Down: Trilogy Box Set

by Glenn Cooper

  “I may consider doing as you ask,” she said. “However, I would need to know more. You will dine with me tonight.”

  “Both of us?” Brian asked hopefully.

  Guomez didn’t have to translate her response but he did, “No, just you.”

  26

  The arrival of the steam cars provided an opportunity that Garibaldi seized upon. He had worried that Pedro would misinterpret his arrival on Iberian soil with a fighting force as an act of aggression. The cars allowed him to rapidly send an emissary ahead. He tapped Caravaggio to be his agent to smooth relations. Simon volunteered to drive one of the cars and a twentieth-century Italian named Alfonso received a lesson in its operation and drove the other. The rest of the delegation was comprised of trusted soldiers for protection against bandits, rovers, and hostile Iberians.

  With Burgos in sight, Caravaggio tied white flags to muskets in each car. They chugged into the city where they received a decidedly unfriendly welcome from Iberian troops who surrounded and disarmed them and seized the vehicles. Caravaggio maintained a cooperative and friendly demeanor during the ordeal and persuaded Simon to do the same.

  A captain was summoned from a nearby barracks. Caravaggio’s Spanish and the captain’s Italian weren’t adequate for communication but they discovered both spoke enough French to get by.

  “I don’t understand,” the captain said. “Do you represent the king of Francia or the king of Italia?”

  “Both,” Caravaggio replied with a charming grin. “Because they are one in the same, King Giuseppe.”

  The captain eagerly listened to all the gory details of Garibaldi’s and Forneau’s coup d’état then slapped the artist on the back, declared that he liked his new Italian friend and that he would see if he could arrange an audience at the palace.

  Garibaldi heard the steam cars approaching from the Iberian side of the border before he saw them. By the time Simon pulled into the Italian campsite, everyone had assembled to greet the returning delegation. John, Emily, and all of the Earthers crowded around to listen.

  Caravaggio jumped out and embraced Garibaldi, telling him their mission had been successful. King Pedro had been convinced of the merits of a discussion on an alliance and had sent word to his military commanders to give the Italian mission safe passage to proceed to Burgos.

  Caravaggio said, “He seemed quite interested in learning the details of your rise to power in Italia and Francia. He was impressed but also a bit concerned, I would say.”

  “He has every reason to be concerned,” Garibaldi said. “Pedro is a tyrant. I have no love for tyrants.”

  Emily was chomping at the bit. “Did you ask about my sister?”

  “I tried to raise the matter,” Caravaggio said. “However, my audience with the king was brief and he deflected my question. So I really don’t know.”

  John wanted to know if he’d seen or heard about Trevor and Brian.

  “Again, no,” Caravaggio said. “I had occasion to speak with the Duke of Aragon, a man who dresses like a colorful bird, and I inquired if there were any living people at his court. He asked me if I had gone mad.”

  John comforted Emily and said, “We’ll get in there and we’ll get the truth. If she’s in Burgos we’ll find her.”

  Simon sought out Alice and snuck around to tap her on the shoulder. She jumped.

  “I got you a present,” he said.

  She seemed pleased. “You did?”

  From behind his back he produced a small bouquet of wilted purple and yellow flowers.

  “Spanish flowers. Picked them myself.”

  “They’re lovely. I was worried about you. Everyone was saying how brave you were to volunteer.”

  “Someone had to drive the bloody car. Caravaggio can paint and draw and charm the ladies but he can’t fire up a boiler.”

  “The world needs all sorts. Without tradesmen like us, where would the artists be?”

  “My thoughts precisely,” he said.

  “I saved you some supper.”

  “I’m starving,” he said, patting his belly. “The Italian grub’s better than the Spanish. Yet another reason for supporting the aspirations of our Giuseppe.”

  Pedro was in a fury.

  No sooner had Caravaggio and the Italian delegation withdrawn from his court than the Duke of Aragon informed him that Queen Mécia had arrived from Bilbao with a large retinue.

