Not that I have many, but most of my distant friends know me as Marcus Steadfast. Many centuries of life have passed me by and you would think, considering that encounter with time, there would be a considerable degree of wisdom present in a brain that had witnessed and escaped several wonders and disasters in the world. But that is not the case, the truth is somewhat simpler. Immortality, or the likelihood of limited death prospects have increased my desire for life. Boredom after decades of life’s routine stimulates a need, no not a need, a necessary to recapture for mental and physical rehabilitation the joy of life’s excesses. To this day it remains a compulsion to experience hedonistic extremes to the point of my possible extinction. That’s why, when pondering my current diabolical situation, I dwell upon the past and random memories that filter into my desensitized head. It seems like only yesterday I fled the burning streets of London in fear of my life from flame and falling debris. I watched cowering in smoke-filled shadows as people clambered through their ruined lives in anger, rage and pain, panicking, with nowhere to run, shouting lost children’s names, not knowing who was dead or worse still mutilated and burned, pinned to the rotten earth by scorching embers. The ache of that singular recollection comes thundering back as if I was still there as I take refuge in this shell hole of stinking mud and smell the smoke and burning flesh of my fellow fallen comrades. As I lay half alive up to my waist in the bloody remnants of battle past times come flooding back to remind me of mortal moments that passed me by. John Wilkes Booth walks right beside me in the narrow corridors of Ford’s Theatre as I hurry through the murky gloom to meet a friend. There is no reason to look twice at the man as we pass, he is undistinguished like most of the other patrons of that night. I heard the shot, but took little notice, it could have been just a sound from the stage. The date was 14th April 1865. A day to remember and written in every history book as I’m sure today and tomorrow and the remainder of March 1939 will be debated and challenged in universities and memorised in scripture for the next few hundred years.

I’m of the conclusion I’ve made a bad error of judgement, picked the wrong side when I was considering the odds of some excitement to rekindle day-to-day life. Luck was never a trait that flattered me. The whole world is telling me it’s over for the Republicans. The war is just a side issue, a rehearsal for the main event already brewing in Europe. A German war machine that is fully functional and slowly rising with pace and arrogance and it makes me laugh for a second as I flounder half alive in this crater that beckons me to another dimension. The battle for the river Ebro confirms the facts – as an army, as a cause we are doomed.  All is lost, the government is gone, General Franco and his army are on the move, marching with unbeatable instruments of death. The Nazi regime has made sure of that.

Time is the greatest of healers, I’ve done my fair share to survive bullets and knives and every conceivable method of death thru the years, but prone in a shell crater, mud and human limbs lapping over legs with half my guts hanging out of my uniform cradled in ravaged arms makes me wonder if I’ll see the sun rise again. The sky is black with smoke dense and putrid, the smell and noise of death is overwhelming. Human cries for aid are pitiful and distressing, but I am helpless. I shout too, scream and whistle, anything to be noticed, but there is nothing, we are alone to die ignored. Near me arms are flapping, voices gurgling, men sinking in the mud. I feel their suffering, there is no help, we are condemned. I have no idea which direction they come from, there are so many shells falling, my ears are muffled from the explosions, brain numbed by the sensory overload. The light in my eyes is slowly escaping, diminishing degree by degree as the minutes pass, perhaps my time has come, maybe I am already in hell? The landscape seems to complement that elusion. Is this the end of my mortal years? I pray it is – I don’t need this suffering to continue another second. Pleading, screaming for forgiveness, I pray to the Lord in the darkness of my soul for someone to take this remaining spark of life away and end it all for me right now. I am like every other soldier on this battlefield looking for mercy and swift execution, I close my eyes and drift away on a sailing ship bound for calmer waters.

It’s hard to be objective when brain function is limited to occasional glimpses of light in the murky vista of mud and bullets. The pain I can deal with, but my body will not heal from this trauma without medical help and sitting here in this pit of hell tells me I will soon be lost to the ravages of war. There is nothing I can move, legs of wood, paralysis of the nervous system controls all my functions. The earth is consuming me, slowly descending into the sludge, to be forever forgotten like a million other lost souls of conflict, I will disappear to be ploughed to the surface decades later. As I wait and think about the past and my limited future, the stinking water chills me to the bone and I momentarily drift away into unconsciousness once more.

Boredom and repetition over the long years is my enemy, when you’ve learned a hundred languages, sailed the seven seas and climbed the highest mountains on earth with Hilary and Tensing, what is there on offer to quell the lust for life that is hitherto unknown. Every friend, every wife and child has died in my arms aged before my eyes as I remain mortal in the simplest of terms, able like no other of my kind to venture into daylight hours. I am not a night walker, nor is there an appetite for human consumption – I am unique in my world, an immortal freak in the real world. I have what others long and venture for and I have become their lure.  However, the Society is my real master, they command me, I have no mercy from their binding ties and my longing for forgiveness. How I live with emotional emptiness is a trick I’ve had to learn through the centuries to endure the death of all my loving partners. My empathy of life is as hollow as a dead tree. Yet I long for more, some stability that can cease this mortal desert of emptiness.

Night draws in, I’m still here and alone, the sound of other living souls in this hole is gone and I breath quietly. I fear I’m fading away as the call of night vultures and the desperation of injured screams drifts over the landscape. Nobody has shown their face to me over the top of this hole. My comrades probably all lay dead or dying as the onslaught continues around me. Shells and bombs light the sky, the tremor and sound is terrifying, occasionally one lands near and I choke on bloody mud and filthy water. I almost give myself the last rites, a hypocritical oath I know as I have no religion. How can I have after many centuries on this planet, God doesn’t exist, if he did, I’d be long since taken from this world? God is a myth . . . I am living proof.

