The Second Son

Hoffner took them, placed them in his pocket, and said, “That I cannot say.”

This, more than anything, seemed to convince the young requete. He said, “We’ll need to check the car.”

Three minutes later, Hoffner drove them past the barricade and into Nationalist Spain.

Augustus Caesar, born Gaius Octavius Thurinus, son of the she-wolf Atia Balba Caesonia, adopted nephew of the tyrant Gaius Julius Caesar, husband of the harridan Livia Drusilla, and first Emperor of Rome, hated Spain. He had fought there against Pompey as a boy, at the side of his uncle, and had developed a “horrible burning” in his meatus urinarius after an evening spent with two young women from the Tarraconensis province. The burning eventually subsided (a doctor familiar with the women suggested a combination of herbs and minerals), but young Octavian never forgot his days of agony in the city of Salduba. In later years he even went so far as to blame his inability to produce an heir on the peoples of Hispania. That Rome would have to suffer through the likes of Tiberius, Caligula, and Nero was hardly the fault of two welcoming young virgins (or so they described themselves), but who was really to say? In an act of contrition, and with the hope that Spain might seem more than a cauldron of filth and whores to the people of Rome, the men of Salduba renamed their city after the young Octavian when he ascended the throne. They called it Caesaraugusta, which, over time-and due to dialect and the influence of the conquering Moors-became Zaragoza. It seemed highly unlikely that now, under the watchful gaze of the requetes, the city might offer a glimpse into that distant past. Then again, Zaragoza was filled with soldiers. Even the holiest of men needed something for which to repent.

Hoffner brought the car to a stop. A barricade stretched along the entrance to an ancient-looking bridge, with the thick brown water of the Ebro swirling below it. Wide enough for perhaps two trucks to pass, the bridge was six stanchions in limestone brick-a pristine nod to Rome in the vaulted archways in between-and looked untouched by the recent fighting. Not that there had been much to speak of. Zaragoza had followed the Seville approach to self- defense: Let the soldiers take what they will and never-never-hand a rifle to a worker. It had saved the city from any real scarring, though not so much the workers. Those who had fought with their shouts of ?Viva la Libertad! had been rounded up, shot, or worse. It was a terrible blow to Zaragoza, as the city had always been known as a hotbed of CNT activities. Passion without guns, though, has a tendency to end badly. It had in Zaragoza, and it was why the Puente de Piedra-after five hundred years surviving Moors and floods and the occasional rumble from the French-stood whole. Perhaps it had been saving itself for this unit of requetes now standing atop it.

Watching them from the car, Hoffner suspected that the young soldiers making their way over were thinking much the same thing.

“Senor,” one of them said. “Papers, please.”

Things were more relaxed here. They were twenty kilometers inside Nationalist territory, with fifteen hundred armed men just the other side of the bridge. A cordial “Senor” was the least one of them could offer.

Hoffner handed both sets of papers to the man and waited. If the boys at the Ontinar Crossroads had used their telephone correctly, this would be a quick stop, after which Hoffner would be ushered through to meet someone with real questions. If not-well, “if not” wasn’t something to dwell on these days.

The man with the papers told the others to wait while he returned to the small shack by the barricade. At just after three o’clock, Hoffner and Mila drove across the bridge.

It was good to be out of the open country; the sun through the windscreen had made the air almost unbreathable. Now looming above them and providing shade-perhaps for the province as a whole-was the basilica of Our Lady of the Pillar, a massive and unwavering reminder of God’s bountiful dominion. Palatial walls sat below four fortresslike towers, each standing sentry over the Roman dome and tiled cupolas within. If this was a place to inspire quiet devotion, it was for a God dressed in full armor. Hoffner suspected that even had the bombs exploded, the spires themselves would have risen up to slap the aeroplane from the sky.

Mila stared up as they drove. “Welcome to Aragon.”

