This story is based on the Disney Zorro series, which was set by its creators in the early 1820s. This is somewhat inaccurate, as Mexico became independent from Spain in 1820 and gained control of California at that time, and the TV series clearly shows California being under Spanish hegemony. I believe logic and movie references would set the story around the 1806-1809 period, right during the early years of the Napoleonic Wars (1803-1815). Spain was also an ally of France in these wars until 1808, when it defected to join the coalition.
This fanfic is set between episode 1x10 (where Garcia was thrown out of the army as a subterfuge to befriend Zorro) and episode 1x11 (where we meet Carlos Martínez, a skilled swordsman hired by Comandante Monastario to impersonate Zorro and rob the caballeros during a banquet).
Disclaimer: the usual, I don't own Zorro and his companions Bernardo, Monastario, Garcia, Pilar, Martínez, and Alejandro :)
Antoine Garat took a deep breath and distractedly looked at the bustling harbor. La Princesa had docked at Monterey during sunset, and even though it was now dark, the people were busy as if it were the first hour of the day at the market. Merchants seemed eager to sell their food and trinkets to weary travelers, family members were welcoming with open arms the dear ones they had not seen for months or years, and busy dock workers were unloading the freight that had to be dispatched throughout California on some urgent missions which could not wait for morning.
The warm color of the torches and lamps gave an eerie look to all the nameless strangers, and Antoine suppressed with a yawn the sudden shiver that ran down his spine. He recognized no one, nobody was waiting for him, the Californian smells were strange, and the air was definitely too salty.
The soldier picked up his luggage and half-heartedly fought his way through the crowd, his tired muscles screaming for a warm bath and a comfortable bed. Antoine had the distinct feeling neither would be available in Monterey so late at night, so he set out for the nearest tavern, hoping he could at least grab some cheap wine and doze off in a corner for a few hours until sunrise.
A few steps behind, hidden in the shadows, a figure silently followed, intent on not losing sight of its target.
Cheers spilled out from the tavern windows as Pilar Fuentes fervently rattled her castañuelas. Her flamboyant dress swirled around her legs like an enraged creature, and the rapid, rhythmical steps of her shoes propelled the guitarists to play their chords in an excited, feverish manner. All in all, it was the best night Carlos Martínez was having for the past month, thanks to the beautiful creature in front of him. The señorita's presence alone had highlighted the boring time he was having in Monterey. However, the general effect she had on the male audience in the large open room was quite obvious, and Martínez was not liking the growing feeling of jealousy that was throbbing in his veins. He would certainly not let them get to her that easily.
These unexpected yet familiar possessive urges grabbed the impulsive man from time to time, whenever he saw something he coveted. It was simply too annoying to have others look at Pilar with desires that matched up his own. True to his burning temper, the tall man stood up and finished his wine in one gulp, wiping his chin with a dusty sleeve. A duel would ease his anger, and invigorate this dull neighborhood. One quick, determined glance across the room, and he spotted his target for tonight's merry fight.
The young brunet had an odd air to his looks. Though he was wearing the Spanish army uniform, his features did not seem to correspond to those of the young boys Martínez was used to see fresh off the boats from Spain. Maybe it was the broad forehead, the thin, aquiline nose, or the fact that he seemed rather lightly built for a soldier. The oddest thing about him was the fact that he was distractedly fiddling around with a worn pocket watch, staring at it with a dejected gaze. He paid absolutely no attention to the fiery dancer in the room.
The tall man smirked at the irony of the situation, and started pulling his sword in anticipation of the fight. Halfway through, a strong hand suddenly grasped his forearm and brutally stopped the motion. Growling, Martínez swirled around to have a look at the person who dared touch him in this fashion.
"Who—" he began, but the intensity of the glare in the stranger's eyes did not let him finish his question.
The abrupt silence was cut short by a disdainful sniff.
"Instead of picking on a tired soldier, you should seek a more interesting challenge, one that would match your... expertise," the stranger said, still holding his grip. "I hear there is this bandit in Los Angeles, skilled with the sword and quick of wit. He'd be an excellent match for you."
Martínez looked the man up and down. He couldn't quite recall having seen this crazy devil in Monterey before now. "Who says?" he snorted.
A smile full of teeth too white to be those of a commoner met Martínez's scornful expression, and the sword was slowly pushed back into its scabbard.
Antoine sat on the small wooden stool and looked at his father in silence. The lofty figure that was once Docteur Jacques Garat was now nothing more than a frail body lying on its deathbed. The sick man opened his eyes slowly when Antoine politely cleared his throat, and tried to hold up his hand in a greeting gesture.
"Antton..." he barely whispered, as another coughing fit overtook him. A nun rushed in to hold a handkerchief in front of his mouth, and wiped her patient's feverish forehead with a piece of humid cloth when his breathing became steady again.
The young soldier shuddered when he saw drops of blood splattered against the beige fabric in her hand. He had rushed to Bayonne as soon as he received the letter from Father Loustau, but he had no idea how severe his father's situation was. The letter had merely said that monsieur Garat had requested his son to be present for some urgent family matter. Antoine was thankful his superior had granted him a leave of absence from his duty in Pamplona on such a vague explanation, along with rights-of-way across the French border.
