28 - The end of the dream

All eyes were on Jorge. The fact that the lieutenant was hidden in the heart of his home was almost irrefutable evidence of his involvement in the conspiracy against the State, but the final stab was still missing.

"You probably thought the three captured soldiers would keep their lips sealed; after all, they are elite soldiers. But one of them has confessed that the owner of this estate was the traitor who helped them. You had access to available information, detailed maps of the island, patrol situations, everything! With that help, infiltrating our systems was easy. That unexpected confession has unmasked you."

Álex had also arrived, along with numerous employees who rushed in upon hearing the gunfire and witnessing the scene; those who knew Spanish, like Eukario and Miceros, were completely horrified; the lower-ranked ones whispered among themselves, sharing Kamar's words, which would soon spread throughout the estate. The lord of Tharakos had fallen.

Jorge felt his heart pounding in his chest and seriously thought he was having a heart attack, because he felt pressure in his chest and a terrible anxiety. But it wasn't a physical problem; it was the vertigo of desperation, the sting of a perceived betrayal, the panic of being reduced to a mere pawn on a board where he had no control anymore.

He collapsed onto a sofa. His appearance was so lamentable that the feeling he evoked, above that of rejection, was pity. Kamar himself, who had many reasons to be harsh with him, was unable to treat him with the severity that his apparent betrayal deserved. Jorge, always master of his own fate, was now at the mercy of an unappealable verdict.

In a flash of lucidity, he remembered the moments when his word was law, when his house was his kingdom and his people revered him with devotion. Now everything was crumbling. Álex’s gaze pierced him with a mix of anguish and fear. Martín was not present, but Jorge imagined his face upon receiving the news, the disbelief followed by the brutal certainty that his world was collapsing.

Kamar sighed gravely and approached him.

"Stay in your room. You will be escorted so you don’t leave there."

Jorge swallowed hard, tasting the metallic flavor of fear in his mouth. It wasn't the confinement that terrified him but the inexorable machinery of a fate he could no longer change.

“Can I… stay with my personal slaves?” he asked, aware that nothing mattered anymore. At that moment he thought of Martín, and he felt that he loved him intensely.

“Of course. You will be treated with courtesy and according to your rank. You are still High Jorge Tharakos, and that is sacred.”

Jorge entered his chamber, followed by Álex, with the weight of the already sealed fate on his shoulders; two armed soldiers were guarding the door. The dimness of the room was broken by golden flickers of light from the lamps, casting dancing shadows on the walls. He called for his three slaves by name, hoping especially to embrace Martín’s strong arms.

They came immediately, with the same blind love as always, oblivious to what had happened, to what was still to come. They welcomed him with the warmth of those who cannot conceive of the world without their newly assigned Master, unaware that that night might be the last they shared. Jorge embraced them with the tenderness of an unspoken farewell, even though his mind already anticipated the end.

He embraced Martín's naked body and melted into him with a loving kiss. Despite everything, he still felt his embrace as the greatest bliss in this world that he would soon leave. And he couldn't help but let his thoughts race ahead to the events that would follow his death.

Martín would die. Víctor and Néstor, the brothers, too; they would be slaughtered when their own execution came, sealing with blood the bond that united them. But at least Álex would live. A tiny comfort, ridiculous in the face of the horror of the outcome, but enough to momentarily temper the weight of his anxiety.

He wanted to be frank with them. There was no reason to lie.

“Master, we don’t understand anything that’s happening,” Martín said in Arabic, his voice trembling yet sweet. Álex translated as best he could, his gaze seeking in Jorge’s a response beyond words.

“The circumstances make me appear as a traitor. And for this reason, I will surely be executed. First, we will be separated, and in a few days, they will kill me. But you must know that all the accusations are false. Whatever they say, I am loyal to Ketiris and do not deserve this punishment.”

There was a silence heavy with meaning. The five were quietly crying.

