by Glenn Cooper
“How?”
“We’ll need to get back to Dartford. The collider will be fired up to bring us back. I’ll explain later.”
“I’m sorry but I hate your collider,” Arabel said, pulling her hands back.
“No, I’m sorry. I feel it’s all my fault.”
John overheard and came over. “It wasn’t Emily’s fault. Her boss was responsible.”
“Arabel, I’d like you to meet John Camp.”
She started to get up but he dropped to his haunches to greet her. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said.
“So, this is John,” Arabel said. “I don’t know why we didn’t meet before.”
“I think Emily was keeping me under wraps until she’d cured me of bad habits.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to finally say hello. Even under these circumstances.”
“How’re you holding up?” John asked.
Her eyes welled up. “I’ve had to dig deep. I kept asking myself, what would Emily do?”
Emily hugged her tight.
“How are mom and dad?” Arabel asked.
“As well as can be expected. I’m sure they haven’t lost hope.”
“Do you want to meet the others?” John asked.
“Were they at the MAAC too?” Arabel asked.
Emily shook her head. “Innocent bystanders, a distance away, I’m afraid. You’ll like them. They’re good people.”
Hewing to King Pedro’s wishes, a panel of negotiators met that afternoon prior to the state dinner. Pedro felt it beneath his position to involve himself in details and he left it to Aragon and other nobles to meet with the Italian delegation to discuss the particulars of an alliance. Garibaldi felt it was nonsense not to participate directly but his people persuaded him that offense might be taken by the asymmetry. So Garibaldi’s closest advisors including Caravaggio and Simon sat across the table to try to hammer out a deal. Aragon was baffled by the absence of nobility on the Italian side and Caravaggio explained that theirs was more or less a people’s monarchy.
“Garibaldi is a soldier at heart,” he said. “I am a painter. Simon is a boilermaker. We all came to follow him because we believe he offers another way to live in Hell, a better way. We don’t hate nobility. Some of my best friends are dukes.”
“I am so pleased to hear that,” Aragon said with a dollop of sarcasm. “I trust the French nobility is likewise heartened.”
“We shall see about that,” Caravaggio said.
“Well, your strange Italian ideas are of no concern to us. Let us explore the matter at hand. Why should we make an alliance with you?”
“It’s simple,” Simon said. “Germania and Russia have formed a pact. Each was strong. Together they are stronger. I’ll wager that united under the tsar they’re plotting their next moves. Maybe Brittania’s next. Maybe it’s us. Maybe it’s you. They’ll be wanting all of Europa, that’s for sure.”
“Perhaps,” Aragon said. “I do not know their intentions.”
“Forgive me for saying this,” Caravaggio said. “I am but an artist, not a man of politics and war, but Iberia is weak at the moment. You lost a war with the English. We hear you have a problem with the Moors.” For effect, he drained his wine and tipped over his goblet. “This could be your fate. Join with us in a grand Iberian-Italian-French alliance and let us together, disturb the plans of Tsar Joseph before he is able to send us all to our eternal rot.”
The royal dinner, though hastily arranged, was carefully choreographed but to Pedro no detail was more important than the seating arrangements.
While Aragon negotiated, Pedro had fussed over the seating charts until he was satisfied he had achieved the desired effect. When he thought he was finished, Queen Mécia came along and demanded changes.
To reach accommodation, a single long royal table was scrapped in favor of multiple round tables, and a small army of servants scrambled to set up the banqueting hall in time for the commencement of festivities.
Garibaldi complained about the pomp and protocol but he agreed to remain in the wings and enter the hall at the exact moment Pedro entered, that moment heralded by the thumping beat of a dozen drums. Wearing his best uniform he nevertheless looked like a peasant compared to the ornately robed and carefully coiffed Pedro. The two men entered from opposite ends of the hall and were to meet in the front of the hall to the applause of hundreds of diners.
