Carmen

A curious scholar journeys through the scorching plains of Andalusia in the autumn of 1830, intent on settling a long‑running debate about the true location of Caesar’s decisive battle. Armed only with a few shirts, a copy of the ancient Commentaries, and a hired guide, he rides from Córdoba into the rugged Cachena plain, his mind half‑occupied with maps and half with the heat. The landscape rolls past in dry, sun‑bleached waves, urging him toward a hidden spring that promises relief.

He finds a secluded basin ringed by towering cliffs, where a crystal stream pools beside ancient oaks and the air feels cool enough to soothe his thirst. Before he can settle, a solitary rider emerges from the shade, a weathered man with a brass blunderbuss slung across his chest, eyes dark as the surrounding stone. The encounter crackles with uneasy tension; the scholar’s guide pales, yet the stranger seems more curious than hostile, inviting a cautious dialogue that hints at the untamed life hidden beyond the scholar’s maps.