----------------------------------- July, 1960 - Spanish Morocco ----------------------------------- King Juan Carlos I stared down at this hands. They would not stop shaking. He could still feel the recoil of the rifle, the hammer blow to his shoulder as it kicked back, the wooden stock bruising the soft tissue of his shoulder. The smell of gun powder seemed to be everywhere, even after he had torn off his clothes and thrown them in the fire. He imagined he could smell it on his skin and no matter how many times he had showered, it still seemed to cling to him. He could still see it drifting across the courtyard, the body slumping momentarily against the heavy wooden post before the ropes, shredded by gunfire, snapped, and the body toppled to the ground. He had thrown up them. Dropping to his knees and vomiting violently on the ground. He had been oblivious to the scornful gazes of the soldiers that had stood on the firing line with him, their own hands as bloody as his. One other man, the now Viceroy of Morocco, had stooped to offer him words of comfort. Mariano Rajoy had always been good to him but on this day they had both been made to commit murder. "Shoot them, or I will have them shot." Delgado had said as the three of them had watched Maria Morella, well, Morella no longer, she was now Maria Rajoy, Marquessa of Morocco, walk the grounds with her German protector. "You chose. It matters little to me either way." And so a King and a Viceroy had taken their places in the firing squad for two men who had always supported the King. General Admiral Teodoro E. López Calderón had been first. Led out to the wooden post by two Cazadores who bound him securely before stepping aside. Then soldiers had appeared and handed each man of the firing squad one round which they slid home into the breach of their rifles. "Make ready!" The siring squad Sergeant, a bull of a man, stood stiffly at attention and the King clumsily copied the movements of the trained soldier around him as he brought the rifle butt to his hip. He wanted nothing more than to turn and run but the thought of Maria and Wilhelm being cut down in a hail of gunfire forced him to focus. "Aim!" The order crashed across the parade square. Calderón had refused a blindfold and he stared directly at the King as twelve rifles rose, their long slender barrels aimed at his chest. "Long Live the King!" Calderón suddenly shouted the words. "FIRE!" The King closed his eyes as he pulled the trigger, tears tugging at the edge of his vision. Calderón had not been what he might call a friend, but he had been loyal enough. The rifle slammed into his shoulder, the stink of gun powder filled the air, and Teodoro Calderón sagged against the ropes before crashing into the dust. He had thrown up, and then wept unabashedly on the ground even as they took his rifle away and ensured that he had fired his one round. Though scornful, the soldiers had not sneered at him or disparaged him, many remembered the first time they had killed a man and it was not something they were likely to forget. Only Rajoy had approached him, taking a knee next to him and hold his shoulders until the sobs passed. When he had recovered enough to stand the rifle was passed back to him. Calderón's body was gone and Army General Francisco Javier Varela Salas was being marched out onto the parade square. The King, his heart hammering in his chest, had been taking big gulps of air when, quite suddenly, the soldier next to him spoke quietly. "Aim for his chest, Your Majesty. It ensures the traitor will die quickly. We all do it. Even the Grand Viceroy. No one likes a man to suffer." The King glanced over but the soldier was staring straight ahead. He realized, with a start, that the soldier was not much older than he was, maybe even the seem age. He seemed completely calm and relaxed but the King detected a slight tremor in the hands that held the rifle. He seemed he was not alone in his nerves and fears. The ammunition was dolled out again and the firing squad loaded their weapons. The King looked up to find Salas was staring at him. The Army General had refused his blindfold and shouted at the soldiers to leave him untied, he would die as a man, standing on his own two feet. They had looked at their Sergeant, who had glanced up at the balcony above where Delgado stood, alone. Delgado had smiled slightly and nodded. The Army General was left to stand alone. "Make Ready!" The King brought his rifle to his hip. Salas smiled at him and snapped to attention, brining his arm up in a salute. "Aim!" A tear rolled down Salas's cheek but otherwise he showed no outward emotion even as he continued to stare at his King who, his nerves steeled by the young soldier next to him, brought his rifle to bear on the doomed officers chest. "Long Live Spain! Long live the King!" Salas roared the words. They were loud and proud, a throw back perhaps to the days when he had been a soldier, long before he became a nobleman on a quest for personal wealth. "FIRE!" The Kings rifle slammed back again and this time he did not close his eyes. Salas was hurled backwards so that he bounced off the post before crashing into the sand, the front of his uniform turned into a crimson mess. He did not collapse this time, nor did he vomit. He handed his rifle back to the soldier who collected it and made his way to the car that waited outside for him, ignoring Rajoy who tried to intercept him. The car ride had been quiet as he stared outside at the passing scenery, at the people who were going on about their everyday lives, the change of government not mattering to them at all. It was when he returned to his rooms, and was alone, that he finally broke down and wept again. He had pounded on his mattress, torn off his clothing and burned it, smashed every stick of furniture he could find, before finally collapsing onto the floor. He would never be the same again.