But Cabeza de Diego Gomez had a sinister ring to it. Possibly the name of a bandit, caught nearby and hung outside their church, and a terrorised town renaming themselves to ward off any others who may be thinking of taking Señor Gomez’s place.
Armada could already picture it. A tiny, forgotten pueblo whose population had never gotten much above thirty or forty people, with just a handful of farmers scratching out a living from the parched soil that surrounded it. As it was well off any well-travelled route and had no inn, it rarely saw visitors, making it ideal for Portuguese independence fighters looking to hide out while they stockpiled serpentine and weapons for their war effort. They also provided a needed income source to the locals, who would probably have abandoned the village long ago had it not been for the welcome support of their sworn enemies.
Armada’s thoughts drifted to Lucas. He worried about the boy for the next few hours, until the outskirts of Cabeza de Diego Gomez could be seen. By then he was exhausted, as he’d either been vividly picturing all the ways the boys could harm Lucas, or trying twice as hard to keep from thinking of it. The prospect of something new on which to focus his mind awakened Armada as he finally entered the town.
Armada’s first impression was that it had already been abandoned. Large stone-built sheds with crumbling wood-beam roofs were the first buildings he passed, all of which looked empty. He passed an old horse paddock, dry and dusty, its walled-in area devoid of a single blade of grass, the doors to the stables blocked with planks of rotted wood and locked. No horse had lived there in a long time.
It would have been easy to assume these buildings had long ago left to ruin, but Armada suspected every one of them was being used. Behind those locked doors and rotting wood, there no doubt lay stockpiles of munitions. Gunpowder, arms, provisions, everything an army would need to keep a war effort going. Especially a war like this, which had consisted mostly of small border skirmishes for decades, as neither Spain nor Portugal had the resources to stage any kind of large-scale encounter yet. But from the looks of this town and who knew how many others, that would soon be changing.
Oddly, there was no sign of people. No one milling about in the square, no farmers working their fields, not even any livestock. It made the town far too quiet for Armada’s taste. He pushed deeper into the pueblo, past abandoned houses and toward a central plaza overlooked by the local church. The Iglesia Parroquial de Nuestra Señora del Rosario was a modest block of stone, with a stone façade leaning awkwardly off of one side, its bricks blackened by mould that had come with the spring rains, its sun-damaged shutters locked tight, and broken clay tiles littering the ground where they’d fallen from the roof.
Beyond the church were a few ramshackle houses squeezed in between more of the ominous sheds along with the shattered ruins of what had once been a sprawling farmhouse that had degraded into piles of stones that bore signs of being pillaged to use for other things. Just to the south lay a view of the green fields beyond, where a small herd of sheep were calmly grazing.
But the moment he’d entered, Armada sensed he was being watched. He could hear the echoes of footsteps scurrying about just behind buildings and around corners. What few residents lived here were hiding, not wanting to get involved in case things turned ugly.
He arrived at the remains of a stone and brick plinth, too far degraded to tell what it had originally been built for. It was here Armada finally stopped the cart. He was tired of the scurrying about and the suspense of wondering when they would make contact. It was obvious they knew he’d arrived. Why drag it out?
Then, suddenly, the sound of footsteps and yelling. Three men surrounded him, all holding harquebuses, loaded and cocked and ready to fire. They wore no uniforms, just tattered clothing of their own making, and quite badly soiled.
Armada held his hands up to show he had no weapon.
“Who are you?”
“I am Domingo. I am just a farmer. Please, don’t shoot!”
“What are you doing here?” the soldier demanded. “You are not from this pueblo.”
“I’ve come with a message from Salamanca. A very important one.”
“What message?”
“No. I must tell your commander directly.”
The use of the word commander made the soldiers suddenly aware that Armada knew who they were. The tension was rising, making Armada nervous, given there were three loaded harquebuses trained on him at the moment.
“How did you know to come here? Who told you?”
“Teo. I am a friend of Teo’s. He told me I could find you here.”
“Teo?” one of the soldiers said to his compatriot. “I told you we couldn’t trust him….”
The soldier was told to keep his mouth shut.
“Why did he not accompany you? Where is he?”
“He is being watched very closely by the authorities in Salamanca. It would have given away your presence here if he’d tried. Which is why he sent me to give the message instead. I’m not being followed.”
“What happened in Salamanca?” the soldier asked with a grave tone.
“Gregorio Cordoba is dead.”
This got the soldier’s attention, and their iron grips on their weapons slackened. They looked at each other, unsure of what to do.
“Turn around, farmer. You’ve delivered your message. Never come back here again. And tell that rat Teo not to come back, either.”
“That’s not the message I came to deliver. Please, I must speak to your commander.”
Armada moved his hands but it only made the soldiers nervous. They stiffened, holding their weapons higher.
“Go home, farmer. Now.”
“What is going on here?” a man asked, approaching the cart with none of the other soldiers’ apprehension. This man wore a much nicer uniform and a matching hat, and he strode right up to Armada, looking him dead in the eyes. “What happened to Gregorio?”
