"Blam !"
The glass bottle shattered into a thousand little pieces as the bullet tore through in a thunderous sound.
The hills of Monteviejo, the small village showcasing a hundred slate roofs nestled between two ridges, where catching unusual sounds. The walls of the little navarin village no longer echoed only with the mass bells, the market noises or the shepherds' calls. This morning, they carried the sound of war, or at least a vague imitation of it. The firing exercises with bolt-action firearms make the birds soar high in the sky.
Behind the old church, about fifteen men were standing in a straight line. Farmers, shepherds, sons of soldiers, two priests in civilian clothes, the village policeman, and a merchant who had sold his last roll of velvet to buy cartridges.
Capitán José Arizmendi was watching them with a dedicated gaze. The seventy years old greying veteran with a lavish moustache parading before them, his face as chiseled and weather worn as the Pyrenean rocks that towered beyond his fields, his hands marked by two wars clasped behind his back. His red beret, a symbol of his region and traditions, displaying the crimson cross, insignia of the valiant, the rare ones that remain in this country.
The former officer of the old monarch's Guardia Civil was feeling rather ecstatic, though he wouldn't show it to these young lads for anything in the world. The veteran previously discharged under obscure pretenses years ago was almost feeling young again. Making him remember his young years of military service, dedicated to Spain, to God, to the king.
The true king
But he now wore no uniform, still, he held himself with a soldier's economy of movement. Walking slowly before the line, examining boots, grips, posture, state of the rifles, everything. The cross on his hat now shining under the sun, the symbol of the Requeté brilliant like a flame.
Brilliant, virtuous, proud...at the image of their organisation, still small, still secret, but real.
"Because, despite the defeat, they never forgot who they were. They never laid down their weapons. They never lost hope."
It's been more than fifty years since the King fled into exile, but our weapons only sleep. They have not surrendered
"We lost the war, but not the cause."
"Martín, how many must i say it ? Stop to lean your weight forward. This is not a harvest scythe. Hold it like a rifle.... Or go back to your sheep and give this gun to someone who will."
The boy blushed while adjusting his posture. José moved on, silent.
These weren't soldiers yet, not even hunters... not even boy scout for now. But they were learning. They had to. Not just for the King. For their nation. For Spain. For Christ, and the unbreakable laws of tradition.
The drills were not approved by Madrid, not quite liked by the pompous and corrupted masonic king sitting in the usurped throne, hiding behind the walls of his palace, that's for sure.
Nor approved by the crumbling royal government of Primo de Rivera. His military dictatorship had grown fat and tired under the years, it was still an important force in the country, of course.
But Madrid was far, far and too weak and divided to even think about coming here. In Monteviejo, like in all of the Sacred Mountains, the loyal north, the true bastion of God in these now depraved lands, faith and old loyalties still ruled.
"Aim down the barrel, Miguel. Do you think the Reds will tremble so much at your moustache that you will not have to shoot them ?"
There were a few smirks. José moved on again, as the young man corrected his stance.
For months now, training was coming back in the rural area, where tradition still maintain his grip. The villagers no longer met only for mere prayers, festivals or political reunions, but for action. Each week, usually the Sunday after the holy mass, the church's rear courtyard was swept, cleared of crates, and turned into a shooting training ground.
There, men too old for the military, a portion of them having even fought in the last war, and boys too young to even shave, all stood side by side, rifles at hand. Some had none at all waiting their turn or simply training with wooden copies made by the carpenter's son.
José stopped at the end of the line. Behind Iñaki, the grandson of one of his old camarade, Javier, who as killed during the Crusade of 72.
His hand rested on the shoulder of Iñaki, the fifteen years old, wide-eyed, frightened and proud, the blood of his ancestor a constant reminder of his holy mission, like for all of them.
"Remember why we do this. Why we fight. We do not shed the blood for glory. We do not prepare our weapons for hate. We rise for God. For the King. For the true soul of Spain. "
The others repeated the words, like a prayer, as it is more than a war, more than an ideology, more than any political view that this liberalism has brought in the mind of the people, but a holy mission.
As the sun dipped, José stood again before the drill line. Boys barely old enough to drink. Old men who should be watching grandchildren, not loading rifles.
They prayed together. Not just for Spain. For steadiness. For truth. For the old law that no longer ruled, but still lived in them.
Then, in unison, they raised their right hands and spoke, voice over voice:
"For God, for Spain, and for the rightful King. We do not forget. We do not kneel."
