His partner climbs onto the beam, places his feet just so, spreads out his arms for balance, and gradually pushes up to a standing position.
“Olé, Sancho!” Valentino yells cheerily.
“Is he drunk?” Iván says.
Sancho is nearly to the end of the beam when Valentino reaches it, grasps it, tries to climb on.
His effort makes the beam sway wildly in its rope, and Sancho flails a moment before tumbling off into the sand. He scrambles to his feet, tries to remount, but he can’t get good purchase because Valentino is still trying to climb on.
“Valentino!” he yells. “Stop!”
Valentino backs away, looking baffled. Sancho climbs back on, finishes the beam walk, jumps off. “All right, now you can go,” he says, beckoning to his friend.
Valentino tries again. His foot slips off before he can leverage himself up. He places both hands on the beam and tries again, but the beam recoils, spearing him in the chest and knocking him backward into the sand.
He doesn’t move. A breeze blasts through the arena, sending up a dusting of sand, ruffling the beautiful blue silk of Valentino’s clothes.
“Come on, get up,” I murmur.
“Olé, Valentino!” someone yells. “You can do it!”
But he doesn’t budge, and I can’t tell if he’s breathing or if it’s just the wind playing with his tunic. Sancho stands at the end of the sway beam, looking back and forth between Sergeant DeLuca and Valentino, his face gradually shifting from annoyance to concern.
Finally, he can’t take it any longer; he rushes over to his friend and falls to his knees in the sand beside him. “Valentino?” he says, shaking his shoulder. “Are you all right? He’s not breathing! Somebody help!”
I’m about to dash forward, but DeLuca has sprung to action, along with several other Guardsmen, and they surround him quickly, creating a wall of bodies. Just like they did with the boy yesterday, they lift Valentino from the sand and carry him out of the arena while the rest of us look on in growing horror.
“What happened?” I say to no one in particular. “He was fine yesterday. He said there was no blood . . . he said . . .” What if it’s my fault? What if the injury to his kidney was worse than he let on?
All the recruits are milling about, whispering among themselves. The audience rimming the arena is as silent as a catacomb. Sancho stands alone in the sand, staring at the dark tunnel his friend just disappeared into.
“Is Valentino dead?” Aldo asks.
“I saw his leg move when they were lifting him,” Iván says.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“No,” Iván says.
Guardsman Bruno calls us to order. “Back in line!” he hollers. “Recruit Sancho, take a break. You’ll be running the course with Recruit Pedrón. You two, Luca and Andrés—” He gestures toward the remaining army recruits. “You’re up next. We will finish this today.”
Two by two, everyone attempts the obstacle course. It’s easier now. Anyone who struggles with the log roll uses Aldo’s and my method of levering it with weapons. Second years try to remove the crossbow bolts from the final barrier, but they are lodged deep and immovable. Everyone climbs them easily.
The course is boring now, the mood somber. The crowd gradually thins until it’s gone. No one yells, “Olé!”
The final recruits struggle the most—another small, weak-looking pair who can’t budge the log any better than Aldo and I could. They try to lever it, but after being used all morning the wooden ax finally snaps, and the log refuses to budge. They are forced to skip the log roll, and they finish the rest of the course with their shoulders slumped, their faces dejected.
“Well,” Aldo says. “We didn’t hold the record for slowest time for very long at all.”
“I’m glad we weren’t the worst? I guess?”
“We might still be cut.”
He doesn’t need to remind me.
Guardsman Bruno calls us to attention. “You’re getting a midday meal today,” he says. “Your instructors have work to do, so go eat your grub. We’ll fetch you from the dining hall when we’re ready for you.”
“Instructors?” Aldo whispers. “What instructors? No one has taught us anything yet.”
“The first few days are just to get rid of the riffraff,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Pedrón, stepping in between Aldo and me. “Actual training will start soon.”
“How do you know that?” Aldo asks.
“My brother is a third year.” Another reason why DeLuca likes him. “Red, I’m going to sit by you in the dining hall, all right?”
“Whatever you say,” I tell him, trying not to act surprised. I was hoping to sit next to Iván. I need to talk to him about getting inside Captain Bolivar’s quarters. That’s assuming neither of us gets cut, of course. “Pedrón, do you know what this work is that Bruno mentioned? Are they deciding who to cut?”
“Oh, definitely. After we eat, they’ll call us into the bunk room in small groups to present us with our uniforms. See, they don’t want to issue uniforms if you’re not going to be here very long; they always wait for the first few recruits to wash out. The empress has a budget, you know.”
I’m well aware. Ever since the Year Without a Summer, when crops failed and the coffers never filled, Elisa has had to be circumspect about how she outfits and arms her Royal Guard. It also meant I got a smaller allowance than her ladies-in-waiting, even though I was her official ward.
My mouth begins to water as soon as we enter the dining hall, because I smell yeast and butter and piquant spice. We line up, and instead of yellow slop, we’re served black beans seasoned with epazote, roasted peppers, and a chunk of fresh bread glazed with honey.
“Is this a special occasion?” Aldo says. “I was expecting slop.”
“It’s one of Hector’s reforms,” I tell him. “We’ll get a real meal about twice each week. Tradition was that Guard recruits grew strong and tough through deprivation, but Hector observed that they actually performed better if they were well rested and well fed.”
“It’s another reason army recruits try to transfer to the Royal Guard, if they show promise,” Pedrón says. “Royal Guard recruits are treated better.”
Iván says, “That’s why they wash out as many as they can in the first few weeks. Guard training is expensive.”
We find seats at the tables. As threatened, Pedrón sits at my left, a little too close for comfort, but I can’t move away because I’m hemmed in by Aldo and Iván on the right. Beto sits right across from us. He glares at me over his bowl as he eats.
“You and Juan did really well on the course today,” I say, just to make conversation.
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but Beto doesn’t respond.
“I hope Valentino is all right,” Aldo adds.
Beto slams his spoon down, so hard I startle backward on the bench. “What do either of you care?”
“Huh?” I say, even as I try to calm my heart and steady my breathing.
“You’re the one who hurt him.”