Soon Franco’s men will overrun our battered enclave on the edge of this river, the guns pound the earth, and I hear the screams of a retreating army. In the distance I hear men and horses approaching and gun shots. Are they our guardians of this broken land or the enemy of the Republic? Franco’s advancing soldiers will have limited resistance to Republican stragglers, even the wounded find a bullet, of course there is no humanitarian care for us as victims of war. Why would there be, we are but the enemy of an outdated regime. Revolution has caught up with Spain and I re-evaluate my position, even as I force my tattered entrails back inside the cavity they had escaped I find no reason to wait for demise. I want to live, go on for another hundred decades, find some answers, more love and devotion to another. Yet as I struggle to get to my knees and wrap dirty stinking bandages around my waist, I need to plan an escape from those men coming forever closer.

We are a drain on resources, a carbuncle to the cause that needs removing and I come to realise quickly that my only option in remaining alive in this wanton pointless carnage is to change sides before a bullet with my name comes visiting – which it surely will, ending this unique life I have survived all these decade. I slip the battle coat from my shoulders and with agony and breathlessness force it into the quagmire of mud around my legs hiding identity documents that would cement my death. I am now a free man, have no memory or history, the battle has removed my Republican embrace. On scarred and bent legs I pull myself from the foul pool and crawl, wounded and dying across the landscape, the muck of battle flooding into the hole of my guts. Maybe it saves me, maybe it will quicken my passing, I don’t really care. A few feet away a soldier is cradled in the filth up to his waist. He is a Nationalist man, as I edge closer he has no legs, shrapnel has taken them, his life has drained into a pool beneath him and I struggle through the retched scarlet earth to remove his tunic. As I pull at the dog tag from around his neck he tumbles sideways. The soldier has no face, just a bloody hole devoid of features. I should retch, but this mess of a conflict has made me numb, all I have is pity and regret that I entered this war under the command of the Society who monitor and control every movement I make. Escaping their perpetual grasp is my real battle. I have been shackled to them for centuries and still I remain their prisoner. The tunic fits me and I slip the tag into an inside pocket and slump into the cold water that surrounds the torso of my saviour. As the black of the night devours me a Spanish voice shouts above the raging tumult of war. “Capitan, he is here. We have found him.” And I drift away to nothing and the endless silence of dreams.

Clean sheets, some darkness and fresh air poke me from sleep. I appear to be in a building or out in the open under a heavy canopy. The atmosphere is warm and dry as some breeze ripples across my face. I sense there is frantic movement all around me. I try to sit up to look at the surroundings thinking I have awoken from a night’s slumber. I scream, the pain is overwhelming, it explodes like magnesium on my flesh. I try to cradle my stomach, it is impossible to touch, it burns like an inferno. It leaves me panting in agony and I crumble backwards on to the boards of a makeshift bed. “Nurse, nurse,” I cry out, tears streaming from my eyes as I try and understand my environment, the pain pushes me into unconsciousness.

A man lurks at the base of the bed staring. I know him, he is the real enemy, the one the Society wants to destroy before his devout band of followers sow their vengeance and control over our fragile world. War, real war is where the Master makes his gains on the defeated where revenge becomes the afterthought to destabilise a world run on commercial gain and fascist dictators. This man has patience, almost undetectable as it runs several centuries deep, but the savage scope he has in his game of control is unlimited. The Crusades of the eleventh century, the English civil war, French Revolution and the deposing of the Russian Tsar are testimony to the realisation of his powers of influence. His one desire is to see me gone. He hunts me as I hunt him, we are opposing sides in a chess game that has lasted more eras than I care to recall. The world cannot afford to be checkmate to this monster. If he wins, he rules and becomes his own God with disciples to do his bidding and spread the word of his authoritarian fellowship. He is likened to a sleeping parasite, unknown to a world that doesn’t care, that has never seen his face or ever will. He presses the buttons, creates the pathway that other fascist dictators and megalomaniacs follow. The Master is the most dangerous of men and the Society put their trust and belief, with a constant arm up my back, that I alone am the person capable of stopping him. Fools, but nobody sees it, nobody heeds my warning. I am strong, but not strong enough to destroy a man who is almost invisible.

“Marcus,” he says quietly as if a greeting is required. “I shall refrain from asking if you are okay. I see you are not, but you’ll heal in a day or two. You always do?”

“Master,” I respond weakly unsure in what capacity I dream or lie wide awake subject to delusion through pain.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Russia was the last time eh Marcus. Rasputin, remember him?  I liked him, a man with a mission, a major influence in royal circles. Totally entrusted to me. He instantly became my puppet,” he says aggressively, “and you had him shot. I cannot forgive you that act of treason Marcus; I had big plans for that man, but then I found a better puppet to play with. Archduke Franz Ferdinand was an easy target for the Serbs to create some havoc in Europe. However, sometimes things refuse to play out as planned, isn’t that so? But with Mr. Hitler. I believe this is a man with some presence, foresight and aggression. Perfect ideals I can work with.”

He walks around the bed to face me. “We’ve never seen eye to eye have we Marcus, you and the Society had a habit of interfering in my plans for the greater good of humanity. Fools all of you. So . . .” He pushed on my abdomen, blood floods through the bandages onto the thinly covered boards beneath. I scream in agony but cannot move or speak to register help. “This,” he pushes down hard again without remorse or concern for my cries, “is my warning to you and those unknown peddlers of democracy. Leave me alone, do not interfere any further in my business or I will hunt you down, every last one of you. Tell them Marcus, counsel them of my intent. For the moment I let you live but fail me and the consequences will be devastating . . . the Society, for you. This is my promise, so heed this warning!” Then he was gone, on a flutter of tiny wings, through the darkness of an open window. Was it real, the message was. I cannot be sure of anything anymore.

