The sergeant studied Frank’s slight limp. “You will live. Now hurry, or I will have to report your lack of compliance to my superior.”
“You mean, the governor?”
“No, Senor Stone. I am not one of the regular guards at Castell de Bellver.” Sergeant Rock looked like he had wanted to spit when he uttered the words “regular guards.” “I am Sergeant Alarico Garza, here from His Majesty’s Fort San Carlos, and I now report to Captain Vincente Jose-Maria de Castro y Papas. With whom, I am told, you have some acquaintance.”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
Garza frowned. “You are not fond of the captain? I was told that you were on friendly terms.”
“Oh, yeah; he’s a great friend. Best guy to have around if you’re hoping to be betrayed, ambushed, or knocked around. And tell him that if he gets anywhere near me again, I just might have to give his fist another beating with my face.”
For a moment, Sergeant Rock was puzzled; then, with great effort, he stifled a grin. Then he simply extended a guiding hand toward the stairway to the second tier gallery.
As Frank hobbled up the stairs, the sergeant hung farther back, giving the couple some room and time to inspect their surroundings.
Which were, frankly, an architectural marvel of extraordinary grace and beauty. When they reached the top step and came out into the open air so that their voices would not echo back to the sergeant, Giovanna grasped Frank’s arm a little tighter. “Frank, it is not wise to speak ill of Captain Castro y Papas.”
“Why? Because he might beat me up? Oh, wait a minute. He already did that. And for no reason.”
“Frank,” hissed Giovanna. “I have not seen you so stubborn. Can you not believe what I told you about Castro y Papas?”
“You expect me to believe he was doing me a favor when he beat the crap out of me?”
She sighed. “Frank, one of the reasons I love you is that you are so good a man, you do not readily see or understand the evil that runs deep in so many others.” She looked at him squarely, making sure they were still far enough ahead of the sergeant to be beyond earshot. “Captain Castro y Papas beat you because if he didn’t, someone else would have. Maybe one of the new guards brought by that vile little hyena, Dakis. Or maybe Dakis was hoping to do it himself; he looks the type. And of this you may be assured, dear Frank: had one of them beaten you, the injuries you have been affecting since Rome would be quite genuine.”
The sergeant called their attention to another staircase leading up. As they began ascending it, Frank let his head droop as he considered Gia’s arguments. When they reached the roof-a broad, ringlike expanse that sprouted towers from each compass point-he looked at her. “You really think that’s what was going on? That he had no choice?”
Up here, the wind blew fresh from the bay; his wife’s fine, lustrous hair caught it and flew up like shining raven wings. “Oh, the captain had a choice, husband. I suspect he would have been allowed to wash his hands of the indignity of what he was instructed to do. But then he could not have protected you, Frank. I tell you this not because I have changed my opinion of Castro y Papas-I have not-but because you are my husband and I will not lie to you: he may be our enemy, but I must concede that, in this, he was being your friend. As strange as that might seem.”
“Well, yeah-it seems pretty strange,” Frank agreed as he considered the architecture of the Castell from top to bottom. “I hate to say it, Gia, but it’s kind of hard to see anyone breaking us out of here. Not even Harry could pull that off.”
She nodded. “It is a strong fortress.”
Frank assessed the defenses, feeling like he was living a lost chapter from The Lord of the Rings. “A hilltop location that you can only reach by an overgrown goat-trail. An outlying perimeter of ravelins and an outer gate house, all set well away from other habitations. A dry moat around the Castell itself, with a drawbridge and portcullis.”
Gia frowned. “Yes, as I said, a strong fortress-but not impregnable. The cart-driver told us that during the peasant revolt last century, the rebels took the whole Castell-including the lazarette.”
“Yeah, but why? Because they had someone on the inside. And those rebels had a much easier job than a bunch of rescuers will.”
“Why? Because there were so many more of the rebels?”
“Well, that too. But the real difference is in timing, Gia.”
She frowned.
Frank pointed to the outer gatehouse, then the barbican, then the drawbridge, then the portcullis, then the single narrow staircases that provided sole access to each successive level. “Look at all those different chokepoints. Each one is going to cost rescuers time and bodies. And generally, if you need to go quickly, you lose more bodies. But however fast they go, Gia, they won’t be able to get to us before our jailors do. So what does the endgame look like?”
She nodded. “The last of the rescuers break through the final barrier and find us held by the Spanish, with cocked guns at our heads.”
“Exactly. A hopeless standoff. The rescuers can’t move without destroying the very people they came to rescue. And by that time, other Spanish forces will be inbound, cutting off any chance of retreat.” He shook his head. “There may be no getting out of here, Gia.” He took her hands. “I’m sorry I got you into all this. I never expected-”
“You will be silent, Frank Stone, before you say anything more profoundly stupid than you already have. I am here because I love you, and if asked to choose my future a thousand times over, each time, I would choose this one I share with you. So, that is settled. All that remains is for you to get to work.”
“To work?”
“On your book, Frank. Just because you are imprisoned does not mean you cannot fight back; indeed, this is when it is most important to do so. And in you, beloved husband, I have seen the promise that indeed, the pen will be far mightier than the sword. Have you made any progress with the book?”
“Well, some.”
“Must I guess, or will you deign to tell me?”
“Sure. It’s just that I’m-well, I’m kind of embarrassed. I’m not really a writer, you know-”
“Frank, any one is a writer who chooses to be. To be a good writer, well, that is a different matter. But if you can simply write as you speak, you will be a good writer. Possibly much more than merely good. But tell me: what idea has been emerging?”
“Well, its kind of a parody and an homage all in one.”
“Good, good: a work with many layers, with allusion to other masterpieces.”
“Uh…yeah. And it’s set in a time of warfare and struggle between good and evil.”
“Excellent. It is a heroic tale, borrowing its scope from the Greeks and Romans. And the main characters? Who are they?”
“Well…they’re hobbits.”
Gia blinked, then frowned. “They are who?”
“Not who: what. They’re hobbits. They’re kind of little people with hairy feet who live in holes in the ground and…” He saw her look. “You don’t like it.”
Gia floundered for a reply. “Well…it is not Homer or Virgil,” she stuttered lamely.
“No. But, well, now that I think of it, yeah, it is. Kind of. See, these hobbits are part of a long saga called The Lord of the Rings. It’s filled with noble lords and ancient demons and all that kind of stuff, but the real heroes are the hobbits because-well, because they’re just the little people who live through war. Like all us little people who have to figure out ways to survive, but also keep goodness alive in our hearts, while the world around us is plunged into war, and dominated by evil.”
Gia’s smile had returned; it was now wider than ever. “My genius Frank; a book for the working classes. And one which will brighten the eyes of children, even as it calls forth tears of sorrow and fellow-feeling from strong men with great hearts.” She flung her arms around his neck. “My genius. And look what you have for your daily inspiration: look!” She pointed out over the eastern ramparts where they had come to stand.
For a moment, they forgot the perils and uncertainties of their existence as prisoners. Gulls wheeled about the blue dome of the sky; upon the glimmering bay, lateen-rigged boats-tiny at this distance-scudded to and from,
