The Apostates

by Lars Teeney

  “¡Amigos! ¿quieres comer pronto? (Friends! will you be requiring any need for a meal sometime soon?)” Friar Benedict was concerned for the welfare of the Friars, but mostly asked out of the hunger he felt. He was perched on his wagon and kept glancing back at the stock of salted pork, plantains, and potatoes in the bed of the wagon.

  “¡No! Gracias, Benedict. Eso no será necesario en este punto. En primer, lugar debemos tender a nuestra situación actual. (No! Thank you, Benedict. That will not be necessary at this point. We must first tend to our current situation,)” Carafa corrected him. He looked through his gun scope toward the main gate of the town. He saw that there was activity around the gate. An ancient car drove out of the gates, old even by Twenty-first century standards. The word “Volkswagen” was blazoned in white on the front fender on a gray vehicle. It struggled along the rough pavement, following the old highway out of town toward the Order’s position. Carafa could make out through the scope that four people sat inside the vehicle. One was the driver, who wore a wide-brimmed, straw hat. The two in the back were men armed with assault rifles. The one who rode in the front passenger seat was a woman. She was wearing a black, floppy brimmed, sun hat, and a white, puffy-sleeved, button up blouse. Her sunglasses and red lips piqued Monsignor Carafa’s interest. Who was this that came his way, dressed so vamp-like?

  After some time of silent observation of the car, it reached their position. The car’s worn brakes screeched to a stop and the driver jumped out. He ran around to the passenger side and opened the door for the mysterious woman. She dropped one nylon-clad leg out of the car, which grabbed the attention of all the male Friars. Friar Francis was not fazed. The woman swayed over toward the awaiting Order members. She was well-endowed with womanly charms and knew how to walk to attract attention. She pulled off her black gloves, one at a time, then removed her sunglasses, she was clearly of Zambo descent, but her eyes were electrically-charged hazel. She stopped in front of Monsignor Carafa’s gelding, looking it up and down.

  “What a beautiful specimen. It is a shame that the beast is castrated, though!” the woman exclaimed with a barbed tone, in English.

  “I would not underestimate my mount, Miss, he may lack certain essential anatomy, but he makes up for it by descending from the finest war horse stock the Old World had to offer,” Monsignor Carafa recited confidently.

  “I wasn’t talking about your horse, sir,” the woman said coyly.

  “Miss, I assure you—” Monsignor Carafa was slightly unnerved. He did not expect the woman to outright insult his masculinity. She did not allow him to finish either.

  “I mean to say, a solid man such as yourself, bound to such a rigid moral system as this. It truly does limit a man’s...uses,” the woman stated, stroking the mane of his gelding mount.

  “To be a member of the Societatum Pentagram is among the highest honors a human could possibly hope to have on this mortal coil. I assure you, we do the Lord’s work and bear Christ’s wounds!” Monsignor Carafa trotted his horse around the woman, in an attempt to intimidate her. One of her bodyguards aimed at the Monsignor’s horse. The woman waved for the bodyguard to stand down.

  “Oooh! You don’t say? I was known to have been a good, Catholic girl in my day,” the woman mocked him.

  “It is no laughing matter. The Order has swept aside all opposition to the north of your fair city. We have forged a kingdom in the Lord’s image, and it grows to your borders,” Carafa threatened.

  “Yes, I have heard of your exploits. Well, priest, I can see that you are devoted to otherworldly powers, however, my “church” is within a more worldly domain. You see, a priest is only interested in the afterlife and is little better to me than a gelding is to a mare,” she informed him, with a sideways glance. It was intense and purposeful.

  Carafa looked at the woman from atop his horse for a time. His poker face was stern, but his eyes spoke volumes. He surmised that she offered an alliance, albeit one that would test his moral standing. But, to Carafa, it had to have been part of God’s plan. Surely the Lord’s top priority was to destroy the Apostates? Perhaps he would play this woman’s game. But first, he did not even know her name.

  “If I am to treat with you, woman, perhaps introductions are in order?” Carafa suggested. He dismounted his horse. When he did the full effect of his height was apparent next to the medium-sized woman.

