Aztec Rage (44 page)

Long black hair, black flashing eyes, a black skirt and blouse, a black heart, and a disposition to match, she was perfect for what I wanted.

I raised my eyebrows. “Am I speaking to the Queen of Sheba? I could buy a mule with that kind of money.”

“You could buy two mules, but they have all been requisitioned for the war. So have most of my sister putas.” She tossed back her hair. “You are lucky to even find one willing to give you pleasure. I support the war effort by sleeping only with heroes and high-ranking officers.”

I lowered my voice. “Are you a patriot, Serena?”

“I am willing to die for Cádiz. Have you not heard of how women like María Agustine in Zaragoza have fought alongside men?”

“You need not die, but I have a mission for you of great importance.”

She stared at me, at my slightly unfamiliar clothes, which conveyed that I was not from Cádiz. She threw back her head. “Who are you to make such talk?”

Keeping my voice low, I told her, “I work for Colonel Ramírez, who is in charge of sorting out French spies. Do you know what we do with French spies when we catch them?”

“I know what I would do to them.” She pulled a wicked dagger from somewhere under her clothes. “I would cut out their guts and feed them to the dogs.”

I believed her. I could slip a knife between the ribs of that Inquisitor bastardo myself, but that would raise many questions, not to mention that the Inquisition would be out in force after my sorry hide. A better idea was unfolding in my mind and off my tongue.

“Serena, I am on the trail of a French spy who is posing as a priest.”

“A spy posing as a priest?” She crossed herself. “May the devil shit out his soul.”

“Sometime today or this evening, he will come in here. This is what we need to do to make sure he does not compromise our city's defenses . . .”

I sat in a dark corner of the inn, half-hidden behind the end of the bar, and watched the action. The inquisitor-priest had been inside for an hour, pouring a steady deluge of wine down his gullet. I noticed that none of the other priests appeared eager to socialize with him. He moved from one table to another as his drinking companions faded away. I easily understood the reaction of the priests: no one wanted to say something that might launch an investigation by the Holy Office of the Inquisition.

When Baltar had drunk enough wine to dull his senses, I signaled Serena. The puta sat down at the table and poured him a mug of wine. She leaned close and spoke in his ear. It didn't take long for her to convey the message I'd given her: As a patriot, she wanted to honor Fray Baltar the best way any woman could.

I waited a moment after they disappeared upstairs, then went up after them. I had rented adjoining rooms . . . at double the landlord's usual rate. I went into the vacant one, moved quickly across, opened the door to the balcony, and stuck my head out. The balcony to the room I had rented for the puta and Baltar was unoccupied. Grasping the iron rail, I slipped over my balcony and leaned across to get a handhold on the railing on the other balcony before I put my foot across. Nothing lay below but a dark alley filled with garbage thrown out the back of the inn or tossed from its windows: the stench of thousands of emptied chamber pots mixed with the smell of the rancid beef the innkeeper served.

I listened at the balcony door and heard the sound of a woman's screech and laughter. Then the stamp of feet toward the door.
Good girl!
I stepped to the side of the door as it burst open, and Serena flew out, naked and giggling. The priest came out after her. She ducked under him and started to slip by but he got a handhold on her hair.

“Buenas noches, amigo.” I grinned at him in the darkness.

He let go of her hair as if it was on fire. “What—Who—”

“It's me, your old friend from Chichén Itzá. You remember, the one you saved from the savages.”

Baltar squinted at me, trying to see my face in the darkness of the night. The puta flew inside as I stepped toward him, the light from the lamp in the room highlighting my features for him.

“I came by to thank you for what you did to Carlos.”

He was quick for a man with a belly full of wine. I don't know where the dagger came from, but it was suddenly in his hand as he lunged at me. I leaped back and twisted sideways as the blade snagged and tore my shirt.
I grabbed both his wrists, trying to keep the knife in his right hand away from my flesh and pushed him backward, jamming him against the wrought-iron railing. He was stronger than I realized, and he pushed me back against the wall. I let go of his left hand and hit him across the side of his head with my fist. I didn't get much power behind the punch or his head was hard, because my fist bounced. The next thing I knew, the hand I had let go of was a fist pummeling me. Still gripping his dagger hand, I bent my knees and pushed off from the wall behind me, shoving him toward the railing. He staggered back, hitting the railing with his big ass. I heard the crack of metal parting, felt him falling backward off the balcony when . . .
he grabbed my shirt and took me with him
.

I was flying, no, dropping like a rock. Someone screamed as we fell into the alley's darkness. I didn't know if it was me or the bastardo Inquisitor. Maybe both our souls were screeching in terror.

When I hit the ground, my breath whooshed out of me. For a long moment I was engulfed by a void, drowning in a sea of black ink. Some primordial instinct got me off the ground. Swaying on my feet, I stumbled over someone: the priest. I realized I had ridden him all the way down and that he had broken my fall. He didn't move when I stumbled against his prone body. I gave him a kick. Nothing.

“I hope your everlasting soul burns in the fire of hell,” I told the body.

I appeared in Colonel Ramírez's office at the appointed time the next morning, sore and aching from my fall but with what I hoped was a look of eager anticipation at the prospect of being sent on a mission that I would probably not survive.