"Père... please do not try to speak, I—"
"Pshh, nonsense, Antton, I need to speak up before God calls me back for good," Jacques interrupted, a little too fast. He paused and then chuckled with a visible effort. "I see you've not lost your French yet, though I detect a thicker Spanish flavor to it."
In that moment, Antoine saw his father exactly like he was five years ago when they last talked to each other: arrogant, conceited, and unforgiving. It had been many years, yet the emotional wounds had not healed at all.
"I see you've not lost your French snobbish attitude yet, though I sense it's been mellowed with age," he snapped back. "Why do you keep calling me 'Antton' just now? You've always insisted so hard on using my French name when we lived in Spain. Now that we're both in France—"
"Shh..." Jacques gently grabbed his son's hand. "Mea culpa. I was just thinking of... your mother." The sick man looked away for a moment. Antoine recalled how his father had fought with his proud and beautiful Basque wife over their son's unique heritage. "Deiña loved that name. It was just not the... proper name to give you when you were baptized."
"Don't give me excuses, and don't get Mother involved, please." Antoine impulsively stood up and turned his back to his father, who had a knack to make him lose patience within seconds. He took a deep breath before speaking again.
"Aren't we going to have some father-and-son talk, the one where we are supposed to make up and all that? Or did I just come all the way up here to be told the same old stories over and over? I know them by heart!"
Antoine's angry voice echoed strangely in the small bedroom, which was devoid of all furniture except for the bed, the small seat, and a side table. He then realized the nun was still in the room, discreet and silent as all of them were. The young lady was avoiding his eyes but had a much harder time trying to ignore the loud conversation.
"Leave us, ma soeur, " the young man requested more gently, pulling on his blue uniform to regain some composure. "I think I can take care of my old man for a moment, and our family feuds are anything but interesting to the Church."
The girl thankfully nodded and left in a hurry. Antoine closed the door behind her and waited until he heard the steps no more before returning to the bedside.
An uneasy silence settled in the confined space. Jacques closed his eyes,
"What... what do you want from me?" Antoine finally asked in a controlled whisper, grabbing folds of the blanket into his angry fists in anticipation of how difficult the next minutes were going to be.
Drops of sweat ran along the doctor's temples. He spoke very slowly.
"I want you to go back to California."
Antoine was taken out of his reverie by the sudden turmoil in the tavern. He stood up with almost perfect timing as someone fell violently on his table and broke it in two, splashing wine all over the place. Blinking away the last shreds of thoughts from a recent past, Antoine put the watch back into the folds of his belt before lending a hand to help the fellow back on his feet.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice said loudly, and the whole room became suddenly quiet.
Ignoring the comment, Antoine pulled the victim up. The young, brown-haired man, who seemed roughly the same age as himself, nodded his thanks with a weak smile.
"Are you deaf, soldier?" the man spoke again. "I told you to—"
"I heard well the first time, señor," answered Antoine with feigned politeness, assessing his opponent. He was rather handsome and well dressed, a hidalgo perhaps. However his fierce glare and the sword at his side spelled nothing but trouble. "You have to agree that you can't keep fighting with a man when he is down. Last time I had a look at California, this was not a savage land, and pardon my saying so, but you do seem fit enough for a second round."
"Ha! What manner of speech is that?" he sneered at Antoine's faint accent. "Are you some Frenchman in a Spanish costume? A traitor maybe?"
Antoine felt his sleeve being pulled, and the man standing next to him whispered in his ear. "Careful, señor. Martínez is looking for trouble, any reason is good for him to have a fight."
The young man nodded. He guessed on this faraway continent he had to get used to the fact that the army was not as respected and feared as it was back in Spain. Sooner or later some idiot was bound to test a soldier's strength and patience, both of which Antoine has had in very small amounts in the past few months. Better step out of this one for the time being.
"I will buy you wine, señor, and be glad to tell you all about my 'manners of speech' to satisfy your curiosity," he carefully answered, extending open hands as an invitation. "Let's avoid breaking more tables, shall we?"
Martínez walked up to Antoine and flashed a wide smile a hair's-breadth away from his face. "Stop talking like an old woman, and tell me your story with a blade."
"I'm afraid my eloquence is rather poor in that language," the soldier replied with a neutral expression.
"I see... Then, maybe you'd rather chat with me using this!"
The punch came so fast Antoine had no chance of seeing it coming. It landed straight on his cheek and hurled him down and hard on the floor. It took the young man a few seconds before he could move his head around and focus on Martínez again. The devilish smile of the dark-skinned man was all gloat and no pity.
"Don't touch me, gentlemen," Antoine said, emphatically rubbing his throbbing jaw. "You might be in for the third round."
A few laughters erupted from the men that had gathered around to watch the fight.
"Get back on your feet, soldier," Martínez ordered loudly to cut them off.
"Only if you accept the wine I offered earlier, señor."
Martínez grabbed his sword's hilt with anger and spat on the ground. "I don't drink with wimps."
"Your loss," Antoine replied enigmatically.
