Sociedade do Touro Furioso

The city clung to the hills like an old story, layered, labyrinthine, and whispered in stone. Coimbra, veiled in dusk, was all shadows and memory. Its narrow lanes, slick with age and the day's rain, wound downward like secrets eager to be told. The cathedral, massive and austere, loomed above the Rio Mondego as if carved from time itself, its towers catching the last light like sentinels reluctant to sleep.

History soaked the air here. A thousand years of murmured prayers and scholarly quarrels echoed through the cloisters and courtyards. Once the heart of a kingdom, now the mind of a nation, Coimbra’s soul belonged to its ancient university, where knowledge lingered like incense in vaulted lecture halls, and the ghosts of learned men still roamed the stacks in silence.

But it was night that truly claimed the city. When the tourists vanished and the lamps sputtered to life, the stones themselves seemed to breathe. The melancholy cry of fado drifted from hidden taverns, low, aching voices carried on the wind, twined with the silver pluck of Portuguese guitars. It was a music that didn’t beg to be understood, only felt.

“Arno, how are things going so far?”

The voice came like a spark in the twilight.

Leaning lazily against the trunk of an old olive tree stood a man with hair the color of flame, a stack of books nestled in his arms like rescued relics. Around his neck, a bronze bull caught the fading light, glinting like a forgotten coin dredged from the deep. His accent betrayed Ireland, but his eyes, sharp, amused, quietly watchful, belonged to no particular place at all.

“Good, thanks.”

“A far cry from Canada?”

“Yeah, that’s for sure.”

“A few guys and I are going to the cathedral tonight. Want to join?” Colin studied Arno’s body language studiously.

“I’ve been wanting to check it out, but thought that place closed pretty early?”

“Not for us.” Colin smirked.

*

Arno moved like a shadow through the warren of alleys, where the walls leaned too close and the night clung damp and heavy. The air smelled of stone, smoke, and something vaguely sweet—jasmine perhaps, or decay. The ancient passageways twisted unpredictably, their derelict facades scrawled over with bursts of defiant color, graffiti like ritual markings, declarations of the unseen.

A flicker of doubt moved through him. He wasn’t sure what this night was meant to be, only that it had already slipped beyond the reach of his ordinary routines. Curiosity had led him here, reckless as always, outpacing his better judgment. Two months in Coimbra had taught him little beyond the limits of his own solitude. His days were spent buried in books; his nights, mostly quiet, save for the occasional café or hollow attempt at mingling with strangers who spoke fast and knew each other too well to notice him.

But Colin was different. Colin and his entourage, the brilliant ones, the opulent ones. They moved through the world with an effortless charm, as if gravity bent around them. They spoke English, or enough of it, and always seemed to know where the pulse of the city beat loudest. They collected secrets the way others collected souvenirs.

As he turned a final corner, the Eastern façade of the Old Cathedral rose before him like something out of a fever dream. It was less a place of worship than a fortress—massive, brooding, cut from the very bones of the earth. Towering crenellations ringed the top like a crown, and the few windows it had were little more than slits, meant more for archers than light. The buttresses at its corners were thick, almost defiant. It looked untouched by time, untouched by mercy.

Two figures stepped from the shadows near its base. One was unmistakably Colin, flame-haired and grinning. Beside him stood another man, cigarette glowing at his side. His leather jacket caught the light like oiled skin.

“Arno, you made it,” Colin called. “This is Yong-Sun.”

“What’s up?” Yong-Sun's voice was low, unreadable. His features were sharply drawn, cheekbones like blades, a mouth set in something between disinterest and amusement. His skin was pale, almost luminous, and his jet-black hair fell to his shoulders in a silken sweep.

“Not much,” Arno said, trying to sound casual, though his eyes were already flicking to the cathedral behind them. “So… what are we doing here?”

“You’ll see.” Colin’s grin widened as he turned and began walking.

They circled to the cathedral’s southern side, where a narrow staircase rose into darkness. Moss lined the steps; vines curled through cracks in the stone. At the top, they entered a Romanesque cloister choked in part by overgrowth. One section of the passageway was walled in by ivy and wild shrubs clawing in from the atrium, secluding it from the rest.

