The Lords of Time

by Eva García Sáenz

  12

  LA ROMANA INN

  DIAGO VELA

  Winter, the Year of Our Lord 1192

  Fascinated, Onneca walked over to the magnificent golden mare.

  “I’ve never seen such a beautiful animal. How did she get to Victoria?”

  “I breed these horses in the lands of the Almohads. I had Olbia brought here as a wedding gift, but I couldn’t give her to you on the day of your father’s burial. I awoke at hora prima and your bed was already cold, so I guessed that you were trying out the skates Cousin Gunnarr gave you.”

  “Olbia…” whispered Onneca, stroking the mare’s glistening mane with an air of respect.

  Nagorno smiled with satisfaction. Until then I hadn’t considered what brought them together, other than a convenient marriage.

  “There’s a story as well,” Nagorno continued, in his most seductive voice. “Do you remember the Scythian colony Herodotus mentions in that chronicle I gave you? It wasn’t just a city. Olbia was the name of an Amazon, like you, my lady. She was a bloodthirsty leader. She used a small bow when she galloped into war, and she also wielded a whip and an acinakes, the curved sword of the Scythians.”

  “Don’t get so excited about the idea of war, Brother,” I interrupted him. “Onneca won’t have any need to brandish a sword.”

  “She doesn’t look very much like our northern horses,” said Onneca, ignoring my comment.

  “She’s an Argamak. They have been bred in the remote lands of the Turks since before the coming of Christ. This one is a direct descendant of Alexander the Great’s horse.”

  “Of Bucephalus?”

  “That’s right,” replied Nagorno proudly. “She’s yours now. If you like, ride her back to Victoria; I’ll follow on foot.”

  “We could both ride her.”

  “Take a good look. She is nothing like the other steeds in Victoria. She’s a queen and should be treated with the respect she is owed, thanks to her lineage.” Nagorno shot me a sideways glance. A silent warning.

  I nodded. Why deny it?

  “I’m on my way to La Romana Inn,” I said.

  “Going whoring, brother? Are you so starved for affection?”

  I smiled but said nothing. I needed answers, so I had set up a meeting with one of the few older relatives I trusted with my life. In fact, I had often put my fate in his hands.

  Onneca was also waiting for my reply, but to no avail.

  “I’ll find you in the council chamber later, Nagorno. I’ve summoned the notary, and the mayor and several others will attest to the fact that I am still drawing breath. Today, I will recover the title that you took such care of in my absence…and God knows how grateful I am to you for it.”

  “My beloved sister-in-law.” I saluted her, lowering my head. Then I adjusted my hose and headed north across a path of virgin snow.

  * * *

  —

  La Romana was a stopping place for pilgrims from Guipúzcoa, Aquitaine, and Navarre who were traveling to Santiago. The inn also catered to those interested in less charitable but more lucrative activities. As a result, it had changed hands several times. Arguments sometimes grew violent, and not even the innkeeper was safe from a furtive stabbing.

  I had outlawed prostitution in Victoria before I left on my mission for the king, so I presumed a warm reception was not awaiting me.

  I walked past the stables, where a peasant was seeking relief leaning against the wall, an obese girl on her knees in front of him. Apparently he was in too much of a hurry to wait until they reached the bedrooms.

  Inside the inn, a woman with no nose and a receding chin was cleaning tables.

  “Wine?” she asked, barely glancing at me.

  “I’m expecting an old friend. Is anyone upstairs waiting for me?”

  “Go on up, he’s paid already.”

  “So be it. Leave us alone for a time. Although…perhaps you could help me. Do you know where I could find some Spanish fly?”

  The woman continued scrubbing the table, possibly with even more energy.

  “I think you’re mistaken. Here we provide only good food and drink. You are Count Don Vela, aren’t you? The resuscitated?”

  “To be that I would have to have died first,” I repeated for the hundredth time. “But since you know who I am, I shall rephrase my question: Has my brother visited you recently?”

  The innkeeper looked the other way, biting her lip. Had Nagorno threatened her?

  “I’ll make it easy for you. My brother comes here every Friday, and he always takes three girls upstairs. He pays you handsomely. Has he ever asked you for Spanish fly?”

  “If what my sisters tell me is true, your brother is a man who doesn’t need it. Do you know if he’ll be back to see us now that he’s a respectable married man?”

  “Don’t worry, he’s a gentleman of habit.”

  Nagorno had a long tradition of worshiping the goddess Venus with three women. Three was a sacred number to him. He had a pagan soul. And, like the person writing these lines, Nagorno clung to his rituals like ice to a tree trunk.

  I climbed the stairs, my hand on the dagger at my belt. I clasped the hilt as I knocked on the door. The floorboards creaked, and I could hear rapid footsteps coming my way. I stepped back a little as the door opened.

  “Diago!” exclaimed my cousin Héctor. Before even letting me through the door, he embraced me warmly. I returned his affection.

  “I knew you weren’t dead. But if you had taken any longer to reappear, I would have gone in search of you.”

  “I know.”

