It was June of 1616, and the heat had struck Andalucia like an anvil. Now the night was rising over the dried up fields, and two riders on the trail saw their shadows grow over the hills, along the river, as they rode towards Cordoba.

The traveler, an english aristocrat, had regretfully shed one garment after the other, and now looked more and more like his guide, who wore nothing but a simple tunic and comfortable riding pants. Cordoba, and all the mysteries of the past, were still one week away, for they had many detours planned, and the foreigner wished to see everything.

'The heat, that is the kind of detail that my book lacked', thought the traveler.

'The devilish heat of this barbarous country cannot be imagined. Nor can my guide be dreamt up as a character, not by one of my countrymen at least. A guide riding with both reins in one hand, and missing the other, visibly cut at the wrist. A guide, who at the start of the journey gave me one rule only, in a deep voice : 'no words' ; and kept silent ever since, as if he was a monk or a vow-making knight of old. Yes, those details, in the end, will make my book, will make my name !'

Thus the traveler dreamed, and saw his portrait painted as an adventurer, with a sword at his side, a skull in the right hand, and behind him, his books and globe of the world - yes, that would be grand, and the ladies of London, especially ...

The guide had stopped. He seemed to daydream, staring at something on the side of the dirt road. There, in the declining light, the traveler saw a black circle extending on the prairie. In the circle, burnt foundations, and outside, abandoned fields left to rot. It sent shivers down the englishman's back. No olive tree there, no dried up grass, nothing. It had been a fire, obviously, but more than a fire - a blaze. And for the ground to be so barren even now, the flame must have been nourished by a whole village.

The guide pushed his horse and went on without a word.

Thinking about it now, the traveler recalled that they had not seen anyone for two full days. Usually, in these lands, they would cross shepherds, farm-hands, itinerants ... even knife-wielding bandits, that always parted to let his guide go.

The guide drew a torch and lit it up with flint. The horses cast long shadows over the hills. They carried this lone flame under a moonless night filled with stars. The traveler's shivers came back. They had never rode this late, this far in a day. The darkness sent sudden images of danger to his imagination. Rabid dogs leaping out of the night. Bandits waiting for them at a crossroad. Yet it was curiosity, more than anything, that made him restless.

The englishman followed the guide in fear for a good hour, dying to ask a question, and break their rule of silence.

After a turn, the guide stared at the english, and nodded. That was his way of saying 'here, we stop'. At the end of the trail, up on a hill, stood a ruin of white stone. The shape of the remaining pillars, the quality of work, left no doubt in the traveler's mind. It was a church.

Its roof had collapsed. An arch had fallen on the altar, broke it in half. There, too, there were traces of fire, staining the white stone and the ground. Everything that could be removed by hand had been removed, even the rubble, even the cross. They tied the horses to what had been the frame of the main door, and sat under a mighty piece of stone ceiling. It was a good resting spot indeed, that would give shadow in the morning, and hide the light of their fire from anything or anyone.

The guide swiftly built a small fire, and provided bread. Dizziness came, and they were ready to fall asleep on their saddlebags, when they heard a goat bleat. It was close. It bleated again. The guide had already shot up on its feet, but looked more annoyed than worried. Suddenly, from behind a crumbled wall, the wide eye of a man appeared in the firelight.

'Huho !'

That was his greeting it seemed. The guide, unsurprised, raised his left hand to slap the newcomer, who swiftly disappeared behind the wall.

'Come on now ! Aren't we friends ?!'

His regional dialect was muddled with a thick accent. His voice moved in circles, as he ran and hopped around them, grinning.

'We are friends ! Who's this ?! Who did you bring here ! It's my house ! Mine and ...'

And the madman put a finger to the earth, pointing to Hell, then the same finger to his lips, and laughed. Behind him, the traveler heard plaintive bleats. A frail goat followed the madman everywhere, bleating, but sometimes he too bleated in response, and it was hard to distinguish the two.

The guide stood silent by the fire, left hand still raised.

'Who’s this !? Who did you bring here ?'

The guide sighed and, amazingly, spoke, for the first time in two weeks.

'A historian. English. Comes to visit. Wants to see ... ruins.'

The strange man stood speechless, then a smile came on his face.

'You want to tell him ! Good one ! Tell him ! Tell him ! It’ll be in the history books !'

He turned to the foreigner.

'Put everything in it. Put her ass and her tits too, eh ?'

The guide lunged at the madman and managed to slap his nose as he dodged and laughed.

'Don’t worry about him. He has a sickness. For women.'

'Oh I do !'

The man bleated, and barked.

'But, but, but, these ruins, are not what he came for. You took him here. You're still hot for her, you want to talk, talk, talk !'

And the man panted and barked like a dog, his eyes shining in the firelight.

For the first time the traveler saw his guide at a loss, overcome - and by the heretical antics of a fool. In London, one would have been hanged for less.

Now the fool cried while hugging the broken altar.

'Sorry sorry, sorry, for what she did to your house ... but oh ! how she was ... you should have seen that O Lord !'

Rolling over on his back, the fool raised his hands and gestured to high Heavens : he slowly drew a woman's shape in the air, and she was built like an hourglass ... and the fool began to sway, eyes flashing, raising his hips up and down as if ...

The guide jumped over him, and slapped him as hard as he could. Sobered up, the fool turned his head to the foreigner - looked at him deeply, his face blank.

'Did you pass the black circle ?'

He caught the answer in his eyes.

'... and here, now ? Good.'

The madman broke into laughter, and bleated, and received another slap.

'Oh you have to tell him the story now.'

'No !'

'That's why you brought him here. Or to kill him ? Or to have your way with him ?'

Another slap hit. The fool did not dodge now. His red cheek was red, and a drop of blood escaped the corner of his lips. He did not seem to care.

'Ah ! I know you I know you I know you little one. It's not on his way. Cordoba, right ? Yet you brought him here. Why ? To tell the story. Question, answer. Deed, desire !'

The guide froze, unable to continue, and somehow touched by this fool's words.

The traveler broke the silence.

'I want to know.'

'Are you not afraid ?', laughed the fool.

The traveler shivered.

'Yes, very, I must say. But I am curious. '

'Curious ? Ah !'

'This you should know : Andalucia has burned.'

'Why ?'

'For her ! for her ! for la Petenera !'

The guide moved swift as lightning. With his right arm he pushed on the fool’s throat. With his remaining hand he drew a long knife from his belt, and aimed it near the fool’s crotch.

'Not this name. Or I cut it.'

For once the fool listened.

'I want to know", repeated the foreigner. 'I will pay you, three times what we agreed, if you tell me the story.'

The fool, still smiling, relaxed and kept still. The guide released him, and sat against the saddlebags. He meditated in the fire for a time.

'Ah. Here again, uh, Chivo ? And repeating the same story. I cannot help it. I see it dancing on the path, always. I would tell it faithfully, if I knew how. I could not resist bringing you here. Chivo here is right - mad, but right. I would tell this story. But I need to know your name, and you mine.'

'I am William Bolt.'

'Fabio Ansa.'

William struggled to hide his surprise. It was a good family, whose name he had read in several chronicle.

'Chivo, here, was one of our servants before the war. Yes, there was a war here, a civil war. Not one that exists in your books, or even in ours, for it lasted only three days. For three days, it was a war of everyone against everyone . They burned it all. It was a decade ago. It is all over now, and not one who took part in it would talk about it.

I will tell you this story. I need to tell it again. Then, you will tell me who was guilty. I need to know. Then, you'll do what you want with it.'