El Lugar de Angustia

El lugar de angustia, the place of anguish. Puddles of mud splurted as crickets chirped into the dense swamps of the jungle. Maggots feeding on old corpses of Spaniards whose bones had charred and soaked into the mask of the sunlight that poured its shine upon what had been flesh and bone. They had dared to enter the jungle to hunt down Aztec rebels. Eager and ready to hunt down villages to find the promised land of gold. Only to find their lives cut short by the heat and the gigantic crocodiles that lurked beneath the green swamps.

Rafael shuddered at the thought of those men who had been sacrificed to the Aztec Gods. The place where corrupt governors of Spanish Mexico sent the worst of their recruits whenever a report was sent from Madrid. Rafael spat out the stick he'd chewed upon. Blood spurted from his throat, shaking as he regained his composure. He sat down on the wooden stump as the smell of rotten capybara meat was being cooked. His men coughed in the tents near the marshy swamp. Frustrated men fed up with the stink of the dead corpses surrounding the camp, and the hot mosquitoes that infiltrated their clothes and armour.

The freshwater lake had been poisoned by the rebels. Rafael had discovered that the water tasted foul in his mouth. A dead capybara. That had been the only source of water they had left. The humid heat had taken the toll out of him ever since he'd been freed from Valencia. He remembered the smell of burning flesh as the Inquisition burned Elena, his wife, among the gathered innocents. Her screams echoed with her name in his ears across the square while Father Mendoza stood by, eyes cold and unmoved by mercy. Rafael, chained in the dungeon, had heard the cries of his name being pounded into his ears at the torture rack.

Father Mendoza had declared him unfit to live in society, but had spared his life. Reasons that he never understood. His men had fared no better, being crack recruits from the prisons of Cadiz. They had barely been given a week's training before they had been shipped off to the New World. In exchange for freedom, Rafael had been tasked with one purpose: to rid the lands of Mexico of the Chichimec, who were brutal in warfare, and of the Aztec rebels who had been hunting Spaniards like jaguars hunting for sport. The truth had been simpler; they were cannon fodder. Men sent to die for nothing. To be written on the ledgers as some soldiers entering into a place and simply being erased from the history books.

Twenty men had now been reduced to seven. And the corpses around the camp had turned dark, purple. The men had been having dreams of the undead corpses walking around at night. Angry, demanding to come back to life. Those nightmares had terrified everyone. Rafael shuddered.

His lieutenant, Morisso, grabbed the last bottle of wine they had from the main tent. Uncorking it, he poured it into a cup. The cup hadn't been clean for weeks. Even the cook had died due to the harsh desert of Mexico. He grabbed the cup and hurried forward. Rafael grabbed it, thirsty. The wine's sugar made him spit it out. He needed water. Not wine. If only Jesus were here and could turn this damn wine into water.

Rafael drew a slow breath, breathing softly, staring at the ants in the mud crawling around his stump. "You know what the worst thing about being sent here, Morisso?"

Morisso dragged his nails across sweaty skin, beneath his cuirass, wincing. The morion followed, rocking to the ground. The breastplate clattered onto the mud. "What is it, Captain?"

Rafael chuckled harshly. "The worst thing is knowing you've been sent to die for nothing and that your death, mine," he swept his hand to the men in the camp, sleeping or resting. "will have been for nothing. And Spain won't care."

Morisso nodded and made the sign of the Cross, fingers trembling from the confidence that had evaporated ever since his foot had touched the first shrub of the jungle. Whether it trembled from faith or fever, even he couldn't tell.

Rafael's smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "You're Catholic or Protestant? Or God forbid, Lutheran? They think Heaven's a book-keeping exercise."

"I'm a Christian," Morisso replied quietly. "From Cordoba."

Rafael's eyes sharpened. "Cordoba?" He asked and folded his hands together, leaning forward slightly. "I thought your kind were driven out."

"Some of us," Morisso answered. "But I didn't come here to serve Spain."

The jungle buzzed with the sound of flies and hornets whipping into the air. Rafael stared at a fly buzzing around his leg and smacked it. "You don't belong here, son."

"I know I'm a Moor," Morisso gave a humourless smile. "They've never hid that fact."

Rafael shrugged. "I don't blame them. But you picked the wrong kingdom to come back to. Why?"

Morisso nodded. "My heritage is Moorish." He said, looking around. "But I didn't come back for Spain."

"Then who?"

Morisso stared at the mud, then looked back at Rafael. "I came for her." He continued. "Taken. Sold by bastard mercenaries from Italy. I tracked them as far as Lisbon. I received word she's here in the New World. I loved her, Captain. I used to remember her, in the Gardens of Cordoba, singing to the birds. That’s what I loved about her the most…" his voice softened.

Rafael closed his eyes briefly. He knew the kind of men Spain sent to places like this. From the lower dregs of Spanish society. It would have been worse if it had been Barbary pirates. "Forget her. If she's here, then God's already taken her, or something worse has."

He lifted an arm and pointed toward the corpse, half sunken in the mud and water. Antonio, the Italian from Genoa. Boastful beyond arrogance. What was left of him lay spread across the river. His skull lay exposed, picked clean in places. Beetles and centipedes burrowed through what remained of his flesh. An eye socket torn out by the blue birds that circled above. His lips had been ripped away, black vultures having done their work entirely. The lower half of his body had been feasted upon by crocodiles.