Jorge let himself fall onto the bed, with skin burning not only from the weight of fatigue but from the need to feel Martín pressed against his body. He had thought of a farewell overflowing with lust, in an unrestrained orgy with his slaves bowed before him and used in every possible way; but now, beaten by exhaustion, all he longed for was the warmth of a devoted body and the slow touch of hands that knew how to comfort him.

Martín understood without the need for words. He lay beside him on the bed, his warm skin finding that of his Master’s with reverent softness. His long fingers traced Jorge’s torso with slow movements, drawing paths of calm pleasure, pressing here, brushing there, reading in his skin the story of the night. His lips left light kisses on his collarbone, on his neck, on his nipples, a brush of warm breath dissipating in the dimness.

“Master, my Master…” Martín murmured, his voice a caress in itself.

Jorge sighed, surrendering to those hands and that expert mouth that explored him leisurely, that demanded nothing but offered everything. Their breaths synced as Martín’s fingers slid down to his hips, pressing gently, gliding over the curve of his belly, lingering in the folds of his skin with intimate and devoted knowledge.

Below, on the floor, the other three slaves were dozing curled up, as close to their master as they dared, seeking his proximity in the cold uncertainty of fate. But Jorge was not thinking of them. He only felt the slow devotion of Martín, his loyalty woven into caresses and his slightly parted mouth against his shoulder, as if he wanted to absorb the taste of his skin before the night ended.

The first hours of the night had already passed when a stifled scream shattered the stillness of the chamber.

Jorge opened his eyes slightly, his mind still floating between drowsiness and consciousness. The flickering light of the lamps cast dancing shadows on the walls, but a different glow, orange and reddish, caught his attention. For a few confusing seconds, his mind took time to recognize it. It oscillated with a fiery brightness, vibrating in the hot night air, evoking something he already knew from other times...

The branding iron.

This time he had not ordered the brazier to be lit, and yet there it was, incandescent, shedding almost golden flashes. No one was holding it. Then, a choked gasp made him shudder.

Álex.

The young slave had propped the heated iron between two pieces of furniture, tilting it at the perfect angle. And with a resolute movement, he had thrust his body backwards, pressing his own right buttock against the glowing metal. He had done it with brutal determination, with the absolute conviction of receiving his mark definitively and irreversibly.

The pain must have been unbearable. Álex bit into his own arm to stifle the scream, but still, the sound filtered into the room, a trembling moan that was both agony and exaltation.

“Ahhh!” he moaned between muffled whispers, covering his mouth with his hand.

Jorge bolted upright, the dream evaporating in his chest like a sudden poison.

“Álex! Álex! Fool! Why did you do it? Why!” His voice was a mix of fury and astonishment.

But Álex, still trembling, still writhing on the floor with the pulsing heat of the fresh wound, had eyes sparkling with fierce devotion. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, and his voice, broken by pain, emerged between gasps in an almost ecstatic way:

“Master! I am your slave! Your slave! Yours!” he babbled, his flushed face a mix of tears and sweat framing his expression of absolute ecstasy.

Jorge felt a lump in his throat. He understood everything in that moment. Álex loved him with a desperate, irrational, absolute love. He loved him to the point of immolating himself in his name. He loved him even knowing that Jorge no longer desired him, that his interest was in another. And yet, he had wanted to seal his fate, to prove his devotion in the most irrevocable way possible. Now the four slaves would be slaughtered; and that consoled him, yes, but he felt that Álex’s gesture was the most beautifully terrible thing anyone had ever done for him in his life, an absurd and wonderful proof of love.

In the shadows, Martín had stopped caressing him, not understanding what was really happening. But his hand remained there, resting on his chest, feeling him breathe, connecting him with the only certainty he had left that night.

Then Jorge knew what he had to do. He gestured for the two brothers to soothe Álex's fresh wound with oils, and for Martín to suck his cock. It took a while, but finally Martín, with his lips, tongue, and whole mouth, managed to bring his Master’s dead sex back to life, lifting and hardening it. Ready, he approached Álex, lying on the floor face down, and gave him an order.

"Lie down on the bed, slave. Face down," he ordered, his voice a murmur that resonated with the force of an irrevocable destiny.

