Chapter CXLI: Secret Tunnels
14 April 1643
Alvaro held up the torchlight higher whilst the soldiers in front of him dashed along the walls of the damp tunnel. He held a handkerchief over his mouth to stop the foul smell that seeped upward from the cracks and drains from these older, more hidden tunnels underneath Madrid. His boots pattered faintly against some of the puddles as the clink of Spanish armour moved about as swiftly as the water rushed down the gutters.
“He must have escaped through here!” one of the lieutenants shouted somewhere off to his left. Alvaro was quick to dash forward and make the turn at the nearest intersection. The flame he held in his hand fluttered incessantly as his eyes searched the new corridor. Just like all the other tunnels, this was another stretch of ashen bricks that seemed older than the city itself. One could see where the dirt had caved in as cracks and fissures zig-zagging across the roughly hewn interior supported warily by the masonwork.
One of the lieutenants was further down and had motioned Alvaro over. “The exit here had been recently used,” the lieutenant added as Alvaro stepped closer. The man was pointing towards a panel in the wall that was still somewhat depressed.
Alvaro pushed the trigger the rest of the way in and a soft click unhinged the wall in front of him. “Take your men through and search it thoroughly. I'll send one of the Lions upwards to the exit and start from there,” Alvaro instructed before turning back to his entourage. “Arturo,” he now addressed one of the richly dressed officers among the group. “Go with a detachment of guards and some Lions with you to the Henares exit... that's where this tunnel should have led to.” The man nodded to the order and rushed off in the opposite direction.
The lieutenant, meanwhile, motioned his men forward. “I'll seal this exit and have them come out on the other side,” the soldier added.
Alvaro nodded before turning back around to his own detachment of men. The terse intrusion of boots hitting water came from where Arturo had run off to. A new light turned the corner and Alvaro could see one of his aides rushing up to him. “There is still no sign of him in the city: from what I can tell he's left,” the young man reported breathlessly as he bowed to Alvaro quickly.
“That's to be expected from their best spy,” Alvaro grumbled as he started to retrace his steps. “Do you have anything else to report?”
“The men of the Silence are waiting for you—they have news about Cadiz.” The way the aide lowered his voice as he reported the news made Alvaro nervous. He quickened his pace back through the tunnels. The soldiers behind him became like a steady choir of metal as they followed Alvaro back.
“Any news from the Cardinal?” Alvaro asked the aide who rushed to his side once more at the question.
The young aide could not help but put his own handkerchief up onto his mouth obviously unused to the stench of the secret tunnels. His pallid eyes searched upward to the older Alvaro. “I'm afraid,” he said through the muffling mask, “that the Cardinal has not yet sent word although we did make sure to send him by the swiftest boat. If he had not encountered any trouble he should be in Rome by now.”
Alvaro acknowledged the report and trudged along, turning through one of the silent corridors cautiously as his wet boots squeaked from the dampness like dead rats. Alvaro watched the young aide as they both returned through the strange labyrinth. He watched the young man's shifting gaze as it darted along the dark floor. “Something is on your mind?” Alvaro asked.
The aide looked up tentatively and then downward again almost struggling with his thoughts. “What I don't understand is what he took with him.”
Alvaro looked at the young man blankly as if the question turned his aide transparent and he was attempting to discern the answer through what lay through him. “An assassination attempt would have been more likely—even one of the advisers..” Alvaro thought out loud.
“He... may not be a political agent then...” the aide advanced the idea curiously and looked underneath the steel gaze of Alvaro with some trepidation. He was not so much afraid of his master as he was about the implications of the question. “Perhaps we should not have let
him leave here... that boy”
“The boy...” Alvaro repeated angrily as he rushed forward. “Of course! He's after the boy!”
The aide ran alongside him while the metal entourage of soldiers followed closely behind raising their deadly music to a crescendo. “But how could the Persians have known about this...?” Alvaro's aide asked urgently. “Even the Scrolls weren't explicit enough for us to immediately guess who that boy was.”