“Are you the commander here?”
“I’ll ask the questions. Who are you?”
“Who I am is irrelevant. What matters is Gregorio Cordoba was murdered last week and the city officials are looking very deeply into the case. It won’t take them long to discover the truth about what he was making…and who he was selling to.”
“Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?”
“No, sir. I’ve actually come here on business. I think you’ll be very interested in what I have to offer.”
The man, whose name was Carasco, thought about it for a moment, then waved the soldiers aside. Armada hopped down from the cart and was escorted in to a dilapidated house at the far end of the plaza. It had long ago been abandoned and taken by these men to use as an officer’s quarters. Whatever had been left behind by the previous family had been taken out, and now all that remained was a large table, whose one missing leg had been propped up by a pile of cement blocks, and a bed in the corner for sleeping, over which hung a small wood crucifix against the crumbling cream plaster.
Carasco gracefully seated himself behind the desk and picked up a cup of something he’d been drinking earlier. It was a broken cup, and quite dirty, but inside was the unmistakable brown globs of melted chocolate. A valuable commodity on a war front, so sought after that had seen it used as currency amongst the men of his garrison. Carasco cringed at it, then took a bit into his mouth and let it swirl around a bit, undeterred by the long silence he let hang in the air. Armada was amazed that he’d been able to leave it unattended for so long without one of the other men at least giving it a nibble. It showed just how much Carasco commanded his men here.
“So, how did they get him?” Carasco finally said.
“Stabbed in the chest while he worked in his office. Quite gruesome, really.”
“He was a bastardo and a ladron, but he didn’t deserve that,” Carasco said, taking another long inhale of his pipe.
“Teo told me what Gregorio had been making for you. It sounds like you’ve lost a valuable supplier.”
Carasco s
tudied Armada’s face carefully, not seeing the need to hide that he was hesitating, trying to work out Armada’s true intentions.
“I’m more interested in what the authorities in Salamanca have already found out.”
“If they knew you were here, I suspect there would already be Spanish soldiers surrounding the village. But they are being diligent on this one. The reputation of the university is at stake. At the moment, it seems the only people who know you’re here are Teo, who has run off to La Mancha and will not return…and me.”
“So, you’re a brave man coming here. I could kill you and most of my worries would be over.”
“You could. But then you would never find out where I’ve stashed the last batch of serpentine Gregorio mixed before he died.”
The commander leaned way back in his chair, keeping his eyes locked on Armada without blinking.
“You look like a sherry man to me. Am I right?”
Armada was flustered by the sudden change in topic. “Um, yes.”
“I thought so.”
Carasco rose from the desk and went to a small cabinet on the far side of the room. He took out a small silver key, unlocked the iron lock, and opened it to reveal a variety of dusty bottles containing various levels and colours of drink.
Carasco rummaged through a few of them before finding one half-filled with a rich, dark liquid, and he gave it a sniff.
Satisfied, Carasco gestured for Armada to follow, and soon they were standing on a back patio that overlooked the whole of the countryside to the south. The land was flat and almost treeless, giving them a view of several leagues in every direction. It would have been difficult, if not impossible, for anyone to enter the town without being seen from a long way off. Armada realised this was probably why this town had been chosen. It was impossible to sneak up on. They must have spotted him approaching hours before he’d actually arrived.
Armada sipped his sherry, which had a slightly tangy taste to it. A sign it had been sitting in a humid cabinet somewhere for far too long. But it had once been quite nice, and Armada could still enjoy the grandeur of what the sherry had once been.
“Did you know Gregorio?” Carasco finally asked, sipping his own sherry.
“No.”
“There was a man I couldn’t figure out. I’ve always prided myself on being able to read people. I always know what my men are thinking, any time of the day. They can never hide their thoughts from me. It’s what makes me good at this job.”
Carasco gave Armada a long, wary look. Had he already suspected that Armada was not being truthful? If so, why bring him out here on the patio?
“Gregorio,” Carasco continued. “He…he was a baffling man.”
“He had a lot of secrets to keep.”
“We all have a secret or two, farmer. But Gregorio seemed very principled to me. He was ruthless with his convictions. It’s what drove him to make such perfect powder. But when it came to doing business with him….”
“You didn’t like how he did business.”
“It turned out he was a liar and a ladron. Always delivering a bit less than was arranged, always complaining he wasn’t getting paid enough. It was confusing. The price never changed. Three hundred ducats. No more, no less. I never thought him the type to play such games. It made things very difficult for me.”
“Yet you persisted.”
“Oh…that powder! It could blow the pantalones off a man half a league away. It’s never once jammed our harquebuses. Better than anything I’ve ever seen back home. If it was anything less than the best in the world, I would have cut the man’s tongue out myself. But it was worth the trouble, if only for a few more barrels.”
Carasco now turned his body to face Armada in an aggressive stance, his eyes bearing down on Armada, as if trying to stare into his soul.
