Today even the doorman, a burly and hirsute fellow going by the name of Aiax, was absent. Lately, someone had handed him a pike and made him a guard as well, since the actual guards had been drafted into the regular army. Not that the Aljafería Palace needed a serious military guard; its strategic importance had been in decline even before the seat of government had been transferred to the New World. Zaragoza was once the capital of the autonomous duchy of Aragón in the Andalusian commonwealth, but with the great provincial normalization of 1515 the special status of Aragon had been lost and the Aljafería Palace relegated to an administrative role.
Even without a doorman, Guillem Sanches was very pleased to call that royal palace his workplace. The building was steeped in history: built by the Moorish Iberians, it was a centerpiece of Andalusian heritage. For a long time Zaragoza was held by the Western Roman Empire, and the rallying cry 'to the Aljafería!' was one uttered often in the 13th century, and still in common parlance in the area, as an exhortation to complete a seemingly impossible task. Guillem often found himself chucking and thinking of that same cry when going to his daily work. A few years ago he had been a mere scribe in the great machinery of the Aragonese provincial administration, but with the exodus of the higher functionaries his role had increased in importance, though the pay remained much the same. If the wealth of Catalunya was legendary elsewhere, that legend was not currently in evidence in Zaragoza.
the Aljafería
Instead of an Aiax the entrance of the Aljafería was populated by a begging cripple.
"Looks like we have a new doorman," Guillem told the man as he passed.
"I'll take the job. What's the pay?" Laughing, Guillem stopped and handed the man a quarter real from his own pocket. Better to sponsor this one to keep all the others away.
"Do your job well, and I'll make sure you'll be budgeted. Do I need to explain your duties?"
"I was a sergeant of the marines in our Most Serene Republic's navy, good sir. I think I can handle it. Do I need a uniform?" Guillem's smile of amusement changed to one of genuine pleasure.
"You are definitely hired. My name is Guillem Sanches, assistant financial magistrate; pleased to make your acquaintance." The cripple gets up, leaning on his crutches. One leg of his breeches is empty and pinned back.
"Sergeant Raul Intxausti, the pleasure is all mine."
Looking out of the window of his office, Guillem surveyed the city. It still looked quite grand from a distance. Vast amounts of marble, plazas, and cathedral towers characterized the city scape. There were far fewer people than before, and those who stayed were the old, the young, the infirm and the unenterprising. What healthy males remained were often conscripted into the armed forces. What remained in Zaragoza was emblematic of all of Andalucia la Vella: the remnants of empire, and a pervading sense of decay and decline.