“It's the only explanation we have left. If So'zae wanted to make a political move on behalf of his masters, he could have struck any number of areas to concern us. Instead,” and here, Alvaro turned around so abruptly that his aide nearly piled into him with the soldiers, “Instead,” he repeated, “he came after the only information we have about the whereabouts of that boy and his friends. What was the young man's name again?”
“Íñigo, sir,” the aide answered swiftly, caught up in the fiery image of the torch reflecting off of Alvaro's widened eyes.
“There are very few objectives greater to the enemies of Spain than the Emperor: one is the Timepiece and that is always kept under guard. If So'zae knows about the Twins that the Scrolls speak of, then that boy must be one of them. If you ask the suppliers we directed Íñigo and his friends to, I'm sure you can find that So'zae must have paid them a visit as well. Round them up and question them. I want a description. I also want to send out some of the Lions we have left in pursuit immediately.”
“But we told Íñigo's guardians that those men they were after had already reached Cadiz. They could be halfway around Europe by now,” the aide complained worriedly.
“Then we'll have to hope that sending that washed up Swiss mercenary Belmont with them along with their wits are enough for now. As for the Persians knowing—I don't know if they do. So'zae may not be an agent for the Shahinshah at all.”
---
Special Guest Author Calipah provides the next section
The Shahinshah goaded a yawn as he feigned fake displeasure. He was somewhat upset with the highway robbery of his midday nap and much like a pouting child, fixed his apprehensive gaze outside the porthole rivet of his cold marble room. He could see, albeit barely beyond the peacock-infested gardens of the palace that Isfahan was awash with gay color and festivity, people coming to and fro, returning Sardauker and Ghulman Infantry in full march bounded by ululing and cheering crowds, captives and slaves from the Firanji and Hindi campaigns in humiliated stride with their new masters – yes, the city was teeming with life, its heart beating to the rhythm of victory.
Firework fuses were being set about around the environs of the great Hawza, entertainers flooded the streets, their many trades and paths revealing an eclectic mix of human ingenuity and innovation. The drapes and emblems of Saint Abul’Fazl Abbas and Imam Hussein covered every spec of the city’s walls, teasing the prisoner of the gilded golden cage to venture out. Or maybe not. The waft of heavy and spicy cooking greeted him with the passing of the wind, a homely smell that dulls the senses into relaxation. Ashura was in full swing, and he would soon hear in the late hours of the coming night the thudding chest-beatings of flagellants coupled with the ear-piercing wails of the womenfolk.
Given the empire’s triumphs in distant battlefields however, this was, he anticipated, going to be a celebration that mixed malignant tears with cries of joy and merriment. Yes, his people were enthralled – his dominion rivaled the Achmeneid’s at their height, the Mullahs from atop their pulpits ecstatically dubbing this the greatest of conquests, the penultimate ‘Jihad’ the Prophet himself has spoken of, the apocalypse now only a camel’s hair away, and the great Houses -- oh Allah -- they merely salivated at what they deemed as a golden opportunity to fatten their bulging pockets.
Lo! The Shahinshah doth live up to his namesake: Glory of the Age – Badeh’ Az-Zaman, he could hear them say.
In some twisted way, this must have been how the Imam envisioned it, the faithful bringing the whole known world to heel, the mighty groveling at their feet whilst they, the meek – if that is what they truly are - in utmost reverence, mourning the dead of Karbala. A gloomy patrimony suspended between utter self-hatred and the urge to cast the earth in its image, an unhappy King ruling over an unhappy Kingdom.
He let out a brief and withdrawn chuckle under his warm breath, a silent objection against a droll injustice. His eyes turned to the balls of fur sleeping quietly in the corner. He grimaced with surging irritation and flung a pillow directly at them, the startled cats fleeing in every direction, their moans and frightened shrieks now music to his ears. If the Shah could not nap in peace, then his wretched mangy cats would not either! He fingered his golden rings broodingly, slightly kissing them as his teeth nibbled at their hard and edgy precious stones. His breathing grew more forceful, and one would think he was trying to exorcise a demon lodged comfortably within the inner caverns of his hairy nostrils.