  “She just comes here?” Pedro shouted. “Without being summoned? How dare she. She knows this is a violation of our protocols.”

  Their protocols, hammered out almost a century earlier after interminable negotiations with royal intermediaries, detailed the separation of royal households and the means by which the king and queen communicated with one another. That communication had always been sparse and mainly limited to matters of military cooperation. The queen commanded her own militia and from time to time, Pedro requested her assistance in mounting a war or defending against invaders, always with payments and quid pro quos involved. In his recent defeat at sea at the hands of the English, Pedro had negotiated for the use of twenty of her galleons and hundreds of soldiers and mariners. However, he truly hated the sight of her, and her spontaneous appearance without prior notice and agreement was an affront. Besides, he had other matters on his mind. The invading Moors were making alarming progress in the south and although the Duke of Madrid had assured him his army would vanquish them on the field, the deed had not yet been fulfilled. Furthermore, a power-hungry Italian was coming to negotiate and undoubtedly try to take advantage of him, and his mind was possessed by a captivating live woman who was forcing him by dint of sheer personality and charm to become an ordinary, weak-kneed suitor, rather than a king who took what he wanted.

  “The queen’s people are saying she comes on a matter of great importance,” Aragon said. “The message is enigmatic but it is this: she has something for you and will ask for something in return. She awaits your summons in her caravan.”

  Out of petulance and spite, Pedro kept her waiting for several hours. Then he finally received her in his throne room with the full complement of his nobledom assembled in the chamber for maximal, intimidating effect. Though it was a warm day he wore his fur-lined robe and the heavy and uncomfortable gold crown he rarely used.

  When she entered, he hardly looked at her, his animosity too great. It was two of her companions who caught his eye, a dark-skinned and a light-skinned man who both exuded a certain defiance and lack of submissiveness he had only seen once before in Hell.

  The queen bowed ever so slightly and gestured to the empty throne beside him that protocol dictated she be allowed to sit there in his presence. He nodded and she took her place.

  He addressed her looking out at the assembly and she replied in a similar, stilted manner.

  “Why have you come to my court, absent official notice?”

  “I take no pleasure in the visit,” she answered in Spanish. “I come on a matter of great mutual interest.”

  “Does it involve these strangers I see before me?”

  “It does.”

  “Come forward,” Pedro commanded and when Trevor and Brian didn’t respond the queen informed him that they spoke only English. She offered Felipe Guomez as a translator but Pedro called for Garsea Manrique to come forward instead. The small man scampered through the assembly and obediently began his assignment.

  “The king bids you to approach his person,” he told Brian and Trevor.

  “Sure thing,” Trevor said. They came within several feet of the throne before Aragon held up his hand, told them to halt and asked whether they possessed any weapons.

  “None,” Brian answered.

  Pedro tilted his head from side to side and asked, “Are you living?”

  “We are,” Trevor said.

  “How many more of your ilk are there?” the king asked.

  “I’m not sure of the exact number,” Trevor said. “Four of us came over together. There’s another group of four and
possibly another group of eight. But I think you know about one of them already. Her name is Arabel Loughty and we think she’s here.”

  Pedro listened to the translation, visibly bristling at the last two sentences.

  The king told Manrique, “Tell him I know nothing about this woman.”

  When Trevor replied that he didn’t believe him, Pedro became incandescent and ranted for a full minute, his neck veins bulging, until Manrique inquired whether he wished him to attempt to translate the tirade.

  The queen interjected that translation was not necessary and said, “Now Pedro. I have heard about the arrival of this woman in your court. There is no need to pretend otherwise. These two men cannot force you to show her to them. They wish to bargain with you.”

  Pedro looked at her for the first time. “What kind of bargain?”

  “They have brought from Earth a wondrous book which contains all the recipes for making giant bombs with which to vanquish your enemies. Iberia is vulnerable. You made it so with the defeat of your armada. The Moors are rampaging. For the sake of your kingdom and mine, you need to possess this book. They will trade it for the woman.”

