Estrada did not have an answer to Ortega's statement. The other soldiers around looked at me, waiting for a rebuttal.
But there was no lie in Ortega's words. And the questions he had stirred—about colonization, its evils, its gifts—were far too complicated to answer here, especially with a throbbing head, blood on my sleeve, and the faint crackle of gunfire still echoing in the distance.
"So," I said at last, "you're a loyal son of Spain?"
Ortega looked up, unsure where I was taking the conversation.
"But here you are," I continued, "fighting alongside heretics and anarchists. Men who not only pervert the Faith—but hate Spain with every bone in their body."
Domingo opened his mouth, but no words came. The confidence on his face faded. He couldn't hold eye contact. Some of the soldiers chuckled, content with what they saw as a proper rebuttal.