He went on like this for a few moments, his eyes now blank, his consciousness retreating inward to some unknown private place. Only there could he conspire with his deepest of thoughts, to scheme and plot at leisure against those beyond the parameters of his very own flesh and blood. But the connivers were not to meet this time. Images fluttered before his mind’s eye, breaking and reassembling reality in quick and morbid succession. His eyelids slowly descended into oblivion, and from the growing darkness he could see…
“Mein Majesty?” a voice squeaked nervously.
The Shahinshah jolted warily, shaking his head slightly and then opening his eyes wide with the vigilance of a Sardauker on patrol. The images were hurriedly dispelled from sight, as if a wizard’s evil spell had given way to an Imam’s holy incantations, the snake yielding to the flute. His eyes could see clearly now with the withdrawal of the shroud, and a terrified court stood before him at the whim.
Etiquette demanded pervading silence, and for a wily number of minutes, the men gave nary a twitch or fidget. He believed he was indeed alone – the courtly code at its best. “We have been roused from Our slumber,” he stated empathetically, giving a sigh of vexation for added stress, “and as such the Imperial Self must inquire as to why that is so? Could not patience reign King today?”
“Mein Khalifah,” the voice ventured again, a pitch of panic hanging on the tip of every letter now, “the wretched begs a thousand pardons, and may Allah smite me for riling the ire of the Majestic Self, but mein Highness asked for this meeting. The Diwan are all here at thy request…” The Iraqi Vizier trailed off with nervous coughs, extending his arms outward now and gesturing towards the assembled notables and princes huddled in the cold chambers, their eyes flashing an airy mix of terror and worry for their ancient sovereign.
The Shahinshah appraised them, unsure of what had happened exactly. Did he simply forget the war meeting? Or was age catching up on him? He touched his temples carefully, his long bony fingers covering his shriveled face, his white beard peeking out like a burned but combed broom amidst the flowing crimson garments of his luxurious and robust robe. “The Imperial Self…” he grappled in a low voice, as if grasping now for a split second his own mortality, his tone dwindling into a hoarse hushed tone, hesitant and uncertain. He searched for a loophole in the archives of his mind, something that would save face and retain some vestige of awe, “…was testing you.” He smiled warily; he would have to trudge on and suffer the heavy losses. “Loosen your tongues.” He exhaled, the words now barely escaping his mouth “What is the news from the West?”
Silence resumed once more, but the banging of heavy metal on the marble floor soon broke its back again. A black armored Sardauker with the insignia of the Konstantiniyye campaign, an envoy no doubt of Bajarbi, produced a sword and presented it to the Oriental Emperor, kneeling first, hands extending a steel offering. It glistened sinisterly under the flickering lights of the chamber, a tantalizing crimson tone emanating from its sharp edges. The Shahinshah picked it up and examined the sword carefully, the European design instantly repelling him with its rigid austerity – there was no design, no beauty in it, merely a Toledo blade, frosted steel of ice - he shuddered in disgust. “Mein Shahinshah, the Qayd Al-Askar Bajarbi sends his regards on this holy day, the sword of the Spanish commander a gift to Your Imperial grace.” The man turned to the mural by his side, another map, though much smaller than the one in the Grand Hall, motioning with his open palm the newly added conquests, “he has brought all of Hungaria, and the Nimsa under the righteous rule of the True Faith, and is laying siege to the Habsburg metropole Vienna as we speak”
The Shahinshah nodded his head as he laid the sword gently on the cushion beside him, his thoughts now on that cunning Moor of a general, Yusuf al-Bajarbi. Lacking the melee skill of Jafar, Bajarbi made it up with a certain charisma and elegance only a refined man of high tastes could possess. Yes, he has conquered much of Eastern Europa, but he has also systematically pillaged it with a certain poise that demanded respect - he had literally sent back to Persia hundreds of supply train caravans laden with books, artwork, printing presses and contraptions of all kinds, not to mention of course the tens of thousands of artisans and metalworkers he has forcefully moved into the Imperial hinterlands.
