Chapter LXIV: Success and Failure
March 11, 1608
As the noon sun finally reached its greatest height, Willem could notice the tiny droplets of water that streamed down the sides of the window pane. Despite the approach of spring, the wind and cold still contained enough bite to keep him uncomfortable even inside the cozy, modest tavern. Although Willem might describe it as “modest,” it is only by Spanish standards: the tavern itself was a relatively rich piece of architecture out in that tundra and river side area of the Siberian wasteland. The fact that there were glass windows at all betrayed the affluence of the owners.
“You should finish your gruel before it gets cold,” Rikhard chimed into his thoughts while taking a bench seat across from him. The table they shared contained the nourishment Riku alluded to as the food spirited its moisture away into the chilly air.
Willem took his eyes off of the window and nodded a belated welcome to his companion before idly touching his fingertips against his wooden spoon. His look, however, continued to wander around the already eating Riku. “Where’s Raul?” he asked.
“Writing another report,” Riku said tersely while sipping the porridge like food with some familiar hunger. “He’s been up all morning ever since we managed to get the third box last night.”
Willem surrendered his curiosity and touched some of the food to his lips. It was only a few spoonfuls later of the tasteless product before he managed another question. “Have you taken a look at what’s inside those boxes?” The question was a strange one; it had the tone of an old woman speaking of death—Willem’s bones became jittery even as he admitted the question.
“You would be careful to heed Raul’s warning about not opening the boxes,” Riku replied as if anticipating Willem’s temptation. Although Riku’s eyes tried to implant an admonishing gaze to the one across from him, Willem kept his green spheres low to his gruel. At that, Riku let out a short sigh. “You are just a military man, Van Axel,” the Fin said addressing Willem with his family name with as much filial chiding as he might have done addressing him with his given name, “you should leave such mysteries to people like me and Raul.”
“But that’s the thing,” Willem interrupted slowly sliding his eyes upward in an indicting stare, “even you don’t know what they are, do you?” The question obviously impacted on Riku with some force as it kept him both from speaking and from eating. Not a man to deny another’s gaze, they were locked in a test of wills.
“I don’t know everything about this Artifact that Raul is recovering,” Riku admitted although the admission did not deflect the twin spheres searching for answers, “but I do know that exposing yourself to those items is not a good thing even for a little bit…”
Willem could only narrow his forehead and lean a bit forward onto the table though in not so much a menacing way but as in a pleading manner. “Do you even know why you’re not supposed to look?”
Riku could see the sincerity in those green oculars and the noon’s chill settled upon the two for a moment. Riku quickly leaned forward and grabbed Willem’s shoulder. Although Willem was surprised by the motion, he did not move from the gesture. As if from under the table, Riku produced a piece of paper between their now close faces.
What Willem saw on that piece of paper was a strange oddity. Like the inverse of an eclipse, the piece of paper had a hole gaping at its center and Willem could plainly see the young yet rugged countenance of Riku on the other side through it. The fringes of this circular window were the opposite colour of the sun’s majestic crown whenever the moon held dominance before her in the sky and its effects spread out across the rest of the paper like the members of a dark octopus.
“What does this mean?” Willem was quick to ask while looking through the central gap with a confused expression. Riku did not hold any jovial smile or teasing grin.
“This is what happens when you are so foolish as to expose yourself to the Artifact’s pieces, Willem. You would do well to remember that and observe your duty to obey.”
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Raul finished the last of his scribbling just as the sun was beginning to peek into his west facing bedroom. Having spent the entire night spelunking through the local caverns before finding the third piece and then returning home near dawn, he had felt the energy to complete a report despite his exhaustion. He was not quite sure why it was he was compelled to do so, but it was not the first time his alacrity overrode his natural wants.
Riku was nice enough to have delivered his meal to his room earlier that morning, but the sloppy gruel was already close to sleet cold. He began to down the consistency nonetheless. Taking a moment to glance over towards his bed which hid the locked baggage underneath, he assured himself that the pieces were still safe. That’s when the sting of his tired muscle forced a wince; hours of climbing would do that to an already chilled body. Lifting his tunic slightly, he pressed pen-fatigued fingers against his side and rubbed where his hip felt sore.
It was not a happy reminder for him to have to touch himself there. His fingers, while massaging the aching muscle, flowed against tender hills where smooth and level skin should be. The dark and uneven scar against his touch reminded him of a burning sensation that he had not really felt. It was a recollection of a burn that did not burn—it was a scar that indicated an extraordinary attack. Remembering such a thing, Raul could not help but look towards the sealed boxes with fury.
“I’ll never forgive you…” he muttered with so much muted anger that he nearly spat at the same time in the direction of those rectangular containers that populated the underbelly of his bed. He quickly pulled down his tunic to cover the history of his injury and decided that enduring the pain would be better than being reminded of that marred medium that had been between his hand and his muscle.
