0600 hours.
The first rays of light are barely peeking over the horizon.
One of the village guards is making his usual patrol, the same one he has been doing for twelve years. He descends from the guards' residence—a sturdy wooden structure with grayish thatched roofs—passes by the western entrance where the iron hinges are already beginning to creak, and turns onto the village's main street. Then, following the usual protocol, he returns along the northern palisade, circling the perimeter until heading back toward his barracks.
While near the residence, he spots two drunks clinging to each other, staggering dangerously as they defy the dawn silence by singing tavern folk songs at the top of their lungs. (Copyright to the creator of this song):
-I'm lonesome since I crossed the hill And o'er the moor and valley Such grievous thoughts my heart to fill Since parting with my sally
-I seek no more the fine or gay Each does but remind me How swift the hours did pass away With the girl I left behind me
-O ne'er shall I forget the night The stars was bright above me And gently lent their silvery light When she first vowed to love me
-But now I'm bound to Brighton camp Kind heaven, then, pray guide me And send me safely back again To the girl I left behind me
—God, not again. Damn drunks, can't you just go home?! —the guard said to himself, gripping the shaft of his spear with irritation—. Alright, gentlemen, that's enough drinking, get home. You know perfectly well about the curfew. Either stay in the bar or go to your houses, but wandering around at this hour can get you thrown in the dungeon.
—Ohhh, Mister Guard. What a lovely jacket you're wearing today, it suits you completely —said Ronald, half-staggering and speaking with a thick tongue, as he stretched a clumsy hand toward the officer's chest.
—Oh friend, don't be an idiot, it's not a jacket, it's a greatcoat. Show more respect for the master of the port —said Sam, also stumbling, and pointing with a half-finished bottle of cheap wine, spilling a few drops onto his own shoes.
—Enough, seriously. Go home, or I'll lock you up. Don't make me start my day with you —the guard warned, taking a step forward to assert his authority.
—No, no, friend. You can't —Ronald said with a goofy grin, leaning on Sam's shoulder to keep from falling.
—Of course I can, and I will.
—You don't understand, we are drinking to drown our sorrows, dear sir —Sam said, hiccuping loudly—. Wouldn't the distinguished master of the port care to join us? We have a bit more in the wagon... or so I think.
—I am not the master of the port, and I am losing my patience —the guard growled, already feeling the headache typical of dealing with idiots.
The two drunks looked at each other's faces. Suddenly, as if they had heard the best joke in the world, they began to burst into laughter. Their guffaws were so genuine and raucous that they lost their balance and fell to the ground, where they continued rolling in the mud and sawdust, unable to utter a word.
—What's so funny? —the guard said, approaching them, not amused at all—. Come on, tell me the joke. Share the joy with the law.
—No… No sir. It's a misunderstanding… hahahahahaha! —Ronald said, crawling clumsily toward the guard like an animal wounded by grace.
—Oh, I have a good joke too —the guard added—. Once upon a time, there were two drunks who mocked an honorable and respected guard of the most important city under Baron Heinrich, who was destined to be the garrison commander in the near future. And these two drunks he found mocked him so many times that they left him no choice but to leave them in the dungeon forever. Hmm, how's that?
—Hahahahahaha! —Ronald proceeded to fall again after attempting to stand up, slapping the ground with his palm.
—Hahaha, ahhhahaha, hahahahahaha! —Sam also cracked up, rolling on the ground.
—Fine, I've had enough. Show me your hands; you are under arrest for violating the curfew. You'll get seventy-two hours in the dungeon, courtesy of this gentleman —the guard said, pulling the ropes from his belt.
—No, great sir. Seriously, it's a misunderstanding! —Ronald pleaded between laughs.
—I gave you a chance.
Just as the guard was about to grab the drunks' hands, a dull thud came from the distance. He turned his head to the west and saw a large crowd gathered at the western entrance gate. Shouts of surprise and confusion floated through the air.