There was graft involved somewhere, the Shahinshah suspected, but Bajarbi obviously believed in the Safavid cause. The man also had a zest for forging uneasy alliances, prying his way through the Pandora’s Box that is the Balkans with a certain acumen the Shahinshah could only but help admire. The man not only successfully appealed to the Orthodox Christians – who bitterly hated the Latins – but the Hussites, Bogomiles, and every-other-sect-that-hated-Catholic-Spain-more-than-Muslim-Persia as well. A good and resourceful man indeed. Perhaps he could be given the Vilayet of Thracia – those Turks and Greeks need a silver-tongued man over their heads after all, and what better than Bajarbi?
“Tell the Qayd al-Askar that Isfahan is very pleased with the progress of his campaign,” and with that, the Shahinshah dismissed the Sardauker with a wave of the hand. “And mein Jafar?” he asked endearingly, a good indication of favor in the balance of power within the tremulous Safavid court. Jafar’s emissary, a German by the name of Markus von Nuremburgi, one of many Protestants now making their way into the Persian Imperium yet an acquainted member in the court’s entourage nonetheless, plodded forward, his Oriental armor hanging clumsily over his slim body as he saluted the Shahinshah.
In steady but accented Persian –
a strum of the Qomi drawl, much like Jafar’s, the Shahinshah mused, the German bellowed, “Mein Imperator, the great Qayd al-Askar prays for you and the Imperial Household the blessings and forgiveness of the Imam on Ashura. May all Muslims who love the Prophet’s Family find perpetuate peace.” The greeting was whimsically strange as it came from the mouth of this golden haired, blue-eyed Firanji. The Shahinshah would have laughed madly at it if not for the stern look of seriousness and formality on the man’s face. He continued, determined to deliver the message of his master in distant Italy “Qayd al-Askar marches now as we speak to Florence, and soon, to Milan, upon which he will convene with Qayd al-Askar Bajarbi in Vienna, and…” the man turned to the mural and pointed at his homeland, Alemania, a grimace struggling to break the dispassionate expression on his face, “…and strike the Spaniards in Germany with overwhelming force.”
“Good. Inform the Qayd Al-Askar that Isfahan will soon dispatch a contingent of men released from the Hindi offensive, roughly fifteen thousand or so to aid him in his righteous fight.” He had had enough of this Brotestanti and his massacre of the high Persian tongue, why torture his ears some more? The guttural
khs and
vs he pierced into various softly-pronounced words was just too much, even for the Emperor. He flicked his fingers against his chin dismissively, the German retreating with the signal back into the shadows like a serpent slithering to its hole. He sensed relief in the young man’s eyes, and smiled inwardly. “What of Admiral Al-Farazdaqi?” The question was heavy on his tongue, and divulged a great deal of empathy for the man whose loins had given way to an adulterer.
He did not care much for his daughter – he had many to be frank – and she was more or less a wench in the heated rut. The problem was the prestige of the Imperial Household, and if he is to preserve its honor, he would have to maneuver the perilous waters of the body politic carefully. It all depended on the score, and the ball was aptly in Al-Farazdaqi’s court – would there be a happy nuptial? Or a rolling Shirazi head? Triumph or defeat mein Farazdaqi? Again he smothered the rings with his chunky lips, awaiting a long overdue answer.
“Mein Khalifah, the Admiral’s envoy has not arrived yet. However—“ the Shahinshah twisted his head towards the Arab clad in colorful green robes, the Emir of Tarablus who had fled to the safety Isfahan to pay his ‘respects’ rather than overlook the sensitive operations unraveling in Ifriqya “— I can assure you mein Highness that much of the Barbary has fallen into our hands, the Maghrebi locals and Tuareg tribes welcoming our arrival—“ the man clicked his tongue in the Berber manner, a derisive snub at the Isphani “--the ‘mighty’ garrison in Carthage has been snuffed out, and most of the cities and towns have opted to surrender. Only Oran and Tangiers remain in stubborn resistance, but they too will soon yield to our men. I am also pleased to say that most of the islands in the Middle Sea have fa—”
The Shahinshah raised his hand resolutely, a gesture for any clever man to shut his mouth at once, and the Emir quickly obeyed. “All good said and done, but what of Al-Farazdaqi? The last report I received less than five days ago informed me that the Imperial fleet is approaching Cadiz, the Isphani Imperial Shipyard. You,“ the long emaciated finger now pointing accusingly at the Emir “—are the High Akbari of Western Ifriqya, so you must have news of some substance, no?” The man fumbled, perspiring a good deal under the whipping view of the Emperor’s merciless squinting gaze.