Yong-Sun stepped forward, drawing from beneath his shirt a necklace, a bronze bull, just like Colin’s. Without a word, he pressed it into a shallow depression in the wall, nearly invisible in the low light.

A faint click. Then a low, subterranean groan.

Stone shifted. The wall slid aside.

Behind it, lit by a flickering amber glow, was a chamber that should not have existed, lavish, impossible, and waiting.

The chamber opened before them like a secret too long kept. Its air was perfumed faintly with myrrh and old paper, warm from the hearth and thick with the weight of histories untold.

At its center, balloon-backed chairs, late Victorian in style, were arranged like thrones awaiting council. Their silver silk upholstery shimmered in the firelight, and their mahogany frames, dark as dried blood, were carved with cabriole legs etched in symbols that made no immediate sense, curves and slashes that felt older than existence.

Lanterns of hammered brass swung gently from the arched ceiling, their glass panes stained with age, throwing fractured amber light across the stone floor. One wall was swallowed by a towering bookshelf, its rows dense with cracked spines and forgotten languages. Above a wide fireplace, where flames danced with hungry purpose, an array of archaic weapons was mounted with almost ceremonial precision, curved blades, ornate pistols, and a battle axe polished to a sinister gleam.

Yet it was the statue that commanded the room.

The bull.

It reared from a plinth near the fire, cast in silver so pure it seemed to pulse. Muscles coiled in mid-charge, eyes hollow, mouth frozen in a voiceless bellow. The flames played over it as if recognizing a kindred spirit.

Around the room, a scattering of men lounged in deliberate poses, as though waiting for something to begin, or end. Arno recognized them from campus, though they looked subtly changed in this light, like actors glimpsed backstage without their masks.

Earnie, the American, sat half-buried in a volume the size of a ledger, his expression slack with awe. Edik, the Russian, gazed wordlessly into the flames, his thoughts seemingly adrift in some colder place. And Diogo, a local, scribbled furiously into a leather-bound notebook, his lips moving faintly in time with his pen.

“This is Arno.” Colin announced to the room causing everyone’s focus to switch to him. A few nodded, glancing at each other, a silent communication amongst themselves.

“Hey, nice to see you.” Diogo smiled. “We have anthropology together.” He publicized.

“What brought you to Coimbra?” Edik asked demurely.

“I love how the city has over 2,000 years of history within it. Constructions from the Roman Empire just blocks from innovative modern buildings. Green open-air spaces, forest reserves, proximity to the sea, amazing food.” He looked around at the various eyes analyzing him, feeling as if he was interviewing for some kind of high caliber position. “I am actually studying architecture, so the rich architectonic heritage seemed a perfect fit for me.”

“Do you want to make basic buildings that don’t stand out, or extravagant masterpieces that the entire world will be in awe of?” Yong-Sun inquired.

“Um…extravagant masterpieces, obviously.” Arno shifted his stance, baffled by the absurdity of the question.

“The question isn’t so strange Arno. You’d be surprised how many people are comfortable with mediocrity these days.”

A sudden, thunderous pounding cracked through the silence.

It came from the far-left corner of the chamber, sharp, deliberate, and unnervingly rhythmic. The sound echoed off the stone, low and percussive, like a fist against a coffin lid. Arno flinched. The others didn’t even glance up.

Drawn by instinct more than intent, his gaze found the source.

There, half-swallowed by shadow, was a door he hadn’t noticed before. A rounded slab of dark wood, set within a frame of carved stone, its surface encircled by symbols that crawled across the grain like vines. The engravings were angular, alien, and shimmered faintly in the firelight, as if inked with mercury.

The pounding came again, closer now, or louder. It was impossible to tell.

“What is…?” Arno began; his voice uncertain.

But no one moved. Earnie kept turning pages, lost in some arcane scripture. Edik didn’t blink. Diogo’s pen scratched relentlessly, as if racing against time.

They heard it. They had to.

Yet not one of them acknowledged the sound.

Arno stepped back slightly, pulse quickening, the room seeming to shift around him—subtly, like a dream reconfiguring itself when you begin to wake.

