The Blood King (Wattpad Exclusive Version)

The Distant Past

The Distant Past

(These are the words written by the Gypsy. All dates signify when the entry was made.)

October 30, 1792 , Martorell, Spain

"¿Qué es un dios?" I said out loud. What is a god? I was back in the outskirts of Martorell, holding up a wooden crucifix that was given to me that day by a priest who was visiting the town.

My father, Stevo, kept his distance, thanks to the bonfire between the two of us. The night had turned cold, and the flames were the only thing keeping us warm.

Stevo didn't make any sudden movements; rather, he chose to stay close to the fire while enjoying his cigar. He looked at the crucifix in my hand.

My father was a man of few words, choosing to speak only when he felt the moment was right. I, on the other hand, at twelve years of age, was beginning to show traces of the character that would soon define me. Our trips to Barcelona were getting old, and his patience was running thin; he was fed up with my doings and the ever-increasing claims regarding my thievery.

The country was going through a tough time, and uncertainty was ever present. Government raids against those who were considered subversive, mainly those too poor to pay taxes, those who didn't serve in the army, or those who were not working were rampant. Public discontent was increasing, and business opportunities, for both legal and illegal citizens alike, were scarce.

Gypsies were never welcomed by the Spanish crown, mainly because as nomads, we never truckled to authority or asked for permission to do anything; rather, we settled in wherever we saw fit. To add insult to injury, we were never part of any census, which drove the authorities crazy. I can tell you of entire tribes where all males and females shared the exact same first and last names, making any type of established control count or organization impossible. Back in those days, our way of life became a major problem, causing weekly confrontations involving the military, the church, and us.

My father had seen it all. His father, Tamás, was arrested, accused, and executed for stealing horses from one of the wealthiest families of Portugal. The fact that there were no witnesses and no evidence, and that my father spent the entire week traveling with him all over Lisboa could not save Tamás from being beheaded. No court or jury was ever needed. The norm was death to all Gypsies, was what happened countless times throughout history.

My father knew how life was for our kind, and he did the best he could to prepare me for what was to come.

"Who gave you that?" he asked.

My gaze moved with curiosity around the edges of the average-looking wooden cross.

"Back in town, a priest was speaking to a group about a savior. A man called Cristos. He said that Cristos died on a cross just like this one, for us," I said.

Stevo inhaled and exhaled from his cigar, looking at me silently.

"He called him his god. What's that?" I asked.

My father stared at the flames for a moment and then looked back at me.

"Do you remember that story your grandmother used to tell you when you were little?" he asked.

I remembered sitting down next to my cousins in our tent at night and loving the tone of Luminista, my grandmother, while she told stories about legends of ancient times; stories of past relatives and their doings. I remember her long silver hair and the deep wrinkles all over her face in the light from a gas lamp. Among the stories she used to tell us was one that her grandmother used to tell her when she was a kid. It was the story of a Gypsy who led a campaign against the Christian crusaders hundreds of years before my time. His name was Andrzej. My grandmother used to say that we as a clan were blood related. I used to daydream of one day becoming a man just like him.

Andrzej was a typical Gypsy. He was a brother and a son. In no way was he exceptional; nor did he ever wish to be. He was also a father and a husband, until the day crusaders came to his tribe. They came talking about a savior. A man-god called Cristos, a man-god who died for Andrzej's sins-at least, that was what they told him. Those crusaders asked for my people to submit to this god, Cristos, to renounce our ways. However, we couldn't do this because what they called "pagan" was our way of life. Our culture and heritage, passed from generation to generation, was our only true-blueprint. For people like us with no country, no flag, no origin, that would have represented a definitive end to our identity, a permanent death leading to the assimilation of an imposed culture and everything that it implied.

The Crusaders came back in larger numbers, this time not to preach but to conquer. Their banners and flags rose as giant waves all over the slopes, covering the entire forest, swallowing towns in a storm of death and destruction. There was no escape for my people. Hundreds of thousands died in those decades of terror.

"Do you remember what she used to tell you about Andrzej?" Stevo asked.

Andrzej, the Gypsy who made an army out of the survivors of the so-called purification of the land. He was a husband who lost his wife. A father who lost his children and a son who lost everything he once held dear by the will of the armies of the "true" religion of the man-god Cristos.

For over three years, Andrzej and his men waged an all-out war against these Crusaders-freeing town after town, burning churches, and executing priests. His intention was to get rid of every Crusader, every representative of the faith who had brought an end to his way of life. He was indeed a willing enemy of the man-god from Rome. He was declared enemy of the church. They used to call him Diabolosk, a pagan term for those who had an alliance with the devil. And indeed, for a time, he seemed to have been protected by a "higher" force. Andrzej faced bigger numbers and better-trained forces, but somehow he defeated them over and over, prompting a massive campaign from every angle of the nation. Then Andrzej was forced out of Spain.

He headed toward Asia, where he would continue his campaign with the support of foreign armies.

"Yes," I said, without letting my gaze break away from my father's. "I remember Andrzej."