“Nurse,” I bellow, the pain unbearable, the rupture of stitches revealing the open wound. “Nurse help, please.” I plead, then slip into the bottomless abyss of oblivion once more.

“Excelencia, are you awake?” A Spanish voice calls nudging me out of the blackness that encased me. It takes time to adjust from weary sleep to unfamiliar surroundings. In the background are more Spanish voices, some crying, some bewildered and delusional and other there to comfort. I am in a different place, a building, I see rafters and broken stucco plaster crumbling from the walls and uniforms. Many uniforms, doctors, nuns, soldiers and nurses rushing and running to answer and help where they can. “Nurse,” I say again the agony across my abdomen is intense, much more than I can bear, it leaves me breathless. “Pain,” I struggle to say holding the remnants of my tattered abdomen. “Help please.” It’s a plea from my heart.

“Senor, stay calm.” A gentle voice says as I struggle to clear the fog from my sight. “I can help. A moment please.” She speaks in her native Spanish tongue, and I understand every word. A language I learned decades before in some previous forgotten conflict and a woman I saved and loved and then lost when time took her from me. “Quickly,” I murmur clutching the bandages wrapped tightly around my torso. As I struggle to find comfort and relief from the agony the white material turns red and blood drips slowly onto the floor. Thoughts of mortality flood into my head, I should be healing better than this. This is not normal, there’s too much damage for my metabolism to repair without expert help. I cry out again, this is too much to bear.

“Lay back Senor and I will help,” she says as her face comes into picture for the first time. I must have looked surprised; my recognition was instant if not flawed. “Rosita?” I question, familiarity in the blond flowing hair and beautiful complexion. She looks confused, those sparkling blue eyes wide and warm with passion.

“Sofia, Excelencia, you must be mistaken?” She says puzzled.

“Am I, a sister perhaps?” I have no trouble being fluent in the language or the dialect of the district.

“There is no one but me. No sister. I live alone Senor.” She adds.

“Thank you Sofia. You are kind and I am mistaken,” I say weakly as she hands me several morphine tablets and puts a tumbler of water to my mouth. I swallow with difficulty gulping the liquid.

“My pleasure to help Excelencia. I must go there are others.” She turns to leave, the noise in this room of wounded soldiers is overwhelming. There is turmoil; everywhere, sounds I had not heard in a long time. Terrible sounds, the bowels of hell did not conjure this suffering and heart ache. Men and women dying, lost to the machinations of fascists and anarchists. War – futile, I’ve seen it all in my time on Earth, but it cannot be erased from reality and is too much to describe, too much to obliterate from memory. The drugs throw me down that dark passage into slumber once more.

In the vault of my sleep dreams the Master vaguely appears, and I mull over the content of his spoken words, knowing in my heart I will do nothing. To bow down to his demands is not acceptable on any level, blackmail, emotional or otherwise is outside of my understanding. To resist him could be catastrophic, but after six hundred years I am willing to take that chance. Maybe my time of immortality is coming to an end? Does the Master have the key to close that door, time will tell. What a life I have lived, it cannot be categorised other than it was unique, demanding and without remorse, but there is no time to regret or reflect on any of that now. This is the time to act, my failings will be judged later.

“Excelencia, there is a Captain to discuss with you. Please wake.” I feel a presence nearby.

I open my eyes, Sofia is there brushing down the bed, levelling the sheets, tiding my bedwear. I must look dreadful. “Who is it?” I ask struggling to stay awake.

“An army officer Senor urgently needs your attention.”

“Sofia bring him through please.”

“Si Senor, he is here now.” I look up through the haze of latent sleep to see a distinguished man in his late twenty’s, well dressed, clean with a neatly trimmed moustache and dark slicked back hair, his cap held firmly under his arm. He salutes briefly giving his respect. I must be somebody he knows, someone of authority. A question that has plagued me these past few days. Who am I?

“Colonel, we are happy to see you. We thought you had been lost on the front line?” He says with a certain sentiment of nervousness.

“Pinned down in a hell hole with the dead and dying.” I say, “I do not know how I survived or how I came to be here? A miracle perhaps? I have no memory of the passing days, where I am, who I might be? It is a darkness without pictures Capitan, but the Lord helps those in need, eh?” I recognise his rank.

“You will be briefed shortly of your circumstances Excelencia, but first high command asks I contact you, reminding you that time is limited for us all. We are losing the battle, but the war is not yet lost. There is one further chance for victory, and it has to be taken quickly, without delay.”

I look at the man, his presence puzzles me. “Excelencia?” A question I pose to the Capitan. He looks at me stoney faced, “In good time sir, but we are wasting precious minutes with trivia and that is not my purpose.”

I must appear stunned at the man’s obvious arrogant statement but leave it unquestioned for the moment. “I am improving by the hour, the staff here are kind and thoughtful, but forgive me Capitan as I do not know you and am unclear what you require of me?”

“Torres. Capitan Franco Torres 15th army corps at your service Excelencia. Please forgive the intrusion and desperation in my actions, but this matter is of the most severe importance, we need to act quickly.”

“That I can understand,” I say struggling to come to terms with the situation. “But I am at a loss, recovery has been difficult but swift, however, can the army not confront a qualified army combatant to exercise this task?” I question.

“The position is extreme and fraught with difficulty Excelencia. You are the best hope we have of success.”

