He doesn’t move. A breeze blasts through the arena, sending up a dusting of sand, ruffling the beautiful blue silk of Valentino’s clothes.

“Come on, get up,” I murmur.

“Olé, Valentino!” someone yells. “You can do it!”

But he doesn’t budge, and I can’t tell if he’s breathing or if it’s just the wind playing with his tunic. Sancho stands at the end of the sway beam, looking back and forth between Sergeant DeLuca and Valentino, his face gradually shifting from annoyance to concern.

Finally, he can’t take it any longer; he rushes over to his friend and falls to his knees in the sand beside him. “Valentino?” he says, shaking his shoulder. “Are you all right? He’s not breathing! Somebody help!”

I’m about to dash forward, but DeLuca has sprung to action, along with several other Guardsmen, and they surround him quickly, creating a wall of bodies. Just like they did with the boy yesterday, they lift Valentino from the sand and carry him out of the arena while the rest of us look on in growing horror.

“What happened?” I say to no one in particular. “He was fine yesterday. He said there was no blood . . . he said . . .” What if it’s my fault? What if the injury to his kidney was worse than he let on?

All the recruits are milling about, whispering among themselves. The audience rimming the arena is as silent as a catacomb. Sancho stands alone in the sand, staring at the dark tunnel his friend just disappeared into.

“Is Valentino dead?” Aldo asks.

“I saw his leg move when they were lifting him,” Iván says.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“No,” Iván says.

Guardsman Bruno calls us to order. “Back in line!” he hollers. “Recruit Sancho, take a break. You’ll be running the course with Recruit Pedrón. You two, Luca and Andrés—” He gestures toward the remaining army recruits. “You’re up next. We will finish this today.”

Two by two, everyone attempts the obstacle course. It’s easier now. Anyone who struggles with the log roll uses Aldo’s and my method of levering it with weapons. Second years try to remove the crossbow bolts from the final barrier, but they are lodged deep and immovable. Everyone climbs them easily.

The course is boring now, the mood somber. The crowd gradually thins until it’s gone. No one yells, “Olé!”

The final recruits struggle the most—another small, weak-looking pair who can’t budge the log any better than Aldo and I could. They try to lever it, but after being used all morning the wooden ax finally snaps, and the log refuses to budge. They are forced to skip the log roll, and they finish the rest of the course with their shoulders slumped, their faces dejected.

“Well,” Aldo says. “We didn’t hold the record for slowest time for very long at all.”

“I’m glad we weren’t the worst? I guess?”

“We might still be cut.”

He doesn’t need to remind me.