Julian Alvarado stood at the map covering much of the front wall of his study. Dark, masculine wood paneled the walls, except for where overfilled bookcases took up space. The massive desk, used by hundreds of alcaldes who preceded him, was planted at the center of the room before the empty fireplace. It was practically the only furniture in the room besides two plain chairs for visitors, and the one he had sat behind for over ten years. A painting of a saguaro cactus, tall with many long arms, reminded all who entered of the reward of stubbornness and persistence. Each arm represented seventy years of the plant’s continued life in one of the most inhospitable climates in the world. His own determination could be no less.
He studied the gold stars painted on the large map to signify each ciudad-estado, the size of the star indicating the extent of the city. Names had been embossed by each ciudad-estado, also in gold. No star was bigger than the one marking Colina Hermosa though you had to squint to detect a difference from Aveston’s. Much of that accomplishment was his doing, a thought that filled him with pride.
With a finger, Julian traced a nearly straight line west across the map from Zapata and its smaller, satellite towns along the seacoast to Colina Hermosa, then on slightly north to Aveston. All three ciudades-estado were the most northern, the first the enemy found. Its first victims. Seven other cities and a few smaller towns were located south from them, waiting to be next.
Worry boiled in Julian’s gut. No amount of tea or plain broth was enough to soothe it. Did he make the right choice? Did he go too far, accept too much risk? But what other move could he make? Never had his leadership been such a heavy burden.
He had sought help from all the ciudades-estado, both those now under siege like themselves and those still free. A few of the cities had rejected him outright—Zapata, Aveston–the rest never responded, playing for time. Like the hare with a hawk overhead, they hunkered into the grass and hoped to go undetected, not realizing the hawk circled back for them. Their alcaldes were unwilling to take the risk of banding together to escape the talons. Even now, they feared treachery and deceit from their neighbors more than the swords of the Northerners. Julian could not blame them. Hiding, fear, repeating tactics of the past, avoiding liability—such was human nature.
Their spies had reported that Zapata had been as accommodating to the Northerners as humanly possible without actually opening their gates or accepting their terms. Zapata had taken the line of appeasement, hoping to buy survival. The smoking ruins of their ciudad-estado proved passive resistance hadn’t worked. Julian suspected Aveston would try battle, would wait until the last moment, then throw everything it had at the hordes of Northerners. So vastly outnumbered, this approach was certain doom as well. Every military captain agreed to that fact. Aveston would fall unless something changed.
Just as Colina Hermosa would fall if it relied on a military solution.
The ciudades-estado acted as they always had, following time-honored trials of history. Doing as their forefathers had always done in times of desperation. Adhering to the past would get no one out of this new threat.
Man must follow his nature. But Julian couldn’t hide like some old hare behind walls, waiting for the talons to fall. The talons already clutched Colina Hermosa’s throat. He could not force himself to wait for them to slash.
Julian turned from the map to pace; the route was ten steps from map to fireplace when he felt relaxed and at peace. Today, his longer stride cut the path to six steps as if events drove him to hurry.
Acting was all well and good, but did he do the right thing? Was it best to run from the hawk? Sending his sons to the swamp in search of the witches. His other plans for the children of the city. Would he lead his people to life or devastation? Salvador and Ramiro might be safer here. Would his risk be to their harm? Could he live with the results?
And keeping his plans secret from the councilmen and his closest advisors . . . he still wasn’t sure if he should regret that or not. And yet, he’d told no one but those necessary to carry out his orders—and his wife, Beatriz. He had done so because then only he would be to blame if they failed. To be fair, he also didn’t believe the concejales would approve his choices. Despite many years of friendship, they would censor him, perhaps strike him from his seat as alcalde.
It was not too late to change his mind. To keep his sons here with him. To put none of his other plans in motion. To go the safe route and leave the life of his city in the hands of the saints. He could spend his days and nights on his knees to Santiago, praying for deliverance.
He rubbed a hand across his beard as doubts tore at him. Would he be the savior or the villain? Did he have the right to risk, not only his own family, but the entire city with his secret plans? He had never been a religious man, but if only the saints would help him decide.
“Give me a sign,” he demanded, looking up at the ceiling. “If you’re real, let me know what to do!” He listened with all his might.
Common sense said that they wouldn’t answer and, indeed, nothing changed, except for a wave of sheepish embarrassment flooding Julian. The burden belonged to him alone.
The alcaldes of the other ciudades-estado came from political families, from long lines of those used to making decisions for their cities. Like all politicians, they had learned to avoid risk as unprofitable, dangerous even. They would not stick out their necks and deviate from historical choices.
Only he had another background. His father had been a merchant with two stores. When Julian inherited, he had built that small beginning from two to twelve, had branched out into trade between other ciudades-estado. When he could go no further there, he had made the move to politics, dreaming of expanding his city just as far.