—You're in luck, bums. Out of my sight. Scram before I change my mind!
—Hooray! Hic! Hip! Hooray! —they said, faking drunken joy as they stumbled.
…
Just before Julio and Sam's encounter with the guard, Miguel and Andrés were in their wagon, driving slowly toward the village exit. The gate guards were finishing their yawns as they drew back the bolts.
—Everything ready in the back? —Miguel asked in a barely audible whisper, keeping his eyes fixed on the sentries.
—Ready, I've got the rope in my hands to pull it.
—Did you make sure to slash the bag and leave the door unlatched?
—Yes, sir! —Andrés confirmed. They had prepared the wagon meticulously: the rear tailgate was held by a dummy latch connected to a rope that ran through the interior to the driver's seat.
They had reached the gate and were first in line to leave the village. The guards were removing the heavy oak beam that barred the gate from the inside. Once the oak was pulled back with visible effort, they moved to push the heavy wood so the wagons already forming a line could pass to the river port to load their products for the port of Kaivo.
—Alright, those leaving go first since there are few of you. But don't dawdle; today looks like a good day for port business —shouted one of the guards, wiping sweat from his forehead—. You, in the wagon, first. Hand over the safe-conduct.
—Coming, sir —Miguel said, giving a kind and subservient smile—. Look, here is the safe-conduct.
—Thank you. Right, reason for departure.
—Heading to the capital, sir. We tried our luck here, but one day of bad sales was enough for us to pack our things and go.
—Ummm, I see, tough luck. But it's expected; they don't start paying the planting wages until next week —the guard replied, keeping the paper.
—Well then, I'll come back next week —Miguel said—. Hiyah! —He snapped the reins over the horse's back, and it began to trot, making the wheels creak over the gate's threshold.
The wagon was now right in the gateway. There were already many people seeking to both leave and enter the village, as it was the commercial and economic center of the barony. Peasants with baskets, other merchants with mules, and laborers waiting for permission to pass.
—Now —Miguel said, elbowing Andrés.
Andrés pulled the rope hard. The mechanism gave way with a dry snap. The rear tailgate of the wagon dropped with a bang, and like a waterfall of bright colors, hundreds of apples, pears, and plums began to roll across the ground. The bags, previously slashed, emptied in seconds, creating a slippery tapestry that covered the ground from the exit to several meters beyond the gate.
—Hey, hey, hey! —the same guard shouted, horrified at the obstruction—. The fruit guy! Merchant, you're losing everything! Stop that animal!
Meanwhile, the people nearby, driven by hunger or simple opportunity, began to drag the various fruits toward themselves with their feet. Timidly at first, it soon turned into a frenzy. People bent down, pushed, and fought to gather the fruit, stuffing it into sacks, bags, and pockets. The flow of entry and exit ground to a halt.
—No, no, no, it can't be! God! What terrible luck! —Miguel shouted, climbing down from the wagon and making exaggerated gestures of despair, running from one side to the other and "accidentally" bumping into the guards who were trying to restore order. He would pick up two fruits and drop three, actively hindering any attempt to clear the path.
—Cousin! Take these too! —Andrés shouted from the other side, pretending to help but actually pushing more fruit toward the hooves of other merchants' horses, so that instead of moving, they began to eat. So much fruit had fallen that the two men weren't recovering even ten percent.
—Oh, for heaven's sake —the guard said, slapping his face with exasperation. The chaos was total. He could already hear the shouts of the Baron's strict foreman. Without wagons and without cargo, the ships didn't pay commission, and the port would paralyze—. Enough, pick it up fast! I don't care if your whole cargo fell, you have five minutes to gather it all or I'm throwing the rest into the river!
—Yes, yes, we're on it, Mister Guard —said Miguel, who in the middle of the tumult, took the opportunity to move his wagon so it sat crosswise, partially blocking one of the leaves of the gate from closing.