  “Where is this book?” he asked.

  “It is safe with me.”

  “Why don’t you just give it to me and I will slit their throats?”

  “What’s he saying?” Trevor whispered to Brian.

  “Doubt it’s friendly.”

  The queen replied that she had given them her word they would be safe.

  The king smirked. “Break your word.”

  “I will not do so.”

  “Maybe I should slit your throat,” he said, smiling brightly at the thought.

  “You won’t do that for the reason you have not already done so. You need my army. If you destroy me, you’ll have an internal war on your hands and if that happens, Iberia falls to its enemies. Let them see the woman. You may have one of your people examine the book. If both sides agree, we will strike a deal.”

  Brian and Trevor were taken to the wing of the palace allocated to the queen and her extensive entourage. Their room wasn’t locked but Pedro’s soldiers were stationed in the corridor. They ate some fruit and sampled a flagon of wine left by their beds.

  “What do you think he’s going to do?” Trevor asked.

  “He’s going to let us see Arabel,” Brian said. “After that it’s going to depend on how much he likes the book. I reckon there’s a deal to be done.”

  “There’d better be. I don’t see a Plan B taking shape.”

  “Me neither. Don’t fancy the odds of using force. Two of us versus thousands of Spaniards.”

  “Why’s the queen going to the mat for us?” Trevor asked.

  Brian grinned. “Like I said, we had a productive dinner the other night.”

  “You haven’t come clean with me,” Trevor said. “Tell me you didn’t sleep with her.”

  “A gentleman never tells.”

  “Jesus, Brian! She’s dead. You slept with a dead woman?”

  He offered up an insouciant shrug. “She looks a lot like my first wife, Gloria. I fancied Gloria before I stopped fancying her and that’s all I’m going to say about it. Toss me another bunch of grapes, will you?”

  Jugurtha, King of Numidia, proudly sat on his huge horse surveying the grassy plain. In the distance, to the north, the city of Madrid showed itself by the smoke of its wood fires. Between him and the city, a force of Iberians spread out in defensive formations, with cavalry at the front, archers behind, infantry to the rear, and light artillery at the flanks. The Duke of Madrid rode back and forth in front of his lines but all Jugurtha could see from his vantage point was a plumed helmet bouncing up and down.

  Jugurtha’s principal commanders, all high-born men from Berber and North African tribes, caught up with him and sought his instructions.

  “The hour is upon us,” the king said. “Today Madrid, tomorrow Burgos. When we have sucked Iberia dry and gotten fat from its riches, we will feast on the rest of Europa. Are the men ready?”

  Tariq, his Libyan commander, replied that the men were excited to do battle. Jugurtha turned to admire the endless sea of polished shields.

  “They will try to punch holes in our lines with cannon fire,” Jugurtha said.

  Tariq laughed. “I was not so sure our maneuver would work but it has. The enemy marched from Madrid to face us without any awareness of our forces flanking them to the east and west.”

  “It is time to grind their bones to dust,” the king said. He called for a man to hand him his bow then lit an arrow wrapped in an oil-soaked cloth and launched it high into the air toward the Iberian line.

  Before the flaming arrow touched the ground, his Moorish cannon, concealed in the high grasses outflanking the Iberian forces, fired their opening salvos and the air turned black with a lethal hail of Moorish arrows.

  The Duke of Madrid’s plume soon disappeared from sight.

  27

  When they were ten miles from Burgos, the Duke of Aragon and a hundred members of Pedro’s royal guard personally met the Italian expedition. It was an escort arranged during Caravaggio’s visit to the palace so there was a sense of caution among the Italians but no feeling of menace.

  Garibaldi met the duke and invited him to ride with him in a steam car but Aragon politely refused, eyeing the machine with enormous suspicion.

  “Is there an animal inside it?” he asked in his excellent Italian.

  “You don’t have these?” Garibaldi asked.

  “We do not, nor would we wish to possess something that assaults the ears and disturbs the senses.”

