“Besides, you said you didn’t want to marry her. You said you weren’t in love with her. So what do you care?” Amparo said.
The rage inside Miguel came bubbling up. He wasn’t sure where it came from. But he couldn’t stand to look at that smirk for one moment longer. That long, misshapen nose, those crooked eyes, the way Amparo leaned back on his left foot all the time, the way his thinning hair grew too long in his face and flopped about in front of his eyes in that mocking fashion. That voice. That giggle. It was all too much.
Miguel hadn’t realised he’d punched Amparo until the pain rattled through his knuckles and Amparo was already falling to the ground.
He heard a loud yelp from Jose and the next thing he knew, Jose was holding him back. Amparo popped back up from the weeds, touching his left cheek bone.
“I’m suing you, morisco! You can bet on that! A hundred ducats! A thousand! You attacked me! Everyone saw it!” Amparo screamed.
Despite the chaos, Miguel felt a sense of calm. He knew that later he would regret what he’d done. But for just a moment, there was something he’d never felt before – power. Amparo had been unable to stop him. Miguel had just done it. And now Amparo looked at him with frightened eyes, backing away. Gone was the smirk, the sarcastic tone, the mocking. Now it was just fear. And in fear, Miguel realised in that moment, was power.
“Everyone calm down!” Jose shouted. “Whatever this is about, save it until after work. Do both of you understand me?”
Miguel found he was already calm. Amparo shook off Roberto’s attempt to hold him back as well and was already marching his way across the field to the other side of the fire that was about to be set.
“You,” Jose said, pointing his finger in Miguel’s face. “You stay on this side of the fire. I don’t want you going near him today.”
Miguel nodded. He felt numb at the moment and he couldn’t figure out if he should be worried. No, not numb. Relieved. He could finally look Amparo in the eye now without being intimidated, and it washed away his helplessness.
After that, Miguel found it easy to return to his work and go on with the day as if nothing had happened.
It was later that afternoon, exactly what time Miguel didn’t know. He was staring up at the tops of the cane stalks, the blue azure sky just beyond, occasionally waving like water as billows of smoke passed by high overhead. Miguel knew the fire was getting close, but he couldn’t move. He was seated on a batch of stalks that had been pushed over, but not cut. His knees pulled up tight against his chest, his face streaming with tears, his heart feeling as though it would leap out of his chest.
Miguel could hear the cracking cane from the footsteps of someone walking toward him. It was Jose, no doubt. Wondering why the fireline had been allowed to drift so far to the south. It had been Miguel’s job to keep it on track. But he hadn’t bothered with it in nearly half an hour. Soon the fire would be raging out of control, with all the men shouting and racing through the stalks to catch up with it, trying desperately to cut a firebreak before it could spread too far.
All of it would be Miguel’s fault. He would lose his job, probably. Jose would be angry with him. He would get a good scolding and told to leave the field, never to return. The scene played out in his mind over and over, and it saddened him. He liked Jose. He respected the man. He hadn’t meant to disappoint him. But what could he do?
“Miguel!” he heard Jose bark from across the small clearing that had been formed by the bent-over cane. “Where have you been? The fire is drifting to the south. If you don’t…”
That’s when Jose saw it. Just a few strides away from where Miguel had balled himself up. There were stalks of cane dripping with blood, on top of which lay Amparo’s body. He was lying flat on his back, gawking up at the sky with a look of shock and horror that had yet to fade. His arms outstretched, his legs splayed, as if he’d been thrown backward with some great force.
Then there was the knife. It had been stuck deep in his chest, nearly up to the handle. It was a rusty old cane knife, the type with the little hook at the end. Knives like that could be found everywhere in these fields. They were always getting lost in the carpet of cane leaves scattered about during the harvest. This one had probably been here for years, by the looks of it. Its wooden handle was nearly black from mould and was rotted to the point that there was little left of it. Miguel couldn’t help but think that Amparo’s body would soon look like that, and the thought nearly made him ill.