Garibaldi wondered how they would converse but suddenly a tiny man appeared at his side, introduced himself as Garsea Manrique, humble servant and translator. Pedro slowed his pace so that Garibaldi arrived first at the greeting point and had to wait for him. Pedro approached and welcomed him with a slight bow and an outstretched hand.
“Welcome to Iberia, King Giuseppe,” Pedro said.
“It is an honor to meet you, King Pedro.”
“Come, you will sit beside me, of course,” Pedro said.
The seating at the king’s table was an awkward blend of protocol and desire. To Pedro’s left was Garibaldi and to his right was Queen Mécia. Aragon sat to her right. Brian was given a seat directly across from the queen and as a counterbalance; Arabel had been forced to split up from Emily and was placed across from Pedro. To complete the circle, Caravaggio sat beside Garibaldi and delighted the queen by producing a small, flattering sketch of her. Manrique stood behind the seated monarchs, his diminutive height perfect for the occasion.
At a nearby table, commanding the curiosity of the Iberian court, the Earthers were grouped together.
“If Pedro so much as puts a hand on her, I’ll break it off,” Emily said, staring over at the royal table.
“I’ll help you do it,” Trevor said.
“God, I hope the food’s decent,” Charlie said. “I’m starved.”
“You and me both,” Alice said, catching Simon’s eye at a nearby table.
Martin and Tony participated in the round of formal toasts that followed.
“Here’s to you,” Martin said. “I can’t believe how brave you’ve been.”
“Ditto,” Tony replied. “Absolutely, positively ditto.”
At the royal table Pedro speared a capon and said to Garibaldi, “So, I have been informed that we have the basis for a pact.”
“That’s what I understand as well.”
Pedro was speaking through a mouth full of greasy poultry. Brian whispered, “Messy eater,” to Arabel, producing a delighted snort.
“I haven’t laughed much lately,” she admitted.
Manrique began to translate his king’s speech. “With this pact, Italia and Francia will assist us in our adventures against the English and we will help you in your campaign against the Germans and Russians.”
“That is so,” Garibaldi said. “However, there may be a need to broaden this military cooperation to deal with our Macedonian and your Moorish problems.”
“I know not of your so-called Macedonian problem, Giuseppe, but I can assure you that we have no Moorish problem. I am expecting a messenger at any time to bring me news that the Duke of Madrid has met and crushed the Moors.”
“Well, let’s drink to that,” Garibaldi said, raising his glass. “Left unsaid is the matter of timing. Henry has retreated to Britannia so there is no urgency to action. Stalin has set up shop in Marksburg where he’s a threat to us. I propose we proceed there jointly with all due haste. When he’s been destroyed or chased back to Russia with his tail between his legs, then we can discuss how best to deal with the English.”
“Our people can hammer out the details when they produce the final protocols,” Pedro said dismissively. “But tell me,” he said, leaning in and crowding out Manrique. “How do I know you will not endeavor to take my head the way you took those of Borgia and Robespierre? I have been in this realm for a very long time and I have never seen a man acquire power so expeditiously. It is a feat that is impressive and fearsome. You must be a ruthless man. A very ruthless man. But let me tell you this, Giuseppe. I do not wish to lose my head. I have
grown fond of it.”
“You have nothing to fear, Pedro. Cesare Borgia and Maximilien Robespierre were not as loved by their people as I’m sure you are. There was a hunger for change and I provided it.”
“Hunger?” Pedro said in astonishment. “Why would I care if the people are hungry for food or shelter or change or anything at all? They are pond scum. That is why they are here.”
“Well, I suppose that makes us royal pond scum,” Garibaldi said.
When Manrique translated this, Aragon raised his head from his plate in astonishment, Queen Mécia cackled in delight, and Caravaggio snorted his approval and began sketching something on his ever-ready pad. Pedro, however, frowned dyspeptically and attacked another capon.
There was a commotion at the rear of the hall that turned heads. Pedro dispatched Aragon to see what the matter was. He returned with a wounded soldier, his arm bloody and hanging limply, his head bandaged.
“What is the meaning of this?” Pedro asked Aragon, looking at the wounded man with scorn.