“But why Capitan – explain.”

“You know the locale well and we recognise you speak perfect German, and your nobility would provide respect to the enclave. You are the perfect host and translator for the purpose.”

“And what is the purpose soldier?” I question.

“A meeting of Nationalist senior officers with General Franco himself present to procure further support, arms and equipment from the German Third Reich. There is a possibility Hitler may attend to oversee the final process. If Franco succeeds in gaining a superior war machine from Germany, then the Republican cause is lost. This meeting cannot take place, it must be stopped.”

“Your intention is what Capitan?”

“We kill Franco and Hitler Excelencia. That is the task you are required to embark upon.”

My head swims. I have ended up in a place, a situation I am clearly not qualified for. The fog in my brain dissipates and I try to think like the man I am supposed to represent. But I am an imposter, some nobility with legendary status beyond my understanding. However, I need to continue the charade to get well and leave this place as quickly as possible The Society have tasked me with a different mission and I cannot fail them, yet I must respond favourably to the Capitan’s demands.

I recover my senses and appear calm as I lay in that hospital bed and consider my future. What choices do I have? On reflection none, I am a prisoner to the cause. “I am at your service Capitan Torres, a few more days and I should be recovered fully with the help of Sofia to tend my wounds.”

“That is not possible Excelencia, there is no time, we have to leave right now. The meeting with the Third Reich is tomorrow, you must be briefed.” He extols dramatically a stern expression on his face.

“Impossible,” I yell, some pain from the exertion tugging at my internal organs.

The Capitan smiles. “Do not worry Excelencia you will be in very safe hands. The Resistance will guide and assist you all the way. You only need host the meeting and provide entry for the soldiers to do their duty, they will complete the remainder of the task.”

“And who leads the Resistance Capitan, it would be beneficial to meet who is in charge?” I question.

He laughs like a child. “But you have Senor, you have,” He looks sideways at Sofia, who remains calm and professional. A nurse in charge.

“No!” I say lost for words. “It cannot be?” The Capitan salutes and leaves, a smug expression gives away his amusement at my shock news.

I never saw the traits before, yet as I renew my gaze on Sofia it becomes abundantly clear in the lines of her face just what those qualities are that I’ve not recognised. The steely gaze, the beautiful smile that underpins the defiance of a woman with a rebellious nature. She remains harsh and almost unemotional, but that’s a job requirement not the state of her disposition. The demands, the sights she witnesses, the tasks she endures cannot allow sensitivity and personal involvement, but I see the hidden softness around the heart of stone that she portrays. The caring touch, the warmth of her fingers, the tender nature of her considerate for me as a human being that is hurt. I know she cares; I see it in her walk, the twinkle in the corner of her eyes and the way her blonde hair caresses the beauty of her face. I like her, the passion in me wants to cry out the message, but I cannot. Not yet, I shall wait, but as each hour passes, I see desire in Sofia too. Maybe this is something we can share, a togetherness, a destiny – time will tell? Now we plan, there is a battle to be won, lines to be drawn and Sofia is in charge, and I listen with two ears whilst I watch in admiration.

There is a car waiting outside the hospital, we climb inside, it smells of old leather and soap. Every new day starts with less pain, the wound is healing rapidly, the scaring sore but almost healed. It is not pure nursing that has proved this well-being. My beautiful and faithful nurse Sofia has attended my every need which I am so very grateful of, but it is down to the nature of my constitution. The metabolism of my disease aids the swiftest healing to any injury I have. Indeed, only mutilation of a finite and fatal nature can bring my life to an end, and I have sacredly guarded that Achilles heel with every breath I take. Today I feel renewed with a finite purpose, on the battlefield of the River Ebro I did not care whether the next shell took my head and my life. I will play the game the Society and the Republican high command require of me, but my inner resolve has come to recognise a superior purpose. Longevity, love, belonging to another and maybe family. It is a fleeting ambition, but a possibility that will ultimately end in desperation as I watch them grow old and die whilst I remain a man of middle age. The years follow me in slow motion, I cannot speed them up. I linger in the twilight always looking for something unattainable that I cannot register. I have a longing, but I don’t know what I am longing for. The Society is my true home, they raised me, harboured me in youth from corrupt influence. I owe them everything and in return I look for the Master. I know him, have lived by his side many years, but now we are enemies, and I must find and bring his extended life to an end for the benefit of all mankind. The man is a monster and will endeavour as long as there is breath in his lungs to destabilise the world for his army of night creatures bringing chaos and dread to every living soul. He is the devil, and I am his brother – I am God?

There is chatter in the vehicle, last minute details, maps and pointing fingers on roads and landmarks. As I listen to the sweet voice of Sofia, instructing her officers a gun is placed in my hand, a pistol, it is loaded. They say I won’t need it, so why have the weapon, there is no justification in its value. I would be one man against many and with it awkwardly tucked away it could jeopardise my true purpose. I hand it back. Sofia Morales is in charge; she is a demon of spirit and passion. A devil woman of no reluctance. The men understand, they do her bidding without question. Her mission is their mission, and they follow completely with respect at her command. It is a thing of beauty to watch the control she achieves with the men in her troop. It’s obvious they adore her, blond hair tied in a loose ponytail, her face sweet and angelic but rigid, a warrior of true determination. I see what the other men see in her beauty, the poise, the stance as she gives the last-minute orders and inspects the men in her command. Maybe this feeling inside is not what a six-hundred-year-old mutant needs, but it’s there all the same. Tugging away, burning a hole in my own sensibilities that tells me to discard the ache as it will only end in sorrow. Like her other followers I think I’m falling in love with Sofia Morales.