“Which is the only reason I’m talking to you now, farmer. I told you, I’m good at reading people. And you’ve been lying to me since you arrived. But if there is any chance you’re telling the truth about having a bit more of Gregorio’s serpentine, I’m willing to risk it. Just know that if you sell us out, and anyone in Salamanca learns where we are, I’ll know it was you. And I will come after you and stick the dagger into your gut myself.”
The commander raised his shirt to reveal a long, shiny dagger that had been tucked into the waistline of his trousers.
“Don’t think you wouldn’t be my first.”
“I have little doubt of that,” Armada said.
Carasco smiled and lowered his shirt. “Good. Then let’s go make a deal.”
Carasco left his sherry behind, turned, and went back inside.
Armada needed a moment to keep his hand from shaking. The commander had seen through his ruse and he wouldn’t be safe until he was well out of range of this town. Plus, he didn’t have a plan for telling Carasco there was no final batch. Gregorio had died and taken the secret of his powder with him. There would be no more.
Despite the danger to his life, Armada was elated, for the trip had not been wasted. He had figured out who the killer was and their motivation.
But if he was to catch them, he had to get back to Salamanca quickly. And that all depended on the mood of a nameless mule that he could hear braying in protest from the plaza.
Chapter Sixteen
It had been an amazing day for Lucas. After concluding their business with Emiliano at the tavern, and after several more rounds of ale, he and Julian were back on the streets of Salamanca, shouting chants and annoying everyone they passed. They eventually returned, inebriated and happy, to the common room of the pupilaje, where the other boys of San Bartolomé had just returned from their lectures. One of them had brought along something Lucas had always been intrigued by but had never tried.
“Go on, joven,” Julian said, grinning.
Lucas considered the long wooden pipe he held in his hands. One end was smouldering, filling the room with a sour smoky odour that was quite pungent. Moments ago, Marco attempted to suck the smoke of it into his body, and he’d collapsed into a coughing fit that had inspired a bout of jeering and insults from the other boys.
And now it was Lucas’s turn.
“Haven’t you smoked tobacco before?” one of the boys asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“So, go on.”
Not wanting to suffer the same fate as Marco, Lucas came up with a plan to put the pipe in his mouth and only pretend to fill his lungs.
His plan failed immediately, however, as simply having the smoke near his nose sent him into the same uncontrollable coughing fit as Marco. The other boys erupted into laughter once again. Julian laughed too, but it was gentler, not meant to hurt but more to continue the play.
The pipe was passed around the room until the tobacco burned itself out. Then, it was stashed away and the windows were opened to air out the room, as the boys had no desire to invoke Ambrosio’s wrath today.
It was around this time that Lucas began to feel the effects of the tobacco. The taste in his throat felt as though he’d just eaten the ashes of a campfire, but a warmth was beginning to spread across his shoulders and the back of his head. His limbs were relaxing, and there was a sense that all was right with the world, an unfamiliar sensation to Lucas.
“Sorry, joven, but you need to leave.”
There was no menace to Julian’s tone, but he’d made it clear he was not to be questioned.
“What? Why?” Lucas asked, unable to control the squeakiness in his voice.
“The boys and I have to discuss something. And it isn’t for non-Bartolome ears.”
“I can stay quiet,” Lucas said.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s colegio business. Come back in a couple of hours. Then we’ll go get a drink.”
Lucas looked around the room. There would be no argument on this point.
“Hasta pronto,” Lucas mumbled as he got up and awkwardly left the room.
Out in the corridor, Lucas couldn’t help but wonder if what t
hey were discussing had anything to do with Gregorio’s murder. Perhaps it was just mundane business. Perhaps it was just about the election. But if there was any chance it had to do with murder, Lucas could never forgive himself. He had to know for sure.
To do that, he needed to hear what was being said in that room. The door he’d just come out of was too thick to hear anything through, and the boys had lowered their voices to make it even more difficult.
Lucas surmised that he had to get to the other side of the room, where the window shutters had been left open. Perhaps, if he climbed out onto the ledge, he could get close enough to hear.
There were footsteps clomping about at the end of the corridor. It was Ambrosio, and the moment he laid eyes on Lucas he could count on at least half an hour of lecturing before he was left alone again. He had to avoid Ambrosio, but that end of the corridor was also the only way out of the building.
Then Lucas spied the doors to the other boys’ bedrooms. They were all in the common room at the moment, which gave Lucas an idea. He nipped down the corridor until he came to Marco’s room at the very end. Marco had left his window open. There was a bit of a ledge just below the window that led all the way back to the common room. It was risky, but there was a chance it would get him close enough.
Lucas crawled out onto the ledge and wondered how quickly he could get back into the corridor before being spotted. If he was caught out here, there would be uncomfortable questions that he didn’t have answers for.
Lucas carefully sidestepped his way toward the common room window. A few times, the concrete at his feet gave way and he had to hold fast to whatever he could grasp to keep from falling down into the olive trees below. The fall probably wouldn’t kill him, but it would hurt and make a lot of noise.
Eventually, Lucas made it to just outside the common room window and grabbed the open shutter to support himself. He held his body as still as he could, then listened.
The Domingo Armada Mysteries Box Set Page 63