War God (14 page)

Zemudio inclined his head and the glob of horse blood from the tip of the rapier missed his eyes and spattered across his cheek and ear.

‘Didn’t think you’d fall for that old trick,’ Alvarado said.
But I’d still prefer to fight you with blood in your eyes.
He was slowly circling; the rapier was angled slightly up. Now suddenly, with a huge explosion of breath, he threw himself into a lunge, right knee bent, left leg fully extended, surging forward with tremendous power, his whole weight behind the blade, driving its tip like an awl through Zemudio’s light upper body-armour to finish the fight right here, right now …

Except …

… Zemudio rolled his wrist and the heavy falchion battered the flimsy rapier aside – a surprisingly fast and agile parry. It looked as though he would follow through at once with a thrust to the belly, and Alvarado was already moving to block and counterstrike when Zemudio surprised him again. Instead of the obvious thrust, he swept the falchion down, trapped the rapier against his own right thigh where the steel plates in the lining of his breeches protected him from its edge, took a huge stride forward with his left foot and clamped his massive left hand –
God’s death, how could this be happening?
– into the thick hair at the back of Alvarado’s head. It was all done so fast, with such enormous strength and flowing momentum, and was so unlooked-for a piece of artistry from this ox of a man, that Alvarado found himself spread-eagled, bent over Zemudio’s left knee, his head jerked hard back by the hair like a lamb to the slaughter and the big blade of the falchion searing through the air towards him, chopping down on his exposed throat.

The blow came in spectacularly fast, but Alvarado caught hold of Zemudio’s massive, strangely hairless arm with his left hand, stopping the blade a finger’s-width from his windpipe. The champion was so sure of himself that he was no longer blocking the rapier, perhaps because it was too long to be a threat at such close range. But Alvarado wasn’t thinking about the blade. The heavy hilt embedded in its guard of interlaced steel rings was also a weapon and he smashed it viciously backwards into Zemudio’s groin.

Clunk! It felt as though he’d hit a fork in a tree, not a man, but – ‘Ooof!’ – it forced a human enough grunt out of Zemudio, making him double over and release his grip on Alvarado’s hair. Any normal man would then have obliged by staying doubled over, mewling with pain, gasping for breath and easy to kill. Not so this monster, who straightened at once, his face expressionless, and came right back swirling the falchion. Alvarado scrambled for balance and stumbled. It was an undignified moment, but somehow, more by accident than design, he succeeded in hacking his blade across Zemudio’s right shin and deep into his calf between his breeches and the top of his boots.

The counterstrike came too fast to parry with the rapier, or block with his left, but Alvarado was an accomplished gymnast and threw himself into a desperate backflip. He landed on his feet, heart soaring as he thought he’d made it, then felt an explosion of savage pain as the big blade of the falchion connected with his left forearm like an axe biting into a tree. Only after he’d skipped sharply back five paces, keeping Zemudio at a safe distance with the tip of the rapier, could Alvarado confirm that his left hand was still attached to the end of his arm. A livid welt had appeared a span above the wrist and his fingers were numb from the shock of the blow, which must have come from the thick heavy back of the falchion. As he circled Zemudio again he tried to make a fist and found he could not. Annoyingly, it seemed his left arm was broken.

The champion bared his big yellow teeth and nodded at the injured limb. ‘Does that hurt, pretty boy? Fetched you a fair knock, didn’t I?’

‘Hmm. Yes. Can’t deny it.’ Alvarado cast a glance at Zemudio’s leg, rivulets of blood welling from the wound and spattering over his heavy boots, leaving thick wet drops in the dust. ‘But first blood to me, I think.’

Zemudio made a gesture of acknowledgement in a way that said it meant nothing to him. ‘I’ve killed seventeen men in single combat. Sometimes they blood me first, sometimes I blood them first. Makes no difference in the end. They always die.’