  Héctor Dicastillo was the lord of one of the villages to the south of Victoria. The ties between our families went back a long way. Unlike many of the other nobles, Héctor was content to live quietly in his small castle in Castillo. He had no wish to move to Victoria.

  “Have you brought what I asked?” I urged.

  “Yes, but you’ll have to tell me what is going on and why you didn’t want to meet in town.”

  “I didn’t want you to encounter Nagorno before I told you what has transpired.”

  “I want you to know that I didn’t go to the wedding ceremony out of respect for you. The woman you were betrothed to—”

  I interrupted him. “That’s in the past. She is his wife now. I asked you to meet me in this out-of-the-way place because I want you to tell me whether this letter from King Sancho is a forgery.”

  I handed him the document, and he took a couple of scrolls out of his bag, saying, “These are royal letters establishing the imposts and other taxes on the inhabitants of Castillo.”

  “Is my letter written by the same hand?”

  Héctor unrolled his papers on the straw mattress. I did the same with the letter announcing my death.

  “The Chi-Rho is identical. The cross with the bar and the letter P. Also the letters alpha and omega. That is the heading used in the court of Navarre.”

  He continued comparing the two documents.

  “In nomine omnipotentis Dei, Ego Sancius Dei gratia, rex Navarre….It’s the same formula. Who signed it, I wonder?”

  He looked at the bottom of the letter.

  “His loyal notary, Ferrando. Ego quoque Ferrandus domini regis notaries eius iussione: han cartam scripsi et hoc signum feci.

  “Diago, that’s the signature of King Sancho the Sixth, the Wise. Can you think of any reason for him to claim you were dead?”

  “I don’t know, but I have no wish to go to Tudela to ask him, at least not now.”

  “Why?”

  “First, I fear he may send me off again on some mission to a distant land or off to the Crusades, and I want to live quietly here in Victoria. Second, I do not know what is happening here in the town. It’s not the prosperous Victoria I left. The streets are filled with rumors. Third, I am
not sure who killed Count de Maestu.”

  “Are you insinuating that because Nagorno profited from it?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. I don’t think even my brother would stoop to marrying the count’s daughter and poisoning him on the same night.”

  Héctor stood up, ill at ease.

  “You know I’ve always defended Nagorno, but I don’t agree with what he’s been doing in Victoria since you left. There are complaints on every road into town. Laborers who left Villafranca de Estíbaliz to settle in the Sant Michel district before falling out with the monks are now overwhelmed with taxes. Some have no idea if they’ll be able to pay the rent in March.”

  “I know. Something is brewing. People who have lived their entire lives in Villa de Suso are eyeing new arrivals in Nova Victoria with suspicion. And the wealthy families are pushing merchants through the gates as though they were moving chess pieces. We have to stop them before they leave both neighborhoods empty. I am going to need allies, Héctor. Lyra is with me; she just wants peace in the town, as do I. As always, Gunnarr won’t commit himself, nor will he betray Nagorno.”

  “You are brothers, the same blood runs in your veins,” said Héctor. “I’m with you for now, but don’t forget it is a town. Neighborhoods will be won and lost, created and abandoned. The chain of violence stretches back to the first age of man, and we’ve never been able to stop it. But family endures.”

  “I never forget that, Héctor.”

  He got up from the tattered bed and gathered the scrolls.

  “Well, then, let’s go before they accuse us of being sodomites.”

  * * *

  —

  Leaving the inn, I saw a young lad with a receding chin and a mop of blond hair throwing a small hatchet at a bale of straw. It was the second time that day I had seen a chin like that.

  “You’re the son of the innkeeper, aren’t you?”

  “I’m Lope, my lord. My mother, Astonga, runs the inn. Do you want to know her story as well?”

  He continued to throw the hatchet while he spoke. He had good aim. He reminded me of Gunnar, before he grew into a giant.

  “What story?” I asked, though I was not particularly interested.

  “The story of how they cut off her nose. Everybody asks me.”

  “Let me guess. It was as punishment for thievery. I’ve only seen such a harsh penalty used on Camino del Santiago. In Castile and Leon, the punishment is less harsh, and the thief only loses a hand. But the Roman Church doesn’t want word to spread that the pilgrims’ road is dangerous, so the punishment is more severe.”

  “You’re a man who has seen much of the world.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Do you want to know the truth?”

  “Yes, always. Tell me the truth. There are too many lies of late.”

  “It’s a story of the poor: You’ll have heard more than enough of them. My grandparents had an inn on the pilgrims’ way, but they were young when they died of anthrax, leaving seven girls. My mother, the eldest, was twelve when she had to start looking after her sisters. She was an innocent. A drunken Navarrese lord and his soldiers finished off all the inn’s provisions and then refused to pay. He also took liberties with my mother’s youngest sister. My mother wanted him to face justice, but he accused her of being a thief. Naturally, the trial was decided in his favor. My mother’s nose was cut off, and my grandparents’ inn was burned to the ground. The sisters swore never to separate. They tried their luck in Pamplona and finally ended up here at La Romana. They keep the inn running. Important men come here,” he said with a seriousness that belied his young age. “I’m sure that I’m the son of an important man. When she’s old, my mother won’t have to work.”

