Silence Is Golden (Storm and Silence 3)

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‘What are we going to do?’ I whispered, shuffling a bit closer to Mr Ambrose, just as much as the rope allowed.

‘We are going to behave like model prisoners, Mr Linton. We will be quiet and well-behaved. Do you understand? Quiet.’

Oh, I understood all right. He didn’t want these military types to know about the treasure. I quite agreed. Whether rebel or government officer - the man in charge of these soldiers had a cold sparkle in his eyes that made me think not much was beyond him, theft and murder included.

‘And then?’ I asked, lowering my voice even further.

‘Then, if fate is on our side, we will find a chance to continue on our way.’

Translation: I will mud-wrestle fate until she is agreeable.

I smiled. Sometimes, it really was a pleasure to work for Rikkard Ambrose.

Storm lanterns lighting up the way ahead, we continued our march through the jungle. There was no path visible anywhere, and without a compass, there was no way of telling which way we were going. Even had I had the skill to read the direction from the stars, the thick tangle of branches overhead prevented anyone from getting their bearings.

Anyone except our captors, that is. They obviously knew where they were going. After only ten minutes march or so, the thick jumble of vines and leaves around us thinned, the trees began to stand farther and farther apart, and finally, the jungle receded and we marched out into the open.

In the dark, I couldn’t see much of what lay ahead. But there was a feeling of freedom, of clear space and skies above, that made me think we were not just in a clearing, but a much wider open space. I felt a faint breeze rustle my hair and breathed in, feeling like I had real air in my lungs for the first time all day.

‘Alto! Quem vem aí?’[10]

Men stepped out of the darkness, armed with sabres and rifles. They had their hands on the hilts of their weapons, but the moment they recognised the soldiers ushering us forward, they relaxed.

‘Olá, Costa! O que você tem aí?’[11]

‘Prisioneiros. O Coronel quer levá-los para a cela.’[12]

‘What are they saying?’ I whispered to Mr Ambrose.

‘He asked who we were, and the other told him we were prisoners.’

‘Pobre então bastardo.’ The soldier who had stepped in our way glanced at us, shaking his head. ‘A sua vida não vale uma merda agora.’[13]

‘And now?’

Mr Ambrose threw me a look. ‘He’s saying that we look like decent folk and should be treated well.’

‘Oh, indeed?’

I didn’t know much Portuguese, but the word ‘bastardo’ hardly required translation.

‘Indeed, Mr Linton.’

‘Well, thank you so much for reassuring me, Mr Ambrose, Sir. I feel much better now.’

‘Go on!’ Costa ordered in broken English, grabbing me by the scruff of the neck. ‘To cells with you! Adiante!’

I had been right - we were on a wide, open plain. And not far from the edge of the jungle, buildings rose into the sky. Ruins, from what I could see of them by starlight, some still smoking. But there were a few left intact, and to one of those we were now being herded. The rope that bound us together was cut, the ones around our wrists remaining. Someone grabbed me and began to drag me away. Only then did I realise they meant to separate us. I started to struggle, trying to reach out to Mr Ambrose - but the next moment, something very hard and painful hit my head, and everything sank into blackness.

Well, was my last thought before I drifted off into oblivion, at least now I’ll be getting a good night’s sleep.

*~*~**~*~*

When I awoke, I found that the hospitality of the Brazilians went beyond all my wildest dreams. My kind hosts had not only tied me to a chair, no, they had set up that chair under a mould-riddled, leaky ceiling from which an impressive amount of foul-smelling liquid dropped onto my head. The walls weren’t mere wood or concrete, no, they were ancient masonry with vintage rusty iron rings set into the stone, in which one could just picture a slowly rotting skeleton. There were decorous cobwebs in the corners of the windowless room, and by the light of the torch set into a wall bracket, I could see a ballet of rats performing for me on the floor. This wasn’t just a measly little cell, like the ones I had sometimes occupied back home in London. No, this was a genuine, bona fide dungeon! I had to admit, I was impressed. These Brazilians really knew how to treat tourists. Now, all that was missing was a torturer.

From somewhere, I could hear footsteps approaching. Craning my neck, I was just able to glimpse a door out of the corner of my eye. Keys rustled. The door swung open, and in stepped a heavyset man wearing a uniform, a ferocious scowl, and bloodstained gloves on his hands.