  “Well, they are useful machines,” Garibaldi said. “If we conclude an alliance, I’ll give King Pedro one of them as a gift.”

  “I am quite sure he will accept it though I do not believe he will wish to travel inside. He has many fine horses and carriages.”

  “You have left your siege weapons at the border?” the duke asked the king.

  “We have brought a single cannon, another gift for Pedro. I assure you, we come in peace.”

  “We have many cannon, Your Majesty,” Aragon said.

  “None like this,” Garibaldi said. “This one sings.”

  Before they entered the walled city of Burgos through its northern gate, Caravaggio reminded Garibaldi that it was time to take his dose of penicillin tea. The king gulped it and made a face.

  “Our welcoming party,” Garibaldi said, pointing to the top of the thick, stone walls.

  On its battlements, Iberian archers and artillerymen peered down on them, weapons at the ready. The Italian train of steam cars, horses, and wagons snaked through the narrow streets. Curious residents hung out their windows and stood on roofs to watch the spectacle. The Italian soldiers nervously watched for any sign of an ambush but they rode unimpeded to the plaza of the royal palace where Aragon instructed a camp be erected for the ordinary soldiers.

  “You and your ranking officers will stay inside the palace, of course,” the duke told Garibaldi when Simon had quieted the boiler. “There will be a welcome dinner tonight, hosted by his majesty.”

  “I have something to tell you,” Garibaldi said to the curious Aragon. “I have some interesting members of my party. They are not soldiers. They are not Italians. In fact, they are not from Hell.”

  Aragon followed Garibaldi to one of the covered wagons and when the old king pulled the flap back, John and the Earthers began to climb down.

  Garibaldi studied Aragon’s face and seemed perplexed at his impassivity.

  “Alive,” Aragon said, bouncing his finger in the air, counting heads. “Seven living souls.”

  “You don’t seem surprised,” Garibaldi said.

  “Why should I be? It is becoming an everyday occurrence. We already have such persons staying at his majesty’s court.”

  “Two men and a woman?”

  The duke nodded. “I could not tell this to your envoy, Signore Caravaggio, but now I am able.”

&
nbsp; Garibaldi turned to the Earthers. “John and Emily,” he said in English. “I have good news for you.”

  The reunion took place in a formal room at the palace. John and Emily stood at the ready; Martin, Tony, Alice, Tracy, and Charlie sat on cushioned settees. As each minute passed the tension mounted until the doors finally opened.

  Brian came out first, sporting a bright smile. Trevor and Arabel entered together, holding hands and when Arabel saw her sister she ran for her. The two women embraced and wept on each other’s shoulders.

  “You made it,” John told the men.

  “’Course we did,” Brian said, pumping his hand. “Never a doubt.”

  “We made a pretty good team,” Trevor said, giving John a bear hug.

  “I expect you’ve got a few stories to tell,” John said.

  Trevor nodded. “I expect you do too. Why are you here? You were supposed to get the kids.”

  “Complicated story but we needed help. Garibaldi had to strengthen his hand with the Iberians before taking on the Germans and Russians. I expect Arabel was happy to see you.”

  “Happy’s not the word. She’s had a rough time but she’s a survivor.”

  “Runs in the family,” John said.

  “She’s gutted over her kids.”

  “I’m sure she is.”

  Trevor gestured at the others. “Tell me those aren’t the South Ockendon lot.”

  “What’s left of them. They’ve had a tough time too. Let me introduce you.”

  Emily and Arabel retreated to a sofa to be alone with one another.

  “You came for me,” Arabel said, reaching for Emily’s hands. “You actually returned to this horrid place.”

  “I had to find you. It was never a question.”

  “Sam and Belle.” She choked on their names. “Do you know where they are?”

  “They’re in Germany. We know where.”

  “Then why did you come for me?” she cried. “They’re the ones you need to save.”

  “We’re going to get them,” Emily said. “We’ll all go together. Then we’re going home.”