"...An old Roman bridge. But if you ask me, they all look old and Roman. This one was at Valdelcasa, on the River Tagus." Sharpe wasn't an educated man, but he'd never hesitated on subjects of geography. He spoke these words with the confidence of a man whose walked their attendant miles. "An' Wellington," though, Sharpe recalled, he wasn't Wellington back then, "Wellington wanted it...scuppered. It weren't used much, but would've brought the French directly on our line's rear were they ever to find it. A soft job. It was only ever meant to be a soft job.

So that's where it began, Faith," he leaned unceremoniously against a wall once they were inside. "Me and my men were attached to a newly raised regiment, to keep an eye on the poor babes as they tried to blow a bridge. The locals called it El Puente de los Malditos."

Back then, he'd barely known the words or their meaning. Later, however, Teresa had taught him better.