The afternoon sun was beginning to yield to a soft breeze, carrying the scent of damp earth and the sweet perfume of the flowers adorning the chapel courtyard. Zala waited, sitting on a bench of rough-hewn wood, listening to the final preparations. The sound of Father Ant?nio's footsteps echoed in the small space as he adjusted the white towel over the stone baptismal font, the noise of the water being poured a crystalline and continuous sound.

  I don't believe it, the thought came sharp, like a knife. At the meeting, Popess Paula barely spoke to me. The entire time, her eyes and ears were for Carlos, as if he were the leader of the Quilombo and not me, the son of Aqua! My own mother, who always preferred the sound of swords to dialogue, now supports that warmonger just because he promises war and glory, things she understands. While I, who seek peace... I, Zala, am treated like a dreamer, a 'Ganga' who doesn't see reality.

  Now, the Popess is strolling, walking through the Tatu Mocambo with all that interest… and I'm here, waiting like a boy. I'm not even worthy of her time. But this Carlos will see. I'm the one who will lead the Quilombo to a new world, a world of peace! I will renounce everything, everything… then no one will be able to judge me, no one will be able to whisper that I'm greedy. They think I don't see how they look at me during the meetings!

  His train of thought was cut off by Ant?nio.

  "Almost ready, my son," said the priest, without turning, perceiving the weight of the silence behind him. "We just await the arrival of the Popess. Your mother, Aqua, will be very happy."

  The comment, naive and ill-directed, was like a stone thrown into a lake of murky memories. She will be happy? Zala's thought was acidic and immediate. She told me that my grandfather, yes, converted wholeheartedly. And she herself repeated the ritual, but never truly believed it. For Aqua, this was always just another form of strategy, another tool of power. And now here I am... doing the same. I'm doing this to have the Church as a mediator for peace, a strong ally against the plantation owners. But her? She sees no value in peace. She only sees value in this if I use the cross as an axe, not as an olive branch.

  Although his body was there, motionless on the chapel bench, his mind wandered to a few hours earlier. To his private room, where the twilight light filtered through the wooden slats illuminated bodies reclining on soft mats. The air was heavy with the smell of body oils and sweat, the gentle touch of feminine hands trying to distract him. It was supposedly his last day with the harem, a farewell to the pleasures he would renounce. But, even in the midst of it, his face was tense, his eyes fixed on the straw ceiling. The bitter taste of envy and resentment was stronger than any sensation of pleasure. The low laughter of the women sounded distant, muffled by the incessant buzz of his own thoughts.

  The sound of firm footsteps, different from the priest's gait, brought him back to reality. The Popess had arrived. Zala stood up, adjusting his white tunic, ready to be led. But then, he saw something that made his blood boil.

  The Popess, after exchanging a few words with Father Ant?nio, did not approach him. Instead, with a quick and natural gesture, she approached Carlos, who was standing near the entrance, talking with Espectro. She inclined her head to hear something Carlos whispered, responding with a brief nod and an almost imperceptible smile of complicity. The gesture lasted mere seconds, but for Zala, each one was a needle prick. Only then, as if it were a secondary obligation, did she turn to the baptismal font, taking her position.

  "Zala," called Father Ant?nio, his voice sounding muffled to the young man's ears, who was still staring angrily at Carlos's back. "It is time."

  He followed the priest, his bare feet feeling the cold of the chapel's smoothed stone floor as if he were walking on hot coals.

  The chapel was now filled with a faint, golden light from candles lit in wall niches. The air was heavy with the smell of melted wax and mild incense. But it wasn't just an ordinary group of faithful crowding the wooden benches. Besides the residents of the Tatu Mocambo, all the chiefs of the neighboring mocambos were present. Zala felt the weight of those eyes upon him.

  There they were, sitting in the front row like a silent council of elders: Espectro, from the Mountain Range Mocambo; Carlos, from the Armadillo Mocambo, now with a slight smile of satisfaction on his lips; and beside him, like a final seal of approval, sat Aqua, his own mother. Her face, marked by scars from past battles, was an impenetrable mask, her eyes fixed on her son with a coldness that cut more than any sword. She had been the first to abandon his side, the first to declare her loyalty to Carlos's warlike project.

