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By Root 2030 0

is going to do as he leaves the camp, followed, supported, by the eyes of his three hundred men, whose admiring gaze is like a warm pressure at his back; but he is going to do something, because he has felt a raging fury. He is not an angry man, nor was he one in his earlier years, at that age when all young men are angry; in fact, he had the reputation of only rarely losing his temper. His coolheadedness has saved his life many a time. But he is in a rage now, a tingling in his belly that is like the crackling of the burning fuse that precedes the explosion of a large charge of powder. Is he enraged because that throat-slitter called him Bandit-Chaser and the Bahian volunteers traitors to the Republic, because the man dared to lay hands on his police? That is the last straw. He walks along slowly, looking down at the cracked, stony ground, deaf to the explosions that are demolishing Canudos, blind to the shadows of the vultures tracing circles overhead, as meanwhile his hand, in an automatic gesture, as swift and efficient as in the good old days, since the years have left him with wrinkles and a bit stoop-shouldered but have not yet slowed his reflexes or made his fingers less agile, unholsters his revolver, breaks it open, checks that there are six cartridges in the six chambers of the cylinder, and places it back in its holster. The last straw. Because this entire experience, which was to be the greatest one in his life, the crowning reward of his perilous race toward respectability, has turned out instead to be a series of disillusionments and vexations. Instead of being recognized and treated with deference as the commanding officer of a battalion that is representing Bahia in this war, he has been discriminated against, humiliated, and offended, in his own person and in that of his men, and has not once been given the opportunity to show his worth. His one valiant deed thus far has been to demonstrate his patience. A campaign that has been a failure at least for him. He does not even notice the soldiers who cross his path and salute him.

When he arrives at the depression in the terrain where the prisoners are being held, he spies Second Lieutenant Maranhão, standing smoking as he watches him come toward him, surrounded by a group of soldiers dressed in the balloon pants worn by gaucho regiments. The lieutenant is not at all imposing physically and has a face that does not betray that murderous instinct to which he gives free rein in the darkness of the night; a short, slight man, with light skin, fair hair, a neatly clipped little mustache, and bright blue eyes that at first glance seem angelic. As Colonel Geraldo Macedo walks unhurriedly toward him, his face with the pronounced Indian features not betraying by the least muscle twitch or shadow of an expression what it is he intends to do—something that he himself does not know—he notes that there are eight gauchos around the lieutenant, that none of them is carrying a rifle—they have stacked them in two pyramids alongside a hut—but that all of them have knives tucked into their belts, as does Maranhão, who also has a bandoleer and a pistol. The colonel crosses the stretch of open ground where the horde of female specters have been herded together. Squatting, lying, sitting, leaning one against the other like the soldiers’ rifles, the women prisoners watch him pass, the last flicker of life in them seemingly having taken refuge in their eyes. They have children in their arms, lying on their skirts, fastened to their backs, or stretched out on the ground alongside them. When the colonel is within a couple of yards of him, Lieutenant Maranhão tosses his cigarette away and comes to attention.

“Two things, Lieutenant,” Colonel Macedo says, standing so close to him that the breath of his words must strike the Southerner’s face like warm puffs of breeze. “First off: interrogate these women and find out where Abbot João died, or if he’s not dead, what’s become of him.”

“They have already been interrogated, sir,” Lieutenant Maranhão says in a docile tone of voice. “By