El Conquistador

word count: 2012

years: 1519-1521

Through half-lidded eyes, Juán watched as the rising sun shattered across the cerulean ocean waves. The collision of light and water glimmered like a flickering lantern, blinding him from his elevated position on the mast.

All he could see was the endless sea of blue melting against the horizon, spreading across all corners of the Earth. For the seasoned sailors on the ship, this was a dream—to be completely surrounded by the sea—but for Juán, it was suffocating.

There was no escape from the fickle ocean. Nowhere to run when she became choleric, bubbled herself into a rage of squally gales and colossal waves that could swipe a group of helpless sailors off the deck in an instant. Or when she became overexcited and her tides swished the boat from side to side, churning the insides of every crew member in the process.

"Juán! Get down here!" Someone shouted from below. "Stop daydreaming!"

He lowered his gaze to where Roberto, the boatswain, was yelling. After rolling his eyes, he jumped onto a rope hanging from the mast and slid down to the deck. "Ay, Roberto. You called?"

The boatswain frowned. "The rope wasn't made for sliding, Sailor."

"It's more a convenient form of transport," Juán answered, wincing at the rope burns now seared into his palms. "What did you need?"

With a self-satisfied smirk, Roberto motioned to the captain's chambers. "He wants to see you."

...

Hernán Cortés grinned wickedly from behind his cluttered desk. "How are you doing, Sailor?"

Juán's eyes flitted over the assortment of oddities cluttering the captain's table. Pens carved from ivory, a bejeweled knife sheath, a cluster of glinting marbles inside a vase. "I'm doing fine, Sir."

Cortés nodded as if he cared. "Since you were sick during the crew meeting, you didn't hear the news."

A brutal warmth flooded Juán's cheeks as he remembered the recurrent vomiting that had left him bedridden for two days. "Apologies..."

"Don't worry yourself," The captain dismissed with the wave of his hand. "We anticipate landing in México within the week."

"And...you wanted me to...come along?"

Cortés suddenly roared with laughter, a bellow that shuddered throughout his office and trembled through Juán's bones. "Of course! You're a strong and sturdy fellow. You'll fare well."

"Th-thank you, Captain."

"We ought to be thankful. The ocean is a kind thing," Cortés said with a chuckle. "It gives to the brave. The strong. It helps those who help themselves. Despite the odds, we will conquer Mexico."

The "odds" Cortés was alluding to were Diego Velázquez, his superior who had originally commanded him to secure México for colonization. However, after they'd gotten into a quarrel, Velázquez revoked the explorer's charter—cancelling everything.

And yet, here everyone was, pummeling through the Atlantic Ocean on an unauthorized voyage to México.

This hadn't bothered Juán. He was an adventurous type, a thrill-seeker willing to break the rules to feel energy coursing through his veins.

The evidence of this being when months ago, under the scorching heat of Trinidad, Cuba in January, and not too long after his twenty-third birthday, he'd kissed Máma goodbye, walked to the Miel Bar, and greeted Truylos Sanz, his friend of almost fifteen years.