We serve a higher purpose; I know that feeling well as I stand outside a large villa deep in the Basque countryside surrounded by acres of open fields and ponder the prospect of a mission that seems suicidal, but a necessity to the cause. Will it succeed, maybe. Sofia will guide us; in that I have no doubt. I await on the steps, identification in hand, my knowledge of both languages and respected nobility has brought me to this point where they feel I can be trusted to interpret and advise without compromise to a different purpose. The fools have no idea, but the innocence I bring will mask my true identity. I gaze taking in the surroundings. There is a small wood to the rear of the building, out-houses and open fronted barns that harbour machinery and animal feed and soldiers – Nationalist guards and SS members of the Third Reich wander openly about the grounds their weapons hanging loosely by their side, complacent that harm and attack in not close by. Doubts enter and I feel nervous that this is a mission with no positive outcome for the men and Sofia who shelter in the safe harbour of trees and shrubbery only yards from me.

I’m greeted by an official of the Nationalist party, we shake hands, he has no reason to suspect I am a saboteur as I wear my civilian clothes well, portraying my nobility with perfection under a cape of black and red velvet draped across my shoulder.

“Excelencia, welcome. Please come inside out of the heat.” He checks my identification and casually searches for weapons. I have none, I am pleased to be clear of guns and knives, it would have been my undoing. My task is not to create a war within the villa boundary, but to open a passage for Sofia and her squad to enter. Then the carnage begins, a routing that should cement the final days of the war in Spain. I have my doubts, the odds seem overwhelming.

The official guides me through heavily decorated passageways and corridors, there are portraits of old nobility hanging on the walls defiantly guarding the history of the inherited and stolen lands. I pray my disguise is sufficient to avoid recognition, after all, my status in these parts must be widely known, perhaps the beard and glasses might deceive recognition? Finally, we pass through a solid ornate doorway into an open chamber where several incumbents are talking, laughing, holding glasses of wine. There appears two separate enclaves present. I guess from the uniforms the Third Reich in its Hugo Boss refinery confers in one corner, whilst the Nationalist members chatter loudly in a further corner in their dull nondescript uniforms, berets and peaked caps. In comparison they almost look like farm hands or prisoner of war waiting to be interned. As allies they appear to be worlds apart, the Nazis confident, arrogant and superior, their counterparts forlorn, ravaged, unsure? I stand proudly before them unnoticed and speak in German with a Berlin accent. “Gentlemen, please be seated. Duke Gonzalez Bastidas at your service.” I bow before them in respect, they all turn and stare. I say the same introduction in Spanish.

“As interpreter I will explain as accurately and honestly as possible questions and discussions, disagreements you may have as individuals or collectively. Please let’s join the table together and begin.” At this point I have no agenda for the meeting, I am told the Nationalist party is looking to favour cooperation from the Germans to secure further military support, either weaponry or possibly soldiers as allies to the fascist cause, both gaining credibility in Spain and Germany. At some point once the meeting is in progress I need to slip away to open doors for Sofia and her men to enter the building. A dangerous if not impossible task I wonder as I have no knowledge of this building and exits could be locked or guarded by SS troops.

There are face and names I recognise, Albert Speer and Goebbels, leaders of the German war machine and propaganda, but Hitler is not there, facing them is General Franco and several other leading lights of the Nationalist party I do not know.

“Please begin gentlemen,” I usher them along conscious of my nervousness and the oncoming bloodbath. Then I falter, a sudden hole of nervous dread in my guts. The game is up, a stoney face seated in a darkened corner of the room looks at me intently. The Master. He is here, watching, listening. Is he guiding the mayhem from a distance? Words fail me, I try to remain composed as I stare back in recognition, not understanding the significance of his presence.

He nods. “Duke,” he says quietly as though he knows me as nobility. “Good to see you in excellent health. Spain must be agreeable to your constitution Sir?” he says with a nod of sarcasm. General Franco begins to speak but I don’t hear the words as out of the darkness next to the Master the face of Heinrich Himmler appears into the dimmed light of the room like a ghostly silhouette. Then I begin to understand the full nature of the plan the Master is conjuring, world disruption by meddling with the Nazi regime and its infamous leaders. Himmler with deep interests in the occult and mysticism sits next to a monster who can bring more than pure superstition and fantasy to the world of a man who controls the brutal SS. The reality is staring him in the face, he only needs to accept the bait.

The Master stays clear of my rightful identity, it is our secret and ours alone. He seems reluctant to open the truth at this moment. It is a waiting game; the chess pieces are in play, and I await the next move. This man cannot be trusted, he is a leviathan of evil, a manipulator of all things for his own benefit and the army of night walkers he guards and controls ferociously. Why is he here? Is his only purpose in this building to disrupt and destabilise an honest purposeful meeting of two military factions? I think not, there is a game in play today. Whatever that is and I believe my knowledge is expanding, then I am now part of the deception.

“So nice to see you again after such a long time, I’ve truly missed your company.” I say trusting I have played the right move and await the man’s response.

“Time passes slowly Duke, but I have made new friends since we last parted.” There is constant chatter in the background, but I do not hear the words or the tone of the discussion, they must not need my interpretation.

“Indeed, you appear to be rising quickly up the ranks of notoriety. No doubt there is a purpose at hand. Maybe you would care to explain. I have friends that would be extremely interested if you care to join us after this meeting.”

“Sincere apologies Duke, but I must fly. There are many events to attend rather than your personal trivia.”

