Armada could have told Lucas not to go to the field. But it would have been useless. The time for trying to keep the little boy out of trouble was over. Things had changed in an instant. Perhaps they had always been changing, but Armada had refused to see. In a way, he’d never wanted Lucas to grow up. Because then things would get complicated, and eventually Lucas would set off on his own path in life, leaving Armada to fend for himself once again.
When Armada had first become a constable in the Brotherhood, this had been easy enough. Travelling about the countryside by himself had seemed romantic, allowing him the space to grow into his role, refining his investigative methods and gaining a reputation for finding justice. He’d always figured that was how he would work. And now he couldn’t imagine doing this job without Lucas at his side. It just seemed impossible.
Armada took a long gulp of his sherry.
“Perhaps you’re right, Lucas. Yes, go over to that fallow field tomorrow. Tell me what you find. But do me a favour—stay well away from the fires this time.”
A grin spread across Lucas’ face. “Yes, sir.”
“And after breakfast, of course. You still have your duties.”
“Yes, sir.”
That night, Armada found the nightmares from his past that usually haunted him remained at bay, allowing him a restful sleep he rarely knew these days.
The next morning, Armada awoke at dawn to find Lucas having already been up and returning to the room. He was flush and out of breath, saying he had already gone down to the field and confirmed it—an illegal irrigation canal, diverting water from the fallow field into Jose’s cane crop. It was well hidden with a thick layer of plant debris and weeds and in that hard soil must have taken ages to dig. And there was one strange detail.
It wasn’t completed. Lucas explained how it went most of the way toward the freshwater spring, but stopped short. One single bit needed to be dug before the water began to flow, about ten paces long, and yet it was never done. The project had stopped before it was finished, which begged the question: what had stopped it? And did it have something to do with Jose’s argument with Amparo and Amparo’s subsequent murder?
Armada, having been awake for less than two minutes, had trouble taking in the significance of it all. He dressed and went with Lucas down to the tavern for breakfast. His head now cleared, Armada realised it would be useful if Lucas could find out who owned the land, the records of which were kept at the town hall. It was an important job and one that Lucas swore many times he was ready for. Armada secretly suspected Lucas was right—a job like this meant hours of pouring through poorly-written records to pick out the little nuggets of information they needed, and was the kind of detail-heavy work Lucas had always had a penchant for. Armada couldn’t understand Lucas’ enthusiasm for such a task, but was happy not to have to do it himself.
Meanwhile, Armada was now armed with the information he needed to have another meeting with the man who seemed increasingly to lay at the very centre of the case.
And that’s when he heard the church bell.
Chapter Seventeen
It was just after midday when Armada emerged from the Our Lady of the Rosary church. The bright sunlight hurt his eyes, even under the protective shade of the two ancient olive trees situated in the small bare-earth plaza in front of the church doors. Behind him he heard the massive, oak-planked doors swing open and the din of boisterous conversation from the hundreds of people that had filled the pews of the church for mass. After two hours of silence and quiet prayer, everyone was eager to get on with the events of the afternoon. It was Sunday, a time for rest and to be with family. Squirrely children shrieked and ran circles around the gnarled, twisted trunks of the olive trees while their families collected in large groups to talk, something that would go on for the next few hours. Eventually, the families would begin to disperse, meandering back to their homes or elsewhere for large family dinners that would go long into the night.
And Jose was no exception. Armada remained discreet, pressing his body against the outside wall of the church and watching the people mill around as if waiting for someone. But his eyes firmly locked on Jose Padilla, who was in the centre of his very large family and appeared to be having several conversations at once, including one with an energetic young girl who insisted on grabbing his wrists, standing on his toes, and dancing with him. Jose took this in good stead, making faces at her while speaking to the older man just over his right shoulder before being interrupted by several women who frowned and gestured down the hill, wanting to get a move on.
Armada had been worried about standing out in such a crowd. Many times he’d gone to mass in a small pueblo and found himself the only stranger, with wary glances cast toward him to let him know he was not trusted. But in Salobreña during the harvest, he was not alone in being a stranger here. There were many men standing about who obviously knew no one, labourers mostly, seasonal workers who came through every year to help with the harvest, but had no real ties to this place. It meant Armada could blend in with them, although his clothing did make this somewhat difficult. Most of these labourers were poor, too poor to have anything other than work clothes. Many stood about sheepishly, clad in soiled clothing stained black from the soot of the cane fires.
The church itself was a handsome structure. There were few flourishes, as with most churches in smaller towns. But it boasted a commanding view as it was built on top of a small rise, and could be seen from nearly everywhere in town. The construction was fairly new, no doubt dating back only as far as the Reconquest, when the town was taken back from the Moors and made Catholic once more. Many mosques across Andalucía had been torn down or converted into churches like this one. It wasn’t hard to spot the origins of Salobreña’s church, as one remnant of its time as a mosque was the doorway. It towered over the plaza, rimmed by brightly-coloured tilework with an alternating red and white pattern, all leading one’s eye up to the familiar mushroom-shaped archway over the door, which made its Moorish roots unmistakable. Throughout most of the old Moor kingdom, these kinds of things had been removed with immediate effect. And yet here on Salobreña’s church, it had been allowed to stay, probably as a memorial by the morisco builders of this church as a reminder of their religion, which had now been thoroughly trampled in the dust of history.
