Templars

The flames of the campfire danced, indifferent to the weight of fate hanging over the camp. João sat at a safe distance from the fire, on a flat stone he had improvised as a bench. His eyes were fixed on the hypnotic dance of the flames, while the crackling of the burning wood broke the silence in a slow, ancient rhythm. 

The camp remained in reverent silence. A few had succumbed to exhaustion and were asleep, but most tossed and turned restlessly in their tents, nerves on edge. The imminence of battle made the air heavy. 

Fortunately, João had not been assigned to the night watch. Even so, his eyes found Miguel in the distance, near the wagons. His companion was staring into the darkness attentively, hand resting on the hilt of his sword—his whole body ready for the slightest sign of threat. 

Most of the Templars wandered through the camp or sat, lost in thought. João couldn't blame them—he himself couldn't find rest, even though he had permission to sleep. The stars shone intensely in the sky, casting a clear night, though moonless. The serene beauty contrasted with the tension boiling in the hearts of men. 

Mateus appeared beside João and placed a hand on his shoulder. The surprise was brief; recognizing his friend, João relaxed. Mateus sat down on the damp ground, unfazed by the dew clinging to the grass. They sat in silence, united by dark thoughts before the fire. Until finally, Mateus broke the tension: 

—Feels like a funeral, doesn't it? 

—What? 

—The mood. —And seeing the confusion on João's face, he added with a smile: —Don't tell me you haven't noticed? If anyone managed to sleep, it was Afonso. 

—That's if he doesn't snore with his eyes open. —João replied, cracking a smile. —He's like a baby... 

—...The ugliest baby in the world! —Mateus finished. 

Both laughed quietly. The laughter eased the weight on João's chest. Through Mateus' eyes, he saw he wasn't alone in his tension. 

—But putting aside our war-hungry commander... —João said. —How are you holding up through all this? 

—In what sense? 

João took a deep breath, holding back an eye roll. Mateus wasn't exactly known for his quick wit, but his presence was a balm that night. 

—About marching tomorrow... for battle. 

—Oh, that. —Mateus fell silent for a moment before replying. —I have an uncontrollable urge to throw up. And when I try to sleep, my body refuses. 

João smiled. He didn't feel nauseous, but his stomach felt like a battlefield of wild butterflies. He nodded in agreement: 

—We're in the same boat, then. 

—I don't think we'll need to fight. 

—What? 

—When the people of Irmy see us coming, they'll surrender. 

—Where does all that optimism come from? 

—It's just logic. 

João raised an eyebrow, surprised by the confidence. He was about to reply when a new voice approached: 

—What's our genius babbling about now, João? 

Miguel joined them. His watch shift had been replaced, and now he sat with heavy bags under his eyes—but no sign of fatigue. His eyes scanned the shadows as if sensing an imminent threat. 

—Mateus was sharing a theory. —João said. 

—I need to hear this. —Miguel said, settling closer to the fire. 

Mateus then repeated his belief that Irmy would surrender. When he finished, Miguel remained silent for a moment, his expression grave. 

—Impossible. —he declared. 

—You can't know that! 

—It's true, I don't see the future. —Miguel replied firmly. —But think about it: they know they'll be executed. Why surrender? If the end is inevitable, they'll die fighting. It's what they believe in. 

The word "belief" hung in the air like a sentence. João felt its weight. Faith shaped the world. Many died for it—and many killed. He himself was a Templar, a member of an Order whose purpose was to extinguish anything that opposed their truth. 

—That's why, Mateus... —Miguel continued. —They'll never surrender. Maybe not tomorrow, but there will be a fight. Because no man accepts in silence that his faith is a lie. 

—Damn... —Mateus murmured, his eyes wide. 

—What? —grumbled Miguel, already expecting a jab. 

—You're smart! 

—That's right... —Miguel said, puffing his chest. —I'm not just a pretty face. 

João chuckled quietly as he observed his friends. That conversation dissolved part of his anxiety. For a moment, reality felt less heavy. 

—Nice talk. —said a voice from the darkness. —But it's time to rest, boys. 

No face was needed. The three of them stood up in unison, at attention. 

—Sir, yes sir! 

Afonso emerged from the shadows and dismissed them with a tired gesture. Each went their separate way. João, embarrassed, felt his cheeks burn. A commander had heard the entire conversation—including the jokes. Still, the veteran didn't seem to mind. 

Soon, João entered his tent. It was empty—his companion was probably on patrol. He lay down, but sleep didn't come. Dark thoughts circled his mind until one finally calmed him: even Afonso, hardened by countless battles, still got nervous before a fight. That simple thought warmed his heart. 

Time passed. His tentmate returned and lay down in silence. Neither of them slept. When the first rays of sunlight touched the fabric of the tent, Bruno's voice thundered: 

—EVERYONE UP! TIME TO MARCH! 

The butterflies returned to João's stomach with renewed strength. He leapt out of the tent and ran toward the wagons, like dozens of other soldiers rushing like children after sweets. 

Bruno watched them with disdain. 

—What is this? —he roared. —Am I looking at soldiers or a bunch of brats? Line up properly! 

It didn't take more than ten seconds for the formation to straighten. João stood among the first. From the wagon, Vicente appeared in full armor, shield on his back and sword at his side. His voice sliced the air: 

—Templars! Here's how we'll proceed: while the man in front is putting on his armor, the one behind will assist. Then, the helped man will help the next. After that, report your frontline roles to Oto. Shields for the shield bearers. Shield and spear for the spearmen. Let's begin! 

João felt fingers poke his ribs. It was Pedro. Not wanting to draw attention, he turned and followed him to get his armor. 

—You first? —Pedro asked. 

—Sure. 

Pedro nodded, resting the leg guards on the stone João had used the night before. 

—You look terrible. —he said. 

—Didn't sleep at all. —João replied. —And your face is just like that. 

—Keep joking and I'll leave you stuck inside the hauberk alone. 

—Okay, okay! 

With effort, João put on the chainmail, feeling its weight. Though not the best, it would protect him from the first blows. Pedro helped him, handing over the gloves and adjusting the gauntlets. 

—Rough night. —João said. —But I see you slept like a rock. 

—I did... but it was all nightmares. 

João nodded, understanding completely. 

The iron breastplate was fastened tightly, cinched by Pedro's experienced hands. Then came the Templar cloak—the cloak of faith, of order, of war. 

—Now you look the part! —Pedro said. —A true Templar... just missing the shield. 

—We'll get it together. Spear for you, right? 

—That's right. 

—Lucky bastard... —João muttered under his breath.