Beyond the sacred and secular spaces of this ancient mosque-church-villa, there is the working ranch, the cattle that supplement both income and dinner tables. The bulls have been brought in from the surrounding grazing lands and territory for the next round of mating, preparation for next years calves. Some of the black bulls of this region make a gladatorial journey to Old Gades (Cadiz) and Madrid, for there are no bulls fiercer than those of El Andalus...
     A circular corral is surrounded by torches and the early evening is lit, and around it voices are lifted. The men who work for El-Adar crowd the circular keep, creating an outward spiral. Some are perched upon the fence, some sit mounted on horses, wearing the afternoon's dust and the warmth of the spring afternoon sun. They lift their voices in a singing call. Others speak in a hush...
     Who let this woman in here...
     What does she think she is doing...
     And then a yell again, the lifting of dust, and the sparkle of gold and scarlet. The whirl of a silk cape, scarlet and embroidered with rich gold fabric, lifts over the dusty whithers and clears the lowered and deadly horns of a bull. And the woman turns, her face placid. Unafraid. She moves more silken than the cape...

     ...There are steps coming down your hall, the slap of feet upon the tiled stone, ceramic and sun-baked earth in the patterned mosaics. "Master!" one of the young boys calls for you. "Master!"
     In your chamber, Valan is dressing. A crimson shirt of silk over brown trousers. Earthy. It makes his hair all the more golden. At the call of the young boy's voice, he is turning to you and turning back for the glass of madiera. Such habits he has. Madiera. Cinnamon cigarettes. It is not Spain he disagrees with...

     It's too early. Edward watches you dressed, only half-done himself. He has his own glass of madeira, but it pales against the rich warmth that ran between his lips not a half-hour ago. This is too much like water. Edward sips at it, but mostly out of lack of anything else to do.
     "I don't thi---" he began, stopping when he caught the calling voice. Master could be anyone, but on this hall, so close, the likelyhood increases that the servant is looking for him. He exhales and sits up, boots landing on the tiled floor.
     "What's this?" Edward murbles, pushing up from the bed. It sounds with the relief of his weight. "Oh, I was about to say that I don't think that I will need to talk to Maria," he explains, moving towards the door to open it, "...from what you said, she will know that I know she has done something wrong. I'll see how she acts first, before I say anything...."
      "Si, Ramon, what is it?" Edward says sharply, once the door is ajar.

     Valan sips at the madeira. It is good practice, drinking it, keeping it down. And he, like you, needs something to do. The energy is building again. It has no end, nor is he the beginning. He is another note in the strain of this line, picking up the song in mid-course. As it were.
     The tails of the shirt, untucked, lift slightly in his movement. "I leave her to you. I have nothing more to say about it," comes the ease of French. Valan pivots to you, and he smiles. But in his eyes there is that flash of determination. Perhaps he is a barbarian, too, at heart.
     He moves to a chair as the voice sounds again and as you move to the door, and he takes out a pack of the cinnamon cigarettes.

     "The ... sultan's woman," the young boy pants it. He ran all the way, young Ramon, young no more than ten. "... she is ... outside with the...your bulls!" Like how suddenly that you are here they are your bulls? "You know, senor," he says, amazed, "I think she is winning, even..."
     Nazari al Sa'ad.

     ... Slender, booted feet walk a circuit in the sand. Etched in the earth, the markings of previous twists and turns, and the hooves of a great and heavy bull. The woman stands in the center of the makeshift ring, surrounded by the doubting voices of all those who encircle her. Her amber eyes are upon the bull that lowers its head and barrels toward her, and without smile or frown, without reaction at all and with fluid motion, she turns again, scarlet and gold banner waving.
     They doubt her now, those who have never seen her. But they will be believers by the time she leaves. When she returns to El-Adar some day, she will be met by zealots challenging her to repeat this night...

     What?
     Edward grabbed his shirt and duster, heading quickly out of the bedroom. His walk was firm and fast, and he swung on his shirt and the longcoat as he strode out into the evening. He did not seem angry, certainly, just resolute.
     "It is a bit late in the evening to disturb the bulls," he finally said as he approached a corral, stopping before the railings to see what was transpring.