Jose’s family began to slowly move out of the plaza and back into town and Armada moved with them. He needed to speak with Jose, but trying to get his attention while surrounded by his entire family only meant their conversation would be public, and discussed at great length by family members, an eventuality he wanted to avoid if possible. He needed to wait until Jose was alone, but by the looks of it, that would be awhile.
Armada discreetly followed the family as they sauntered their way through town in no particular hurry on their way to partake of the most ancient of Spanish customs—the Sunday family meal. All over Andalucía, and even throughout the whole of Spain, families like Jose’s were gathering round on patios or terraces or wherever there was room for a large enough table, and cobbling together as much of a feast as could be afforded. It would be eaten slowly, over the course of hours, with generous amounts of wine and perhaps a bit of music, and it would stretch on long into the night.
Armada found that he admired Jose and actually envied him. He had seen some of the same horrors of war that Armada had, and yet here he was, the patriarch of a large extended family. It was baffling to Armada how he’d managed to accomplish this, for Armada couldn’t imagine the same for himself. It made him feel almost angry, the way a child felt when a toy was taken away by another child. A silly thought, and one Armada quickly put away.
Eventually, the family meandered through their way out of town and back down to the delta, where they crossed Jose’s field and arrived at his cortijo alongside the dry riverbed that bordered his field on the east. Upon arriving the women in the group leaped into action in the kitchen, lighting the fire pit and sorting out the various utensils an
d deciding which of them would do what job. Meanwhile, the men milled around outside on the patio, chatting away about farming while the children opened the gate for the horse and squealed in delight as it neighed and pranced around the muddy field, happy to escape the cramped stable.
Armada found a spot behind some tall weeds, not ready yet to approach. He wanted to watch them, to see what kind of world Jose had sprung from. Soon the air was filled with the scent of cooking food and the women were snapping at the children to start helping to set the table. Jose scooped up the young girl in his arms, obviously his daughter, and encouraged her to do as her mother told her. The girl agreed and was popped back down to her feet. Once on the ground, she began staring at something just over Jose’s left shoulder.
Jose turned around to find Armada standing there behind him.
“Armada…” Jose said, surprised.
“I’m sorry to intrude. I was hoping I could have a word.”
“No,” Jose said, his tone becoming serious.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m not letting you come to my cortijo, with my entire family here, just to have a quick word and leave. I’ll talk, but you have to do something for me first.”
Jose reached over and grabbed a bit of bread that had been put out on the table already and handed it to Armada.
“Eat.”
A broad grin spread over Jose’s face, which turned into a chuckle, and finally a laugh. He wrapped his arm around Armada’s shoulder and introduced him to an uncle, a brother-in-law, and two cousins. The men saw Jose’s reaction and warmed to Armada, treating him as if he were a dear friend.
And so the afternoon began. Armada was eventually treated to a seat at the table as the food was being put out and was served a plate of jamon, cheese, figs, and handfuls of plump, ripe olives. He was hesitant about the wine at first, but a few cautious sips told him it had been transported properly in oak barrels, and contained no hint of the bitter pitch that usually accompanied it. Armada allowed himself to indulge a bit, purely for the sake of ingratiating himself into the family, of course. And not at all because he had become quite hungry.
Armada found he was required to do very little talking for the next hour, and mostly listened. He met Esmerelda, Jose’s wife. She was a plump woman, with large green eyes and cheeks flush with wine. Armada never saw her once sit down, always flitting about to make sure everyone had food and drink if they wanted it, and always with one eye on the children who raced about. Their cheeks were flush as well, but mostly from chasing each other or seeing how close to the bonfire they could get before chucking in bits of cane they’d found on the ground. It seemed to be a favourite game of theirs, as the cane inevitably made the fire roar and spit, which was always followed by squeals of glee.
There were various grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins, some of whom attempted to engage Armada in conversation, barraging him with personal questions about his own family, background, and the Brotherhood. Armada kept his answers short, vague, and courteous and found the wine did much of the work for him. Everyone was more interested in talking than in listening to him, which suited Armada just fine.
As the afternoon wore on, Armada watched as Jose bounced between all the members of his family, playing the role of a proud host. He refilled glasses, helped Esmerelda clear the table, then would wrestle a bit with an uncle, or laugh uproariously at a story a young cousin told before rushing about with his daughter around the fire.
Whatever Jose’s game was, this was what he was playing for. Armada found Jose Padilla was not an ambitious man. The many ambitious people Armada had met over the years could not have enjoyed a night with family as Jose did. They were always far too wrapped up in their own thoughts of how to enrich themselves, or how to gain status and titles. They would have talked all night of little else, especially as the wine began to flow. Many of the cafes back in Granada heaved with such tiresome people every night, which was why Armada now avoided such places when he could.