“This man has come here from Madrid,” Aragon said, hesitating as if afraid to continue.
“Yes? Yes?” the king said.
“I am sorry to report that the Duke of Madrid and his army have been destroyed.”
“Destroyed? What do you mean destroyed?”
Garibaldi pressed Manrique to translate and he exchanged troubled glances with Caravaggio.
“What do you think is happening?” Emily asked John.
“I don’t know but it doesn’t look good.”
Aragon elaborated. The Moors had overwhelmed the duke’s positions and had wiped out thousands. Their numbers were superior. Their tactics were superior.
Pedro tossed his knife down weakly. “Madrid?” he asked. “The Moors have taken Madrid?”
The messenger bowed his head and replied, “No, sire, they spent but a brief time plundering for food, then departed the city.”
“Why would they do that?” Pedro asked. “Where have they gone?”
“Here, Your Majesty,” the messenger said. “They are here in Burgos. They have already taken up positions to the south, the north, the east, and the west.”
Garibaldi told Caravaggio, “So much for not having a Moorish problem.”
The artist closed his pad on his drawing of two frogs sitting on lily pads amidst pond scum, wearing crowns rakishly tilted upon their heads.
That night the Earthers urgently huddled with the Italians.
“We’ve got no choice,” John said. “We’ve got to fight our way out of this.”
“I’m afraid that is so,” Garibaldi said. “Aragon tells me they have but two thousand soldiers within the city. Many of their men were dispatched to Madrid.”
“Plus our five hundred,” Simon said.
Caravaggio said, “I spoke with the Iberians who fled with the messenger to Burgos. Thousands upon thousands of Moors closed in on Madrid’s army like a crab closes its pincers upon its victim.”
“How were they armed?” Simon asked.
“Bowmen and swordsmen and lancers on horseback. Light and heavy cannon. Some muskets and pistols but not in abundance,” Caravaggio said.
“Superior numbers and superior tactics,” Brian said. “I’ll bet they’re a disciplined lot.”
“Here’s the problem,” John said. “We’re sitting in a walled city. By the looks of them the walls are well-built and should be able to withstand bombardment for a good while.”
Tony came over. “I agree. If they’re the same all around the perimeter as the section we passed through entering the city, they’re twenty feet thick. And did you notice their exterior concave profile? That’s ideal for deflecting artillery fire.”
“So why’s that a problem?” Charlie asked.
“Because the attackers will approach this like a siege,” John said. “They’ll huff and they’ll puff for a while, but as long as the walls hold they’ll change tactics and just starve us out. They’ll supply themselves by looting surrounding towns and villages, maybe even sending supply lines back to Madrid. We’ve got seventeen days to get back to Dartford. A siege could last seventeen weeks.”
“A vexing problem, indeed,” Garibaldi said. “Perhaps we can try to break through the Moorish lines and send for relief troops from Francia. Outrun them with the steam automobiles.”
“Fool’s errand,” Simon grumbled. “I’ll do it if you order it but I won’t like it.”
A voice called out from the far side of the room. Brian had been pacing. He wheeled and said, “We need to turn the tables.”
“What do you mean?” Trevor asked.
“He means we don’t do defense,” John said. “We play offense.”
“Right you are,” Brian said.
“Surely you don’t advocate attacking them outside the city walls,” Garibaldi said.
“I don’t,” John said. “When I was lying around in the hospital recovering from surgery I did some thinking and a bit of research. If there’s a good forge inside the city we might be able to give these Moors a few things they’ve never seen before.”
Caravaggio volunteered to ask Aragon about forges.
“It’s too bad we can’t get our singing cannon up onto these walls,” Simon said.
“Who says we can’t?” Tony said, asking Caravaggio for some charcoal and paper. “I might be able to design something.”
“Here’s the thing,” Emily said. “I don’t trust Pedro as far as I can throw the slimy bastard. If we save his bacon, how do we know he’ll honor his commitment to release us, release Arabel, who he was positively leering at over supper, and give us the soldiers we’ll need to secure Sam and Belle’s rescue?”
