Paradise & More (Torres Family Saga) (42 page)

      
When he approached Guacanagari and his men, standing in a small clearing half way up the steep valley wall, he asked the
cacique
and his brother Caonu to walk away from the others. The three men conversed in the Taino language, drawing diagrams in the muddy black soil with sharp sticks as they agreed upon troop movements.

      
“You must send twenty of your best men to the south to watch the trails leading into the valley. Here, here...” Aaron marked all the possible places from which Behechio might come.

      
Guacanagari's face was grave. “My heart is heavy that the husband of my sister would spill the blood of his own family. But you are right. We must guard against the chance that he may surprise us and join the others.”

      
“It is a long way from Xaragua. Perhaps he will not come,” Aaron said hopefully.

      
Guacanagari shrugged fatalistically. “What will be, will be. One of the admiral's soldiers, Roldan, makes war on Behechio. If Caonabo can win a great victory here, Behechio hopes to have his newly triumphant allies come to his aid in Xaragua.”

      
Aaron shook his head at the senseless warfare. Before the white men came, the Taino
cacique
s lived mostly in peace, occasionally feuding among themselves but more often joining together to repel Caribe attackers. Now this would be a blood bath with these simple people killing one another.
What our crossbows and hounds do not destroy, our diseases will,
he thought sadly.

      
“Where will the rest of my warriors stand and fight?” Guacanagari asked with a shrewdness belied by his youthful face.

      
Putting his misgivings aside, Aaron laid out his idea. “The admiral wishes for your warriors to sweep down from here when Caonabo attacks.” He drew another diagram in the mud, showing a simple flanking maneuver from the east. He planned to position all the men with dogs on the west flank.

      
Guacanagari nodded. “We will charge when you give the signal.”

      
Aaron prayed the battle would end quickly before the slaughter got out of hand and Guacanagari's people were as much at risk as Caonabo's.

      
That evening, with sentries posted, Aaron, Cristobal, Bartolomé and several other of the officers sat about a smoldering campfire. The air was oppressively heavy with humidity and a pall hung over the rich agricultural valley. To the south, east, and west of them, the beautifully cultivated fields of the Vega were spread like an intricately woven design in a Moorish carpet. Irrigation ditches brought water from the mountains to the lush black soil, which grew manioc, beans, yams, and maize.

      
“Tis a shame to destroy these fields with a battle,” Cristobal said.

      
“Aye, Ysabel could use the foodstuffs,” Bartolomé agreed.

      
“So could the Tainos who planted them,” Aaron said softly. “For the sake of all our bellies, let us attempt to keep the pillage at a minimum.” Aaron's eyes locked with Alonso Hojeda's meaningfully.

      
“I do but wish to capture that old fox Caonabo. What a trophy to bring before the Majesties at court!” the little man said boldly.

      
Bartolomé laughed mirthlessly. “If you can bring that one down alive, you have my leave to sail across the Atlantic with him and welcome!”

      
Cristobal and Aaron exchanged uneasy looks. They knew how unfavorable had been the reports from the royal court since Margarìte and Buil had returned to slander the Colons' rule on Española. What would Hojeda say about the Genoese if he arrived at court with the leader of a Taino rebellion in chains?

      
“Do not think it that simple a matter to capture Caonabo. He is as wily a survivor as are you, Alonso,” Aaron said with deceptive geniality.

      
“Then we will be well met,” Hojeda replied.

      
“Mayhap you will kill each other,” Bartolomé interjected with no hint of regret in his voice.

      
“We all need rest for the morrow,” Cristobal said, soothing frayed tempers with his calm authority. “Let us to bed, gentlemen.”

      
Aaron lay awake as the camp quieted, staring at the rising moon which hung low in the sky, obscured by a reddish cloud. Blood on the moon was an ill omen the night before a battle. Finally, sleep claimed him.

* * * *

      
Roldan looked at the disheveled men and their captive, amazed that they had successfully crossed the whole of Española and found his stronghold in the mountains of Xaragua, even with Hojeda's Indian slave guiding them. “Take the woman and give her to my wives,” he said in Taino to two of the Indians standing beside him.

