For the Empire
WARNING: Depiction of mild violence.
“...though we sailed to bring the protection and light of civilization to the ends of the known world, I fear we were all happier in the dark. May God forgive me for forcing a blind man to see my light.” Pedro Pizarro, Conquistador and Settler for the Holly Spanish Empire.
*
Pedro Pizarro stormed the rebelling Peruvian village followed by 49 of his finest men. One was missing, the one dearest to his heart, and he prayed to the Archangels that the rumors were untrue.
Enough with the fighting, the dead. Enough with the guilt...
Leaving his vanguard fending off the rebellious natives, Pedro Pizarro went searching for a familiar face. He advanced with no opposition, through the corridor carved by his men. Further in, among the rammed wall huts with their cortege of goats, geese and chicks grazing carlesly on patches of grass, all was peaceful. It was as if he had stepped into a different world, one preserved in its traditions since the beginning of time.
Pedro came out into a clearing from between two shacks in an almost contemplative state. The glint of a menacing sword came at him faster than he could blink and quickly brought him to reality. He jumped back into the safety of the narrow alley, saving his big nose from a sudden encounter with a stinging edge.
“Leave this place, old man. Spanish swords are no longer welcomed here,” shouted a recognizable voice that spoke out of decorum.
“There you are, dear Diego. Have you deserted? Whatever quarrel you have with me, you are a Colonel of the Empire! There are no greater–”
“But there are! There are greater things than conquests for the king. But how would you know? Half your life you’ve kept your nose in books and the other half, saving it from being chopped off in battles.”
Pedro Pizarro looked behind his former officer, at the snow-powdered mountain peaks adorning the background. As humbling as they were, they carried riches in their bellies.
“What have you found to be greater here, with the Indios? Gold?”
“Shut your mouth, you old fool! All you ever talked about was glory and gold.”
“Diego Lopez, as daring and foul-mouthed as you ever were, even in my training squad.” Old Pedro took the rapier out of its sheath with a soft metallic hiss. It felt heavier than before, but there was no time for introspections. He came out running, forcing his former pupil onto the village green. His blood coursed backwards through his veins for raising his sword on a most beloved kin.
Diego fought back. He jumped or lunged in swift counterattacks, fueled by never-ending stamina while Pedro retaliated, a little slower every time. In their deadly frolics, they entered the courtyard of one of the homes, standing solitary, with a gaping mouth instead of a door. Pedro Pizarro felt overpowered but not yet outwitted. He retreated to the entrance of the hut, stopping when the hardwood of the door frame pressed against his armor.
Diego approached confidently, sealing him in place with the tip of his sword. He raised his strong arm high, casting a shadow over Pedro’s face. “I told you to leave!” In the blink of an eye, Diego’s sword came swishing through the air.
A sorrow-filled Pedro Pizarro moved out of its way, leaving the hilt to crash against the frame, where it got stuck. Diego’s eyes were agape, as he pulled desperately to free his weapon. With grace unmatched and speed unseen even for his old muscles, Pedro danced behind Diego and put his dagger against his neck. “On a lamb, a wolf’s clothes are easy to put on and easier to take off,” he said, but the young man was not listening.
A piercing screech rebounded off the mountain’s slopes from one in their line of sight. Diego remained fixated on it, turning livid. Eyes bulged-out, he mumbled something Pedro Pizarro couldn’t comprehend.
“What? What’s in the hut?” Pedro asked.
Diego would not answer him, not even grace him with a glance. Instead he began shifting from under the blade keeping him pinned. The young man reacted to the screech like a sailor heeding a siren call, willing to have his neck sliced so he would reach that hut. Stunned, Pedro Pizarro put his dagger away and released him from the hold, while following closely in his steps.
The men fighting had reached them but they ignored it all, Diego not leaving the hut out of his eyes, Pedro not leaving Diego’s shoulder out of his grip.
When they reached the house, Diego shrugged from under Pedro’s hold , and rushed for the home’s threshold. He fell to his knees, like a rock in a stream, and the little composure he held on was drowned in horror.
With an amalgam of curiosity and terror, Pedro squeezed by and went inside. A muffled cry drew his attention to a dead woman with dark skin and even darker hair, fallen against the furs hung on the wooden planks. Her eyes and mouth opened at death. Close to her chest, something made noise, stirring under a blanket.
Diego came crawling across the floor, looking more defeated than when he lost his sword. Tears got entangled in his quivering lips. His hands shaked as he reached to touch the woman’s face. The blanket fell from the bundle kept tight in her arms and from underneath it, the chubby, strained face of a baby stared back, crying.
The Conquistador’s straight stance became crooked under the guilt that came crashing against him in waves. Then he saw the only thing standing proud among them: a rapier buried in the woman’s back.
The Empire’s protection.