Alvarado took care not to let the agony he felt in his arm show on his face. ‘That’s quite a pile of bones you’ve left behind you,’ he said. But what he was thinking was:
Seventeen! Shit!
He was genuinely impressed. Other than the Taino Indians of Hispaniola and Cuba, whom he’d slaughtered in quantities so huge he’d long since lost count of the total, he’d fought nine real duels with white men – six Spaniards, a Genoese, a German and a very tricky Russian – and killed them all.

Of course Zemudio’s boast of near twice that total might not be true; he was a bit of an unknown quantity having never before fought a bout in the islands. But he’d brought a big reputation with him from Italy, and Alvarado had seen enough to believe he’d earned it. Zemudio was a clever, experienced, skilful warrior, and not by any means the stupid, overconfident thug he appeared to be.

As he and Zemudio circled, neither yet ready to commit to a renewed attack, the agonising pain in Alvarado’s left arm, and its floppy, useless weakness, kept nagging at his attention like an anxious wife.

He felt no fear. He had heard this emotion described and he had often observed its effects on others, but he had never known it himself and he did not know it now.

Still, he was a practical man, and the odds in the fight had turned against him the moment his arm was broken. It was even possible – though unlikely – that he would be defeated, in which case Zemudio would carve him up with the falchion like a butcher dressing a pig.

As he grappled with this repellent image, a strategy that he knew Cortés would approve of began to take shape in Alvarado’s mind. ‘Hey, Zemudio,’ he said, looking along the blade of the rapier, ‘what’s Velázquez paying you?’

The champion frowned: ‘None of your concern.’

‘Two hundred pesos a year plus bed and board?’ guessed Alvarado. ‘Three hundred at the most?’

He could see immediately from the other man’s eyes that it was less. Much less. ‘Oh dear … A hundred? Is it just a hundred? A fighter of your skills and talents and the richest man in Cuba pays you just a hundred a year?’ A pause – as though it were a sudden insight or intuition, a completely new idea, then: ‘Come and work for me instead! I’ll pay you five hundred a year plus bed and board and you’ll share in the booty we take in the New Lands. You’ll be a rich man if the expedition goes well. What do you say?’

‘I say you’re all piss and farts, pretty boy.’ Zemudio lashed out with the falchion, forcing Alvarado to jump back. ‘I say you’re a coward trying to buy me off because you know you’re beaten …’

‘Of course you say that. What else would a swine say when pearls are strewn at its feet?’ As he spoke Alvarado stepped in, making a series of exploratory lunges, trying to feel his way past the whirling falchion, failing to make a hit but adjusting his own style more closely to the other man’s technique. There were certain repeated patterns and sequences that seemed strangely familiar and just as he thought,
Maybe I can turn those to my advantage
,
he remembered exactly where and when he’d seen this weird swirling, rotating-blade style before.

Zurich in the year of ’02 at the school of Feichtsmeister Hans Talhoffer.

Alvarado had spent three months there as a visiting student at the age of seventeen – the time when his own abiding interest in swords and swordsmanship was beginning to take form. One of the classes he’d been obliged to attend had been in falchion combat – except the Swiss called the falchion a
messer
– and it was in this class that he’d seen defence sequences in the style Zemudio was now deploying against him.

A class in which every fight was a weird sort of dance.

Alvarado recalled despising the
messer
as a peasant’s weapon, more suited to felling trees than combat, and had scorned the flowing, paradoxically dainty moves it was put to in the Talhoffer style.

But that had been in training sessions.

It was quite a different matter to be at the receiving end in a real fight when a giant has one hand in your hair, a long blade as heavy as an axe in the other, and is about to take your head.

Still they circled, flexible rapier and rigid falchion clashing with a song of steel, the rapier sinuously bending, seeming almost to caress and wrap itself around the bigger weapon. Alvarado’s attention stayed locked on Zemudio, trying to second-guess his next move, but part of him noticed this new, unexpected, in some way feminine and seductive quality of the Nuñez blade and he thought,
Hmmm … Interesting
.

