War God (24 page)

Now, whether he liked it or not, he was into a full-fledged confrontation. Alonso put two fingers to his mouth, gave a piercing whistle, and five more men in bloody aprons made their way forward through the curtains of hanging carcasses.

Seeing they all carried cleavers and carving knives, Díaz glanced back over his shoulder to the door. He’d been given twenty men to move the meat and livestock. But he preferred persuasion to force so he’d left them outside and come in alone with the money.

Foolish hope!

‘La Serna,’ he yelled at the top of his voice, ‘Mibiercas! At the double, please!’

‘Look, for goodness’ sake please accept the money.’ Although it was Alonso and his five assistants who’d been trussed up, bruised and dishevelled on the floor, by Díaz’s soldiers, it was somehow Díaz who was pleading.

‘It’s not enough,’ said Alonso with conviction. ‘Even if this were a legal purchase, three hundred pesos is a joke. I’ll need at least fifteen hundred pesos to cover my costs and lost business.’

‘Then take the three hundred and I’ll write you a promissory note for the other twelve hundred. Don Hernando Cortés himself will cash it.’

‘Tonight?’

‘Yes. This very night. Come to the harbour within the hour and you’ll be paid.’

The men were released, quill, ink and paper were found, and Díaz wrote a note for one thousand two hundred pesos, payable by Cortés.

‘Come soon,’ Díaz told Alonso. ‘We’ll not wait for morning to sail.’

He left the slaughterhouse with his men, and began a forced march back to the harbour with two wagonloads of fresh and preserved meats and close to two hundred sheep, pigs and cattle on the hoof.

He didn’t know whether he’d done well or not and could only hope Cortés would be pleased.

‘I must take you into my confidence,’ Cortés had told Gonzalo de Sandoval. ‘I trust I shall not regret doing so.’

The man’s charisma and charm were infectious and Sandoval was looking for adventure. ‘You’ll not regret it,’ he’d said.

The upshot was that he now knew much more about how things stood between Cortés and the governor than he wanted to, understood very clearly that what was happening tonight was indeed a coup against Velázquez, and had still allowed himself to be soft-talked by Cortés into participating.

Dear God! What was he thinking? He was taking the first step in what he’d always imagined would be an illustrious and honourable career, and he was quite likely to end up being hanged, drawn and quartered for it! For a moment Sandoval considered resigning his commission but immediately dismissed the idea from his mind. Whether or not he now regretted it, the fact was he’d given his word to Cortés, and a gentleman does not take his word back.

A scout had found the place, closer to the harbour than the city, where a squad of Velázquez’s palace guards lay in waiting. Cortés had not told Sandoval who they intended to ambush, only that there were twelve of them and that they were a threat to his plan – entrusted to Bernal Díaz – to supply the fleet with meat and live animals from the slaughterhouse. So much traffic on the road late at night was bound to arouse suspicion, and the guards couldn’t be permitted to disrupt the operation in any way, so Cortés had asked Sandoval to deal with them.

‘Deal with them, Don Hernando?’

‘We’re going to the New Lands to do God’s work,’ Cortés had said with a fierce light in his eyes, ‘so I want those guardsmen off the road fast and no longer threatening our meat supply – or our departure. Try to persuade them to join us. I’d prefer that. Bribe them – a few gold pesos can make all the difference. But if none of that works, then disarm them and tie them up – I’ll leave the details to you. They may put up a fight. Kill the lot of them if you have to. I won’t shed any tears.’

‘Will you be giving me men who’ll be prepared to kill fellow Spaniards … if we have to?’ Sandoval had asked, the question sticking in his gullet. He’d been through military academy in his youth, when his family still had money and position. He’d trained with the broadsword, the longsword and the cavalry sabre, he was judged a skilful horseman and had won top honours in the joust, but he’d never killed anyone before – let alone a Spaniard.

‘I’m giving you twenty-five of my best men,’ Cortés had replied. ‘They’ll kill anyone you tell them to kill.’