José's eyes drifted to the church tower, the old building standing proud in the Pyrenean hills, where a tattered Carlist banner, a crimson cross on white flag, fluttered in the wind like a warning.
------------------------------------------------
That evening, after hours of training under the olive tree, in the shadowed bar of the village, José was with two elders, not that they were older than him, just less in good shape. The three old friends now seated around a thick oak table.
"They're growing too fast, these new men in the south... these blue-shirt boys, too fast and far too loud." Juan, the elder said, pulling at his pipe, blowing out some smoke signals before continuing. "The government in Madrid may be blind... blind, stupid and corrupted, but even the blind can hear the howls of wolves. They must be supportive of that new trend or aligned enough to not bother to be interested."
"This one came from Pamplona," The other man, Xavier, said, the apothecary tapping the flyer with a finger.
"These 'national clubs', this new form of nationalist, these young talking about rejuvating the nation… they call themselves modern, disciplined. Industrial... youth-centered as they are. They talk about traditions and about morals... But I see no crosses there, no mention of God."
"Syndicalists with steel collars," the deacon murmured. "They speak of Spain like technocrats, as if she were a machine to be repaired, not a mother to be served, to be loved and protected."
"Too Young. Too proud. Too different." José added. "Too degenerated by the corruption of liberalism. They are not our friends."
The flyer was unsigned, a round dance of phrases and slogans, as vague as it was colorful
"Strength through Unity." ,"Spain, One and Indivisible.", "Action before Talk."", etc.
It reeked, José smelling the foreign influence in these papers, the foreign ideas... Maybe these french far-right circles? Or maybe German volkish ? Even some Russian emigre ?
Where it was from wasn't known, but something was certain, this new thing, it was rising in the cities, modernist, urban, and dangerously persuasive.
José then gaze elsewhere, his eyes were on a piece of parchment he'd probably already read a dozen times, if not more. A piece of paper he found in one of the boxes containing their new toys.
"Support shall come. In silence and in gold. And it will grow with time. No allegiance required, only your survival. We admire order. So do you."
"Remember, when the storm comes, and that rain fire on this country, it will be your valleys that survive and matter, not their laws and parliaments."
Under it, a little footnote:
"Your cousins in Aragón have or will receive the same. Don't lose the rifles."
That night, under the light of his oil lamp, José wrote his own little missive.
He never considers himself a writer, being a simple and proud shepherd of Navara, but he had to learn it during the war. He folded the enveloppe with a lot of care, before passed it to his nephew, a young boy, who will go by bicycle to the next town to deliver it. Another of the thousands of link in the invisible chain forming in this region, between villages, between valleys, between towns, all under the ignorant eyes of the new Spain, while the old one quietly reborn in secret.
José then stepped outside. The air was beginning to feel a little crisp, and the stars over Monteviejo were sharp as blades.
He looked east, toward the border, where should be Madrid, once holy land, now desecrated by the devil who had taken control of it.
From the bell tower of the village, was standing a solitary cross, stone, hard... old, but unbroken, watching over him.
__________________________________________________________________
That night, the square was emptied of its people and that the last echoes of life faded into the hills, José Arizmendi found himself standing beneath the church, in front of its arched portico, lantern in hand.
The door creaked in noise, opened even before he could knock. Father Esteban, always thin as a scarecrow and wrapped in his monk's robes, gestured for him to enter, without a word.
They knew each other well since all these years, they were probably one of the oldest of the valley, José had fought for the Carlist King, Esteban had buried those who did.
Inside, everything seemed harmonious, the chapel smelled of wax and the pine of the pews. And something older, the weight of centuries of faith. But the warmth of it was missing. The fire in the hearth had gone out, long since consumed.
"You've come here to confess, José?" The priest asked while showing him his back, as he was lighting a candle with a practiced flick.
José smiled slightly, setting his cane against the wall, taking off his hat.
"I've confessed enough sins for two or three lives, Padre. No, this is about another matter."
"You are here to question me about the crates," the priest said plainly, continuing with his lighting like they were discussing about the weather.
That was not a question, but a statement. A cold one.
Esteban's said nothing. His shoes making scratching noises while he was going to the door of his desk room, opening it, a silent invitation.
José entered silently. The room felt warmer, the fire in its chimney was lit, but low. A little oil lamp was casting a soft glow over Esteban's desk, where two sealed letters lay unopened, the two enveloppe both bearing a red wax, and the imprint of the Benedictine cross.