     The sultan's woman?
     Following your heated trail -- easy to do, it was lit with the flame of purpose -- Valan grabbed his jacket, cigarettes safely held within. And his lighter. Most important of all.
     Ramon ran ahead of you. Good boy, Ramon, he remembers everything you tell him. He will be here for many years. He may spend his entire life here. He would not be the first. And when you came outside, when you headed for the corral, you saw the ring of fire, and in a space left open, the turn of a woman...
     Her dark hair pulled back, slicked back in a bun, she wears a white shirt silken and loose over black leather trousers, high black boots cover her calves and up to her knees. And a prized black bull, one of your beauties no less, is bowed before her. Standing, she faces him, he faces her. Her silk cape is lowered, her right hand extended. There are no swords, no whips. They are not needed.
     One of the men on the fencing turns to you, giving a helpless and apologetic look. What could we do, senor? She does not listen! "It is Gaspare," the older man grunts. "The best bull in your field..."

     In the center of the makeshift ring, Nazari al Sa'ad stands. She waits for the men to slip from disbelief to something more like stunned respect. And when Gaspare the Fierce turns, with his head lowed to search for food -- he knows when he is beaten -- Nazari turns, a spiral of red silk following her.
     And after a few moments, someone starts to applaud...

     He has not met her, the sultan's woman. Valan is beside you. You hear his voice. "Who is that?" he queries. French. French now always. Rules of the house be damned...

     "It's a bit late for that, senorita," Edward says evenly, calling out at Nazari. He sighs, the frustration of the last days still in him. "It's night, the bulls have schedules, and I do not like my bulls tired." They do have jobs, you know. "If you want something to practice on, there are plenty others," neutered, "...who are more than capable of providing you excellent testing time."
      Terribly polite way of saying, 'get the fuck away from my bull.'
     "Nazari," Edward says tiredly to you. This place always makes him tired. "Nasr's assistant and companion." Or whatever they are. "Matador," he adds, hand touching your elbow. Strength please, before I do end up killing someone.
      "You make their muscle too much, Nazari. I don't want tough and angry creatures. They are useless." Don't break my bulls.

     An silkened arm makes a motion imperceptible, quick -- in the darkness, easily disguised -- and she comes to you, lighting a cigarette as she moves. A flicker of flame lights her caramel features, her placid expression that does not alter at your polite admonition but for the lifting slightly of one delicately plucked eyebrow. "Monsieur Meurelle," her French is without flaw, and without accent, "...I do not mean to cause you worry." There, in the curling of her mouth there is a moment of amusement. You worry too much, Eduard. In the low light of her cinnamon cigarette, she is beautiful. Formidable.
      But your energy and your age, she does not deny. She nods in honest respect to you. "I do not like it when a dog grovels at the boot-heels, but growls when you turn your back. I beg your forgiveness, Eduard, but it was not a challenge I could deny."
     You know what that's like.
     Nazari turns, smiling smoothly, suddenly. Cigarette held in painted lips, she reaches up and plucks the chopsticks from her hair. It unravels and falls, waving at her shoulders. Her banner tucked beneath her silken arm, she looks to Valan. "We have not met..." she says. And she waits for Edward to do the honors.

     Valan looks from you, Edward, to the woman. She is one of Us. And she smokes my kind of cigarettes. He removes the pack and lights one of his own. He nudges you, Edward. "Ami," he murmurs, offering the pack and lighter to you as he exhales cinnamon-laced smoke.

     He's grumpy alright. Edward pops out of his annoyed-reverie when he's nudged. "Oh," brows arching, "Nazari al Sa'ad, this is Valan Montague," he motions to you beside him. "My..." childe. No. "Better half."
     That done, Edward blinks and pushes off his heel, heading to stand at the rail to see if his bull is alright. "Ramon, will you close things down? Thank you," Edward says, eyes panning this corral and the next.