‘What if we’re caught? Taken prisoner? Arrested?’

‘Then I’ll protect you,’ said Cortés, looking him straight in the eye. ‘You have my promise.’

Wondering again what fatal enchantment had led him to agree to such a risky venture, Sandoval looked back at his twenty-five men. They marched silently, in good order, keeping a square of five ranks of five.

Their sergeant, the only one he’d talked to so far, was García Brabo, a lean grey-haired Extremeno with a hooked nose and a permanently sour expression, but the man you’d want beside you in a fight, Cortés had said. All the others looked like hardened killers too. Ferocious, stinking, hungry predators in filthy clothes, they wore strange combinations of scratched and battered plate and chain mail, and equally scratched and battered helmets, but were armed with Toledo broadswords and daggers of higher quality than their dress and general deportment would suggest. Many had shields – mostly bucklers, but also some of the larger, heart-shaped Moorish shields called
adarga
. Many carried additional weapons – halberds, lances, battle-axes, hatchets, war-hammers, maces, clubs. Five had crossbows and five were armed with arquebuses, the slow and cumbersome muskets that everyone was now raving about.

All in all, Sandoval thought, they were a formidable squad, his twenty-five, and he was stunned, amazed and perplexed not only that Cortés had given him command of them in the first place, but also that they had so far obeyed him without question. The fact that he had no experience – unlike them – of killing men made him feel like a fraud. Worse still, he’d never even been in a skirmish before, let alone a proper battle against trained troops like the governor’s palace guard.

He prayed silently it would not come to that, but if it did he prayed he would not prove himself a coward.

Esteban, the wiry little scout, held up a warning hand, and Sandoval felt fear grip his belly like a fist. Reasons not to continue with this mad venture began to parade through his mind.

The plain truth was the moon was against them, two days away from full, shining brilliantly in a cloudless, tropical sky, flooding the winding road and the surrounding slopes with light. In an ideal world they would wait until after moonset to make the attack, but tonight that wasn’t an option. The guards had to be dealt with before the meat and livestock could be brought from the slaughterhouse and the fleet must sail at two o’clock in the morning. These were the facts, this was the emergency, and he was going to have to handle it frighteningly soon.

Loping along thirty paces ahead of the rest of the squad, Esteban reached a sharp bend where the road wound about a tall outcrop of rock. He stopped, crouched, peered round the corner and waved his hand urgently behind him, signalling to Sandoval to bring the men to a halt.

‘If I may suggest, sir,’ whispered García Brabo, his breath reeking of garlic, ‘you might think of going forward and striking up a conversation with the officer in charge of those guards. Likely he’ll be the same class of gentleman as yourself.’

‘A conversation …’

‘That’s right, sir. Bright young ensign newly out from Spain, making his way to Santiago, would naturally stop to pass the time of night. All very innocent and above board. Just keep him talking as long as you can. While you do that, me and half the men will have a go at climbing this lot.’ He pointed to the rocky outcrop rearing above them. ‘The scout says he knows a way over the top of it so we can get round behind them. I’ll leave Domingo’ – he gestured to another bearded ruffian – ‘in charge of the rest and we’ll come at them from both sides.’

‘It should put the fear of God in them when they see our numbers,’ said Sandoval, sounding, he thought, more enthusiastic than he felt. His palms were damp, his bowels were in a knot and his heart was thudding irregularly. Funny that – how you never really knew you had a heart until a time like this.

‘With a bit of luck we won’t have to fight at all,’ Brabo said. He cupped his hands to his mouth and emitted a sound remarkably like the call of one of the local night birds. ‘I’ll do that three times when we’re in place behind them,’ he said, ‘loudly enough for Domingo to hear as well, then we’ll move in at the double – all subject to your agreement, of course, sir.’

Sandoval felt uneasy, but Brabo’s plan sounded more likely to succeed than simply charging round the corner
en masse
, which was the only other strategy that came to mind.
Dear God
! This was actually happening. He was in it up to his neck and there was no way out now. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘let’s get on with it.’