"Where did you get these ?" These weapons aren't from Spain, you and I both know that. They do not come from any cache that exist in the region."
He paused, watching the priest's reaction.
"And they are modern" José then said as the priest wouldn't respond, placing his coat on the chair.
"If we used weapons that were buried after the last war, they would be as effective as a slingshot in comparison of these ones. They are new... and in good condition, not the more advanced one, but still enough to be considered far more modern than any armament a Carlist can find these days."
"They aren't even dusty. The serial numbers are fresh, 1899 at worst. They do not come from some buried caches in the mountains, made after our defeat in 1876. They came through someone's hand, a very powerful hand, a hand with money. Or politics. Probably both"
José continues. "Don't like act as they come by some sort of miracle or charity. I know an interested move when i see it. This sort of generosity always costs something. And the price to pay is rarely cheap"
The priest said nothing, before moving slowly to the front pew and sitting.
"Do you think I don't know ?" Esteban said softly, his voice like crawling on paper.
"Every time a crate like that is hidden in the sacristy cellar… every time a young man touches one of these new inventions with the reverence he once reserved only for his mother and the rosary... I ask myself what spirit you and I are inviting into Monteviejo. And if God still walks with us"
José remained standing. He really didn't like the cold he now felt in the priest's words.
"You made a pact with something unclean?"
The priest's eyes locked in his, his gaze sharp as a blade.
"No. Not yet. But the Tempter never present himself with red eyes and horns. He shows first napped in white clothes, with blond hair, a charming smile and loving eyes. He starts with the gift. The gift of strength when you feel weakest, the gift of love when you feel alone. With money when you feel like the poorest man in the world. With luxure when you lack the touch of a woman. With status when you feel disrespected. With Authority when you feel powerless."
"With unity, when brothers are divided. With order when society feel chaotic. With purpose, when the world seems lost."
"To be honest, right now, i am not sure in which side of god our sponsor situate himself, but i know where our enemy do."
Father Esteban then moves to the desk, pouring two glasses of wine; black, heavy, monastic... probably Trappist, placing one of them in front of José.
Then, he opens the drawer beneath the desk and remove from it a folded parchment map that He lay open on the desk
It is not a map of the diocese, nor the world, but a map of their region, northern Spain, dotted with a multitude of marks, little crosses forming a line, a long road, like the path of some long-forgotten pilgrimage.
"They passed through San Juan de la Peña. Then down the pass through Veruela. Then to Leyre. From there, they came here." The priest tapped the parchment with a gentle touch.
"They moved with the monks. The men of God transporting them in their wagons. Hidden beneath a world of flour, wine casks, and wax. Like holy relics. Quite so in fact."
José stared this friend, surprised "The monasteries... are running guns?"
"No," Esteban says, meeting his eyes. "The monasteries are keeping an oath. A very old one. The most sacred one. An oath that most of the country has forgotten. Corrupted by modernism and the wave of liberalism brought in Europe by the French demon, born of satanic Masonic philosophers. They made the people of Spain forget their ultimate goal, their ultimate duty, their ultimate oath. Their oath of life, to the king, to the Church, to God. Their oath to tradition and morality."
He walked to the window and pulled the curtain slightly. The valley and the houses of Monteviejo looming in the dark, black against the light brought by the high moon.
"After our defeat in the crusade... after 1876... some among the old Church, the loyal among the loyal, The crown's most loyal sons, refused to give up. They swore. Not to rebel and fight, not to overthrow, but to preserve. Knowledge. Money. Contacts. A hidden artery through which the blood of Tradition could still flow in the Lord holiest Kingdom, even when its heart had gone cold."
José was silent. Not out of disbelief, but out of awe. And perhaps a little bit of fear.
"Why now?"
Esteban turned back to him, eyes tired but sharp.
"Because something is coming. The liberals are awaking again. The dictatorship in Madrid is rotting, ready to crumble on its own roots. And everywhere in Spain, and in the world, there are… other forces rising. Urban, secular, brutal. Some of them drap themselves in nationalism to hide their socialism. But some don't even hide it, proudly wearing the colour of the German behemoth, the red colour of Marx. And they are supported, supported and influenced.
In the east, was born the hydra, the new masonic and Jewish chimera, the creation of the ennemies of God... the Soviet Union.