A heated breath escaped his lips as his shoulders found foundation on the desktop and his eyes eluded any light in the protection of his palms. He felt the sense of heat forcing moisture from within his lids and his nose prickled not just from the cold but from his brain pulsing anguish throughout his body. Holding his hands tightly against forming tears, he hoped to build a dam with his own will against the forces that fought within him. “Why can’t I forget about you?” he asked himself like some novice struggling against a mathematical impossibility.
Raul’s hands trembled and for the first time, the fatigue of racing around Russia seemed to catch up to him. It was as if the entirety of his energies was laid bare in that simple act of being more than halfway complete. The contemplation of his success threatened to plummet him into sudden failure. How could he move on? “I’m so close…” he let out half gasping while doing so.
In his leaned forward position, the golden chain around his neck bobbed out of his disturbed tunic and slinked precariously over the desktop. Like a scarab beetle opening its wings, the bulbous golden construct at the end of the chain parted. Feeling the sensation on the back of his neck, Raul opened some fingers to check with his own glazed eyes the change in position of this treasure.
Divorcing an entire hand from his right eye, he clasped the hanging object gingerly. Bringing the shining thing closer to his face, he noticed its cavity within holding what seemed like a tuft of hair held down by a gold belt. Seeing the casing and the piece of remembrance within, Raul could no longer withhold his pain. Hot liquid poured down his right cheek. “You should have never left me…” he whispered as tears touched the edge of his lips. As he spoke, the bitterness of his crying mingled with the bitterness he cried out.
“But it’s not all your fault,” he continued spitting some teardrops with the force of his speech, “the men of that Room… and their Silence… they never helped me to find you… it’s their fault too.” He was trembling as he spoke, “And once I know their secret… once I understand this Disappearance… they will be forced to deal with me… and maybe… maybe I’ll be able to see you again…” With that, Raul straightened up and resolved to follow through with the rest of the task; he recovered his sense of duty.
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April 5, 1608
The Room was quieter than usual—most of the discussion on policy seemed to have died down and the men present merely acquiesced to that charism that had so far catapulted a petty Iberian kingdom into a global empire. “Although it was difficult to get a dispatch through the lines, we have received word that Colonel Santiago holds the field still in Novgorod despite several attempts at dislodging him,” one of the men closest to the map wall announced.
“Very good,” the specter in red at the terminating end of a wooden table accepted. “Since he had captured the city before the winter, the worst is over. He will only need to hold out long enough to make the Russians agreeable to our terms.” The wiry outline did not shift as he spoke but the rest of the room seemed to cautiously accept the encouraging outcome with adjustments in their seats.
“As you ordered, Your Eminence” another page near the map wall accosted the attention of the spectrum of men in the Room, “the Fifteenth and Sixteenth armies are now en route into Northern Germany. The other divisions we pulled up from Africa are similarly en route to England on pretense to aid against the Protestant rebellion.”
Sturdy eyes benefiting from the lights above the map wall discerned from a distance the image of the standards of Spain sailing up the Bay of Viscaya. Those were undoubtedly the flotillas carrying the North African armies to land in Cornwall. It is a credit to the enormity of the map wall that even from a few yards away, the one holding presidency in the room would easily detect the ragtag rebel flags occupying areas in the Midlands.
“As we expected, the English army currently cannot hold back the Protestant rebels,” one of the men commented. “Our cause to absorb these lands into Spain itself will be most accepted there.” The circuitous remark made its point—although Spain might have some reason to dissolve England’s crown for the sake of preserving its Catholicity, the rest of Europe would not so easily understand why Bohemia, Venice, and Austria naturally must capitulate their crowns as well.
“Your Eminence,” a shade begged interruption, “if instead we only bring England in first and leave the others...”
“Do we have enough men to secure central Europe?” was the curt return from the red clad leader. There was a short discussion before it was evident that the map told all.
“If we are serious about holding onto the new acquisitions,” someone at the wall interpolated, “then we must move more men into Praha and Luxembourg where the Calvinist population is most dense.”
“Send the Eastern Mediterranean fleet to transfer the Alexandrian garrison over to Venice then have Colonel Arias march to Praha,” was the order. Already, looks were being exchanged but none seemed to grumble too loudly. Indeed, the Alexandrian garrison had seen little action ever since the successful ventures of the monastic orders in restoring the city to one of Christendom’s premier Sees. Although some disdained at the thin stretch of the nation’s military, the past successes in Alexandria reminded everyone of their sense of duty once more.
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June 10, 1608
Al-Makran was not a very difficult place for the intellectuals from Alexandria to travel to. Despite its harsh marshy terrain, it was no longer than a day’s travel from that port city. However, for those traveling from Upper Egypt, it had been a hastily made and long journey. The contrast in the collected individuals together in this meeting was staggering and, initially, none in that inconspicuous house had mingled outside of their immediate friends.