      "This is hard to imagine," Nazari says quietly, evenly. But in the lifting of a brow, and the quirking of a smile, it is revealed to be no insult. "I have heard of you," she continues, quiet French. She reaches forward with a delicate hand, immaculate nails. "It is good to finally make your acquaintence. Nasr ben Yusuf speaks very highly of you." If high is 'volume', he could be said to speak highly of everyone...

     Valan takes her hand, not for a continental kiss but for a modern handshake. "His halves do not need me to improve them," Valan says, a glance to Eduard. ,i>Are you alright, ami? Pissed off, ah... these women! No wonder we are... or at least I am...gay! "And it is a pleasure to meet you. A matador? I have seen a woman once in Madrid, when I was in university, her name was Florinda..."

     "Florinda de Reyes, si..." Nazari says. "She is good." She turns again to Eduard. "Do not be cross, Eduard," she murmurs. "I meant your bull no harm, nor did any come to him. Gaspare the Terrible will still be terrible. No swords. No whips. It was no more than twenty minutes..."

     Valan looks to you, then looks between you. How come now, suddenly, they are your bulls? I thought this was not your place...

     Edward spins around, "I am not too upset," he says, taking booted foot from the railing. He returns to the two of you, hands half in his pockets. "You look well," he offers to Nazari, "...but you always do. And when," he squints, "...will you cease following that sultan? You do not need him," Edward says evenly, grinning only after a passing second or two.

     "He needs me," Nazari counters, "...a sultan cannot travel alone. Who will handle the business of Reality while he is planning his new palaces and harems," as if. She inclines her head, her smoky smile curling. "Besides, it is bullfighting of another caliber, I think you will understand what I mean. He charges. I am there to wave to the crowd and pick up the roses who are tossed to his feet." When she laughs, it is music.
     The boys and men of the ranch have now dispersed, onto their evenings, meals and business. She looks between you, lastly to Valan. "Valan Montague, it is good to meet another of the 20th Century," Nazari regards him, and still there is the slight smile. "I will look forward to talking to someone who understands how life can be and who will not jump when the phone rings. All of these Old Men," she murmurs, teasing, her head tilting back, then rolling, her amber eyes landing on you, Eduard. And she winks.

      Valan chuckles, glancing to Eduard. "I thought I was the only one left," but the 21st is still in its infancy, really. It is a joke. There are still many of the 20th Century hanging around. Just not usually in Our World. He exhales a plume of sented smoke, flicking incense ash upon the ground. "And, ami," he says to you, smirking, "...your bulls? Since when? I thought you were ready to go, like me, to the north where we belong. I think they are your bulls when you want them to be, and not when you are tired of them..."

     This makes Nazari laugh, a delicate hand laid lightly against her flat, silken covered stomach. "I like him," she notes aloud, smoke lifting from her lips. "So, Eduard," Nazari turns, humor and pleasantries parting for business, at least momentarily, "... I hear we are to head out soon. The sultan tells me.... you are considering other... firepower..."

      Edward rolls his eyes at Valan. "Everything is mine when I want it to be, and not when it's bullshit." Heh. A hand folds beneath the duster, at his back, the other slipping around your arm to slide at your hand.
     "And yes, maybe. I'm waiting to hear from him," Edward confesses. "I gave him something to examine, and well, I guess he's doing that. But we can't hold much longer...and he knows that too. He'll get back to me. And then, we'll decide how to proceed."
     "Did he explain it all to you?" Does this mean you're going as well?

     She turns her head, she blows a plume of smoke, she crushes the remainder of her cigarette beneath a boot heel. "Hmmm, oui.... a little. As much as he thinks I need to know," her French is studious, fluent but not her native tongue. Still it is quite polished. She looks between you both. "I will have questions once there is a plan. Before there is a plan," she rolls her shoulders. She is not concerned. She looks between you again and lastly to Valan. "You are coming with? He did not mention..." A look to Edward. Risky, but he is your childe.

      Valan nods, nearly ready to toss his first cigarette away as well. Two more breaths and it will be on its dying gasp, sweet scented though it be. "I have asked to go, yes," Valan says softly. "I do not have much experience," any, "... in this work. But..."