The new Israelite creation to take over the Christian pure world is by far their most twisted and devilish work since the day they whispered in the Roman's ear to crucify our saviour, may he be eternally just to us, his humble children. The shadows of this new entity are reaching everywhere, touching every aspect of society, corrupting the soul of the entire world. Leaving only madness, atheism and destruction in his path.
They do not speak of kings, or God, or law. They despise each of them. They are soulless. They are amoral. They will not stop until the entirety of Europe, of the world, is waving the red flag and beheading the statue of our saviour. And they are coming."
"And our dear patron ?" José ask, appreciating very little to not know who is helping them from the shadows, irritated at the idea that their noble cause is only a pawn in the great game of somebody else.
Esteban gave a bitter smile. "Our friend offers us much and don't make demands. He offers the wood. The monks carry the spark... and us, we ignite the flame."
José leaned forward, staring at the map again.
Esteban said softly, "We are fighting maybe our holiest mission since the great crusade against the Mohammedans in the east. We cannot afford to be selective."
The priest reached into his robe, taking out a small wooden cross from it, it is darkened with age, its corners chipped.
"This belonged to Fray Joaquín of Veruela. A Carlist monk who smuggled men, weapons, money and medications across the border during our second war. He died with a bullet in his chest and two sacks of rifles in his cart. He was a simple man. Dedicated to God and to Spain. He never wrote any treatises or made any profits. He never spoke on politics or made great speech to make sure other see him. He just did what was needed, when the time came."
He placed it on the table in front of José.
"Now it's our time to follow his lead. Just remember who you serve. Not the men with gold. Not the politician with his silver tongue. Not the philosopher. Not the man of the army, which the ego only matched his belly. Not the country with flags. But something older. Deeper. Something our ancestor fought hard to preserve, even died as martyr to protect. Something we had to fight for to have a Spain like she is now, holy and pure."
"If you forget that, you will have already failed at your mission. And the power will have corrupted your soul before you even see your first enemy."
José stood, the cross now in his hand. His gaze at the window.
Outside, the stars over Navarre seemed sharper than ever, like swords waiting to fall on them, the poor sinner.
The last words had barely left Father Esteban's lips when José felt the shift.
It was subtle, like a change in the air. A presence. As if someone else was listening. As if someone had always been listening.
José's eyes moved instinctively to the darkened pews near the choir stalls, where was usually a chair.
And there he was.
Not even arriving, but already there. Sitting quietly in the chair, half-shrouded by the shadows of the night, half showed by the flickering lights of the votive candles.
His posture was relaxed. Almost noble. Like a man listening to any usual reports.
Now, he emerged. Slowly. Calmly. A man in a dark overcoat, collar turned up, gloved hands folded. He was clean-shaven, elegant, but without being ostentatiously so. Just enough to suggest military discipline poorly hidden in civilian cloth.
"Forgive me, Padre, Capitano. I did not wish to interrupt."
His Spanish was excellent, but heavy with an Italian accent, that special, very peculiar and musical lilt from somewhere between Rome and Naples.
José reached instinctively for his sidearm. Esteban placing a hand on his arm.
"Don't be alarmed," said Father Esteban, his voice calm. "He came in before you. Through the side door. And this is not his first visit."
José's hand twitched near his hip, but he did not draw. Watching silently the man advances, now completely in the light of the candles.
The man gave a small bow, placed in this fine line between courtly and mockingly.
"Colonello Vittorio Salviati. Military attaché from Italy to the glorious and holy kingdom of Spain… but quite unofficially."
"I am an old friend of the Abbey of Monte Cassino. It is him who gave me your contact. And now, here I am, as a… courier. Sorts of."
He stepped forward, removing a little folder hidden in leather from beneath his coat and placing on the altar.
"Our Padre right there speak of fire and wood," he said, while showing Esteban. "But fire requires air. Italy is the air. Quiet, invisible, but vital."
"Although technically... we are also the wood, and quite the spark... but let's not forget ourselves in clumsy metaphor and nice words."
"You're the one sending the crates." José said flatly.
"I am… technically, although a facilitator would be more correct. I do not decide the policy. Rome has many faces. And not all of them look toward Madrid... And not all of them look toward you..."
He continues his walk in the church, like he is owning the place, his boots silent on the flagstones.
"The Father and I have corresponded for some months. Exchanged. Met. And met again. And exchanged again. And met again. And then Exchanged. And a lot of met. And a lot of exchanges... and blablabla."