“I have terrible news, Carlos. Your amigo, the priest who saved your life in New Spain, had a terrible accident.”

“An accident, señor?”

“He fell from a balcony at an inn. He may die.”

“He's not dead?”

“I can see from your reaction that you are shocked by the news. No, he is not dead but is not expected to live out the day.”

“I should hope not.”

“Señor?”

“I mean, because of his injuries, I don't want my friend to suffer.”

“Yes, I can understand that you will mourn your friend, after he saved you from that host of savages. I regret that I can't let you race to his bedside. A fishing boat awaits you and must sail with the tide.” The colonel came around and patted my shoulder. “Do not worry, Carlos. Fray Baltar is unconscious and would not know you were at his bedside. When he passes, I will see to it that he gets the funeral he deserves.”

I crossed myself. “May God send his soul to the place he deserves so well.”

I left his office and was crossing the anteroom when the colonel came out his doorway and called after me.

“I forgot to tell you. There will be a surprise waiting for you in Barcelonia.”

¡Ay de mí!

FIFTY-NINE

T
HE
SEA CAT
was the name of the fishing boat. It was also a phrase used to describe Catalán sailors: gatos del mar—cats of the sea.

As I approached, a woman standing at the bow lifted her skirt to expose her naked private parts to the sea. One of the sailors, repairing a net on the dock, grinned at my reaction. “The captain's woman. It is bad luck to have a woman on a voyage, but the sea loves women. It calms the waters and makes for a good voyage when a woman gives the sea a glimpse of her privates.”

“Let's pray that his wife has calmed the sea for us,” I said.

“She's not his wife but his Cádiz girlfriend. His wife in Barcelona will calm the sea for the return trip.”

The captain sounded liked my kind of hombre.

I stayed out of the way while the captain and his three-man crew got us underway. The sailor I spoke to on the dock stayed behind. I had taken his place: his bunk, clothes, identification papers, everything. He was chosen because he was the closest to my own height.

There were times when I wondered what Carlos would want me to do. Had he lived, he would have returned to Spain and joined a guerrilla band. That is a certainty. I owed him my very life, though some people would say that my miserable life was not worth much. But I could not whip myself into a passion about this war. My survival instincts and anger over Spanish insults and assaults on my life had left me a lone wolf.

I was frowning about the cruel way the world had treated me when a voice beside me said, “They've all invaded Spain before.” It was the captain.

“Who has invaded her?”

“The Phoenicians, Greeks, Carthaginians, Romans, barbaric hordes, Moors, and now the French. The peninsula has seen one invasion after another for thousands of years. But we have always shown our strength against the dark forces that try to enslave us.”

“History is rife,” I said, “with wars of conquest.”

“My apologies, señor, but I saw on your face that you were thinking about the fate of our great nation. In our case, history will record the conqueror's
defeat. Do not fear, these French are just another invader whom we shall defeat because we are a strong people. No other nation has repelled so many invaders, so many who thought they could break us to their will.”

He described for me the situation in Catalonia, from Barcelona, which the French controlled only because the Spanish government had let them occupy a fortress in the heart of the city, to the guerrilla fighters the Catalonians called somaténs, who made life hell for the French in the countryside. Barcelona had one hundred fifty thousand people, about the same population as Méjico City.

The captain spoke to me in Catalán, and the more he spoke, the more the language came back to me.

“For freedom fighters like Mílans del Bosch,” the captain said, “somaténs is also a battle cry. And not just for our guerrillas, who are fighting and winning. We have army units that are beating the French. The French general in command of Catalonia recently left the city with an army but was harassed, defeated, and chased into hiding back behind the thick walls of his fortress in Barcelona with his tail between his legs.”

I learned that Napoleon kept increasing troop numbers to smash the guerrillas, but it was useless. “Most of Catalonia is in the hands of our people,” he said.

Listening to him and others talk about the war and about the history of his nation, I was struck by how better informed the people of Spain were than those in the colony. Other than well-read thinkers like Padre Hidalgo, Raquel, and Marina, most people in the colony have the misconception that all of Europe is under the dominion of Spain and that the French emperor is an upstart challenging Spanish rule. England, France, Italy, Holland, Germany—these and the other countries of Europe are just paltry states or provinces for which the king of Spain appoints governors to rule. No doubt such thinking harkens back to the days when Spain cast a giant shadow in Europe.

As night fell, I spotted a white sail for a moment on the horizon. It quickly sank out of sight. “It's not French, is it?” I asked a seaman.

He shook his head. “No, it looked like a Spanish galleon to me. We spot it sometimes, usually on moonless nights. It carries the souls of the dead that have been rejected in heaven and hell. They have offended God with their arrogance and the devil with their refusal to fear eternal damnation. It's mastered by a captain who once commanded a ship in the slave trade. You can hear him sometimes, cracking his whip. You can hear the scream of the souls.”

Eh, just what I needed, a tale of retribution, tortured souls, and eternal punishment. Was that my fate? Was I to find the doors of both heaven and hell closed to me because I had offended God
and
the devil?

SIXTY