Rafael didn't look away. This was war with nature itself. "Antonio never liked you know? Said you crawled out of Hell itself." He sighed. "No one came for him." His voice hardened. "It wasn't God, or Spain that came to save him."

Rafael rubbed his thumbs, glancing back at Morisso. "You think this place of Anguish spares anyone?" His arm had been stuck out in the air. A crocodile had torn him in half, and no one had come to save him. Antonio was not a pleasant man. He had never been. He had raped his way through village after village, sickening everyone. "You think the jungle spares any human? Aztecs will split your skull open. The Chichimeca will take your scalp before you even scream."

Rafael rubbed his temples. "And you were sent to the shores of the New World, not knowing your fate. Well," he shrugged. "Don't count on God smiling upon you here."

Morisso turned his head to see a soldier scowl at him, muttering to himself how a Moor would never be one of them. "Spain is not a country that I would serve."

Rafael glared back. "And the Ottomans? Would you serve them?"

Morisso grabbed a fistful of mud and threw it to the ground. His voice was low with venom. "I wish to be free."

Rafael chuckled. "Being free isn't an option here, lad. None of us is free." Morisso had no answer. Spain did not send soldiers to places like this until it wanted to get rid of the undesirables. It had sent men like Rafael and much worse.

Rafael smirked, shaking his head. "Of course you don't," He wiped the sweat emerging from his brow. "We're not soldiers of the King, Morisso. That went sideways a long time ago. We're thieves, looters. All we came here for was the promise of Gold. We're men they don't mind losing."

His gaze drifted toward the crocodile's eyes that had watched him for days near Antonio, half submerged in the murky water. Rafael wondered if those great beasts even possessed souls, or if they were soulless as one of Satan's spawn. They were fierce creatures. The crocodile stared back, almost grinning. It had never blinked. Something in him wondered if God had sent him to be punished. One day, he would act on it. Kill the beast or be killed. It would send him straight to hell, and it would not have left him with an ounce of regret. He didn't deserve forgiveness. "Those rebels out there," He said. "I'm not sure they deserve what's coming to them."

"Your kind didn't deserve to be kicked out either," Rafael said. "What did you want to become, Morisso? Have you ever had dreams?"

Morisso looked down again at the mud, his hand letting an ant crawl upwards as he stared at it. "There was never a place in Spain for me, Captain. I wanted to go to Istanbul to become a painter at the Sultan's Court. I think... I would have belonged there more than anywhere."

Rafael's jaw tightened. The cold calculation of ministers in the King's court feasted on chicken and potatoes while his men starved in a jungle with no support. No reinforcements that had been promised from New Mexico. Then he moved suddenly, grabbing Morisso by the shirt and pulling him closer. "Spain sends boys like you to die in places like this for what?"

He shook his head, his grip never loosening. "Wars that meant nothing to you. Lands you've never seen before you bleed in them. I've seen grown men cry out for their mothers on the battlefield of Flanders. Grown men. Look at me, Morisso."

Morisso swallowed.

Rafael's face flickered with regret, etched into his mind. "I'm not a soldier, I'm a criminal." He breathed deeply. "I stood and did nothing while my wife was burnt at the stake." Silence pressed in, harder. Shame had gnawed at him for weeks after the burning. A coward unable to save his wife. He had hated himself for that very day. "I watched my family die in the gutters of Valencia. By the orders of Father Mendoza. A man whom I had trusted." His eyes narrowed further. "No child should ever live to see that. Is this the kind of man you want to follow?"

Morisso stared back and then felt the grip loosen. "So what is it worth then? Men are killers, Captain. That's all we are."

Rafael studied him for a moment, knowing the truth of his words. Spain needed men to kill and loot when it needed, and when it was done, they were forgotten. The army received honour and glory for the very same actions. "There was a time when men believed they were better than that. Maybe they weren't, Morisso. War doesn't end because we like it, it consumes us until we're nothing more than hallowed corpses begging for mercy."

Rafael's eyes hardened. "Don't follow anyone, not Spain. Not God himself. Not even me. Choose what you become... and get out of here."

Morisso looked at him. "You're letting me go."

Rafael said nothing, staring back at the Young Moor who wiped a tear from his cheek. "Grab your armour and get out of here. Grab an arquebus. No one's going to stop you. We're finished."

He rose, straightening his back as he took out his pistol. "I'll be writing a letter to Spain to have your record removed. No one will ever know. Make your way to Santa Fe. You'll meet Captain Rodrigo over there. Tell him I sent you." He stared one more time. "A painter of the Sultan's court shouldn't need to die in mud like this."

"Thank... you, Captain." Morisso said, grabbing his breastplate and the helmet. None of the soldiers bothered to look at him. They had given up hope.

A twig cracked. Rafael turned instantly, raising his pistol as his men grabbed for their muskets and swords. His pistol rose. The shapes of demons moved between the trees.

"Don't—" He stopped himself, then stared one last time. "Don't hesitate, and find her."

"Why don't you come?"

Rafael didn't look at him now. His eyes stayed on the demons coming forth at him. It was the reckoning of God. Divine judgment was made to punish him for the hell he had caused in this world. There was no coming back. A harsh silence calmed his soul. He was ready to meet his fate with God and Hell itself. He exhaled. "I hope you find her. Everything else is gone." He stepped forward without regret.

He shouted. "Soldados! Prepare to engage!"

He fired.