"Yes, Master," Álex replied, with a tremor born not only from suffering but also from the certainty of what was about to happen.

Martín yielded his place to Álex. Jorge approached, running his fingers along the trembling back of the Russian, feeling the searing heat of the freshly imprinted mark on his skin. He kissed him gently on the nape of his neck, on his shoulders, on the column that arched slightly under his touch. There was no hurry, just the weight of a moment they both understood to be unique, sacred in its fatality.

Álex closed his eyes. He surrendered wholeheartedly, allowing his body to merge with his Master’s will, in a perfect balance between pain and ecstasy, between resignation and fulfillment. Jorge enveloped him in his arms, in his kisses, in his own ragged breath, and for an instant that felt eternal, they felt whole. There was no past or future, only that absolute present in which everything they had been and everything they would be dissolved into the warmth of the night.

He could scarcely remember the feeling that awoke when he felt his Master's virile member brushing against his heterosexual male ass, vibrating, eager, making its way in and out in multiple thrusts, until he felt a hot spurt fill him and then the pressure eased, and indescribable pleasure emerged. Then he held back the spasms so as not to let that sperm escape him, he had to absorb it, he had to let his body assimilate it. And now the miracle of that curse was about to repeat itself. His Master was entering his ass. It hurt immensely, yes, but not from the penetration but from the very recent burn: because now the penis was entering very slowly, inch by inch, and it was also very lubricated with Martín’s saliva. He felt the humiliation, and also the pleasure his Master experienced with it; he gave everything, he needed to, he surrendered completely, unconditionally, without limits.

Jorge noticed that Álex’s ass seemed to throb wildly; it opened and contracted in involuntary spasms caused by the burning pain; it was easy to enter him. Jorge did it very slowly, filling his slave with the sweetest kisses he was capable of. For Jorge, this could be the last time he claimed a body as his own, the last moment in which desire pierced him with the same urgency with which life itself clung to his flesh. And it was beautiful. So beautiful that no words could contain it. For an instant, he and Álex returned to the bend of that road in Africa where they met, ceasing to be bodies subjected to the laws of possession and dominance, and transforming into a single certainty: that of being there, together, at the edge of the world.

Álex cried, but his tears were not of sadness, but of fierce joy, of a consummate happiness that pained in its intensity. And when he felt the silent tears of his Master slip over his neck, he understood that nothing else mattered. That there was no pain or fate, only that absolute moment in which devotion and love merged into a single breath.

The night began to dissolve into scraps of blue light that turned amber, then liquid gold, until the sky was set ablaze by the great everyday brazier. Jorge and Álex, exhausted, found refuge in the morning breeze, in the silence of the first rays of sun that bathed them like a belated baptism.

The young man felt old, the old young, and in that impossible balance they found peace. They fell asleep embraced, face to face, with their skin still ignited, with intertwined breaths, with their lips a sigh apart. And in their dreams, there too, they loved each other.

Kamar did not have a good night. There were objective reasons for his restlessness, but he also felt the pangs of a diffuse guilt, a weight he could not define. So when Lakua knocked on the door of his chamber with the first light of dawn, he felt relieved to escape the whirlwind of his thoughts.

"Kamar, please, stand up. We need to talk about something important. I am Lakua," she announced in a firm voice.

"I’ll be right there," Kamar responded, maintaining his composure.

Moments later, the two powerful landowners were sitting across from each other at a small side table, sharing the warmth of freshly served tea and coffee. The morning air was infused with the spicy aroma of nutmeg, but also with a subtle, expectant tension.

"I have received an urgent message," Lakua said, with the calculated calmness of someone who knows they are about to deliver a decisive blow. "I think you will be interested."

Kamar nodded. Curiously, since Lakua had spoken to Jorge in his native Spanish, she seemed to have taken up the habit of using it more often, as if she were seeking a different way to articulate her dominance over the conversation.

"Well, let’s talk for a moment about Benassur," Lakua continued. "His death was the turning point that has brought us here. If it hadn’t happened, we wouldn’t be sitting here together now."