Miguel tried not to look at Jose. He so desperately wanted to say something, anything. But his strength had completely left him. He desperately wished to be back home with his mother, crying into her lap as he did as a child, feeling her stroke his hair, singing him a little song to make him feel better while he stared at the fire in their hearth.
It seemed to take Jose a moment to contemplate what he was seeing. He even moved up to Amparo’s face, calling his name, as if Amparo would suddenly spring to his feet.
But the colour was already draining from Amparo’s face. There was so much blood on the ground below him. It was obvious he was gone.
“Enrique!” Jose called. “Enrique!!”
Enrique shouted at him, too far away to know what was happening.
“Contain the north side of the fireline! Douse it if you have to!!”
“Yes, sir!”
Jose glanced around with a worried expression. “We have to get this fire out…”
Then Jose jumped to his feet and started toward the southern border, where the wind was whipping the flames into a frenzy. He stopped as he passed Miguel, glaring at him, the whites of his eyes gleaming out from behind his blackened face.
“You…you stay right here,” Jose said. There was disgust in his tone. Rage.
Jose marched off through the cane to contain the fire and Miguel considered leaping to his feet and running. He didn’t care where. Anything to be out of this horrifying place. He would just run down to the beach and keep going. Miguel had always been a good runner. No one on this crew would be able to catch him. He could just run and run until he’d make it all the way back home. Or even further. Perhaps to France. Or even England. Somewhere where nobody knew him or knew of what had happened here today. Maybe he would even forget about it himself.
But Jose had told him to stay. And so Miguel remained, just as he was told.
Chapter Five
A week later, Miguel just wanted to go home. He wasn’t sleeping any more. He never knew whether it was day or night in the cramped, windowless cell they had put him in.
Miguel had found it funny at first. He had always wanted to visit the castle and now here he was living in it. But once inside, he found it wasn’t what he’d thought it was at all. He’d been told the castle was once a palace when the Moors lived here. But after the Catholic monarchs had taken it back, an army garrison was stationed to watch over the coastline for pirates. Any sign of “opulence” that had once been here had long ago been pillaged, and the inside was about as fancy as a horse stable. Room after room was filled with barrels of gunpowder, loose cannonballs, or crates of rotting vegetables. It wasn’t like a real castle at all.
They had come for him the morning after Amparo was killed. Two men, both well-armed and claiming to be hired by the town council, had arrived at his little room at the inn. With very little warning they pulled him from his bed, clasped him in irons, and dragged him through the streets of Salobreña up to the castle. They had not taken the most direct route, and Miguel found himself being dragged down many of Salobreña’s windy little lanes as if to advertise that the killer had been caught. Word had spread before it was over, and by the time he’d reached the castle gates a crowd had formed, hissing and spitting at him, some throwing rotten fruit and chanting “murderer.” Miguel had never been so frightened in his life.
They’d brought him here, in the bowels of the castle, and into the worst room of all. It was a level just below the reception hall, a storeroom, he’d been told. Empty, soul
less, with nothing but stone on the floor, walls, and ceiling, with a single locked door in the far corner, behind which lay the staircase leading back up to the reception hall. In the other corner, iron bars had been installed to turn the back half into a jail, used by Salobreña on those rare occasions when they saw fit to lock up suspected criminals. Soldiers were hired as jailers to look after them.
But the soldiers here had no interest in looking after Miguel. They just wanted money. They robbed him of anything valuable they could find, and rarely could be bothered to feed him. He was always so hungry. But Miguel could deal with that. He could even stand the cold. With no window to let in the sun, the hard stone floor, made of jagged stones and rough mortar, were never warm and stung his skin with their cold. He never knew whether it was day or night.
What Miguel struggled with was the cruelty. Those late nights when, during a long tedious shift, the soldiers would come in and rattle sticks across the bars to wake him, or poke at him through the bars. Twice now they had actually come in and beaten him, just to amuse themselves. And he never knew when it was going to happen next.