The door gave another jolt, as if something behind it had leaned in—waiting, listening.

“It’s just the building settling.” Colin smirked, a few of the guys chuckling. “How about we give you a little tour of the place? The cathedral is never better than at night, when the tourists aren’t debasing the ambiance.” Colin began to ascend up a twisting ladder, Yong-Sun, Arno, and the others following suit. Colin pushed open a hatch, they emerged directly beneath a lofty lantern tower with ribbed vaulting. Arno looked in awe at the ceilings, almost feeling dizzy from their expanse and complexity. There were sculptured capitals everywhere he looked, their intracity mesmerizing. There were pairs of elegant birds and enchanting quadrupeds facing each other, vegetal and geometric motifs extending down the columns.

They proceeded to the main chapel, containing an expansive altarpiece made of gilded and polychrome wood in Gothic style. Colin extracted a quaint golden flask with strange silver markings integrated into the design.

“Have you been to a bull fight yet?” Colin swirled his flask around. “I’m guessing you probably don’t have those in Canada?”

“No, I haven’t. Are those still legal here?”

“Oh yeah.”

“It’s a three-hundred-year-old tradition.” Diogo piped in. “The cavaliers dress in 18th century costume and challenge the bull. The touro isn’t killed here though, the objective is merely to draw the bull to a charge, then place a single dart in the bull’s back muscle.”

“So, Arno…” Yong-Sun took a swig from the flask before handing it off to Earnie. “Do you want to be one of us?”

“Excuse me?”

“You want your place in the world? To create things, to mold your life, shape the planet. For the Earth to split open to your whims and desires?”

“To never have to worry about money." Colin piped in. “To go wherever you want, whenever you want.”

“Well yeah, that’d be awesome.”

Earnie passed Arno the flask while the rest of the room watched him silently. He brought it to his mouth and took a swig, his eyes narrowing.

“What is this?”

“Bull’s blood.”

Arno laughed whilst the rest of the group remained still. “Wait… you’re kidding?”

“The bull is ferocious, majestic. It’s rage propelling it forward. Its blood lends strength.”

“Seriously? What about diseases?”

The others laughed.

“Arno, become one of us and you will never worry about such petty things again.” Arno now noticed that each person in the chapel wore the same bull pendant around their neck. He hesitated, frightened at what he might be getting himself into, but even more concerned about what he may miss out on.

“Okay.”

“Welcome to The Society of the Raging Bull.”

*

The months that followed unfolded like a fevered dream, prosperous, disorienting, and far too swift. Arno was pulled into a current he hadn’t known existed, let alone imagined joining. Doors that once felt bolted by birth and circumstance now opened at the lightest touch, revealing salons of influence and corridors of quiet control.

The world reshaped itself around him.

He dined in rooms where centuries, old oil paintings watched in silence, conversed over rare vintages with people whose names bent laws and made headlines. Politicians, actors, professors, surgeons, voices that shaped nations and narratives alike, now greeted him with familiarity, sometimes even deference. They came from factions scattered across the globe, but all spoke in the same oblique language, with the same careful eyes. The Society, as they sometimes called it, but never in public, had been threading itself through history for generations. Covert, calculated, patient.

Japan, Austria, Morocco, he traveled more in a season than he had in his entire life. In Kyoto, beneath the paper lanterns of a centuries-old teahouse, he sat among members cloaked in silk and silence. In Vienna, he stood in a baroque chamber where Mozart had once played, now repurposed for private deliberations that bore the gravity of statecraft. Each gathering revealed just enough to keep him awed, yet never enough to satisfy.

The Society was vast, intricate, a constellation of minds and ambitions, moving always just beneath the world’s surface. And though Arno now lived among them, fed by their knowledge and dazzled by their reach, yet still only understood fragments of their whole. There was so much more. So many layers still veiled.

One morning Arno sat on the patio of a café sipping on a robust bica, with a pastel de nata that had been given to him by the smitten server. The overcast day allowed a few glints of sunlight to dance upon his face.

“Arno!” Diogo ran to the table, his face flushed with red, beads of sweat dripping from his head. He quickly grabbed a chair, scooting as close as possible to Arno.

