“I do believe we have arrived at the fabled Lion’s Gate of the Alcázar, my friend,” Allen beamed with pleasure. “It was built by Moorish workmen for King Pedro the Cruel of Castile six hundred years ago. Always wanted to see it after studying about it for years, and now here we are.”
Allen examined the Arabic inscription. “Well, now. Look at that. It’s a Qu’ranic verse. I’ve seen that written before—‘the one true God is Allah.’ ”
“You can read Arabic?” asked Wake.
“No. Wish I could, but I’ve seen that verse all over Egypt and recognized it. The inside of the Alcázar is said to be absolutely beautiful.” He sighed. “I can’t get this close after all these years and not see it. Come on, I’m going inside. “
Wake wasn’t so sure. “Those soldiers over there look pretty serious, Pete. I don’t think we can go in there.”
A soldier in dress uniform was at parade rest in front of the entrance, watching the crowd of pedestrians. Against the massive wooden doors, two more soldiers stood. All three had fixed bayonets on their rifles, which, Allen observed with surprise, were the newest type of German Mausers.
A large group of about forty men, apparently city and church leaders by their dress and manner, came down a side street, crossed the plaza and headed for the archway without slowing. The soldiers opened the doors and stood at attention, eyes straight forward.
“Ah, ha! Just the thing. Thank you, Allah,” Allen jovially commented as he joined the back of the group, some of whom were conversing in somber tones.
Wake followed, trying to stop his friend with a hushed voice. “Pete! No. We can’t do this. . . .”
The soldiers presented arms with a synchronized crash of rifles as the group approached the portal. Wake struggled to understand what the men in the group were saying in the unusual lisping Andalusian dialect. He caught a couple of the words and hoped that he misunderstood them.
“Can’t stop now, Wake. Good God, man, this is my chance to see the inside of the fabled Alcázar! Besides, Peter, in for a penny—in for a pound,” Allen insisted as they all walked through the archway and entered a small patio.
Heading across the patio toward another archway, the group continued without slowing as the heavy doors thundered shut behind them. When the lone soldier inside the gate looked the other way, Wake grabbed Allen and pulled him into a side room.
“Pete!” Wake whispered into Allen’s ear. “I just got part of what these people were saying. They’re saying something about executing insurrectionists, and it sounds like they’re getting ready to do it right now. Right here! I think these are the Carlists we’ve heard about. These fellas aren’t playing around, Pete. Let’s get out of here. Now.”
The Marine’s face lost its humor. “Oh, well, I guess that does put a bit of a different flavor on it, doesn’t it?” Allen gazed at the ornate patterns in the gingerbreading on the walls and columns around him. “Damn it all, though, I really wanted to see the Alcázar. But yes, I know, of course you’re right.”
He peeked around the wall. “Hmm . . . that soldier chap is standing on the inside of the gateway, so we’ll have to get out through another door. Let’s go this way. . . .”
They went through interior doorways from room to room, the latticed windows to their left allowing sunlight to filter in from the various patios and give a kind of half-light effect, enhanced by the shadows from the delicate patterns. Wake was just about to comment about how deserted the palace seemed to be when a female voice in the lilt of Andalusian Spanish softly called out to them from a dark corner.
“Perdidos, señores?”
Wake couldn’t see well, but guessed her to be behind a latticed wall he could barely discern. She had asked them if they were lost.
“Sí, señora. Estamos perdidos. ¿Dónde esta la puerta?”
She answered in very good English, vaguely amused. “Oh, not only are you lost, but you are Americans who are lost. And in the Alcázar, of all places. Why are you in here?”
Wake looked at Allen and said, “Very good question, señora, and one that I was about to ask my friend here. We are tourists, passengers from a British steamship at Cadiz. We always wanted to see your famous city, took the train, and here we are, apparently lost.”
“But how did you get in?” the voice asked, growing wary.
“Well, we simply walked in with a group when they opened the doors, madam,” interjected Allen, attempting to sound innocent. “Are tourists not allowed to visit?”
“An American and a Britisher! This is getting much more interesting. Of all the foreigners that could be inside the Alcázar, you are certainly the least welcome. I think your story has, as I have heard said in English, holes in it. Very big holes.”
Wake tried a change of tack. “Ma’am. Your English is excellent and we thank you for your kindness. But it appears we have entered the wrong area. Can you help us to find our way out?
“You mean escape?”
“Oh no, we are not prisoners, ma’am. We just want to leave.”
The voice came closer in the darkness. “Everyone is a prisoner of one kind or another at the Alcázar, gentlemen.”
She emerged from the shadows into the dim light, a woman of perhaps thirty dressed in expensive yet simple taste, the classic beauty of her face and her deportment indicating that she was from the upper classes. Wake noticed a heavy gold ring on her left hand and wondered who her husband was.
“Pardon my manners. I am Peter Wake, ma’am. And this is my friend and fellow passenger, Peter Sharpe Allen. I’m sorry for the unusual circumstances of our introduction.”
She stood there for a moment, examining them. “I am Doña Carmena Garza Rodriguez del San Anton, wife of Colonel-General Oswaldo Garza, commander of the royal guard regiment