That’s why he was so startled when he heard the door to the storeroom squeak. Miguel had balled up his body in the far corner, resting but not sleeping. He flinched when he saw the faces of two soldiers who entered. It was another beating, he knew it. He hoped they didn’t sense his fear. It might prolong things.
But this time they had brought a visitor. An older man, somewhere in his fifties, with a kind face and greying hair, thin on top, but still long and thick in the back as it spilled over his shoulders. He wore a sleeveless leather jacket that exposed the green sleeves of the shirt he wore underneath. His simple black breeches were tucked into cowhide boots that were covered in dust and grime, suggesting he’d just come from a long journey.
“Get up, morisco!” the soldier cried. Miguel scrambled to his feet, but the room spun and he had to grab the bars of his cell to keep from falling over. He hadn’t stood much in the week since they’d brought him here. His cell was barely one stride wide, not even long enough for him to lay down flat.
The old man held up his hand to the soldier. “Thank you, Señor Tenorio. That will be quite enough.”
Miguel was surprised. The man had called the soldier Señor and had used his Christian name. No one ever called the soldiers by their Christian name, not even their commander. And the way Jean, as Miguel knew him, had backed off at this man’s command was impressive. Jean was one of the most vicious of all the soldiers. His beatings were especially harsh, no matter how many times the governor of the garrison had ordered him to stay away
But for this new stranger in the room, he backed away as ordered.
“Miguel Guillen?” the old man asked in a warm tone.
Miguel didn’t trust it. He said nothing.
“I am Domingo Armada, a constable of the Holy Brotherhood of Granada. Do you know what that is?”
Miguel had heard stories of the Brotherhood. Everyone had. Companies of devout soldiers, easily identified from the long green sleeves of their shirts, who policed the lawless countryside to guard against the scourge of bandits and outlaws that haunted many of Spain’s major roadways. They were notorious for meting out swift justice to lawbreakers, usually in the form of cutting off hands, feet, or hanging. They were also known for their corruption and the crippling taxes they charged the peasants in their local municipalities. Their reputation made them feared by everyone from a young age.
“You’re here to hang me,” Miguel said.
“I have come only to serve justice.”
Miguel could sense no patronising tone in the man’s voice. No sarcasm. It was the first time in a week that anyone had been kind to Miguel. He so desperately wanted to believe this man was genuine.
“You must be famished. Here.”
Armada reached into his pocket and pulled out a small loaf of fresh bread, still steaming in the damp air. The smell hit Miguel’s nose and he could hardly contain his excitement. For just a bite of that bread, just one bite, he would do almost anything.
Much to his delight, Armada handed it all to Miguel, who snatched it away and tore into it.
“It is truly the bitter bread of hostile fate,” Armada said with a slight smile.
Miguel stared back in confusion.
“It’s a quote. From the theatre. A play by a very wise man named Pedro Calderón. Have you been to the theatre?”
Miguel stood with his back against the back wall, stuffing the bread into his mouth before this strange man could take it back.
The smile faded from Armada’s face, replaced with one of concentration. “No, I suppose not. Anyway, I’m curious. Can you tell me about the day Amparo Rodriguez was killed? What do you remember?”
Miguel focused on the bread, trying to push away the memories of that horrific day. He had spent all of his time here doing little else, which was difficult during the long, cold nights when there was nothing to do. He yearned to remember, going every each and every detail, each splatter of blood, every gurgle Amparo made as he lay dying.
But Miguel had so far managed to keep those memories at bay, like the little mice his mother was always chasing out of the kitchen with her straw broom. They surged against his consciousness, fighting to get in, but he wouldn’t let them. He didn’t want to ever think of what happened that day again.
“I…I don’t remember…” Miguel said.
“I ask that you try, Miguel. It’s important.”
“I don’t remember!” Miguel shouted.
