The History Thief: Ten Days Lost (The Sterling Novels) (2 page)

W
ORK HARD
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Finally, I am grateful to Sr. Mario Gonzales for his fastidious editing, his wonderful suggestions, and his doting on my newborn daughter. Sr. Gonzales is a man who should be enjoying a slower life, but he moves faster than most. I am always impressed with his intelligence, wit, energy, and ability to find the good even when I can’t see it.

PROLOGUE

1578

South of Ksar el Kabir

Morocco, North Africa

He was young.

He was king.

He was going to die.

Sebastian gripped tightly the leather reins in his left hand, as he expertly navigated his fast-moving royal horse through the North African forest. Along the muscled torso and hindquarters of the pure white thoroughbred, a growing layer of sweat glistened. At the layer’s edge, the salt from the sweat dried into a barely discernible frothy, white crust.

As Sebastian urged his horse onward, its hooves struck the ground like the distant thunder of a harsh spring storm. Wave after wave of rippling muscle cascaded through the thick and capable body of the horse. Each of its strong strides blended with the next; its legs were nearly a blur.

Usually majestic in its form, the beast forced an angry, unnatural bellow through its flaring nostrils, releasing a long snort of both steamed breath and pain. Its rider begged more from it; a series of fierce kicks to both ribs reinforced the young king’s demands. The pain from the metal-capped heels stung nearly as deeply as the burning in its powerful, lactic acid-filled muscles. But the burn paled to the fire running torrid through its heaving lungs.

The equine’s eyes bulged forcibly from its orbits as if it were completely aware of the nefarious intentions of the man giving chase and closing in from behind. Biting down on the silver bit between its teeth and without argument, the horse gave in to Sebastian; fast as the wind, its blood scourged even faster through its veins.

Sebastian pressed himself harder against the backside of his steed; they were moving nimbly and competently through the woods of the Cedre Gourard Forest, just south of the Moroccan stronghold of Ksar el Kabir. His chest lay firmly atop the matted and sweat-dampened hair of his royal and pure Lusitanian; through muscle, bone, and hide, he felt the strong thrashing of the animal’s fast-pumping heart. With another vicious kick through his shortened stirrups, Sebastian begged for more speed from his horse. Its mobility and quickness a product of its Neolithic genetics, the Lusitanian horse is as strong as it is noble; the beast bolted forward. Sebastian could feel his own heart pumping, nearly matching, beat for beat, the animal’s rate.

Sebastian dug deep into the precepts of his royal training as he guided the horse over the deeply weathered crust of the escarpment. He had never felt so much pain at once: his eyes were swollen and filled with streaming tears brought forth by the cold and stinging dust-filled morning air; his arms and legs bore an increasing number of deep and long scratches that cut across his body from the dry low-hanging leaves of the sclerophyll forest, and the pain from the arrow that had pierced deep into his right side—just above his kidney—seared acutely through his torso, forcing him to lean heavily on the skills of his left arm. Each strike of the Lusitanian’s hooves reverberated through his body, sending torrents of hurt that mimicked the strike of a slave master’s lash. Ignoring the pain as best he could, Sebastian gripped the reins harder with his left hand, kicked more, and pleaded with his steed to ride beyond its limits.

With the passing of each moment, the taste of salt in the air grew; Sebastian knew the coastline was drawing nearer. He could almost hear the waves lapping against the rocks and see his royal vessel, along with the safety it would bring.

Confidence was beginning to brew within, but it would be short-lived.

A horrible stroke of bad luck sprang forth from the thick growth at the base of the thin-canopied trees in the form of a small-bodied, but ominously racked, white-speckled Barbary stag. Surprised, the royal horse violently slid across its hind legs while simultaneously rearing upward. Had it not done so, Sebastian certainly would have been thrown forcibly forward from his mount, but the quickness of the horse’s sudden rise smashed Sebastian’s chest deeper into the spine of the Lusitanian’s back.