"Without a doubt," Kamar conceded, observing her cautiously.

"But Benassur died of cardiac insufficiency," Lakua asserted.

"Everything indicates that, indeed. He was old and had heart problems. Why mention that now? It’s no news."

Lakua flashed an enigmatic smile and leaned slightly forward.

"Because he was murdered, dear. Don't you find that insignificant?"

Kamar raised an eyebrow skeptically.

"What nonsense! There was no autopsy, but I saw the corpse myself. His doctor did too. The signs were clear, and he certified that his heart stopped while he was sleeping."

"I told you he died from cardiac insufficiency," Lakua insisted. "Murdered through insufficiency, to be more precise."

Kamar frowned. He didn't understand where she was going, but he decided to let her speak.

"This past week, I had an autopsy done. I have the results."

Kamar tensed.

"You exhumed his grave?" he exclaimed, indignant.

"Profaning is a horrible word... well, let’s say I exhumed the corpse, performed the examination, took samples... It wasn’t easy, but here’s the report," Lakua said, pulling out a carefully folded piece of paper from her pocket and sliding it across the table.

Kamar took it with suspicion. His eyes scanned the lines, and his expression hardened as he advanced in the reading.

"Benassur received a dosage of beta-blockers thirty times higher than the maximum permissible. He took them as medication for arrhythmia, but this... This was murder."

Lakua smiled with the satisfaction of someone who knows their blow has landed perfectly.

"Well, we’re making progress. Now tell me, who would do something like this?"

Kamar closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his gaze was hermetic.

"Perhaps we will never know."

Lakua clicked her tongue, teasingly.

"Come on, Kamar, think a little," she said, her voice tinged with irony.

A slight shiver ran down Kamar's spine.

"Are you accusing me, Lakua? To clear my path in the Council and become hegemonic in the future, is that what you think?"

Lakua scoffed, annoyed.

"No, idiot! If I thought it was you, you'd already be in prison. Think! Who benefited from Benassur’s death?"

Kamar took a deep breath.

"He had no heirs... Well, yes... The first foreigner who arrived with an irrevocable slave within six months of his death... Jorge!"

Lakua shook her head.

"No! You knew that because you had the legal power to open his will, but no one else knew the information, much less that sadistic idiot Jorge... Come on, you can think better. Who did we think Benassur would leave his legacy to?"

The blood left Kamar's face.

"Yusuf. I thought he would adopt him in his will, and therefore he would inherit... But he didn’t!"

Lakua leaned back in her seat, satisfied.

"Exactly. For whatever reason, he didn’t do it. Maybe he sensed he was ambitious, or he was just losing his mind... But we all believed Yusuf would be Benassur's heir. I imagine he, more than anyone, was clear on that."

The night of his death, the old man dined only with Yusuf. All the servants declared that he was happy and seemingly healthy, as always. Yusuf could easily have administered the overdose of drugs that killed him: they ate and drank abundantly. And it doesn’t end there. Where did Yusuf travel right before Benassur's death?

Kamar didn’t respond. He didn’t know the answer.

"To Israel," Lakua continued. "A pleasure trip, of course. And what did he do there? I imagine he offered himself as a Mossad agent within Ketiris."

The details fit together like pieces of a macabre puzzle. Yusuf had traveled, returned, visited Benassur, dined with him, and the next morning, his predictable father was dead.

"He thought he would soon be a landowner, thus, a member of the Council," Kamar murmured, feeling a new chill run through his body.

"And he had already tried to eliminate the interference," Lakua added. "I remind you that we had an attack before Jorge arrived. In hindsight, Yusuf was one of the very few who knew the location of the center of interference. At the time, I didn’t suspect him, to tell the truth."

"But why would he do that? If Benassur adopted him, he would have money, slaves... He always wanted to be elite! He asked me many times, and I was considering it," Kamar insisted.

Lakua shrugged with her characteristic indifference.