Garibaldi answered, “We will be vigilant, we will be cautious, and at the first sign of betrayal we will crush him without mercy.”
28
The royal forge at Burgos was a low brick complex with a beehive-shaped furnace and a tall, round chimneystack which rose to the height of the city walls. The master forger’s name was Eduardo, a thin, wiry man who didn’t look strong enough to wield the heavy implements of his trade, but what he lacked in brawn, he made up for in speed, running from one station to another, exhorting his men to work faster.
For the first time since arriving in Hell, John let Emily well out of sight to visit the forge while she stayed with Arabel at the palace. The urgency of their situation demanded they split up. Tony, Charlie, and Caravaggio went to the city walls and began working with a small army of carpenters. Trevor, Garibaldi, and Simon ascended the ramparts with Aragon and his officers and surveyed the plain. As the messenger had reported, a large body of men dotted the fields surrounding the city, and through his spyglass, Garibaldi saw hundreds of tents and cooking fires and cannon pieces being wheeled into position. Martin worked at the palace with Alice and Tracy and the royal physicians, assembling and refining surgical tools and making bandages. Emily and Arabel began making what was to be a huge batch of penicillin tea for the inevitable wound infections that would follow.
At the forge John paired with Brian to bring the plans in his head to reality. Working with an interpreter they asked the eighteenth-century Eduardo to show them his best rifles and the man produced a finely carved flintlock bearing Pedro’s royal arms.
John and Brian peered down the barrel and dismissed it as smooth-bored.
“You’ve got rifled barrels, no?” John asked.
“Of course we have rifled barrels,” Eduardo sniffed. “You asked for the best quality, not the most accurate.”
John and Brian both agreed that Eduardo’s rifling technique was good but the musket shot he made was a smooth, lead ball.
“Here’s the problem,” John said. “It’s the same problem I saw in a forge in Brittania. With your rifles and these bullets, your effective range is only going to be about fifty yards.”
“No more than that,” Brian agreed.
“Haven’t more recent arrivals told you about modern bullet designs?” John asked.
“The modern men are idiots,” Eduardo complained. “They know nothing about how a forge works. They ask me why I do not have this and why I do not have that but they have no idea how to make these wild inventions. So I kick their asses out the door.”
John had used Caravaggio’s supplies to make some drawings the previous night and he and Brian showed Eduardo what they wanted to accomplish. The forger listened and questioned and grunted and finally nodded enthusiastically.
“These things, I can make,” the man said.
“Then let’s get cracking,” Brian said. “We’ll need thousands of these, a few dozen of these, and a few hundred of these.”
“How long do I have?” the forger asked.
“If we’re not sending these up to the city walls by tomorrow, you’ll need to learn how to speak Moorish,” Brian said.
“It is Berber,” the translator said helpfully. “These Moors speak the Berber language.”
“Then we had better start making the molds,” Eduardo said, scurrying off with John’s drawings.
Throughout the day Burgos was host to a frenzy of activity. All the city gates were sealed and panicked residents hid behind closed shutters. Pedro’s soldiers went door-to-door, commandeering bread and beer and pressing reluctant, able-bodied men into service as musket re-loaders and, should the walls be breached, cannon fodder.
Later in the day Pedro emerged from the palace surrounded by his royal protectors to be transported by carriage to the walls. He climbed to the top with Manrique running at his heels like a small dog and was irritated to see Garibaldi there, roaming the ramparts, very much the man in charge.
“Good day, Giuseppe,” Pedro said. “What do we have here?”
“We have a big battle coming. Let me show you where they’ll be launching their cannon fusillades. They’ve got our necks in a fairly tight noose.”
Pedro treated Garibaldi more like the commander of his army than a fellow monarch, but if the behavior rankled Garibaldi, he didn’t show it, although Simon was livid. Later, Garibaldi would tell him that he had been a soldier for far longer than he had been a king and he was quite comfortable to be in the role of the latter.