      
When they approached Magdalena, Guzman protested. “She is mine, Don Francisco.”

      
Roldan shook his head in mock reproof. “In truth, she belongs to Diego Torres, but that is neither here nor there. I have no desire for the lady. My wives will bathe and feed her. She looks sore abused and exhausted.”

      
Magdalena struggled to stand up straight, meeting the brigand's dark brown eyes steadily. His expression was unreadable, but he and Aaron had once been friends. Perhaps he might help her against Guzman. Unable to suppress her resentment at being discussed as if she were a child or an imbecile, she said hotly, “I am most grateful for the hospitality, Don Francisco. After I rid myself of a week's trail mire, I would much appreciate it if you would rid me of the mire of these vermin.” She shoved her tangled filthy hair over her shoulder and glared at Lorenzo and Peralonso.

      
Roldan threw back his big shaggy head and laughed. “Torres certainly has a handful with you. Perhaps these vermin did him a favor by spiriting such a shrewish wench away.”

      
“My husband will follow them here and flay them alive, even as the Moors did their captives in the wars!”
If only I believed he cared enough for me to do it.

      
When Lorenzo moved closer and raised his hand to strike her, the big renegade stepped down from the wooden platform on which he had been standing. He was of a height with Guzman, but far heavier. “I would not do that if I were you,” he said very softly. Then he motioned to the two Taino servants, who escorted Magdalena toward a
bohio
. She could hear Roldan saying, “Hojeda speaks well of you, Don Lorenzo, but I mislike your kidnapping Torres' wife. She will bring trouble. Why did you do it?”

      
After that she lost the thread of their conversation as she was ushered into a large cane house across the way. Muddy, mosquito-bitten, and exhausted, she felt ready to collapse, but pride held her body erect as three curious Taino women inspected their captive. One older woman rapidly exchanged a few words in their language with the men, then shooed them out and clapped her hands, issuing terse orders. From her knowledge of Taino speech, Magdalena understood that Roldan was a man of his word—at least as far as the bath went.

      
As she soaked in the cooling water of the small stream, two of Roldan's women used the sudsy soap plant to lather her hair and skin, chattering and marveling about the colors of both. Magdalena closed her eyes, recalling the horrors of their breakneck ride through the jungle. She had been tied to a horse while they rode and trussed up like a roasting fowl each night while they slept on the damp earth.
Praise to the Blessed Mother, they did not rape me!
      
Lorenzo and Peralonso had argued over her the first night, and finally Lorenzo had decided no one would use her until they were safely in Roldan's stronghold. Each, fearing the other might kill him while he took her, abided by the decision.

      
What will happen to me now in this deadly wilderness? Magdalena squeezed back the tears, realizing that she must survive by her wits. When the menace from Caonabo was past, would Aaron search for her? He would have no idea where Lorenzo had taken her, unless she could convince Roldan to send him word. She was at the mercy of a soldier in rebellion against the governor and a courtier guilty of treason against the crown—and she knew not if her husband would rescue her from either of them.

      
The two young women who bathed her helped her dress in a soft length of cotton cloth dyed a pale shade of orange that complemented her dark russet hair. She twisted the cloth this way and that, until she was as decently covered as was possible, with the ankle-length gown draped over one shoulder, baring the other. The servants untangled her hair with a fish-bone comb and helped her fasten the makeshift cloth wrap with several bone pins. Then they offered her a beautifully wrought necklace of sea shells and two splendid gold arm bands.

      
With so much of her skin bared and her hair flowing loosely down her back, she looked like an exotic Indian princess. She was to dine with her “host,” Francisco Roldan, and her loathsome abductors. As she was escorted across the village, Magdalena studied Roldan's fortress, estimating that nearly one thousand souls lived within its walls. It was made of heavy cane frames and thatch, which was soaked nightly with water to protect it from any attacker who might try to burn it. The people were of the same Taino stock as those in Guacanagari's village, along with a liberal sprinkling of Castilians who had mutinied and sailed their ships into Roldan's empire rather than submit to the Colon family's authority in Ysabel.