His empire had not been carved by sitting still and waiting. Taking risks was in his nature. He could not hide in the grass no matter how much he might prefer such safe measures. Not if he wanted to save Colina Hermosa.
He straightened and went to sit at his desk, fingering a report before him. The spies who got inside Zapata said the Northerners had offered terms of surrender and given a sevenday to decide on them. They had not been able to learn the details of the terms, only that they were harsh. If precedent held, the Northerners would do the same with Colina Hermosa.
The Northerners’ pattern seemed to be holding from the envoy who had approached them this morning—the one Julian had delayed and turned away. Tomorrow, he would see their representative, hear their demands. Would it be for riches? For land and domination? For something else? He believed the Northerners would not destroy the city until Julian gave them an answer to their terms. The Northerners wanted something, and he might learn what tomorrow.
The alcalde from Zapata had taken this momentary calm in the storm of a sevenday for a chance to placate its way out of the Northern talons. Aveston, no doubt, built up its armaments.
He planned to do both and go further. He would use this momentary calm and take advantage of it. Seek out new allies. Find ways to fool and delay the Northerners. Unlike the other ciudades-estado, they had the blessing of their secret tunnels, giving them access to the outside world.
This moment would make or break, not just himself but all of Colina Hermosa. They trusted him to get it right.
Julian closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. He held it, seeking calm, seeking answers. He had felt foolish asking the saints because that wasn’t his way. Always when troubled, he sought deep within himself for the solution. He did so again, and his gut told him to stay true to his nature. That hazarding it all was the only way to win this time.
So be it. He would take the consequences as his alone. He opened his eyes, his hands stilled against the papers. His stomach settled. His eye lit on the saguaro painting, the cactus tall and majestic. If he and Colina Hermosa were to go down, let it be with flare and dignity. Let it be with a fight that might succeed or at least save some of their people.
He stood. It was time to see his sons off.
A young groom tugged at a blindfolded packhorse, who danced in panic. Most horses didn’t care to be underground; it took them awhile to settle once in the tunnels, but caballos de guerra weren’t ordinary horses. Moving past the panicked gelding, Sancha butted the back of Ramiro’s uniform as if to say move faster as he guided her down the temporary ramp that led into the citadel’s cellar. He reached down to steady his sword, which had been set swaying by his horse’s antics. His armor was all stacked and tied among his belongings on Sancha’s back.
Ramiro smiled at the sight of the troubled horses and nodded at the boy. He’d handled many a frightened horse. Being the son of the Alcalde had earned him no favors. He’d started out as a groom when he was ten years old, following in his brother’s footsteps instead of preparing for the university as his mother wished. Tradition dictated every candidate for the pelotón start in the same way. Days spent with horses and evenings spent training with any soldier who would put up with him long enough to teach him how to use any weapon he could get his hands on. At fourteen, he’d become a squire to his brother’s newly won squadron, and three years later he was one of them, with his own mount.
Besides their unusual gray coat, caballos de guerra all had the same qualities—loyalty and intelligence. A single farm outside Colina Hermosa had produced the stock over many generations. Stock that was now safely cramped into lodgings within the walls of the city.
Ramiro stroked Sancha’s long nose to comfort her though he needed the calming just as much. The same excitement and anticipation, mixed with nervousness, radiated from her as coursed through his veins. He’d picked Sancha out as a colt when he’d first begun his apprenticeship with the pelotón. Or perhaps Sancha had picked him. Whichever the case, only death would part them now. They had come of age together.
It was hard to resist crouching under the low ceiling of the cellar although the rafters were a hand’s length above Sancha’s ears. Unlike most cellars, this one had been cleared of all the food and drink stores and the accumulating junk that usually collected below stairs to make way for another use. The smell of dry earth and cobwebs didn’t help the feeling of being buried alive. The cellar might have been heavily guarded since the Northerners arrived, but no one had felt a need to clean it.
He struggled against a lump caught in his throat. He could almost hear the big clock outside his father’s study beating down the days and hours left of Colina Hermosa’s life. Hurry, hurry, it seemed to say with each tick in his head.
Guards stood straight, made extravigilant by the presence of the Alcalde. The packhorse finally surrendered, allowing its attendant to take it into the west tunnel. Packhorses would be ready for them on the other side.
Over a hundred years ago, mad Alcalde Domingo had ordered the tunnels dug. Some paranoid whim drove him to put hundreds, perhaps thousands, of laborers to the task. It must have seemed insane then, with no invaders terrorizing the land. Seven tunnels had been completed, leading into the distant hills, before the people deposed him and elected a new alcalde. The tunnels were an amazing feat. What would those people think now that their bane might be their descendants’ salvation? Ramiro sent them a swift prayer of gratitude.