Both beast and stag stared upon one another; both animals were momentarily frozen and unsure about what to do next. An unprovoked second rear of the horse turned the animal around and sent the stag bounding lithely back into the trees.

As the horse returned all four of its hooves to the earth, Sebastian could see the heavy outline of the Theatine monk who had pulled the string of the bow that belonged to the arrow embedded into his side.

The monk sat upon his own panting horse and had placed a fresh arrow into his bow; the string was fully drawn. The tension from the compressive force resonated through the archer’s impressive and formidable arms as the stored energy overtly begged to be released. The monk let out a slow breath, narrowed his eyes at his target, and released the string from the tips of his well-trained fingers; the arrow screamed as it parted the morning air. Within moments, the razor-sharp broadhead arrow found its mark and split the breast of the royal beast; its four blades penetrated through muscle, tendon, and bone to its final target. The thick walls of the Lusitanian’s heart were no match for the long-shafted arrow and its oversized and heavily serrated steel head.

At impact, the beast screamed for its life, knowing instinctively that it was over. One final, but involuntary, rear sent the horse awkwardly upright and spilled both rider and animal heavily to the earth. On its side, the horse uncontrollably convulsed all four of its legs outward, letting out one final and long gurgling breath as the beating of its heart ceased.

Above, throughout the canopy of the forest, the matriarch of a troop of macaques shouted a flurry of gregarious heckling, as she ordered the other macaques to scoop up the younger monkeys and flee.

Momentarily stunned, Sebastian crawled unsteadily to the Lusitanian. Through the columns of steam that floated upward from its corpse, he could see the hallmarks of death drizzling from its lips and in the tongue, hanging limp out of the corner of its mouth. Sebastian steadied his weight with his left hand pressed into the dry and crumbling earth. He placed his right hand upon the matted, white hide of the animal’s belly but felt what his eyes didn’t want to comprehend: he felt death.

“Get up,” commanded the monk.

Weary and resigned, young King Sebastian the First of Portugal turned his head toward the Theatine monk and quietly eyed the man that had been his sworn protector since birth. Hesitating for a moment, Sebastian gathered his strength, and, with difficulty, rose from the ground. A wave of pain from the arrow still embedded in his right side shot though his torso; he staggered slightly but found his balance. Made heir to the throne while still in his mother’s womb, King Sebastian had been carefully and meticulously educated in all matters necessary for a future king to master. Although confused at the treachery of the man standing before him, Sebastian was not shocked. His incestuous heritage had suffered a long history of barbarous acts and deception.

Sebastian took a deep breath but found it difficult to swell his ribcage fully. He panted slightly and asked, “Why, Mauricio, why have you betrayed the Order and the crown? Why have you betrayed me?”

“The Order of Christ is to be no more; you will be the last of its masters, Sebastian,” replied the monk. “Now, release your sword and turn around.”

Slowly, the king complied and undid his buckle; the sword fell to the earth. Before turning around, Sebastian lifted his head toward the monk and forced his eyes into his protector’s. The Theatine’s eyes showed neither shame nor remorse.

“Turn around, Sebastian!” barked the monk.

“Am I no longer your king?!” Sebastian screamed to the monk as he turned around.

The monk didn’t respond and closed the distance between himself and the king; drawing his own sword, he raised it high and then smashed its heavy brass hilt on the base of Sebastian’s skull. The king’s body went limp and slumped immediately to the ground.

There, he stared at his former master and king and quietly said, “There is only one king to whom I answer, Sebastian.”

Sebastian lost his sense of time; the following days and nights melted into one. At times, his eyes would flutter open only for moments, while other times for much longer.

The smells and sounds of the forest turned into the penetrating sun and constricting heat of the desert, followed by the rolling of the ocean. At one point, he woke to his own choking and incessant gagging. His body was rocking to and fro in a nauseating rhythm, but not of its own volition. Bile filled his mouth and throat. He was certain that the air was thick with the taste and smells of salt and sea. The dull creaking of a ship’s hull filled his ears. For those short moments when Sebastian would find consciousness, he struggled to understand where he was or what was happening.

