Chapter 1

Aguilar licked his lips, relishing the briny taste imparted by the tangy ocean breeze. Nearby, a one-armed slave struggled with a bucket of hot tar and a fleet-footed boy scurried up the main mast, but neither kept his attention long. His gaze drifted to the soldiers practicing drills, the pilots taking measurements, the loose sails that flapped with a rhythm not so different from his heart.

Aguilar let out a contented sigh. The Santa María de la Concepción exuded so much purpose and activity that a part of him wondered if he was looking at a living organism rather than a technological marvel.

“Has your return to Christendom been all you imagined?”

Aguilar jumped at the sound of Captain Cortés’ voice and whipped his head toward him.

Cortés’ broad shoulders and scarred knuckles seldom failed to grab Aguilar’s attention, but most striking was his posture. With a hand never far from the crucifix hilt of his sword and knees slightly bowed, Cortés appeared poised to strike whether in casual conversation or heated argument. A mere glance from him could check the ruffians.

If Aguilar stared at a crew member, he received disgusted sneers. Perhaps it was his unkempt hair or his fidgety eyes, but neither expedition veterans nor hardened sailors cared to hold his gaze. Aguilar studied his hands. Once soft and gentle, they were now calloused and raggedy. A man could only spend so long in the wilderness before he became something else.

“Lost your hearing?” Cortés asked. His voice came across light and piercing, a rapier in the hands of an expert fencer.

Aguilar apologized in Yoko Ochoko, and then remembered he was supposed to speak Spanish. Eight years had passed since he had spoken the language of his countrymen, and he struggled to remember the right words. In stiff and halting Spanish, he said, “The beauty of our surroundings is overpowering. Can cause a man to forget his wits.”

“Is that why you give your back to the real beauty, then?” Cortés gestured to the mainland with a grand wave.

Aguilar turned toward it. He could understand why others might find it pleasing. The endless expanse of verdant jungle offered a bonanza of natural goods ripe for exploitation and the glimmering, deep-water harbors would be ideal for permanent trading outposts. A wave of melancholy rolled over Aguilar as he took in the stunning sight. The mainland used to beckon like light at the end of a cave. Now, he could not look upon it without thinking of all the outrages he had endured the past eight years.

“I prefer the coastline of our home,” Aguilar said.

“I love Spain with all my heart, but the natural wonders of the New World cannot be found in all of Christendom. Has your time with the Indians left you so jaded that you can no longer appreciate splendor? Does this garden of Eden not please the eye?”

Aguilar forced a laugh. “I was counting on the beautiful sights to save me. I knew more Spaniards would come one day to…” He searched for the right words.

“Behold the sights? I assure you I intend to do much more than just that.” Cortés laughed. Still chuckling, he sat next to Aguilar. “Are we near to where you first landed?”

Aguilar stiffened as the memories came rushing back. The elation when he stumbled out of the poorly-provisioned longboat onto the deserted beach with his delirious countrymen; the apprehension when the Indians emerged from cover; the horror of watching the Indians sacrifice the strongest Spaniards to their cruel gods; the numbness when he learned he would be spared death so that he could toil away as a slave. “We landed elsewhere,” he said in a quiet voice.

“You must speak with the cartographers soon. Precious few Christians have mapped these lands. Your insights would be most valuable.”

Aguilar nodded and wiped away the sweat beading on his forehead. He adjusted the hem of his shirt, wishing the midday sun wouldn’t bear down with so much intensity. But the heat was a constant in this part of the world, as fixed and imposing as the Pyrenees of home.

“It must have been difficult, being a slave for so many years,” Cortés added.

Aguilar winced as he recalled the sensation of a switch on his bare back. “I suffered no more than Joseph. I was fortunate, compared to others. I survived. It took many years, but I earned the trust of the Indians, and they granted me freedom.”

Cortés huffed. “Surely you did not find your predicament agreeable?”

“I wronged if I suggested such blasphemy! Every day—” Aguilar stopped. Hot tears spilled from his eyes, and he shook with a burning rage confined for years. “I counted the days in my head to track passage of time, I recited what I could remember of Psalms, and I prayed every day so that God would hear me and know I had not lost my faith.”

Aguilar succumbed to silent sobs, but he stilled once Cortés placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s that faith which places you here now,” Cortés whispered. “God has raised you from bondage for a reason. Here, do you see that slave?”