“Mein Khalifah, I only know that he has engaged the Isphani and begun the assault on the port-city,” he gulped a ball of mounting mucus in his throat, the sweat on his forehead now glistening with the flicker of the majestic lanterns dotting the vast chambers.
“Very well, let us hope Al-Farazdaqi succeeds, for our own sake and his.”
---
Captain Marco's rapier stabbed mercilessly into the Sardaukar in front of him. The sudden resistance of the mail armour underneath the ceremonial garb and then the steady submission of flesh as the blade broke through rushed a ripple of shuddering excitement through Marco's frame. His voice, trembling from behind his thick, ebony mustache, was a mix of terror and rage as he pushed his skewered opponent out of the way. He was no stranger to the killing that so often occurs in ship to ship combat, but somehow there was something desperate this time around in his movement. There was something more urgent that bolted forward the thrust of his arm like a thunderbolt. His opponent dropped to bloodied deck of the ship like a broken statue: distorted from the stab into a painful position. Three of the captain's men suddenly rushed forward to support his flanks. “Push them to the sea!” Marco called out to his comrades as he received the next wave of Persian marines slicing scimitars to clash with his sword.
It had been only half an hour since what remained of the Armada—now under his command as the most senior officer left alive or uncaptured—had turned to face the Persians again. Just a few hours earlier, after having smashed into the Persian line, Captain Marco could recall the tide of battle dangerously favouring their opponent. When the Admiral's flag had been captured as well as most of the front ships of the line, he had taken what was left of the Armada and turned northward.
It wasn't to retreat, however, his decision to turn was only to emulate a disaster. As he had expected, the lighter Persian ships attempted to press their victory and began chasing their line. With the heavier Spanish ships having been in front during the initial engagement, by turning together, the heaviest of the vessels were now in the rear—the first to greet the lighter Persian pursuers. Captain Marco, commanding from the rear of the line, began decimating the Persian vessels which had hastily broken formation in order to give chase.
When the Persians realized the trap, it had already taken its toll as the gap between the chasing vessels and their heavier capital ships had widened considerably depending on the weight of each attacker. The Armada had now swerved around to begin its counter-offensive. Some of the disabled Persian vessels, having attempted to return to the main fleet, were now being boarded and Captain Marco himself had led the charge across the planks. “That's the last of them,” the man to Marco's left reported breathlessly. “The ship is ours, Captain.”
“How many does that make, Hernandez?”
“Three of their heavier vessels that couldn't retreat fast enough... the lighter ones were too badly damaged.”
“That leaves us with some advantage,” Marco said sternly as he looked over the roughly battered side of the captured Persian vessel at the main enemy battle fleet to the south that awaited them. “Hernandez, I'll leave you in charge of this vessel. Bring twenty men from the
São Paulo and come up alongside me.
“Yes, sir,” Hernandez replied before calling out names of the men to transfer ship. Marco was quick to dash back over the planks and onto his own vessel.
“Signal the other captains!” Marco shouted to his lieutenants as he rubbed his sore shoulder, “We'll make for the Persian line in fifteen minutes! We have the numerical advantage now, but our men are spread thin and the heaviest of our vessels have been sunk, so we'll have--”
“Sir,” one of the lieutenants was quick to accost his commander, “if we retreat now we might--”
“If we retreat now, Cadiz will have Persian marines on it by midnight.” Marco gave the others no time to react but he raised a finger to impress his point as if he was stuffing a cannonball. “Our Admirals are dead, but they died because they pushed into that line knowing exactly that we could not retreat from this gulf! If we fail here, then our last duty as soldiers and sailors of the Empire is to take as many of those Persian soldiers go to the bottom of the sea with us.” Suddenly, Marco's tired eyes awakened with a ferocity that struck his lieutenants mute. “You have sailed with me since we were born under the banners of Spain, but you know my name. Dias is a name of sailors born and raised in Portugal. And so long as you sail with me,
meus amigos, you do not surrender, you do not retreat: not when your wives and children are threatened by crescent scimitars. Tell the captains! We sail to glorious death!”