"This chapel is now more than a simple place of worship. It is also a center, the center of a new Spain. Or quite the old one if you want to be totally precise."
"And it is also a crossroad, one of the few lefts in this country, where the old Spain and the future one might still shake hands, and move together toward a better future."
José frowned. "Future Spain?"
The Italian gave a slight smile, colder than warmth, like a child with a toy.
"Yes, a Spain not governed by Madrid's fickle generals, by an usurper. By some liberal fan of french revolution. Or by Barcelona's leftist. Or by the aragonaise anarchist. A Spain of discipline. Of Order. Of Faith. A Spain where tradition is not a museum piece, not an old decayed and forgotten thing, but well and alive."
Father Esteban did not speak. He returned to the desk, poured a third glass of wine, and handed it silently to Salviati.
"You knew all this time," José said quietly. "The origin of our "benevolent" patron. The black men following the eagle in Rome."
"I did," the priest replied. "He asked for discretion, I offered sanctuary. He asked for information, I gave names. He asked for support, I gave food and a helping hand. As our houses have done for travelers and fighters for a thousand years."
Salviati accepted the wine, but did not drink. Instead, he thrown his leather folder into José 's hands. It is heavier than it looked.
"Inside, are shipping records, contacts, serial numbers, routes. Everything you might want to know about the rifles. And more importantly... funds, networks, informations, advice... and the future location and time of delivery of a lot of new weapons for you, if you accept."
"Most of them are Carcano, old ones that were already outdated for the great war, but with your current situation, you cannot hope for better. Besides, newest and better equipment will come in the future, not these relics you are desperately climbing on like it is somewhat efficient."
He turned to Esteban.
"The reason I trust you Padre, is the silence of your order. The patience of your people, the monks. It is… quaint... but very pleasant. In an age that forgets itself every five minutes., it is... Exotic."
Esteban said nothing.
But José stepped closer now, staring at the folder. At the air and wood that was being offered to ignite the flame.
"These are not gifts, nor bribes. Nothing is demanded for that. These rather are... investments. In men like you, in a movement like yours. In Rome, whatever you think about our new political situation, we remember the old loyalties. The throne and the altar, that our dynasty once served and always revered."
"The future is quite blank. France is rioting like every day since 1789, although it is quite more often now, the socialist and Bolshevik closer to power at each election. Germany is still crawling in pain and in debts. Spain… is... You know... But Italy, Italy is awake."
He looked at both men in turn.
"We do not wish to lead you. We only wish that, when the time comes, you are like us, standing proudly, not kneeling."
Father Esteban crosses his arms. "And what will you ask in return ? Gold ? Alliance ? Some scrap of land wherever your leader dream of rebuilding the next Rome "
Salviati do not answer directly. He is looking instead up at the crucifix above the altar.
The Italian smile thinly. "That history remembers who helped when others watched. That when the Carlist flag is raised again in Madrid, it flies not alone."
A long silence follows. Before the priest slowly walks toward the altar, placing a hand on the cold stone.
"I will not bless what you bring, Colonel. Nor will I curse it. But let's be clear. This new roman thing is still far from our tradition, far from us, far from God."
"And if you trade with the sacred for the sake of strategy, you will lose both at the end."
Salviati give him a slight bow, almost mockingly.
"Then let us keep our bargains unspoken, close our mouth and instead praise the Lord for his mercy. For now."
He then turn to the old Capitan, who follow the priest's lead and give a slight nod.
"Perfetto !"
José is still holding the wooden cross, as he looks at the man from Rome. The Italian turning and walking away from the altar. Turning his back on them and walking while waving his hand without according to them a last gaze.
Before opening the chapel door with a push of his foot.
Outside, the night had grown colder, still, it doesn't seem to bore him, as he walks slowly away without any worry. Disappearing in the night.
In that moment, José Arizmendi understood something frightening. The next war, next crusade had not yet come. But it had already begun.
And somewhere beyond the mountains, in the hills of the north, trains were moving. Crates were loaded. The caches were open again. Flags, folded for more fifty years, were being taken from drawers. As a spirit, an old one, was awakening. Defeated years ago, but not destroyed.
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Author's note
A small dedication to my 10% of Germans and Italians and my 3% of Argentinians among the people who are reading this story. It's a pleasure to see that you haven't forgotten your good old habits.
Although the Japanese are missing. Someone can bring them here ?