  “Well, priest, I am Manuela Noriega: head of the Noriega Family of La Chorrera, Panama. We, along with other prominent families, oversee the traffic on the Panama Strait. The fortress you see is something that we have constructed. It is Fortress Noriega, and it commands who comes and goes through the Strait.” Manuela gestured to the monolithic structure that towered over the town.

  “Manuela, interesting. Your name says it all. “God is with us”. At any rate, I am Monsignor Pietro Carafa of the Societatum Pentagram. I am the wielder of the Spear of Destiny, and The Spear Wound of Christ!” He lit up the plasma blade on the end of his spear and flashed the stigmata-like wound on his palm to show her that he was zealous.

  “A man of passion. No one can deny that.” Manuela looked him up and down, seemingly trying to decide if she liked his Order garb or not.

  “Yes indeed. These are my Friars of the Order. They round out the other Four Wounds of Christ. And this is the Order militia.” He gestured to his band of peasants and farmhands.

  “I see. You have definitely come here well-protected, but you did not come with a force capable of taking our fort. That is why I came out from the town to meet you. So, I assume that you have come for another reason. This is what I am curious about.” Manuela was observant and proved herself adept at military matters, as well as flirtation.

  “My lady, a great fleet of—criminals are sailing for the Strait of Panama as we speak. I have been tasked by allies further north and by God to stop these criminals from fulfilling their plan,” Carafa explained.

  “Ah, I think I understand. You lack ships, and so you have come to the one choke point that you can use to stop their fleet,” Manuela extrapolated.

  “Yes, very keen. It is true: I do not have ships. It is also true that our only chance is to stop them here, at the entrance to the Strait,” Carafa confirmed reluctantly. He did not like to show his hand like that.

  “You all must be weary from your long journey. On behalf of the Families of La Chorrera, I shall invite your group into the city. Of course, your army will have to camp outside the fort, but we will assist with provisions. We can talk further in the town hall.” Manuela winked at Carafa and turned to get back into her old Volkswagen, Kübelwagen. The driver closed her door and then turned the rusty, gray car around and sped off toward the town gate.

  “Friars! Please relay the general order to your companies to advance and pitch camp at Fort Noriega!” Carafa passed along the order, and jumped back onto his gelding. The Friars rode off to their respective arms of the militia to give orders. The confrontation with the Oligarchs had gone smoother than Carafa had expected. He was pleased and looked forward to getting settled inside La Chorrera. Monsignor Carafa willed his gelding forward.

  “Maybe I should ride a stallion?” he thought briefly, then rode through the town gate.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Friars’ Francis, Leo, and Pius rode their geldings at a steady trot along the old, cobblestone streets. The buildings of the old quarter of town were weathered and built in a Spanish-Colonial style. Although they were regularly painted in the bright, original colors of their hay-day, the molding and detail of stone ornamentation had long eroded away. On the outskirts of the old quarter were stately houses that were owned by the Oligarchs of the city. Further away from the town center were typical shanty structures. The Order was inspecting the old town, followed by Fort Noriega. Friar Francis looked out beyond several blocks of buildings toward the waters of the Panama Strait. She noticed that if a ship sailed up into these waters it would have free reign to fire on the city. The Friars rode through a bust
ling market. The produce and goods of the region were laid out in stalls for the people to peruse. Finely-weaved baskets contained massive quantities of coffee, coconut, plantains, potatoes, corn, and rice, among others. There was also a sizable spice market, of an old world variety that were suitable to the climate. Along with the perishable goods, was an arms bazaar. Small arms of almost every make and model from the last three hundred years could be found within: from assault rifle to bolt action, Russian to American-made. Potential buyers approached stalls and checked the sights of the various weapons. Cartel members moved freely here. The Friars passed several on their way through the bazaar. They did not fail to notice the nasty looks shot their way from cartel members that fled south to La Chorrera to escape the Order onslaught. For now they were under a cease-fire agreement while in the town.