Salvador, Alvito, and a ball-shaped groom waited with Alcalde Julian at the center of the space, their horses around them. Salvador wore a surcoat over full armor. Like Ramiro, Alvito settled for his uniform only though a plumed hat like a chevalier of old was pulled rakishly over one eye. Farther off, his brother’s second-in-command, Muño, waited against one wall. The competent lieutenant would take over with Salvador gone.
A horse shifted, and Ramiro fumbled Sancha’s reins. Coming closer, he realized that the fat figure he took to be a groom was a woman. Her hair had been shorn off short, perhaps due to some illness, and she wore—he stared again to make certain—trousers of a dull shade of brown held up by a rope like the triple belt of a priest. Over that undignified attire was a homespun poncho covering a plain peasant smock. A large straw hat hung by its thong from her hand. Her complexion was rough from wind and sun. Only polished boots of rich leather peeking under the trousers gave her away as something other than a farmer. Her eyes sparkled with laughter as he approached and joined them.
His father bowed to the strange woman. “Ramiro, this is—”
“Teresa,” she interrupted. The word tickled her, for again her brown eyes danced, causing them to nearly disappear in her plump cheeks. “Well met, cousin. I thank you for the escort home to Aveston. I’m sure we shall slip right through the Northerners.”
Ramiro frowned. His large family was a web of interconnected chaos, but he didn’t remember this woman. He opened his mouth to profess his ignorance of their family relationship when Salvador prodded, “Lucky for our cousin to have such good connections. It’s not every scholar that claims a military escort.”
A quick glance at the listening ears of all the men and boys standing provided the answer for the sudden relationship though there was the possibility they could actually be connected by sangre kin lines. Fiction or no, escorting kin was a perfect excuse to leave the city and keep their true mission secret. But why was she really here? Salvador and his father had agreed on a party of five to hunt for the witch. Didn’t the nature of their task require all their members to have fighting ability? How would this unnatural woman help them?
He understood her presence no more than his own. Again, he couldn’t help but wonder why his father included him? There were older, more experienced, more skilled men to take his spot. For all his bluster and boast, Alvito had more talent with knives than men twice his age, and he was a practiced healer. Gomez had great strength to offer, not to mention skill with a variety of weapons and time as a scout. Salvador was a born leader. But Ramiro added nothing unique to the mix.
An awkward silence descended as they waited for him to reply. Lies didn’t come as easily to him as they did to Salvador. Ramiro covered it by giving a stiff bow. “Honored . . . welcome . . . cousin.”
Alvito jumped into the breach. “Then we are all cousins together, for I’m connected to these rogues on their mother’s side.” He primped his mustache and winked. “You know the old saying, go back seven times seven generations, and we’re all related. Luckily, the priests don’t know, or no one would be allowed to marry.”
Teresa snorted a guffaw and clapped Alvito on the back like a comrade. “Spoken like the philosopher Destomones, himself.”
A large shadow darkened the cellar entrance as Gomez and his horse appeared, then came forward to join them. Gomez bobbed his head in greeting, running through his usual obsessive premission weapons check by touching each of his armaments to be assured he’d packed them on his person. Sword. Dagger. Bow. Quiver. Lastly, he checked a thick coil of rope tied to his saddle.
Alcalde Julian cleared his throat. “Since we’re all here, the sooner the departure, the sooner the return. Good fortune on your journey. May the saints guide you to a quick and prosperous resolution.” His calm confidence suggested there could be no other outcome. He turned to the stranger with another formal bow. “Farewell, Cousin Teresa.”
Gomez and Alvito got a kiss on either cheek from the Alcalde as old acquaintances. “For you two, behave yourselves. Keep Alvito away from the drink, Gomez.”
“No promises,” Gomez said in his gravelly voice.
As the trio moved toward the tunnel, Julian turned to his sons. “Stay safe and stay well. Defend each other. All honor.” He directed a nod at Salvador. “You know what to do.”
“All honor,” Salvador said gravely.
“All honor,” Ramiro echoed a second behind, wondering what Salvador knew that he didn’t. Then he was enfolded in a crushing hug that encompassed him and his brother.
Julian pulled back with a sharp nod to them. “Do what must be done for Colina Hermosa.”
“Hi-ya.” Salvador strode for the tunnel with only a single nod toward Lieutenant Muño, drawing his stallion Valentía along by the reins. The narrow width of the tunnels forced them to enter one at a time, and his brother was soon swallowed up with the other three. Ramiro followed more slowly. At the first support timber in the passageway west, he turned to find his father wiping away a tear, his shoulders slumped as if the weight of the city-state rested upon them. Ramiro touched his sword hilt. With this mission, that weight now rested on him as well.
Whatever it takes.