There is a nudge to my shoulder. I am being called away to the meeting. The master sinks back into the darkness and to those present he is but an inconspicuous bystander. Franco is bargaining with Goebbels and Speer, requesting field weapons and ordinance, armaments that will shorten the war and save the lives of his followers and soldiers. The Nazi’s need to understand the economics of any deal. Franco hands the meeting over to his economics minister to explain the fine detail of their perceived arrangement. The language barrier is severe, neither seem to fully understand the other, I could in all probability manipulate the meeting and they would be no wiser, however, I know the Master watches and listens and understands every word they say.

Several explosions rock the building, the noise is immense, the blast rocks us off our feet and I cling to a chair for support as I try to comprehend what has just happened. Plaster falls from the ceiling in huge pieces, light fittings rattle and crash to the floor, glass from windows flies everywhere covering the trapped soldiers in small cuts to the face and hands and then smoke cannisters are thrown into the room, their clouds of choking fumes billow into every corner. It is sudden chaos, mayhem follows, scuffling and heightened voices shout through the smoke and there is small arms gun fire. No one can see, the intense gas makes us invisible and there is scurrying movement all around. I regain my balance and temporary deafness starts to clear and realise I need to back away to the edge of the room to escape the bedlam and stray bullets, almost tripping over debris or maybe bodies scattered on the floor. A couple of minutes pass quickly, I feel safer by the outer wall as the noise of the invasion increases with agonising cries of pain and anger and I get a chance to think. This is not the plan we had, what has changed? Captain Torres or Sofia never explained there would be explosions and severe incursions risking my death. I was only to open doors to allow entry – I recognize they have deceived me whilst I was in a weakened mental and physical state. I should have been wiser, recognised the clues and nuances that were in play. What game has this become that I am a guiltless party to, are the Republicans and the Master working together? Are they joined in curious mystery, a coalition of enterprise or is this just coincidence of the extreme? I do not know but will find out as I am raging at my compatriots and need answers. “Sofia,” I call out through the clearing smog as hazy figures start to become visible, the smoke blown by the breeze from the smashed windows. Silence prevails, noisy chaos subsides to quiet murmuring, and I hunt for someone I might know. “Sofia, Torres, answer me.”

“Over here Excelencia, to your left.” Comes a recognisable voice. From the tone I know she is unhurt and move tentatively towards the sound.

“What the hell is going on?” I say with rage. “You changed the plan. Should I not have been told?” I chastise her openly without thought, anger rises in me like a scorching flame, and I feel the need to strike out at someone as the explosions could have taken my head with stray shrapnel had I been in the wrong place. As Sofia comes into view, I see she holds Franco in a tight grip, an arm around his neck a pistol shoved deep into the soft flesh of his throat. He struggles, fights the human shackle and demands immediate release as he twists and turns in anger. Sofia stands firm, there is no way he will get free, she is fierce with strength, her arm is a vice around his neck. Torres holds the economics minister and as the smoke clears the Resistance soldiers hold several of the higher ranks in their grasp. There are bodies on the floor, most do not move, either dead or scared to risk a bullet, others groan from injury. In a chaotic minute the scene has changed from amiable discussion to carnage and Sofia and her squad seem to hold the advantage. A single pistol shot rings out and the muffled cries suddenly stop. “Enough, we have what we need. We will have no further bloodshed.” Demands Sofia Morales of her men. As the smoke finally clears all is not as it seems. The battle is far from won; a dramatic turn of events has switched the advantage. The Master has a Luger to the back of the captain’s head. “Gentlemen, I think we need to reconsider our strategy before we make the next move?” He throws out the question to no one in particular, slamming the gun hard against the soldier’s head. “Let them all go captain, your soldiers are useless without you to command them, right?  And then we can sit down and have a grown-up conversation of what we are trying to achieve with this meeting. That seems fair. I had not intended for my plans to be disrupted in this way.”

Torres remains unfazed at the pain in his head as the pistol barrel digs deeper into the bone of his skull. “This is not my battle, kill me if that pleases you, but these soldiers do not hasten to my command. You have picked the wrong person to bargain with sir.” He states trying to focus on the man behind him.

The Master pauses, deep thought flashes across emotionless eyes. “I see, but as an officer you are more than useful to bargain with. Is that not true captain. I’m sure these brave men and women wouldn’t want your death on their dirty hands – would they? However this may appear, I have no quarrel with anyone in this room.” He looks around at the other soldiers that encircle him. “This devastation, these deaths are not of my making, nor of my planning or intent.” The Master looks across at me through the dusky haze. “This gentleman,” he points briefly with his pistol, “was my real goal. The rest of the disciples of my faith only had to grant a lifeline to Franco and his war will be convincingly won. The next is a war of attrition, my war, and with these willing men you see here I can rule the world, but I have a fly in the ointment I must purge. Marcus, today my friend you die and with your death the Society has limited weaponry in its arsenal to gain my soul. So they too will wither and perish without your specific skills to carry out their demands and duty.” Torres releases the minister who takes the Master’s gun and pushes it deep into the soft flesh of the soldier’s belly. “You are next senor, make no mistake.” He says as he cocks the pistol.

“Do not make a move Marcus. The instructions are to kill them all if you try anything stupid.” Out of the darkness familiar faces appear guns in their hands aimed at Sofia and Torres. It appears the tables have turned. The Master disappears into the darkness and returns after a few seconds with a sabre held tightly between both hands. “We need to reduce the odds, one less to concern myself over and the challenge is then done. Is that not the case Marcus?”

“Don’t fool yourself to think my death will guarantee you immortality. It won’t, there are others as capable as me to safeguard human existence and rid your pestilence.”