      
“Even if I could get out of this stockade, I would need a horse. If I found a horses and could steal it, which way back to Ysabel?” she murmured beneath her breath. Then her guards motioned for her to enter Roldan's
bohio
.

      
When she adjusted her eyes to the dim torchlight, Magdalena's heart leaped into her throat. There, stretched sinuously as a cat on a pallet by the low banquet table, was Aliyah. The raven-haired beauty inspected her rival with hate gleaming in her ebony eyes.

* * * *

      
The carnage was even worse than the noise, and the din of the battle was causing his head to throb. All around Aaron cannons belched forth flames and gouged great ragged holes in the muddy black earth. The screams of the maimed and dying blended with the feral growls and high yipping barks of the huge hounds that gave chase to the haplessly retreating Tainos. He tried to stop the butchery of the surrendering Indians, but for each one he could reach, others were caught by the Spanish hell-hounds. Dogs brought them down and devoured their naked flesh as they lay steeped in their own gore.

      
The mounted Castilians slashed their way through a living wall of Indians. As the Tainos fell, the sharp hooves of the big horses trampled the vanquished beneath their feet. At first as he directed the charge of each group—cavalry, infantry, the firing of the cannoneers, Aaron had prayed Caonabo would call retreat, but he did not. Poisonous darts and a few half-spent arrows whizzed by him as he led his soldiers, keeping a wall of the most disciplined men between Guacanagari's warriors and the Castilian's dogs.

      
This was not a battle but a slaughter, the likes of which he had never witnessed in two years of warfare on the plains of Andalusia. The Moors were as well versed in the arts of death as the Castilians. But the attacking Tainos were not and would not yield. They threw wall after wall of warriors across the flat, open fields into the jaws of death. Only a handful could even get close enough to make effective use of their spears.

      
Guacanagari's men were engaged at the east side of the plain with a large host of Caonabo's men. These warriors closed on one another with spears and clubs, fighting fiercely, almost evenly matched. Aaron scanned the chaos, looking for his tall young friend. He wanted to join the fray, but feared that if he deserted his post, the soldiers would loose their hounds on all the Tainos, friend and foe alike. He held his position, trying desperately to get the attention of Bartolomé who, sword in hand, was in the thick of the fight.

      
The governor, crippled and barely able to sit his horse, watched from the high ground at the rear, issuing calm orders now and again, but far less in command on land than on sea.
If this were a
huracan,
Cristobal, you would be right at home and damn the danger.

      
A flash of steel caught Aaron's eye as Hojeda swung his big sword and beheaded a fleeing Taino, then turned his horse east toward the battle between the two Indian forces. Aaron gave pursuit, cutting the little soldier off just as he reached the retreating forces of Caonabo. His big bay shouldered Hojeda's smaller brown gelding as Aaron yelled over the din, “Return to your men. You cannot distinguish Guacanagari's men from Caonabo's!”

      
“I distinguish the old bastard himself—there!” Hojeda cried, pointing to an older man issuing commands. “We have met on several occasions.” Pulling his horse away from Aaron's, Hojeda dug wickedly sharp rowels into the poor beast's side and bolted after Caonabo, who was finally retreating, surrounded by a small group of special warrior guards.

      
Seeing that Hojeda was indeed in pursuit of appropriate quarry, Aaron turned to what remained of the old man's forces. The roar of cannons had ceased, the hiss of arbalest bolts grew silent. Only feral cries of jubilation by Castilians dispatching dying Tainos and the frantic barking of the hounds continued—that and the moans and anguished pleadings of the vanquished.

      
Aaron stood guard with a small core of hand-picked men between Guacanagari's now victorious forces and the rest of the colonial soldiers. When one hound, dragging his blood-soaked chain, loped past him headed toward the friendly Tainos, Aaron cleanly sliced off its head with a powerful blow.