  The Friars continued down a road that lead out of town to the south for about half a mile. It led to the roughly-constructed, but thoroughly-solid fort. The fort was laid out in a hexagonal shape so that there was a wall of artillery facing the enemy from any direction. As the Friars drew closer to the fort they could make out the many howitzer gun emplacements around the parapet and lower levels. The Friars came upon a guarded gatehouse, which had already received word to let the Friars into the fort. They rode through the gatehouse and into the fortress courtyard. Men and boys scrambled around on various errands: some moved food and provisions, others drove ox teams hauling wagonloads of shells and ammunition. The Friars could see that the fort was well armed and provisioned. The men seemed to be in good spirits but looked to be ill-trained.

  They continued traveling through the fort and out the rear gate. The path led down to a marina where maroon-stained, rusted-hull, vessels were moored. These ships were trawlers that looked barely able to float. The Friars approached the docks where the vessels rested.

  “It looks like we have found ships for Monsignor Carafa. He will need to know about this area,” Friar Francis stated.

  “Do you think there are enough?” Friar Leo asked.

  “Yes, these ships look like they will do the trick,” Friar Pius observed, “Tell Friar Benedict that his services will be needed, soon,”

  “Let us return to the Monsignor, he will be pleased to hear this information. Hopefully, he will be able to negotiate for their use,” Friar Francis stated through the fabric of her veil.

  The Friars galloped back toward the fortress from the docks full of rustic hulks. The gatehouses opened to let the mounted knights through, and they headed toward the center of town where Monsignor Carafa had been received at the Town Hall.

  ⍟ ⍟ ⍟

  Monsignor Carafa moved through the front entrance of the plain-looking, cinderblock and plaster structure. From the outside, the structure was very Spartan: fairly rectangular and without frills. It had been painted white and on the front of the building above the porch was the phrase “Municipio de La Chorrera”, painting in big, black, block letters. Monsignor Carafa felt underwhelmed with the state building. He had always made his seat of power in the medieval Spanish cathedrals that were woven into the fabric of Latin America. The cathedrals in all their splendor had always added credence to his claim of divine ordainment.

  When Carafa passed through the threshold of the building he was not prepared for the opulence of the interior, which was in stark contrast to the outside. He could clearly see where the budget was expended for the town hall. The foyer was painted a deep burgundy color, with flocked wallpaper strips that occurred in ordered regularity along the walls. The furniture looked to be antique with ornate, dark-stained wood and black upholstery. Grand staircases, lined with white marble, with dark gray veins, rose up to the second level and flanked the double doors that lead to a huge, gala hall. A porter approached Monsignor Carafa and gestured for him to follow his lead into the gala hall. Monsignor Carafa gazed at the carved relief ceiling that filled the area overhead. He could make out scenes from western mythology depicted with intricate detail in the reliefs.

  Carafa approached a large, wooden table that supported a variety of refreshments and grazing foods. A round platter of tostones was laid out, fried to perfection and golden brown. It was accompanied with a mojito, garlic dipping sauce. Bollos: corn dough wrapped in warm plantain leaves, sat stacked in a pyramid. Another platter supported a pile of Carimañola, which were a type of yucca fritter, stuffed with cheese and spiced ground beef. A variety of fruit juices and alcoholic drinks were also served. Carafa poured himself some coconut milk and sipped out of a metal goblet. He also downed a couple of tostones while he waited. He stared at a stately portrait of a man in full dress uniform with medals pinned to his breast. He had a round face, and it was deeply pockmarked. Carafa walked over to glance at the golden plaque below the portrait. It read: “Manuel Noriega”. Carafa reasoned that this was some great war leader ancestor to Manuela.

  “Monsignor Carafa! So glad you could join me at my humble residence! Care for a drink?” Manuela picked up a crystal carafe of red wine and poured herself a chalice-full, wafting the aroma toward her nose.

  “No thank you, my lady. I do not partake in the consumption of alcohol. But, I thank you for you hospitality,” Monsignor politely declined, but something deep inside him did crave a drink. He suppressed the urge with zealous faith in God.