“Alright,” Armada said calmly. “Let’s start with an easier question. What brought you to Salobreña? You were not born here, were you?”
Armada seemed in no hurry to get the answers he needed. He had a relaxed, easy-going manner that Miguel liked.
“Work,” Miguel said. “I had to find work. My uncle said the farmers here are always looking for labourers during the cane harvest. And it wasn’t that far.”
“Did you know anyone here before you came?”
“No.”
“And how did you find the people of this new pueblo? Did you like them?”
“Yes.”
“Even Amparo Rodriguez?”
Miguel stared at the floor. “Yes.”
“Would you consider him a friend?”
“Yes. They were all my friends.” Miguel knew he should be looking Armada square in the eye to say that. But he couldn’t. He didn’t want Armada to see his tears. He was so nervous that he couldn’t stop shaking.
“Really? From what I’ve been told so far, Amparo was quite an abrasive man,” Armada said. “Cruel to everyone. Constantly provoking others into fights and such. He even accused you of being a morisco. And yet, you were friends with him?”
Miguel felt trapped. He wished Jose were there to tell him what to do. The warm trail of a tear made its way down his left cheek and Miguel turned away to wipe it away so the man couldn’t see. He could hear his father’s scolding voice in his head so clearly, accusing him of being a liar and behaving like a baby.
“What about this Francesca? Jose mentioned her in his testimony. He said Amparo may have soured you in her eyes. It’s why you attacked him, was it not?”
“Yes,” Miguel whispered.
“But that should have been it. You don’t have a violent past, Miguel. I’m betting it takes a lot to get you angry. And once you are angry, it doesn’t last long, does it? It becomes embarrassment, shame even. Is that what you felt after you hit Amparo?”
Miguel felt like this man could read his thoughts and it was making him uncomfortable. Was Armada an angel, perhaps? Or using some kind of dark magic to see into his soul? Miguel remembered that feeling a few hours after he’d hit Amparo. He’d wanted so much to beg forgiveness. From Amparo, from God, from his mother.
“The men described you as dumb, Miguel. A child in an adult body. A body that bears resemblance to someone with Moorish blood. All of which tells me you must have encountered men like
Amparo before in your life. So much taunting, so many fights. You’ve endured a lot, haven’t you?”
Miguel kept his back to Armada, just to be safe. He could feel years of frustration about to pour out of him. This man understood. He understood it all. Miguel had never met someone like him before. Not even his mother knew the full extent of what he’d been through.
“But you survived it,” Armada said. “You never let it break you. You never let your anger make you bitter, or twist your morals, or use it to justify mistreating other people. You follow the law. You are loyal to your family. You don’t give in to vice. Jose considered you one of his best workers. I’ve met a lot of men with a history like yours, Miguel, and rarely do they turn out as good as you. Which is why I can’t understand what was so special about Amparo. Why kill him and never anyone else before?”
Miguel knew he should have had an answer. Armada deserved one. But Jose’s words still rang in his ears.
Say nothing, Jose had told Miguel the day after they’d imprisoned him. Not to anybody who comes in here. They will only use it against you. Only I can protect you.
So Miguel had kept silent. But it wasn’t easy. He wanted to please this man. But he wanted to follow Jose’s advice more. Jose would never let him down. Not a man like that.
“I’m sorry, Miguel. I know this is overwhelming,” Armada said. “Murder cases always are. I’ll make you a deal. Answer me just one more question and I will leave you in peace. Can you do that? It’s a very simple one, really. I promise.”
“Yes… …” Miguel said, trying to swallow his sobs.
“Who told you not to answer my questions?”
Miguel suddenly felt cold and began to shiver. He only wished he could be released from this room, just for a moment. He pictured himself running toward the ocean and diving in, swimming out as far as he could, beyond where he could see the land. And he would swim until he either reached the other side of the Mediterranean, or drowned in the attempt.
Domingo Armada Omnibus Page 3