“Come come, my handsome friend, have we not seen centuries together, lived a life to be envied? Yes, we have, and it can be yours again. Cross over, back to where you really belong Marcus. Make the team whole again. Brother with brother. Death does not have to be your final gesture to the living. We can rule, really rule, side by side . . . just like the old days.”

“Never ever shall I travel those corridors of terror and humiliation again. Fulfil your judgement. I am ready.” I bow my head ready for the ultimate blow. “Never let it be said I fear death or courage to combat a tyrant of inhumanity the likes of you.” The sabre rises into the shadowy light of the dusky atmosphere as the room falls into a quiet murmur.

Sofia throws Franco to the floor, her boot on the back of his neck, drops her pistol and quicker than lightning pulls a dagger from her belt and lunges forward. The Master stops, arms raised, the sabre does not fall, he turns to seek his attacker. “Hmmm,” he says quietly, “that is unfortunate.” He looks down at the hilt of the dagger jutting from his chest as the blood runs darkening the material of his tunic. Momentarily there is silence, no movement or sound as each person wonders what the next move will be. Sofia releases the boot from Franco’s neck and kicks the Master’s legs from behind and as he collapses to the floor pulls the dagger from his chest and forces it firmly into his neck. He smiles at his aggressor; a small laugh emerges from his lips and some unintelligible words gurgle through the escaping blood rising from the wound and sighs a final breath. She bends to the grimy floor, closes his eyelids as his head drops to one side, the arrogant smile radiant across his features. Sofia looks elated, “Gentlemen, your weapons please. Let’s make this as peaceful as possible.” She says feeling triumphant.

I swiftly move towards her. “Out of the way,” I scream. “Sofia do not be fooled; he is healing himself. Get away now before he turns the weapon on you. He is not dead!” I pull her sharply aside, she flies backwards. The dagger strikes her leg. The Master twists it and strikes again several times, Sofia drops to the floor screaming. Franco grabs the pistol from the floor twists onto his back and shoots at Torres. The shot misses its goal, and the economics minister slips to his knees holding his stomach as blood runs like a river down his leg and pools on the floor, Torres kicks Franco in the head, grabs the pistol and faces the enemy firing a warning shot into the ceiling of the room. “Do we need more bloodshed gentlemen? Has this war not taken enough lives already that we need to add further to the tally. Then surrender to us today, make our peace and unify Spain once more. The Nazi’s are only here to further their own campaign, they do not care or favour the sovereignty of Spain. With the help of this man,” he points to the Master whom I hold in a firm grip, both arms held tight behind his back the blade of the sabre cutting a red line deep into the flesh of his throat. “They are ramping up and expanding the military might of the Third Reich and there is no doubt it will be unleashed on Europe very soon and Spain will fall to a new master without any further benefit from the allies they now help. The consequences of that regime will be terrible. We cannot let that happen, not now, not ever. Spain will never be slaves or held captive by hostile hands.”

There is laughter in the musty darkness of the room as the sun begins to fade behind the horizon. Night is falling. The Master speaks a few final words. “There is truth in what you say Senor, but you cannot stop destiny or the will of superior beings. It is just a matter of time and we wait. What is another decade, a millennium? We’ll meet again, you have my word on that, but for now adios my friends.” And he is gone and I am left hold a sabre to an empty space that briefly shimmers around me. Once again, he is an illusion, disappearing into the night like a bat flying through an impossible gap, he is following the route to another battle, there is no doubt of that. This one is lost but the war is far from over. The prey is lost, vanished from sight in a breath like fog on a breeze. All that remains is emptiness and failure, there will be further explaining to the Society, they will not be pleased, but neither am I, years of hunting lost in a moment of incompetence. I should have cleaved his head whilst I had the chance. A moment of doubt becomes a lost cause. Motionless is what I am, words cannot comprehend the feelings in my gut and the rage captured inside bursting to escape. Centuries old fury coming to the fore, animal instincts of spite and revenge and hate I’ve held in check for most of my life are biting at my fingertips. With rasping breath screams, I need to hurt, destroy something, someone, with no remorse just pure retaliation. “Where is Franco, bring him to me.”

Torres examines the floor. “He is gone Excelencia.” He looks across at me shock written across his face, eyes searching and seeking. “My God,” he realises, “he is one of them!” To his right, he sees a soldier charging towards him screeching and pushing passed others from his troop as he charges into view. “Captain, captain, they are gone. Come and see.”

“Who’s gone soldier?” Demands Torres looking around the room as though it will provide immediate answers. “The Germans, they have just gone, vanished, but how?”

“It’s okay soldier, do not worry, get back to your post.” He tells the frightened man.

I address the captain from a distance. “You know, don’t you?” I demand as he heads towards the dark corners of the room. “Himmler, Goebbels and Speer, I should have realised what they were. Puppets of the Master, he has turned them. He said he’d made new friends and now we know who they are. The situation is worse than I had imagined, with these powerful allies in his pocket then the world is not safe. There is catastrophe and devastation ahead my friend.” I place my hand on the shoulder of Torres in friendship, my rage drifting away on a sea of human compassion, he had no idea of the Master’s true ideals, now all he feels is despair. “Why did you not say?” I ask. “You could have trusted me; this is not the time for deception. Lives are at stake, not just the few, but millions of souls to add to those already in the Master’s cabinet.”

There is embarrassment written on the captain’s face, “it was the only way to get the Master in the meeting Senor, without you there he would not have come. He does not care about Spain, it is irrelevant to his purpose, he needed you, he needed to remove that obstacle once and for all. So great apologies, but we used you as bait to lure him out of his nest. We did not come for Franco, that war is lost, the Republican army defeated. It will be a footnote in the history books of course, but we could never change that. But to capture the Master, entrap him and get him back to the Society was the mission and we failed Senor, we failed. The monster is still at large and now we know he has a very powerful entourage around him.”