‘Halt! Who goes there?’

‘Ensign Gonzalo de Sandoval, off duty from the fleet and on his way to Santiago for some entertainment.’

‘Come forward then.’

Clearly visible in the moonlight, the guards had taken up position about two hundred paces ahead – twelve big men, all decked out in their ostentatious formal uniforms despite the night’s heat. They’d made no attempt to hide but sat in plain view, occupying a little clearing on sloping, lightly forested ground overlooking the road. If this was an ambush, Sandoval thought, it was a very strange one.

He didn’t hurry to cover the two hundred paces. Every second he could delay here gave more time for Brabo to climb the outcrop and get round behind them. But the guardsmen were instantly suspicious. ‘Don’t dawdle!’ yelled their officer, leaping to his feet. There was a rattle of swords and armour as all the others stood too, and quite suddenly the atmosphere of the encounter turned sinister.

Overcoming an overwhelming urge to turn tail and run, Sandoval stepped forward briskly. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘The sight of so many armed men unnerved me.’

‘If your business is legitimate you have nothing to fear …’

‘My business is at the Moor’s Head,’ Sandoval said, naming a famous tavern in Santiago’s red light district. He was close enough now to see the three gold roundels blazoned on the cuirass of the clean-shaven middle-aged officer doing the talking. A colonel. Surprisingly high rank to be leading such a small squad. There was something familiar about him and, as he entered the clearing, Sandoval recognised the tall, upright, square-shouldered, self-important stance, and the malicious, mean-spirited features of Francisco Motrico, commander of the palace guard, yet another of the governor’s many cousins to have found high office.

A Velázquez loyalist to the core.

Sandoval had been in Cuba less than three weeks, and in that time he had visited the governor’s palace only twice, but he already knew enough about the way things worked here to realise it was pointless to try to bribe or recruit this man. Judging from the stony expressions of the rest of his squad, all mature, hard-eyed soldiers, there’d be no compromise with them either.

Quite possibly they were all related to Velázquez!

‘So you’re with the governor’s fleet,’ said Motrico gruffly. ‘Which vessel? Which commander?’

‘
Santa María de la Concepción
,’ Sandoval replied without thinking, ‘the captain-general’s vessel.’

There was a peculiar shuffling and exchange of glances amongst the guards, one of them sniggered and Motrico said ‘detain him’ in a tone so soft and conversational that Sandoval didn’t fully understand it referred to him until two guardsmen twisted his arms behind his back, forced his head and neck down, removed his sword and frogmarched him over to the colonel.

‘What’s this about?’ Sandoval protested. His heart was now jumping so fast it threatened to burst forth from his chest. His mouth felt dry, his bladder was painfully full and his whole body was suddenly drenched with sweat. ‘By what authority do you detain me?’

‘By the authority of the governor of Cuba and the Crown of Spain. Orders have been given for the arrest of Don Hernando Cortés. We’re here to carry them out.’

‘Well, don’t let me delay you, please.’ Sandoval’s mind raced: ‘I want no part of this. I’m on my way to Santiago for a few drinks and a girl.’

‘You’re a filthy spy for Cortés,’ snarled Motrico.

‘I’m no such thing,’ protested Sandoval. ‘If I was, why would I tell you I’m sailing with him?’

‘You are what I say you are, and I say you’re Cortés’s spy.’ The colonel bit his lower lip and the moonlight revealed an uncompromising glint in his eye. ‘Under normal circumstances I’d just detain you, take you back to the palace and find out more about you, but unfortunately for you these aren’t normal circumstances. All my men are required for tonight’s purpose, I don’t have the people to guard you or even a rope to bind you, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to execute you.’

The statement was so out of proportion, so shocking and so sudden that once again Sandoval only grasped its significance after the two guardsmen at his shoulders shoved and kicked him down to his knees. While one stayed behind him, trapping his arms, the other stepped round in front of him, took a tight grip on his hair, pulled his head violently forward and exposed his neck.