  “My lady, it makes me glad that our two organizations could avert a fight and work together for a common goal. I am sure any arrangement we can agree upon will be mutually beneficial,” Carafa stated, sounding overly officious.

  “Pietro, my dear, we cannot skip pleasantries and jump directly into business. Don’t be such a killjoy.” She walked around the side of him with a drink in hand, brushing a fingertip lightly around his chest and shoulder. He nearly recoiled because he was not used to the wanton touch of a woman, but something about it was pleasantly comforting to him. It was a touch that blunted his red, hot passion for violence.

  “Well, what did you have in mind, Manuela? I am not accustomed to pleasantries,” Carafa confessed to her in a calm voice.

  “I, on the other hand, am very fond of pleasures. In fact, so are all the leading families of La Chorrera. We thrive on the finer things in life,” Manuela explained between sips of wine.

  “Yes, it is apparent that vice and worldly desires run rampant here,” Carafa retorted, washing down a bit of tostone with water.

  “Yes, Carafa. There is a balance at play here. A delicate economy has developed in the region over last hundred years. It is a vast, interconnected economy, stretching far to the south, and all the way to the gates of New Megiddo in the north, and beyond. It relies on certain players and locations remaining intact.” Manuela finished the last of her wine and approached the platter of Carimañola. She picked one up and lightly nibbled at the end.

  “Yes, I gleaned that much, Manuela. As you can see my Order has conquered a large swath of Central America. I have been put on earth to reconnect these continents to the Catholic faith: a Kingdom of the Lord on Earth. I plan to advance south with my armies, further still,” Monsignor Carafa exclaimed to her with great confidence.

  “Pietro, my family would never dare stand in the way of your progress. I think what you and the Order are doing could be of great benefit for the disparaging lands of Latin America. A unified empire could provide stability and wealth beyond measure.” Manuela’s eyes lit up at the thought of all the potential wealth.

  “As you know, Manuela, my Order is locked in a war of conquest against cartel-held lands. We will liberate these lands in the name of Jesus. Nothing will change that,” Carafa said sternly, with arms crossed.

  “Oh yes! Pietro, I am in agreement with you. The cartels have grown too bold for their own good. They stand to be taken down a notch. They prey on the defenseless towns and villages of the region and it must stop. But...” Manuela paused mid-sentence leaving Carafa in suspense.

  “But, what?” Carafa asked, anxiously.

  “But, your crusade against the cartels has been
severing vital smuggling routes; routes that have been long-standing. If they are all cut the entire economy collapses, and we risk incurring the wrath of stronger, richer powers beyond that of the cartels,” she warned.

  “What? New Megiddo? They are planning for their Evangelical Rapture to occur very soon. They will not be a factor,” Carafa scoffed at her warning.

  “The Church and the Regime may go up in smoke, but that does not mean the hydra will have died despite the loss of the head. There is a deeply entrenched ruling class that cares little who proclaims to run things so long as their interests are left intact. Prohibition is good for business, but if you systematically dismantle the apparatus of distribution the true nature of things shall become apparent.” Manuela was deadly serious now. Her inviting smile was gone and warmness drained away momentarily.

  “Well then, what would you propose, since you fear these shadows so much?” Carafa asked intently, with a crooked smile.

  “Pietro, I propose that you leave the Noriega family and our business partners in place, free to conduct our business as before. Also, we need smuggling routes left intact, including routes previously severed. If you entrust me as chief liaison to the cartels under your new Regime, I can promise you that I can keep the cartels away from territorial ambitions.” Manuela knew how to lay out her terms in a concise manner.

  “What you ask me to do his contrary to what my campaign goals are. What guarantee do I have that the cartels that I have defeated will not regroup and retaliate when the Order’s defenses are down?” Carafa asked, being skeptical.

  “Pietro, my dear, most of the members of the cartel that attacked the towns and conquered territories were rogue elements acting on their own. The families that finance the cartels are within my social strata. I can assure you, they only care about the distribution of product—not statehood.” Manuela certainly had a convincing argument. Any short-term arrangement could always be broken by the Order if he felt the need to remove the Noriega clan from power.