One by one, we all met with failure. Salvatore Castillejo and Roderigo Cubero disappeared in the dead of night. Although gossip abounded amongst the remaining alchemists that they had been taken by the Inquisition, they were never seen at the dreaded auto de fe. Some stated that they died on the rack while others concluded they had escaped to England. Jago Pintado died of old age; he was well into his 80s when the task was begun; Naldo Medina committed suicide in the knowledge of his own failure. Cristo Flores was last known in Paris; Hernan Gamino was said to be on his way to the New World.

Ahmed El-Hasem and I continued to work toward our goals. Neither of us spoke to one another but remained diligent. The Moor was confident in his ability to turn base metals into gold while I dabbled with the elixir of life. Both of us were determined to accomplish what had never been accomplished before. Still we failed in every attempt. Soon the call would come to stand before King Phillip; soon our fate would be declared.

The Moor received his call before I did. Ahmed El-Hasem was unprepared and he knew it. It had been three long and wasteful years. Both of us had to face our day of reckoning. The year was 1598, the ruthless King was reaching the end of his life and desperate to cling to it as long as he could. His patience, which had lasted this long, was surely on the point of running out.

Ahmed El-Hasem met his fate in the alley behind his home. Strangled and beaten, he was left for dead by the henchmen of the King as he attempted to flee. In the dark of night, it had been impossible for him to hide himself with his white turban, suit of clothes and the turquoise cape he habitually wore. If only he had been able to make it to Morocco, I mused. He was a fine alchemist and surely the best of all of us. It was a shame to lose such a brilliant mind.