Note: The last two bookmarks of Chapter 6 were omitted for this serial. Also, if you find the following scene of interest you might want to check out The Spiral Case #1, which was spun off of this chapter.

For three weeks now he had been attached to a Brazilian Army Headquarters. Though he would like to have seen some action, or at least been able to witness some through his field glasses, he had remained safely behind the lines for the duration. He had a nice comfortable tent, two mulatto man servants, Ele and Bais, the company of his liaison, Captain Antonio de Londrina, and the escape provided by his journal. For now at least he resided comfortably below the Tropic of Capricorn, beyond the life-wasting reach of the vile tropics that had so drained his life force. Above them towered the majestic Parana Forest, an undulating sea of green-blue pine that stretched away to the south for as far as the eye could see.

It has the feel of Norway stood on its head.

They were camped just above Foz do Iguacu, a border post on this rugged portion of the Parana River that remained navigable to the fairly advanced armored gunboats of the Brazilian and Argentine Armed Forces for only short stretches. This border town in the contested region of Parana had recently been secured against the Paraguayan forces, which were hopelessly outmanned and outgunned. They were a mere day upriver from the Argentine outpost of Puerto Iguazu. The Paraguayans had for a naval force nothing but canoes and punts, and possessed no artillery, whereas the Brazilians had improvised some gun-mounted rafts along this rugged stretch of river, supported by a respectable battery of mountain guns.

He would soon be accompanying Allied staff officers south to the capitals of Uruguay and Argentina, and, typically for him, wanted some answers about this absurd conflict before he took leave of his Brazilian hosts.

What can it be that motivates these doomed people? Argentina and Uruguay have joined against this giant nation's tiny landlocked foe. It is as if Belgium declared war against France and then violated British and Prussian territory in some ill-conceived bid for supremacy. What fools! War is quite bad enough without such idiocy compounding it for the poor souls caught up in its remorseless tide.

The Brazilian military was a typically stratified imperial colonial force such as he had served with in India. The officers were almost exclusively of Portuguese descent, with some of the lower ranks being slightly brown mestizos of the higher orders of the massive mongrel broods fathered by the Brazilian slave lords on their plantations. Beneath them was a host of mestizo and mulatto soldiers. Beneath these were the settled Indian servants and Black slaves who typically handled the baggage, bridged rivers and dug entrenchments. Finally, the most reviled-but ironically most necessary-members of this ancient host with modern equipage were the Indian guides, nearly naked red men, few in number and rarely seen.

This could be the very host of some ancient Persian satrap, with you the peripatetic Greek in its amorphous midst.

Richard had been lucky to gain the friendship of one General Mello, a fine drinking companion, who had agreed to temporarily remand a prisoner to his charge for the purpose of an interview. On his part, he agreed to debrief the prisoner on behalf of the General and forward his notes. He had performed similar duties on behalf of John Company in India and was glad to be of some use to Her Majesty's ally here.

Besides, this military establishment treats you with far more respect than your own British one ever did. So, in his extremity it seems that the "White Niggеr" has found for himself a place of honor. It is a damned shame that the country's climate is so unhealthy in the main. The doctor was correct though, about these southern reaches being conducive to a recovery. I have not felt this right in years.

Captain Londrina escorted the prisoner into his tent without formality. Seeing the man's physical state Burton was immediately overcome with sympathy and rose from his folding chair. The man was missing his left eye and had recently lost his left hand. His left foot had been ruined by some twisting action and pointed rigidly out to the left. The man wore an ancient Jesuit robe, adorned with a rosary around his spare neck, over which was draped a saber-slashed gray jacket that had apparently belonged to some American rebel of that country's recent civil war. The man saluted Burton even though he was not attired in a uniform and addressed him in Latin, "Learned lord, I am Captain Molina de Grotto at your service. I am told that you wish to speak with me before my execution by these Portuguese dogs and sons of Satan."

The man is a contradiction. He is a pure red-skinned Indian with round head and shovel-like incisors, yet he is as polite and courteous as any European officer, and far better educated than any of the numerous frivolously adorned brutes who pass for your companions among this host. Engage him Man!

Captain Molina stood at attention as Richard considered his course of inquiry, now so suddenly shaken by the man's manner. It was obvious that the man had chosen to converse in Latin so that their conversation might be a private one. So Richard would proceed in that ancient tongue of conquest that had so ironically been adopted by the massive worm known as Christianity and even promulgated by this risen savage in his last hours as a vehicle for meaningful dialogue with a stranger.

Courtesy first Man.

"Please Captain Molina, be seated."

The man nodded and sat humbly, hand and stump resting each on a robed thigh as he looked into Richard with great brown watery eyes, glowing like burnt amber in the lantern light as the sun without fell behind the great pines and night crept across the bustling camp.

For once Richard Burton was beguiled by eyes as hypnotic in quality as his own famous windows upon the soul. He had often delighted in intimidating and awing enemies, subordinates and friends alike with his magnetic gaze. No such advantage was his on this evening, for he looked into the depths of a soul unafraid of death and blindly certain of a richly deserved afterlife; while he, the Gnostic scholar, vainly rooting through the beliefs of millions for the illusive truth, had but doubt and uncertainty to accompany him beyond into the maw of cruel Fate—faceless Kismet and your tireless headsman!

He gathered himself and spoke with simple courtesy as he began to light up, "A cigar Captain?"