"I don’t have that answer. We’ll have to ask him. I also don’t know why he killed the Israeli lieutenant after hiding him... because it was he who put him there, that’s clear to me."

Silence thickened between them.

"Let’s review the facts. We have many leads, but no certainties," Kamar pondered. "Against Yusuf, we have the fact that he could have killed Benassur, and he had opportunities and motives. Also, he traveled to Israel several times, the last time just before his death. He could also be responsible for sabotaging the interference. Against Jorge, we mostly have the testimony of the soldier who claims that the traitor was the owner of the estate. Both could have introduced the lieutenant into the house, but Yusuf was not a landowner; although I suspect he did make the Zionists believe he was in possession of the title or would be very soon."

Lakua paused for a moment before throwing out a seemingly casual question:

"The lieutenant had been hiding for at least a few hours. He had some supplies and his radio on a small table. He seemed like a great soldier… didn’t you check if he had any documentation?"

Kamar nodded, crossing his arms.

"Oh, yes. And quite a bit. Coastal maps with tide schedules, a detailed plan of Alfar with the paths, itineraries of the surveillance patrols, the exact location of the emergency exit of the destroyed interference center... Should I continue?"

Lakua whistled, impressed.

"That also points to Yusuf. I doubt very much that Jorge had access to so much data, and I can’t imagine how he would have gotten it to the Israeli government. But what interests me is what information that man had noted that leads us to the traitor."

"Are you expecting a name in big letters?" Kamar joked.

"Something like that," Lakua admitted with a wry smile.

"There were some notes with a vague description of the person being sought. It doesn’t indicate age; it only consists of a general description that could fit both Jorge and Yusuf. It mentions that he is 'the governor of an area,' which undoubtedly points to a landowner. Wait, let’s go over them together."

Kamar called an assistant, and within a few minutes, they brought the lieutenant's documents.

"May I?" Lakua said, extending her hand.

Kamar handed her a small bundle of wrinkled and folded sheets, showing signs of having been consulted repeatedly.

Lakua examined them closely, adjusting her reading glasses. Her eyes slid quickly over the words until something caught her attention.

"Kamar, did you notice what he wrote by hand on the description page? It’s in Hebrew..."

Kamar made a slight gesture of impatience.

"Of course, we noticed right away. I don’t know Hebrew, but I asked to be informed. They told us it could be a nickname used among friends, it doesn’t correspond to any proper name, neither Israeli, nor Kétiri, nor Spanish; or it could be something else: there are a thousand speculations with that, but nothing useful."

Lakua raised an eyebrow and read aloud, fluently:

"Ra’amá."

Kamar tilted his head, his expression hardening for just a moment.

"It’s true, you lived in Israel before coming to Ketiris, didn’t you?"

"Yes, several years. And it certainly is a nickname. I would say the lieutenant gave it to his man in our country," Lakua claimed, not taking her eyes off the paper.

Kamar frowned.

"Why? What does it mean?"

Lakua left the document on the table with a soft snap and looked at him intently.

"It literally means 'mane.' In the end, it seems this data will indeed be useful to us, don’t you think, dear? Although, of course, it proves nothing; but for me, it’s sufficient."

Kamar said nothing. He just sipped his hot tea with a mechanical gesture. His mind was already playing with the pieces Lakua had just placed on the board.

Lakua continued with the same calm of someone who has closed a circle.

"Let’s talk to Yusuf. Let’s also interrogate the garrulous soldier and his comrades. And as for Jorge... I imagine he’ll be scared to death. Let him go; if you have any reservations, I will assume responsibility before the Council. He’s no traitor."

Kamar squinted. Letting Jorge go was a declaration of war.

"Should I release him in secret?" he asked, probing her reaction.

Lakua smiled slightly, her expression revealing nothing of how much she knew.

"No: quite the opposite. Let everyone know him; and above all, let Yusuf find out. That will let him know we are sure it is he, and not another, who is the traitor."

The air in the room became dense. Kamar leaned back in his seat, thoughtful. He had no doubts: that move would force Yusuf to act. And when he did, there would be no escape.