      "There was a time, Valan, for each of us when we knew less than you. Do not worry. I will help you," Nazari says. "One of my Century, it would be my honor." Nazari looks to Edward, a brow lifting. "With your permission of course, Eduard..."

     Edward seems a little surprised. "Sure," he murmurs, twisting to see Valan, hand still at his. "If Valan wants." What'd be taught, he doesn't know. "But..." he cocks his head, "...you don't visit London much..."

     Nazari looks confused, then waves with her hand. "Non non, never in London. I would melt. Here... now... with this mission," she explains, then grins. "We must look out for one another, ne c'est pas? You will be watching the Sultan, I will watch out for Valan. Who will watch you? God Himself, as always."

      Teach me? Teach me what? Suddenly, ami, I am afraid. Valan himself laughs when Nazari explains. And he looks relieved. "I was not sure what we were still talking about," he says, lips sliding wryly. "I can handle a gun. I have gotten better. You should have seen me last year. I held it like it was going to bite me...." Do you remember, Eduard? How green I really was? It is amazing, is it not, how much a year has changed me?

     Edward laughs, shrugging, "Now is good, though he's right...he can use a gun. Nine millimeter, forty-five. Haven't gone to rifles yet, but that's next. His hand-to-hand skills..." well. "He needs to be able to take care of himself at all distances." Short, long, hand-to-hand, and in other, more magical ways.
     Squeezing Valan's hand, Edward looks at him, "Sometimes, it's good to have another instructor. Different styles, different way of thinking."

     "Maybe later, after some wine, I am dusty," Nazari says and she grins, "... your Gaspare was quite the opponent, but I will teach you. And you," she says, pointing to Edward, "...you, Eduard, you owe me a dance. You know he can move, si?" she says to Valan. You have to know. "The true challenge of El-Andalus," Nazari says, "... the dance. The bulls ... the bulls are just foreplay..."

     Valan squeezes Edward's hand back and he nods to Nazari. "I have much to learn, I probably need a team of instructors." A wink of gold-green eyes, and he extinquishes his first. Both he and Nazari light up another. These things are horribly addictive. "Besides, it will fill my time. I am sick of reading," Valan murmurs. And you would know why, Eduard.

      "Less reading, more doing," Edward agrees. It's time for him to think about leaving too. He twists to see where all the caballeros have gone. "Seems a quiet night," he offers. "No music..." he smiles, "...no dancing." Ballrooms are one thing. Around a fire, deep at night, is another. "And you should dance with Valan...he has excellent movement." Of course.

     She looks to Valan and there is open appraisal. A look head to toe and a raising of an eyebrow. "We will see," Nazari says, and she smiles smoothly, crimson lips pulling in the low light. "I can round up the caballeros, we can have the first bonfire of the spring, dedicate it to the Virgin Mary, and I will dance with the best bulls in all Andalusia," meaning the two of you. Of course. "You know me, Eduard, I must see it with my own eyes..." See it to believe it. She teases with a soft laugh and exhales perfumed smoke.
      She could have easily loved you. Perhaps you knew there was interest. Perhaps you can see there still is. It is impossible to ignore your power, your strength. You are the best bull on the field.
      "But now, I think I need to shake off the dust. Valan," Nazari turns to Valan and her smile is warm, her hand offered to him again. "It was a pleasure. We shall have the pleasure again....Eduard," shaking Valan's free hand, she turns to you. "I am sorry for taunting your Gaspare. He is a most excellent creature. Too fine for Madrid, too fine for Mexico City or Pamplona." No, do not send him. "He will bring you bulls of such renown and legend, one might think them descended from Hannibal himself." She bows her head.

     Valan smiles, shaking her hand gently. "A pleasure also. We will see you later tonight, I hope. And... as for dancing...well, I do my best. We will find music," a look to Edward, "...and will dance before we leave mais oui." Valan nods to her and he steps back, a squeeze to your hand, he gives you a moment.