"Thank you lord but no."

Blast.

He retired the combustible article he had so recently been craving and got down to the business at hand. "Captain, your wounds speak of true leadership. May I ask of your command, and its fate?"

The man's voice was as smooth and as round as his own mild-mannered face. "I was the Captain of Pioneers. My men died to a man assaulting the Portuguese batteries. Most did not leave the canoes. The rest of us were cut down on the banks. I have failed the Departed Fathers, our lost Brothers of Jesus. The men believed though, that through my inheritance of the black robe, our sacrifice might gain the attention of the Son of God."

"You thought to invoke the Second Coming—or a miracle—through some heedless attack?"

"You would certainly perceive it as such, being a skeptic by nature, and willful besides."

How does this man know me? Does the Giant Face visit him in his dreams to tell him of my fears?

"Captain Molina why are you dressed in a hundred-year-old Jesuit robe and a Confederate States of America officer's jacket?"

"When the Seven Missions were defeated and the Fathers ordered away by the apostate Spanish Crown and my ancestors were thus betrayed to the Portuguese barbarians, we retained the spare vestments of the Brothers of Jesus. They have been donned for great occasions and important sacral acts since that time. There are more. Perhaps each must be worn to prayer and battle before Our Lord Above recognizes our sacrifice and extends his hand to us."

They are mad, a nation of madmen!

The Captain noted Richard's suddenly dark cast of features that had always indicated his disapproval and continued, "The coat was given to me by he who wore it, who failed in his homeland's own war, and came here to help The Thirty Missions battle the Forces of Satan. He died under his horse, but had time first to bequeath me his coat. He taught us much and sacrificed all that remained of his self. He came to us less whole than I and fought with uncomplaining righteousness."

He was seething over the insanity of it all, the lives that would surely be lost if this man's mindset was indicative of that of his countrymen. "Captain, your nation cannot hope to prevail over those arrayed against it. The war will soon come to your homeland. You are calling down terror on your families, your precious missions."

Molina was unflappable. "My compassionate lord, I appreciate your concern, that of a captain, of a husband. But I would rather have the compassion of your learned memory, the understanding of your sense of honor, the epithet of your pen."

"I do not follow Captain."

"What of those who were crushed by those who spoke this language. Did not the Greeks of Athens and Sparta face a similar invasion?"

How could he have guessed at the metaphor in my mind? This cannot be coincidence. The man is some kind of mystic, with skills in excess of my own. Such a pity he is about to be killed. I could learn from this man. Perhaps he holds The Secret.

Captain Molina interrupted his musing, "Have I offended you lord?"

"No not at all. I was just musing to myself over the fact that mere moments before your arrival I had compared this vast host in my mind to that of some ancient Persian despot, and myself to a wandering Greek. Now you compare yourself to Leonidas and your men to his three-hundred, and suggest I be your Herodotus."

"Is it so much to ask? You are a man of letters it is plane to see. I just ask that you not permit us to be forgotten, for I have no way of knowing—in the very way of Leonidas—if our struggle should ultimately be won or lost. I ask only that the sacrifices of my men be remembered, if only to remind the unborn that right and freedom have a cost."

"So here you sit, a captain of some red-skinned Christian Sparta, saying to the barbarian hosts that they shall not pass?"

"Yes lord. This we all say, myself and the wearers of the twenty-nine remaining robes."

"So I might tell my noble hosts that your countrymen mean to fight to the last rifle, last spear, last stick and stone?"

"We would rather die piously and in a Christian state, than to live on as the debased chattel of these sinful hordes and their hypocrite masters. This is our final battle and may Jesus permit us victory."

"Captain, I am not well acquainted with the generalship of the Man from Nazareth, and am not in His confidence. So I can but wish you luck and make note of your struggle when I do finally put pen to paper in regards to my time in your country."

The Captain then rose on his crooked foot, pushing off the table with his still bloody bandaged stump, and after he had attained his full height, saluted with his remaining hand. Richard returned the salute and the man walked off in a state of profound peace and resignation between Captain Londrina and the mestizo footman that had accompanied him.

As they disappeared into the darkening shadows of night he heard his man-servant Ele light his cigar and then saw him proffer it out of the corner of his eye. He turned to his thoughtful servant and spoke in Portuguese, "Thank you Ele. A mysterious fellow wasn't he?"

Ele's voice was deep and even. "Master any man who would forgo such a smoke as this is a mystery to me."

"Yaas, Ele, yaas. Take one for yourself and Bais there and by all means keep the port stock uncorked", he said as he began enjoying the fine tobacco and reached beneath his folding table for the ever present decanter of port while Ele pulled the flap closed behind him and joined his fellow before the fire without.

Yes, of course, as if this Brown Man of mine would ever divulge his true inner thoughts to the Whiteman he serves. Look at their shadowed forms there, squatting like phantoms above an inferno, no doubt discussing your odd curiosity in the kind of aboriginal man that they are certainly glad not to be, hovering as they are on the fringes of the affluent world of the Whiteman and his many pleasures and privileges.

The report of a single gunshot echoed from up the trail, sending a melancholy chill down his spine to torment his conscience, which obviously resided within his chest just before the spine, not, thankfully, in that overused space between his ears.

He reclined, puffing mightily on his fine cigar, determined not to sleep tonight, less the Giant Face rise to torment him with the burnt amber eyes of Captain Molina de Grotto.