The blood had not stopped guttering from Zemudio’s leg and lay in damp trails and widening puddles all around them. Was he slowing down, just a little? Was he close to bleeding out? Alvarado was just beginning to think,
Maybe yes
, when he saw the faintest hint of a glitter in those shuttered-off brown eyes, and in complete silence the champion attacked him again, all momentum and mass like a charging bull, the falchion slicing blurred figures of eight out of the air in front of him.

Alvarado didn’t hesitate. Shutting his attention off completely from the new burst of agony in his broken arm, he threw himself headlong against the raw force of the other man’s onslaught, meeting him blade for blade, advancing on him in a series of mighty lunges, aggressively crowding him, forcing him to retreat until Zemudio abruptly broke off the engagement and they were circling at swordpoint once again, each more wary and focussed than before, each seeking out the gaps, testing the weaknesses in the other’s defences.

‘You’re good with that little pricker of yours,’ said Zemudio with a grudging nod at the rapier.

‘If I can’t talk sense into you, I’m going to have to kill you with it,’ said Alvarado. ‘You’ll leave me no choice.’

‘Because of what’s in here?’ Zemudio tapped the leather satchel hanging at his side.

Because you’re an ugly piece of shit
, Alvarado thought.
Do I need any other reason?
But he said: ‘You’re carrying orders from Velázquez for Narváez. I don’t want Narváez to get those orders. Why don’t you just hand them over to me now? Join me? I’ll make you a rich man.’

Zemudio laughed, and it was a peculiar, squeaky, high-pitched giggle. ‘Señor Alvarado,’ he said, ‘you must think me a fool.’

‘I do think you’re a fool. Who else but a fool would die for Velázquez for a hundred pesos a year?’

Zemudio had lost so much blood from his leg that his swarthy complexion was turning pale and his skin had a waxy sheen.
All I need do is keep walking round him a little longer
and he’ll drop where he stands
, Alvarado thought, and simultaneously the champion staggered. It was an almost imperceptible misstep, and well hidden, but Alvarado saw it.

It was obvious Zemudio would want to end the fight fast, with some killer blow, before he bled out. That was why he was talking again now, some nonsense about being a man of honour, about his master entrusting him with this and that, blah, blah, blah, spinning distractions. But Alvarado wasn’t listening. Hit them before they hit you was his simple motto, so he slammed in his own attack first, felt the falchion block the rapier as he’d expected, felt the rapier come alive in his hand as it whipped partially round the big heavy blade, sensed the moment he’d planned arrive.

He dipped his wrist.

Now!

Hernán Cortés stretched and yawned in the hammock he’d slung across a corner of the long, narrow cabin that was laughably still referred to by the crew as his stateroom.

His boots lay on the bare boards of the floor where they’d fallen as he’d thrown them off. Beside them was a heavy, triple-locked sea chest. His selection of richly embroidered jerkins and capes, some decorated with gold and silver thread, the best embellished with pearls, hung suspended in a makeshift cupboard alongside hose, codpieces and brocade shirts. His purple doublet was folded over the back of a chair together with his thick gold chain and its medallion of Saint Peter holding the keys of heaven.

The cabin’s single porthole was open to admit the stink of the harbour as well as a splash of sunlight and a cooling late afternoon breeze.

To the right of the porthole, fixed to the wall and somewhat in shadow, was a large wooden crucifix on which a pale-skinned Christ, one-third life size, writhed in pain, the crown of thorns lacerating his bloody brow, iron nails transfixing his bloody palms and feet.

Positioned directly beneath the porthole, where the light was best, stood a heavy oak table. Those parts of its surface that were visible were scuffed and deeply scored with knife cuts, burnt in places and smeared with dried candlewax, but mostly it was covered with maps and nautical charts pinned down under navigational instruments – a compass, a mariner’s astrolabe, a quadrant, a nocturnal and a glittering armillary sphere.