A motorcycle led them into the plaza, which stretched out behind the basilica. The square was large enough to land a plane, the buildings surrounding it a collision of Roman and Moorish design, with a few that seemed forever lost in the struggle. At the far end stood a second cathedral-why a square should need two was something only Zaragoza could answer-and a church tower that made the hunched houses of Osera seem perfectly upright by comparison. A line of military trucks was parked at the center, with two more of the Renault tanks thrown in for good measure. There was a starkness to it all, and not for the presence of the guns. It was the emptiness. A few soldiers stood at various posts, but the heat and God and common sense were keeping the rest of Zaragoza indoors. If this was victory, thought Hoffner, it was a far cry from the kind he had seen in Barcelona.

The motorcycle pulled up in front of a building and the soldier kicked out his stand. The place was one of the newer ones on the square, eighteenth or nineteenth century, and with the wrought-iron balconies and ornate stonework of a municipal courthouse. Two soldiers with rifles flanked the entrance. Hoffner turned off the engine, and the motorcyclist led them through and into the enclosure of a wide receiving hall.

It was all stone and wood, vaulted ceilings-and surprisingly cool. Doorways and corridors led off toward more doorways and corridors, while a staircase climbed along the walls to the upper floors. Peppered throughout were men in uniform who moved with a look of deep concentration. This was the hushed feel of newly minted authority- muffled conversations and telephone bells ringing from above. Hoffner might have been mistaken, but he thought he caught the smell of sweet incense drifting down from on high.

The motorcyclist led them up the stairway and, somewhere on the third floor, took them into an office that looked like a small banquet hall. The wall facing the street was a series of long, narrow windows that stepped out onto equally narrow balconies, each with a singular view of Our Lady of the Pillar. It was unclear which of the buildings was keeping watch on which, but Hoffner imagined that the man at the far end of the room-desk, bookcase, and telephone-readily deferred to the will of the Holy Mother across the square.

A second man in uniform approached. He and the motorcyclist exchanged a quick salute, and the motorcyclist retreated. The man then motioned Mila and Hoffner toward the distant desk-a sudden and almost jarring “Senor, Senora” to break the Spanish silence-before leading the way.

The other man stood as they drew up. He was tall, with a chiseled face, a nobleman in the most recent guise of Spanish privilege. He was no more than twenty-five, his hair black and slicked above a high forehead, his uniform perfectly pressed. Where Durruti had defined hunger and passion, this showed centuries of refinement. The only flaw was a red patch of skin under the right eye. Something from birth. Something to cause shame.

He was a career officer, only weeks removed from his betrayal of the Republic. He wore his treason with the easy assurance of a divine right.

“I am Captain Doval.” The voice was nasal and lingered on the words. “I have been expecting you, Senor, though not expecting you.”

From the slight curl of the lip, Hoffner imagined this to be some form of humor.

Hoffner offered a clipped nod. “Captain.” His Spanish was once again fluent, though no less Germanic. “What we have to discuss does not concern the senora. She has a brother in your garrison whom she wishes to see. The last name is Piera.” He looked at Mila.

“Carlos,” she said. “First Sergeant Carlos Piera, under General Cabanellas.”

The curl inched toward a smile. “We are all under General Cabanellas, Senora, but I shall see what I can do.” Doval nodded to the second man, who retreated to a small desk and a telephone. The conversation was brief and successful.

The second man said, “Your brother will be in the Gran Cafe within half an hour. The senora is welcome to wait in the anteroom just here”-he motioned to a door beyond the desk-“until an escort can be found to take her to the cafe.”

Hoffner said, “I’d like to see this anteroom.” He removed his papers from his jacket pocket and placed them on the desk. “You may examine my papers while I’m with the senora.”

Hoffner took Mila by the elbow. He had been swimming in Nazis for the past three years; it was easy enough to strike a convincing pose. The Spaniards offered their own clipped nods before Hoffner led Mila to the door and through.

The room was small, one window, a few chairs, and with a second closed door that led out to the corridor. Hoffner shut the door behind him and held his finger to his lips. Waiting perhaps fifteen seconds, he suddenly pulled