He hid his hands in his sleeves, hoping to disguise his anger. He wanted to argue that such punishment was not justice, but these ­people didn't seem to know the meaning of the word. They did not follow the will of any god but a devil. Using execution in this way—­against children, too—­was an abomination.

He gulped, drawing control around himself like one of his comfortable and familiar robes. He must mind his tongue, must be careful of every expression. He must not trust any of them if he was to learn about the Northerners and report the information where it could be used. Telo very much feared what this penchant for violence meant for Colina Hermosa's chances—­for his future.