His back still on the floor, he wriggled in the puddle of wine until he was able to extract a few coins from the pouch inside his jacket, and then threw them with an awkward gesture on the counter nearby.
"Wine for all those who dare drink with the wimps of this world!" he declared solemnly.
Cheers and thanks suddenly echoed in the tavern as the men raised their mugs to Antoine's health. He was helped back on his feet by a few, to the utter bewilderment and annoyance of Martínez.
"You may get away by buying a crowd, soldado..." he hissed, "...but you will hear from me again."
On those words the madman spit again in pure contempt, gave one last, hard look at Antoine, and left the tavern whispering curses and names between his teeth.
"I must thank you, señor, though you did let him get away with it," commented the man next to Antoine, examining both their dirty clothes.
"Dieu... This Martínez hits like a bull at the festival of San Fermín!" Antoine said to himself, holding his swollen cheek with his left hand, and extending the right. "Antoine Garat Elejalde, pleased to meet you," he added with a weak smile.
"Mateo Escudero, likewise," the man shook his hand. "How—"
"French father, Spanish mother," interrupted Antoine, who was used to get questions and inquisitive glances about his French name. "I was raised in Spain but could never get rid of that slight accent I got from my father."
Mateo chuckled. "I just wanted to ask how about I buy the wimp some wine so I can properly thank him for his help."
Antoine stared at the young man for a second and then let out a laugh. He immediately cringed from the pain in his jaw.
"It might just be the thing I need," he nodded. "Ha, have we met before?" he suddenly asked. Antoine could have sworn there was something oddly familiar in Mateo's eyes when he glanced at him, but he quickly shook the feeling off when his new companion dismissed his question with laughter.
Maybe it was someone he had seen long ago when he was still a child, a distant ghost from the past. He was bound to have that feeling from time to time, coming back to California after more than sixteen years.
Diego de la Vega finished reading the letter in silence, a concerned frown creasing his usually cheerful face. Bernardo patiently waited a few steps away, knowing his friend would surely explain its content in a moment. When he had initially brought the mail, Diego's smile had flashed instantaneously when he had recognized the writing style of who had written one of the letters. The parchment was eagerly opened, but as the caballero's eyes read more, he had to sit down, and the smile had slowly disappeared to be replaced by a troubled expression.
"This letter is from one of our good friends," Diego finally said, lost in thought. "You remember Tonio, don't you?"
Bernado nodded with a heartfelt smile. He indeed remembered very well. Diego had spent a lot of time with Antoine during his studies in Madrid. They had met during a friendly horseback riding competition between the university and the military academy, and quickly had become friends once they learned they had both been born in California, a couple of years apart.
Though Antoine had often been taken up by his intense military training, whereas Diego had had more leeway with his university schedule, they had managed to review some of their readings together, and practice fencing on some lazy afternoons when Antoine had been on leave. Most of their time together, however, had been spent hanging out at the tavern even if it had been strictly forbidden. Any excuse had been good for them to sneak out of their respective dormitories at night just to roam around the dirtiest neighborhoods of Madrid, and it was a miracle they never got caught. Bernardo knew Diego had learned most of his stealthy rogue tricks involving rooftops and balconies from that period of his life. He also remembered the sometimes horrible and stressful moments he had had trying to cover up for his friend, much like he was now doing with the Zorro persona.
Bernardo shook his head after a moment, mimicking a pout and emphasizing it with his forefinger.
"Bad news, yes. Tonio's father, Doctor Garat, passed away about six months ago. Antoine never really spoke of him back in Madrid, and this letter doesn't add any detail to their story I'm afraid," Diego explained. "Here's what he says: 'It was my father's last wish that I return to California, and to that effect I have been granted an assignment at the cuartel of Los Angeles by the Spanish Army'," Diego read out loud. "'I have just arrived in Monterey and would like to pay a visit to an old friend, if he would accommodate me for a few days before I report officially to the Comandante. With your help and support maybe I can start my military career anew on the continent, if such a thing is possible in this...'" Diego deliberately paused to take a breath. "...' lethargic city of yours. I have memories to share, if you can supply the wine you owe me.'"
Bernardo could not suppress his laugh, and Diego raised an eyebrow at his reaction. Antoine had always teased his friend by calling him a lazy caballero and a fat Californian, and a good many of those friendly quarrels had been concluded with Diego losing bets or ending up dirty and disheveled after a good skirmish.
The caballero finally managed to smile at the thoughtful wisecracks, and shook his head with a sigh.
"Bernardo, I am delighted I will see Tonio again, and I am sure my father will be happy to welcome him at our hacienda, but this may be troublesome for our friend Zorro and his little cover, don't you think?"
Indeed, nodded Bernardo with a frown. Antoine knew that Diego was skilled at fencing and never ran from a brawl, and he would never buy into this sudden turnaround to art, poetry and music.
Moreover, he would be reporting to Comandante Monastario. This may prove to be even more of a problem.
Fanfic is a way for me to practice writing in English, my second language. I wrote this one as a warm up, in the hope that I can jump back into active writing, which I haven't done for many years, as well a join the beta reader team. Feel free to spot review any typos, mistakes, anything you liked or disliked. All feedback will be much appreciated AND considered. :)