“What is going on?” Arno examined Diogo with perplexity.

“I need to tell you something. But you can’t tell anyone I told you. You have to leave Sociedade do Touro Furioso.”

Arno laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. Why would I ever do that?”

“It’s not all fun and games, indulgence and leisure. It goes a lot deeper. Not even I knew at first, how far back the history of my city goes. I am telling you this Arno because I know you are a good person. The society is dark, evil.”

“What are you talking about?”

Diogo leaned closer, whispering into his ear. “O minotauro.” His eyes widened as he spoke. “He lives in the catacombs under the cathedral. He is our leader; our power is derived from him. Yet he requires sacrifices.” He bit his lip whilst gaging Arno’s reaction. “The Society is a small group of elites controlling the world. Subduing opposing voices.”

“Well then, we are in control now Diogo. What’s the problem? Most people are stupid, the intelligent need to lead them.”

“Even if only for personal interests? There is a difference between leading and exploitation. They put an innocent man in there last night. Gave him.. to him.”

Arno chuckled. “You really need to lay off the vinho.”

“Look!” Diogo pulled a small piece of newspaper from his pocket shoving it into Arno’s hand.

“What’s this? It says this guy got drunk, snuck into a bulls pen the day before a bullfight and got gored. What does that have to do with us?”

Diogo stared at him. “I know that you are cleverer than that. Perhaps you just aren’t as virtuous as I’d envisioned.”

*

Arno sat in the library of Coimbra later that night, his hand on his chin, his thoughts running wild. A stack of history books sat before him. Most of them with information that he now knew was inaccurate, the collection of the Society superseding all public information. He glanced at his watch before making his way over to the cathedral.

“Arno, my man.” Yong-Son and Colin gave him half hugs, while Edik and Earnie nodded.

“How’s life treating you today?”

“Amazing.” Arno smirked.

“Of course.” Colin winked. “Well, it’s only going to get better.”

They led him to the curious door they had diverted his attention from before. Yong-Sun and Colin moved a number of levers in an evident sequence causing the door to slowly open, revealing a twisting set of sprawling catacombs. Only a few feet within they found Diogo’s body lifeless on the ground, a mangled debacle.

“Weak link.” Earnie grimaced, making eye contact with Arno.

They traveled further into the dimly lit passages, affixed blazing torches every few feet providing the only source of light. Arriving at a partially opened colossal door, adorned with various hieroglyphics, the others began to file back.

“It’s all you Arno.” Yong-Son gestured.

Arno’s throat tightened as he inhaled, the air thick with something ominous. He swallowed hard before stepping into the room. There was no turning back now. The door behind him closed with a finality that reverberated through his bones.

At the far end of the hollow, in a pool of flickering shadows, he saw it.

The minotaur.

It stood in its full, horrifying glory, its immense form both terrifying and majestic. Horns like twisted spires curved upward from a massive head, eyes glowing with unnatural brilliance, burning like twin coals in the dark. Its body was draped in an aura of power, muscles rippling beneath dark, matted fur. A creature of myth, but also of flesh, alive and present in this room, in this moment.

Arno’s pulse quickened. His heart hammered in his chest, but he didn’t move. He knew exactly what this meant for him.

He knelt, as expected, obedient, waiting for the minotaur to approach. Its eyes locked with his, something ancient and unreadable flickering in its gaze. The air grew denser, the silence heavier, as the ritual unfolded in slow motion, inevitable.

The blood.

This wasn’t a battle between good and evil, not a fight for redemption or damnation. It was the reality of the world he had stepped into, the relentless climb to power, a climb in which only the most zealous would survive, and the most ruthless would thrive.

If you can’t beat them, join them.

The mantra echoed in his mind, steadying him, silencing his lingering doubt. He had chosen this path, this sacrifice. The minotaur’s blood would be his, his initiation, his anointment. A mark of power, of belonging, of purpose. He had no illusions about the cost.

His heart fell silent. His body felt numb, like a machine obeying an order it no longer questioned. His mind, now in full control, had drowned out any lingering hesitation.

It was done.