Beto’s voice carries over to us: “We have to do this at exactly the same time. On three. Ready? One, two, three.”

This time, they coordinate their effort, and the log rolls over once and thumps into the sand.

“Again!” yells Beto. “One, two, three.”

Another roll, another thump. They repeat this process seven times, until the log reaches the flag marker. “Well done!” Valentino yells as the boys dash for the hurdles.

The boys’ long legs serve them well, and they clear all the hurdles easily, except for the tallest, which they mount using their hands, and then swing their legs over.

“We’ll be slower at that one, but we can do it,” I tell Aldo.

Beto and Juan reach the net climb. They treat it like it’s a ladder, climbing hand over foot, but the net is not entirely taut, and they swing wildly, holding tight to keep from falling. Beto’s foot shoots through and he spends a precious moment untangling himself before continuing. Still, the boys reach the high platform without too much trouble, and leap off into the pile of straw.

Juan is slow to get up, and he limps slightly as they head toward the water basins.

“High knees!” Valentino yells. “Oléeee, Ciénega del Sur!”

I spare a glance toward Sergeant DeLuca. Surely all these displays of countship pride rankle; we’re supposed to leave our previous loyalties behind to join the Guard. But I guess being the son of the richest conde in the kingdom still holds sway, because DeLuca does not react in the slightest.

Beto and Juan start to run through the water basins. Each basin is perfectly round, with a diameter the width of a mead barrel. They’re lined up four across, which allows both recruits to go at the same time. The edges of the basins reach higher than their knees, and I realize they’re deeper than they look because they’re partially buried in the sand to hold them in place. The boys are forced to slow down and place each leg carefully in each basin. Water sloshes everywhere, pushing them against the sides, soaking their clothes and even their hair.

When they finally exit the other end, they are both slumped over with the effort, and their legs drag as they push toward the final barrier. Water drains from their clothes and shoes, leaving dark stains in the sand behind them.

They pause a moment to stare up at the barrier. It’s made of wooden slats that are perfectly joined, leaving no hand- or footholds. Crossbeams buttress the structure on the other side, but the surface they’re staring up at might as well be a sleek, sheer granite cliff. It’s almost the height of two fully grown men.

Beto bends over, hands on his knees, and takes a few gasping breaths. Then he straightens, places his back against the wall, and cups his hands before him, indicating that Juan should step in.

Juan places his foot into Beto’s hands. The two murmur something to each other. Juan nods once, then springboards up as Beto launches with hands and thighs. Juan’s fingertips barely reach the top, grapple with the edge. It seems as though he’s going to slip, but Beto pushes on the bottoms of his feet and Juan is able to hook an elbow over, then an armpit, and finally a leg. Soon, he’s straddling the wall.