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  Around them, the other chiefs: Maria, from the Lagoon Mocambo; Mohammed, from the Blade Mocambo; Fernando, from the Valley Mocambo; and Malik, from the Sun Mocambo; Kaion, from the Dark Valley Mocambo, a man with broad shoulders and crossed arms; Jabari, from the Mountain Mocambo, whose severe face was known for few words and decisive actions; and Tau, from the Deep River Mocambo, who watched everything with the apparent calm of a waiting alligator. Many of these faces, Zala knew, already supported Carlos more than him.

  A low murmur filled the space, ceasing when the Popess took her place before the font.

  The Popess then turned to him, and a profound silence fell over the chapel.

  "Zala," her voice was soft, but to him, it sounded false after the scene he had witnessed. "You come to this house of God asking for baptism. You ask to be washed of original sin and to be reborn in the grace of Christ. Is this your desire?"

  Zala swallowed dryly. She didn't even use 'Ganga', he thought bitterly. Would it be disregard, or... respect? His gaze strayed to the chiefs. They are all here to judge me, he thought, all of them who prefer Carlos's strength and my mother's warlike spirit to my quest for peace.

  "It... it is my desire," he replied, his voice a little harsher than he intended.

  The Popess studied his face for a moment that seemed an eternity.

  "Baptism is not just a rite, Zala. It is a death. It is the death of the old man, of the one who lives for himself, for his desires, his ambitions… his envy."

  Zala felt a chill run down his spine. It was as if she were reading the darkest secrets of his heart, right there, in front of all the Quilombo leadership.

  "It is a death," she repeated, letting the words hang in the air. "So that the new man may be born. A man who lives for the community, for the faith, for peace. Are you willing to die to yourself?"

  He felt a cold sweat on his back. They think I don't know how they look at me… The thought came quickly, and this time, he couldn't help it. His eyes met Carlos's. This time, there was a smile. Small, almost courteous, but to Zala, it was a smile of victory. The Popess's voice pulled him back.

  "Well?" her voice was an invitation, not a pressure.

  "I am... I am willing," he managed to say, feeling the response more like a challenge thrown at Carlos than a promise to God.

  Father Ant?nio, beside her, made the sign of the cross over the water in the font.

  "We bless this water, so that all who are baptized by it may die to sin and be born to eternal life."

  The Popess then dipped her hand in the holy water. Zala smelled the damp stone and the faint scent of the holy oil.

  "Zala," she said, raising her wet hand. "I baptize you in the name of the Father…"

  The water was cold on his forehead, a shock that made his muscles tense. In the congregation, Espectro bowed his head in a solemn gesture.

  "…and of the Son…"

  Another drop, trickling down his skin. Maria watched intently, while Mohammed maintained his polished expression.

  "…and of the Holy Spirit."

  The third drop fell. A murmur of "Amen" ran through the audience. Malik, the skeptic, remained with his arms crossed, but his face had softened a little.

  "Amen," said Father Ant?nio and those present in unison.

  The Popess lowered her hand. Her eyes were still fixed on Zala, and for the first time, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. It was a smile not of congratulation, but of understanding. As if to say: Now the real struggle begins.

  "It is done," announced Father Ant?nio. "Welcome to the family of Christ, son."

  As the ceremony dissolved and people began to approach to greet him, Zala saw the chiefs rise. Espectro approached and, without a word, placed a heavy, bony hand on Zala's shoulder, a gesture of recognition. Maria gave him a brief nod. But Carlos... Carlos did not come towards him. He went directly to the Popess, and the two exchanged a few more low words, with the Popess nodding serenely. That second conversation, so close and after the baptism, was the last straw. The baptismal water still fresh on his forehead now felt like a cold sweat of humiliation. The new man would need to be born from the rubble of the old, but the demons of ambition and resentment, now fed by his mother's tacit rejection, by Carlos's affront, and by the Popess's apparent complicity, roared within him, promising that the peace he so desired might have to be won through the war he so despised. The inner war, he knew, had escalated into something much larger.