But Armada heard little of this sort of conversation. Jose seemed a man content to simply enjoy the life he’d been given by the virtue of his birth. He spoke mostly of his family, of those who had passed on, or of those who he worried were in trouble, and told endless stories of those he had not seen in many years. It all meant that his recent criminal activities were all the more confusing. Armada couldn’t help but wonder—why would he risk so much?
There must have been cunning behind Jose’s actions. He was making a big effort to appear the congenial, hospitable family man inviting a stranger into his home in that typical Spanish way. To go against this cultural norm would be to invite suspicion and rumour as to why a stranger was being rejected for no apparent reason, something Jose didn’t want to invite conjecture on as he was too close to it all. So what choice did Jose have but to put on the ruse? And as long as Armada played along, he could stay, and patiently wait for his opportunity to get what he’d come for.
A bit later, the decision was made to collect more cane to stoke the bonfire as the evening air was turning chilly. Jose volunteered to search the riverbed for a bit more scrap wood and Armada realised his chance had come. He quickly volunteered to help and soon both men were swinging their legs over the knee-high crumbling stone wall that had been built long ago to separate Jose’s land from the riverbed that remained dry for most of the year. They gingerly scrambled down the incline made of mostly loose boulders, and began searching the chalky-white stone bed for bits of wood to burn.
“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here, Armada?” Jose asked, the suspicion and wariness returning to his voice. The role of genial host had now been cast off like an old coat.
Armada found a mangled bit of old olive branch and tucked it under his arm.
“To ask you about irrigation. Specifically, about your night-time project. The one that has you stealing spring water from the field to the south of you.”
“I didn’t steal anything.”
“That’s true. You stopped before you finished the canal. Why? Especially during a drought year?”
Jose reached down to pick up a grey bit of dead root. It was thick, and pointy at one end, and fit into his hand well. It would make an ideal weapon, Armada noticed. And one he kept a close eye on.
“Because it was…” Jose said. It sounded odd for him to hesitate. “It was too risky. I got frightened we’d be found out.”
“By who?”
“You know what farmers are like around here. They’re a petty, jealous lot. If they found out I was stealing water, it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew. I couldn’t risk it. I don’t have the funds to fight off a lawsuit right now. Like you said, it’s a drought year. I’m barely going to make enough to get Esme and me and the children through the winter.”
“Had you not thought of that when you started?” Armada asked.
Jose sighed. “You make it sound so easy, don’t you? So logical. Well you may know what it is to be a soldier, but not a farmer. One bad harvest, just one, and your family starves during the winter. And you have to watch them, wondering if there was something else you could have done. Do you know what that feels like? Do you?”
Armada said nothing, keeping his eye on Jose’s branch.
“No you don’t,” Jose said. “But my father did. He’s the one who taught me everything I know about farming, including how much we could grow if only we had a freshwater spring. And for years now I’ve had to watch that spring just drain into the ocean, wasted, through drought after drought. I know it’s not mine, but this year…well…I was weak. I’ll admit it. But I stopped before the water started flowing. So I didn’t actually steal anything.”
“How did Amparo feel about that?” Armada asked.
“He wanted to keep going, obviously.”
“Is that what you were arguing about the morning he was killed?”
Jose glanced at Armada, surprised. He hadn’t counted on Armada knowing about that, which meant he hadn’t known Enriq
ue had seen them.
“Yes. Amparo felt cheated out of a night’s work. He was counting on that money, apparently.”
“How long had the job taken?” Armada asked.
“A few days, maybe.”
“And did you pay Amparo well?”
“I paid him the same as what he was making during the harvest season. No more. I like to keep things fair.”
It didn’t make sense. From what Armada had seen in the home Amparo and Madalena shared, there was far more money spent than what Amparo would have made in a few night’s work. It couldn’t be the source of the Rodriquez family’s newfound wealth. Their money had to be coming from somewhere else.
“Who owns that field? Do you know?” Armada said.
“No. Probably the Cardona family. They seem to own everything around here these days.”
Armada wondered if Amparo was foolish enough to try and blackmail Jose. It would require Amparo knowing who owned the land, and would possibly implicate himself in the process. Plus, he wasn’t sure Jose could pay Amparo enough money to support the lifestyle his widow now seemed to be enjoying. The whole thing seemed unlikely, but Armada had nothing else to go on.
“Did Amparo know who owned the land?”
“I don’t think so.”
Armada approached Jose and handed him the scraps of wood he’d picked up.
“Thank you,” Armada said. His midsection was now vulnerable to Jose, who could have easily shoved the sharp-edged branch through him. They were also alone in the riverbed, with no witnesses. Meaning if Jose wanted to kill and bury Armada, now was his chance. But something told Armada that wouldn’t happen.
Instead, Jose took the wood from him.
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