Valley of the Templars

EPILOGUE

The two old men sat on the porch of the older man’s farm in the mountains of the Spanish Sierra Morena and looked out over the hills.

“It is pretty here, don’t you think, brother? Nice and hot, like home.”

“Pretty enough,” said the older of the two. Behind them in the house, he could hear the sound of the evening meal being cooked. “Pretty enough and hot enough for my old bones, but it is not home, is it?”

“No, but you can rest here. There was no peace at home—you know that.” The younger brother laughed. “And here you can watch your own state funeral on the television while your nation mourns you. This is an opportunity given to very few men, compañero.”

“Poor Benito. He was with me for many years. I pray he did not suffer too much.”

“It was very quick,” the younger brother lied. In fact, the man’s death had been excruciating and had taken hours.

“And that mariquita pedófilo, Ortega?”

“He had a heart attack shortly after your death. Between the eyes.”

“Bueno,” sighed the older brother sleepily, his eyes closing. “Muy bueno.”

The younger brother waited for a few minutes, listening to his brother’s steady breathing, and then tiptoed back into the cool shadows of the porch.

And the old man slept and dreamed of the bright stars on a dark, cold night, a toboggan ride and making angels in the snow.