Sebastian’s hands were tightly bound, and he was covered with a heavy shroud. But as soon as his captor noticed that he was awake, a pungent smell would fill his nostrils and a rag would cover his mouth, and darkness would come quickly.

Waking again, he heard voices. He was no longer on the ship. Straining to make out the conversation, of this much he could be sure: “You must extract their names from him; you must find their locations! The heretical Order of Christ must be eradicated!”

“Of course, Monsignor, I understand; I will not fail you.”

Sebastian let out a groan and tried to turn his head toward the men, but couldn’t: his head was firmly strapped to the table where he lay. His eyes had been shut for longer than he knew, and they were not accustomed to the blinding sunlight that defenestrated through the oculus above and down upon him. Letting out another groan, this one long and shallow, he tried to speak but his words failed him.

“Look, he wakes, Monsignor!”

“Good, feed him some broth and tend to his wounds. He will need more strength for what he will undergo.”

“Of course, Monsignor, as you wish,” replied the man.

Each day of his captivity brought the same ritual: in the morning, just as the oculus started to glow, the door of the nearly round room would open, and a man carrying a bucket would enter and feed him a warm broth from it; in the evening, when the hole in the center of the ceiling darkened, another bucket would arrive, carried by the same man. After feeding him, the man would carefully remove Sebastian’s lower garment and would instruct Sebastian to relieve himself.

In the middle of each day, four men would enter the room and surround the table upon which he was strapped. Presumably, they were checking to see if he still lived. The man who brought Sebastian his food and toilet would bathe his wounds, while another asked him questions. Sebastian didn’t speak a single word during the first five days, not from defiance but from a lack of strength. His head burned with a fever, his clothing was drenched with his sweat, and his body vacillated from cold to hot: he was too weak to comply.

On the sixth day, his fever broke, but fear kept his tongue in check. By the seventh day, a bit of his strength had returned, which soon morphed into anger and then into restored confidence. When the same four men returned, he demanded an explanation from them.

The four men looked at one another, but none of them spoke.

Sebastian defiantly screamed toward the men, “I am Sebastian the First, King of Portugal; I demand to be treated as such! You will take me from this prison, and if I am to be your prisoner, you will house me in accordance with my royal blood!”

One of the four leaned over him, his face obscured by the bright light above. He placed his hand on Sebastian’s forehead, caressed him slightly, and, in a condescending tone, said, “My dear, dear, Sebastian, only a fool for a king would be bound to a rack, unable to move, making demands of us. You claim to be of royal blood, to be the King of Portugal, but have yet to be informed that the young king died valiantly and with honor at the Battle of Alcacer Quibir. The man to whom I now speak is a fraud.”

Sebastian’s eyes shook with horror, and he spat back, “I am Sebastian! To what purpose must I endure such dishonor? I demand answers!”

Standing erect, the man waved his hand toward another and commanded, “Darius, put down that bucket and retrieve the monsignor. It would appear the man who wishes to be our king is ready to speak.”

Saying nothing, Darius obediently scampered away.

One of the remaining men walked to where Sebastian lay and turned a long-handled, mechanical crank attached to the side. Sebastian felt the table begin to move; his legs started to tilt down and his upper body began to rise. The rack—the table upon which he was strapped—slowly tilted until Sebastian was in a more upright position.

Soon, he was able to see the three remaining men that stood before him. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that all of them wore the long black cassocks of the Holy Roman Church. His head was still strapped to the rack and, unable to move it left or right, he frantically scanned the room back and forth with his eyes. Behind the men, the outline of oddly shaped contraptions materialized and came into focus. It didn’t take long for Sebastian to recognize them—his own kingdom had practiced the same art to which the contraptions belonged. Although strapped firmly onto the rack, his body slumped from the realization of what would occur.