“Yes, sir!” they replied with a snap that even Marco could not help but nurture a hopeful grin on his jagged tanned face. As the men made their preparations, their captain covertly let out a hidden exhale.
He whispered something to himself almost like a prayer: “We shall go into this together,
meus amigos, with bravery. But we probably will not return from this alive.” He gazed out into the wide gulf between the battered remainder of the Armada and the Persian ships reforming and then quickly upward to the steadily fading light. It would all be decided in the pitch blackness of the night.
Trey pulled his knees up to his chest and shivered suddenly at the chill of the cool, night air. He tried opening his eyes but all he could see in front of him was a kind of eternal darkness that stretched out past his hand. There was no moon that night, or so he mused to himself, but he knew that even if there was, he still wouldn't be able to see any light that evening. The curtains had been shut and the door was locked tight. No lamplight was activated in that motel room for some strange fear that it might alert someone—anyone to where he was.
He sat on the edge of his bed and looked about in the vast darkness. He knew that the other bed was there to his right, and beyond that the bathroom. There was a feeling of familiarity, in a sense. It was as if he was back in his dormitory: his bed closest to the door and Randall's on the other side. It was familiar. In that sense, at least, it was comforting. The knock on the door, though, nearly gave him a heart attack. “It's me...” the voice said and Trey immediately recognized it as Randall's.
Trey was quick to unlock the doorway and open the passage. Randall rushed in and Trey was even faster (though with such silence that it was as if there was no air at all in his movement) in closing the door behind him. When Trey's eyes adjusted even more to the darkness, he could see Randall's outline moving clumsily towards the table opposite the beds and next to the television. Randall placed the snacks and other foodstuffs he had ventured out of the motel area to retrieve on the tabletop. “I'll get the light,” Trey said tentatively as if he almost had to ask permission before he did it.
A dull click and one of the lamps activated close to the table. Randall sat down on one of the seats and Trey followed suit on the opposite side. Between them were bags of chips, two hotdogs hurriedly wrapped in paper, and a six pack of soda. “Sorry I couldn't get anything fancier, I just wanted to go to the closest place and it ended up being a gas station...”
“It's fine,” Trey dared to smile in thanks and it infected Randall cordially. When Trey tried to handle one of the bags of chips, he noticed Randall staring.
“It's going to be alright,” Randall said with such intensity in his gaze that it was as if the answer was right there on Trey's face the whole time. “It's crazy, but it's going to be alright.”
“Thanks, Randall,” Trey replied, but his own words confused him as much as the reassurance. Somehow, though, as Randall opened up a smile again, there was a sincerity to that reassurance that put Trey's mind at ease, even just for a little bit.
“Though I never would have guessed that when I got you as a roommate I'd be evading professors, police, and everyone else in between,” Randall laughed as he tore open his bag.
Trey stayed silent for a moment, but then smiled as well as he opened up his dinner. “But where do we go from here... I can't just keep running... and I definitely can't ask you to do any more than you already have.”
Randall took a bite out of his hot dog and regretted the soggy bun visibly. He put the item down and leaned on the table with his elbows and grinned widely. “Well, I did have an idea while I was heading to the gas station,” he said enthusiastically.
“And what's that?” Trey was almost afraid to ask.
“Well, all of this started with the kidnapping and murder of that one kid. And your weird doppleganger 'twin' of yours showing up, right?” Randall asked with a grin.
“Yeah...”
“Well, I remember that while we were at the station I remember they were talking about how they had apprehended the suspect for the murder and would be sending him to one of the county lockups for arraignment and to conference with a lawyer.”
“So...”
“So! We go talk to him ourselves.” Randall waited a moment for Trey's expression to blank. “It won't be easy, but I already have a few ideas.”
“I don't know if that's such a good move...”
“The last place they'll look for us is at some holding facility. It wouldn't be that hard to find and maybe we'll get some answers. You said it yourself, we can't just keep running around until they catch us. The best defense is a good offense, as they say, and now it's time for us to counter-attack.”
Chapter CXLII: Counter-Attack (coming soon)
