War God Read Online Free Page A

gangplank sloped up to the deck right in front of him. With trepidation, holding his master’s bags tight, Pepillo stepped on to it.
    ‘Who are you? What do you think you’re doing here?’
    ‘I’m … I’m …’
    ‘Tell me your business here!’
    ‘I’m … I’m …’
    ‘You’re a puking dog breath.’
    Pepillo didn’t know whether he should laugh or take offence. The boy he confronted was a year or two older than him, at least a foot taller, much broader across the chest and made all the more formidable by a completely shaven, gleaming head. He was also black as tar from head to toe.
    Pepillo had encountered Negroes before, but they’d all been slaves. This one didn’t behave like a slave and was much too big to fight, so he forced a laugh. ‘OK, yeah, great,’ he said. He pretended to wipe tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘Very funny …’ He held out his hand: ‘The name’s Pepillo …’ He laughed. ‘Pepillo Dogbreath!’ Another laugh. ‘And you are?’
    ‘Melchior,’ said the other boy. He ignored the proffered hand.
    ‘Melchior,’ repeated Pepillo. ‘Right. Good to meet you.’ He awkwardly withdrew his hand: ‘Look … You asked me my business here and it’s very simple. I’m trying to find my master’s quarters.’ He indicated the two large leather bags he’d been lugging on board the
Santa María de la Concepción
when Melchior had confronted him. He’d dumped them on deck at the end of the gangplank, right below the forecastle. ‘My master’s belongings,’ Pepillo explained. ‘He came in from Hispaniola this morning and they were held up in the Customs House. I’m supposed to bring them to his cabin …’
    An angry frown contorted Melchior’s face. There was something ferocious about this frown. Something hateful. Perhaps even something frightening. ‘This master of yours,’ he spat. ‘He have a name?’
    ‘Father Gaspar Muñoz.’
    ‘Muñoz!’ The frowned deepened, became a grimace.
    ‘Yes, Muñoz. You know him?’
    ‘He got stick legs, this Muñoz? Like a crow? He got a little fat belly? How about his front teeth? Look like he been sucking too hard on something he shouldn’t?’
    Pepillo giggled at the crude image: ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen my master before.’
    ‘Huh?’
    ‘I was assigned to him this morning and—’
    ‘—Assigned? Assigned you say? That’s a pretty word …’
    ‘I was sent straight to the Customs House for his bags. There’s two more I still have to fetch …’
    A shadow distracted Pepillo and he glanced up to see a heavy brass cannon soaring overhead in a cat’s cradle of ropes. With raucous shouts, and much squealing of pulleys, a gang of sailors manoeuvred it into the deep shadows of the hold.
    ‘That’s one of the lombards,’ said Melchior. A note of pride crept into his voice: ‘We’ve got three of them with the fleet. You can settle a lot of arguments with guns like that.’
    ‘Are we expecting a lot of arguments?’
    ‘Are you kidding?’ Melchior sneered. ‘After what happened last year?’
    Pepillo decided not to bluff: ‘
What
happened last year?’
    ‘The Córdoba expedition?’
    Pepillo shrugged. It meant nothing to him.
    ‘Hernandez de Córdoba led a fleet of three ships to explore the New Lands, see what trade was to be had there and bring the word of Christ to the Indians. He had a hundred and ten men with him. I was one of them.’ Melchior paused: ‘Seventy of us got killed.’ Another pause: ‘Seventy! Córdoba himself died of his wounds and we barely had enough hands on deck to sail back. It’s been the talk of Santiago ever since. How can you not know anything about it?’
    ‘I’ve been living in a monastery …’
    ‘So?’
    ‘We don’t get much news there.’
    Melchior laughed. It was a big, easy laugh, as though he was genuinely amused. ‘You a monk?’ he asked eventually. ‘Or some such?’
    ‘Not a monk,’ said Pepillo. ‘The Dominicans took me in when I was