     Edward's chin dips, glancing askance as you step away. "He is a good student," Edward says, wanting no one to think any less. "And he is a fine Brujah." If he says so himself. He inhales, as if clearing the air to speak of things more personal. "You do look well," he admits again. "I am glad to see it." For you know, his need for Spain is little. "And Nasr looks well too...you continue to be the thing best about him," Edward teases, his color a deep wash. He spends much time with Valan, yes? "And I appreciate you making Valan a friend. He needs new friends," Edward admits.

     Her eyes follow your childe, what is likely your lover if the talk is true. It is the love that dare not speak its name, especially from Nasr's lips. But there is an intimacy that cannot be denied. Nazari's amber eyes shift to you. "Alfonso talks about him as if he were the second coming of Aquinas." Her lips curve slowly, like a cat stretching in the sun. "I remember what it was like. It was not so long ago. I was an arrogant woman in a world of imposing men." She looks to you, she smirks, "Not much has changed. But... you look happy, even when you are angered with me." She softly laughs, watching Valan fade from view, he returns to the house. "We all need friends, it helps ...for them to be of our own time. And that he is Yours, and with such praise of the King? Of course," she says with a slight flick of her fingers. Of course, I would accept him.
     Nazari turns to you more fully, eyebrow lifted, expression amused. "Gracias and merci. I like to think I have been some good to Nasr ben Yusuf. He and I have walked the earth for a few decades now. He is a good teacher and a good friend." That is really it, in truth. "I have no doubt that Valan shall be a credit to you and to Us. But that is not what is really important, I do not think. I think your blush is important. I think the touch of his hand is important. I think your smile is important, Eduard." Nazari smiles gently, a hand touching your shoulder briefly. "I am a little envious, but..." then she shrugs. "I am a bull killer," she grins. "It would not have been a good fate, or a good story. Fun, while it lasted. Hot," Nazari laughs. "...without a doubt. But... I am your friend. And now... I extend that friendship..." It is easy. Simple.

     He keeps his council, smiling though at the notion of things being heated between you. "It would not have been good, no," Edward says, his grin suggesting that it may have been worth the risks. "And I don't blush," he states, finger coming to point heavenward, "...why do people continue to think that?" Sigh. Edward shakes his head, not really understanding people.
      "Thanks," he says for a finish. Edward twists to go, giving you a nod and purse of his lips. "A lot."

      There is a smile. No comment. And a simple bow of her head. "My pleasure. Besides, it is a relief, finally, not to be the baby of the group." With a tugging smile, Nazari turns and she heads toward the Islamic sector of the house, red and gold silk banner fluttering out behind her.

     ...In 1939, while the rest of Europe was either embroiled in or poised upon the edge of multinational war, a woman stepped into the ruins of a Roman stadium and in the center of a machismo-dominated arena. Fighting the bull? It was nothing. It was dancing, no more. Fighting for the right to fight him? That was the real battle.
     But Nazari Morales prevailed. Perhaps it was her Andalus attitude. Perhaps it was the infusion of Sephardic will and Moorish fire running in her veins. The fortitude of a proud father. The intuition and drive of a loving mother.
     She smoked cigarellas. She fought the bulls, La Matadora. And at night in the tabernas she would dance. Her determination, the steel of her countenance would soften into a smile, soften as steel does in molten fire, as she laughed.
      And she was watched...
     Sidi al Sa'ad, an elder of an old Family and Clan, one of the more powerful vampires in Spain, followed her for seven nights. For seven nights, he debated. For seven nights, he prayed to Allah, he recalled the words of Hafiz and Rumi. On the seventh night, in an alley behind a popular taberna in Old Gades he embraced her. La Matadora never again stood in the center of a ring. Taunted the bull with a steadfast stare. Stood in the sun with her red and gold standard of silk shining.
      But Sidi al Sa'ad himself was followed. After so long a life in such a land as Spain he had many enemies. He was slain and Nazari was hunted.
      But she had been in the center of a ring before. She knew how this worked...

Posted by rowan at July 06, 2003 02:39 AM