  A poor whoreson whose father was unknown. Given the fact that he was still alive, and hadn’t been left in the woods to die from exposure, his father must have been a married man from the town who paid for the boy’s well-being.

  “How will you make sure your mother doesn’t work?”

  He smiled, like he knew how to keep a secret, and motioned for me to come closer. I did so, although I raised my hand to my dagger in case he was laying a trap.

  “Do you need something for your manhood? You left without making use of my aunts.”

  There I was, searching inside the inn for the supplier, when he was outside all along.

  “Are you the one who can provide it?”

  “I have powders that can solve your problem.”

  “Unicorn horn, or Spanish fly?”

  “I can see this isn’t your first time,” he said. “I don’t sell unicorn horn. It’s so expensive that only lords can buy it, and it’s useless anyway. Thanks to unicorn horn, I was bitten by a snake and almost lost my right hand. It swelled up and turned black. I almost went to hell because of that damned thing.”

  “Someone from the town threw a snake at you. Who would do a thing like that?”

  Lope squirmed nervously, then went over to the bale and wrenched his ax free.

  “You know, Ruy’s son. Smooth cheeks with veins as red as vine shoots on his nose. The one who looks crazy.”

  “Who?”

  “Ruiz de Maturana.”

  “Maturana, the young lad.”

  Apparently in my absence, he’d grown into a man. Even as a youngster, he’d had a bad reputation. He chased after cats that were later found disemboweled. His father took liberties with the women in town, and according to rumor, Ruiz was a bastard by one of his father’s maidservants, whom Ruy, the animal, would beat.

  “Yes, but I have to put up with him. He bought three pinches three nights ago.”

  “Three pinches of what?”

  “Spanish fly.”

  “One is enough for a bull.”

  The lad shrugged.

  “He must want to be hot the whole winter. I don’t ask questions, my lord. If they want to buy for one day, I give it to them. If they want some for an entire army, I’ll sell it to them if I have it. So, are you going to buy one of the powders?”

  13

  “LAU TEILATU”

  UNAI

  September 2019

  We had put Deba down for the night. Her bedroom was warm, like a bear’s den, but outside our little apartment, it was bitter cold, and the windowpanes had fogged up.

  “How could he…?” I said, thinking out loud.

  I was sitting on the wooden floor in the living room, leaning against the wall next to the doors to the balcony. Alba was sitting across from me. We would often sit in symmetrical positions, sometimes talking, sometimes silent, both attuned to life inside the apartment and alert to the outside world below us, in the heart of the city.

  Alba was cropping the family photo we had taken on the evening of the book launch. She had bought a wooden frame and was determinedly working to fit us within its borders.

  But I could tell that she was distracted. I knew she was worrying about her mother; they’d recently become closer, to the point of being almost inseparable. The surgery had been a success, but Nieves needed to recover before she could return to Laguardia.

  Earlier that Thursday evening, a few cuadrillas had crossed the square heading for the bars on Calle Cuesta—the Cuchi, or the Pinto—looking for some diversion as they tried to cut the week short. I’d personally wished the week had ended on Monday morning. Instead, there’d been one piece of bad news after another. The younger of the two missing sisters, Oihana Nájera, had survived, but the doctors warned us that it would be at least a week before she was strong enough for us to interview.

  In the meantime, the only thing we had to work with was another crime scene. Muguruza, our head of forensics, told us the floor in the empty apartment had been swept and scrubbed. There were no footprints, and whoever built the wall had used gloves. We hadn’t found the gloves, or any oth
er clues, in the empty apartment.

  We concluded that the sisters had been transported in the two plastic bags found at the scene, after strands of the girls’ hair were discovered inside them. The bags resembled those commonly used on construction sites. There were no other objects in the apartment. Someone had bricked up the two sisters and left them to die of thirst and starvation. Murder once removed, but still an incredibly cold-blooded thing to do to two young girls.

  As I puzzled over the case, I fiddled with a three-dimensional model of the city’s Medieval Quarter. It was a typical souvenir—a clay trinket depicting the city’s buildings and orange rooftops. I ran my fingers over the miniature churches, streets, and districts of the old neighborhood.

  I tried to imagine how a minor deity might see the case from the heavens.

  “You son of a bitch, how the hell did you kidnap two girls from their home, transport them to an empty apartment that was under construction, and seal them inside a wall—without being seen?” I whispered, caught up in my thoughts.

  Alba shot me a dejected look.

  Her day had been doubly difficult. On top of Nieves’s operation, Alba had to tell the girls’ parents that they’d been found. She conveyed bad news better than most could. Her composure and her confidence gave the parents hope that we would find the monster who took their children. The mother had hugged her, while the father smashed his fist against the door, cutting his knuckles on the wood. His blood had gotten everywhere.

  When I got home, her white coat was on a hanger in the shower. She had cleaned it, but the bloodstains wouldn’t come out. Her favorite coat looked like a painting by a sadistic Expressionist. Rubbing at the stain had only managed to crease the fabric.

  Now she would always carry a reminder of the day. I thought that maybe she would be better off getting rid of the coat and the memory now embedded in its fibers.