However, in the close quarters of the secret interlocution, such distinctions were becoming less important. Indeed, the Mameluk Aristocracy literally rubbed shoulders with the darker skinned Egyptians of Upper Egypt who furthermore were cramped against the merchant-intellectuals of Alexandria who completed the triune circuit around a central table. Only the Imams and Al-Azhar clerics were spared from having to stand in the cramped quarters and were instead given seats all around the table representing their various groups.
“We have been discussing this for hours!” one of the darker skinned individuals called out allowing the entirety of his muscled frame to pulsate in frustration. Truly, the Egyptians closest to Nubia not only sported the most militant minds but were the most bred for physical combat, “while you intellectuals ponder your tolerance and you overlords fear the state of your lands, the rest of our separated brethren are ready to rise up! We must join them!”
“What you speak is true, Tabari!” another from across the room agreed as he raised his merchant-clothed arm towards the light above them, “already the Spanish oppression and insult is too much! With the Kaabah removed, even our Imams here can tell us of the confusion. Some of us do not even know in which direction to pray!”
Despite the uproarious commotion, none of the seated gentlemen or the militia controlling aristocrats said much. Even many of the shop owners filled the dialogue in other times with useless logistical concerns. Despite the desperate hour, many were still plagued with fear. However, the reality of the insult at Mecca seemed to focus all those enjoined in the debate to a singular hatred for their overlords. “They even have the insolence to tell us to pray towards Majerit!”
Whether or not the insult was true, mattered little to the gathered representatives; what did matter was the continued occupation, the attempted conversions, and the insulting move of the Kaabah fueled the discussion. It was only interrupted by someone screaming from near the side of the house. At first, thinking that the Spanish guard was descending upon them, a small panic ensued before the guards outside explained that it was only a messenger.
Having ridden directly from Alexandria, the young man wasted no time in pushing his way to the center. “News from the city!” he shouted nearly out of breath from having hastily traversed through the swamp. “The Spanish field army is departing!”
Immediately, an outburst of shock and exultation infected the entire room and a look of hope combined each group nearly into each other’s arms. “Then it is decided!” one of the Imams at the fore calmed the crowd. “Let us remember what those infidel soldiers have done to our once great city. Prepare yourselves as we join with our separated brethren to reclaim what is ours!”
A cheer and many thanks were delivered. Indeed, each individual there now brought the image of the ranks of tercios defiling from their city. However, it reminded all of them most intensely of the failure nearly a century and a half ago which led to the generations of Spanish rule. With stern yet jubilant eyes exchanging edifying gazes, the failures in Al-Iskandariya reminded everyone of their sense of duty once more.
Professor Alejandro was kind enough to remind Taguchi of his duty to clean up that day in the cafeteria. “But I think after falling asleep fifteen times in class,” added the history professor, “I’ll send down word that you’re a bit under the weather.” Needless to say, Taguchi bowed deeply at the kindness of his sensei.
“I’m so sorry!” he added considering his behavior in class. Being the most tired, he was also the last to get up from his seat—it was a lucky thing considering that now the two would have no audience to witness the apology. “I just… there’s been a lot going on at home,” Taguchi attempted to explain while his head was still parallel to the floor.
Professor Alejandro had been erasing the board as Taguchi spoke, sparing the young man from his gaze as he bowed. But it was at the mention of troubles at home that the professor stiffened his arm from its arc across the blackboard. “Is… your room mate giving you any trouble?” he asked a bit cautiously.
At first, the question alarmed Taguchi and he peeked his head upward just enough to convey his surprise. “N.. no it’s not that,” he stuttered out although for some reason, the image of Pablo’s scar stunned his mind into thought. As his eyes deflected to his right to contemplate what kind of question it was, the silence was dissolved by the Professor’s resumption of his erasing.
“Well then I won’t keep you, Taguchi-kun,” the professor added with a nonchalant air. “Have a safe trip home.” Taguchi couldn’t help but bow once more.
“Thank you very much, professor. Excuse me.” With that, he slowly backed away, turned around, and exited through the side doorway. As Taguchi slipped away, the sound of the eraser against the board stopped once again. Professor Alejandro took a moment to reach into his pocket and fetch his mobile device.
Pressing buttons quickly, it did not take long before a faint ring could be heard despite the microphone being pressed against his ear. A voice began to talk on the other end of the line but the Professor interrupted him. “Ueda,” Alejandro curtly called out to the other on the phone, “something is going on in that house that I was not told about—” It was his turn, however, to be interrupted.
“What?” the Professor asked into the phone, “Poltok is heading over there today? The Key must be—” a faint “yes” was heard cutting him off. “Then,” the Professor started up again, “this has become your responsibility, Ueda. Do not neglect your duties; for the sake of us all, spare no one.”
Chapter LXV: Duty (coming soon)