I had not considered or anticipated the extent of the Republicans aims, nor had I believed the Society had other avenues to expand on their goals rather than only me. Momentarily, I am dumbfounded there seems to be treachery at foot, but I cannot lose my head as I know this passage is for the greater good of mankind in all its forms and the battle with the Master cannot stop from involuntary jealousy or envy on my part. We must work as a team, whenever the spectre of evil raises it head and with whom our party members are. Clearly, Captain Torres has played his part well, even if we have not succeeded. But Sofia, I believe, does not know or fully understand the focus of this partisan plot? Unlikely. But where is she, we have forgotten her desperate needs in the melee of our thoughts and actions.

“Sofia,” I call. “She needs help, she is injured.”

“It is no good Senor,” a medic comes between Torres and me distressed, shoulders hunched. “She is gone.”

“Gone where man, where has she gone?” I demand.

“The Lord has taken her; the wounds were too severe Excelencia. I could not stop the bleeding.”

“How long ago did she pass?” I ask angrily removing the tunic from my shoulders.

The medic seems puzzled, looking fearful as he ponders the question. “Maybe a few minutes Senor, why?”

It is a question I will not answer, there is little time. “Clear the room immediately.” I shout. “Torres move them all out. I need air and light and privacy. This instance – move man.” The captain rushes into action, herding the troops through the main doors of the room and I look down at the prone lifeless torso of Sofia Morales and emotions in me well to the surface. There are tears streaming down my face and dread in the pit of my stomach. Feelings of sadness and loss I have not felt or required for decades. Her beauty remains in death, almost angelic as vague light from a battered window casts a dust sprinkled glow across her upper body. I long to grab her, hug her, say everything will be okay and there is nothing to fear, but words, thoughts and longings for the future have now been destroyed. I wipe the tears away and bow my head in anguish. “Why must it have been you? You should have left the Master to me. We could have had a life together,” I whisper in her ear as I feel the warmth of her skin against my own. I kiss her intently on the lips drawing sweet droplets of blood, rip open her battle jacket and blouse and touch the softness of her breast above her lifeless heart. How I longed in that moment to gather her up and unravel the passion of her lust than deal with the sad prospect of her death. My heart is broken, but my resolve intact. “You will not die today Sofia,” I mutter as the flow of energy courses through my hand into the soft flesh of her chest. Intense pain grips like a vice, all I see is darkness as sight leaves me blind. To endure this remedy maybe my own undoing, but I have no choice. I cannot let this precious creature wither on this desperate battlefront without passing over my love and desire into her beautiful presence. I suddenly realise I love Sofia more than my own desire to survive.

I turn to Captain Torres, who stares at me with a lack of understanding and terror. “It is done,” I say. “I have nothing left to give but faith that my God is watching and grants my wishes.”

“What is this Excelencia, what is this magic you possess?”

“Something as ancient as life itself captain. No magic, just the power of mother nature.” I reply calmly as I cover up the lifeless torso of Sofia Morales.

“But what now?” asks the captain unsure of what he has just witnessed.

“We wait and pray that I have not been too late.”

The air is humid, and rain tumbles gently from a heavy sky. Several days have passed since the disaster at the villa. Torres and I walk around the fresh graves of comrades we lost at the hands of the Master and his puppet organization. Too many good patriots lost to a futile cause. Torres is hiding tears of anger and sadness. I cannot comfort him; my own pain is too much to bear at the hatred I feel for a man bent on personal gain without a care for any living soul. He would kill his own brother without remorse or sorrow to attain the smallest victory. The ground is soft beneath our feet, the hasty crosses over each grave give witness to desperate measures. The names are scrawled unevenly on jagged remnant of wood dangling crooked in the early breeze of a summer morning. A bell tolls in the distance, there are others looking for relatives, loved ones lost to a war they don’t understand, will never find reconciliation within their hearts.

“We knew who you were Senor, it was no secret. The battledress confused us briefly and it was pure luck we came across you before a squad of the enemy found you. They would have recognised you for the imposter you had become. Visibly not the duke and several bullets or the sword would have ended your days. The wounds endured that day erased the extent of the memory you had and your true identity. We had to use that to our advantage, but Sofia was unaware of the truth. The deception had to remain; we have no excuses for that because success at any price was our ambition. We failed and I am struggling to find reasons why so many good people had to die for nothing.” Torres looks down at the freshly turned earth, his gloved hand stifles a hidden sob as he turns to me with glassy eyes.

“You cannot blame yourself captain,” I say quietly trying to give comfort to a broken-hearted man. “It is a battle we will fight many decades to come long past your time on this planet. Many thousands more souls will be lost till this creature of evil is destroyed. I will do mine and the Society’s bidding till the struggle is over. But for now, you have a country to fight for. Forget the Master, he is gone, look after your own good people. The Master is my fight, not yours. You have played your part, but there will be a time, in the future, when we will meet again captain, fear not, our paths will cross once again.”

We walk back towards the road, the bells continue to toll their tunes of regret, soldiers line the path. Most are bowed in sorrow as we pass, some acknowledge the captain, he salutes as we clamber into our vehicle. Torres starts the engine and engages the gears, releases the brake and we move forward. I turn and look behind me. She smiles. “Hi,” I say as my hand reaches out. Our fingers touch and I feel the warmth of a beating heart. A prayer is not a prayer unless it is answered.