Cortés pointed to a nearby slave laboring on hands and knees. He had a complexion that reminded Aguilar of cocoa beans and wore a forlorn expression that spoke to a terrible burden and a long memory. Aguilar watched him pound a length of oakum into the ship planking with mallet and chisel, wondering if the two toes missing from his left foot had been removed with the same tools. He shuddered and chided himself for thinking on it. A free man was not supposed to concern himself with the travails of a slave.

“What about him?” Aguilar asked.

“Do you not notice the resignation etched into his face? These slaves come from all over—the Moorish lands, the Guinea lands, the West Indies—and have little in common other than their condition, but you will find that expression on all their faces. Put a Christian in the same lamentable condition, and you will never find resignation. Our strength is too great to suffer so meekly, and the only indignities we suffer are temporary. Whenever thoughts of the past weaken you, remember the strength our good Lord gave you, and know that He has not taken it away.”

 Aguilar felt a sharp pang of guilt. He came to the New World as a priest, but he did not know if he could still call himself a believer. His dreams were filled with all his most terrible memories—the torment of being adrift at sea in a leaky longboat, the agony of watching the Indians tear out the still-beating hearts of his countrymen, the revulsion of watching them feast on human flesh—and his faith had been shaken by the unrelenting onslaught.

“Father Aguilar, do you doubt Providence had a hand in our fates?” Cortés asked, his tone earnest and gentle. “How else would you have found me if not for His will? God guided us to Cozumel Island so that we could find you there. It is by God’s grace that you have learned the Indian tongue, and you can have faith that knowledge will be a boon to this blessed expedition.”

Aguilar tried to agree, but the words caught in his throat like a jagged bone. He swallowed. That only made the pain worse. “I fear God has not blessed me with a spirit as great as yours.”

Cortés stared at him askance. “Do you fear the Indians now?”

“Some of them.” He wanted to add that he feared any Indian he did not know, but he knew better than to be so honest.

Cortés shook his head. “I cannot have my translator balk at the mere sight of an Indian. Rest, my friend. We need you to be strong.”

Aguilar’s strength had left him years before, and he prayed that Cortés might lend him some. “I’ve never seen another Christian do what you have done.”

Cortés arched his brow.

“You traded and bargained with the Indians of Cozumel as if they were your own countrymen,” Aguilar said. “I lived with them for years and never had that. I know you don’t come to the New World for trade or sights; you have too many soldiers for that. But seeing how you... interacted with them, I would have never known you had anything but peaceable intentions.”

The corners of Cortés’ lips curved upwards as if pulled by tiny hooks. “The man who can wear only one face can only play one role.”

Aguilar wondered which face Cortés was currently wearing. “You intend to make conquest, don’t you?”

“I mean to find gold and have no thought but to serve God and king.”

Aguilar whispered, “I hope you do. I am at your service no matter the cause.”

Cortés unsheathed a knife and ran a whetstone along the edge. “Good.”

Aguilar fixed his gaze upon the crusty red ring that had collected near the knife guard. More likely Indian blood than Christian blood, but he knew it could be the latter. If the stories were to be believed, the captain was not one to shy from a duel. “Tell me of Spain,” Aguilar said.

“Gladly.” Cortés held up the knife to check its gleam. “Our home country fares well. His Excellency Don Carlos I is our king now, and he is heir to all the great monarchies in Europe. Germanic lands and Sicilian lands are his by birthright. There is talk of Europe being united the way it was during the time of the Romans.”

 Aguilar furrowed his brow. “Europe unified—under one power? Could it really happen?”

Cortés waved dismissively. “First Don Carlos would have to get all his subjects to call him the same name. He goes by Charles the Fifth in some lands, Karel in others. I will lose no sleep over it. I love Spain far more than I love Europe.”

Aguilar lowered his voice. “I hear the Moors mean to reclaim their holdings in Spain.”

Cortés’ face soured as if he had consumed curdled milk. “Our people will never have to fear the Moors again. They have learned their place and from now on, they will grovel before us.”

Aguilar said no more. He would save his other questions for other men. He could not risk earning the ire of his commander. He bid Cortés farewell and took his leave.

“Make acquaintance with the other translators,” Cortés called out. “They are Indian, but they will do you no harm. It is high time you stopped fearing the Indians.”

Or perhaps, Aguilar thought, it is time you learned to fear them.