Hammer of Witches (3 page)

I ran through the port, breathing in the summer air deeply. Ah, the smell of seaweed and ale — the smell of home. With a row of flophouses on one side and a gleaming river on the other, what more could a young man ask for? Other than a card game with friends, of course. And today I wasn’t going to be late.

Well, maybe a little late. I just had to get a better look at the three unfamiliar ships moored near the docks. Three masts stood at attention atop each of them, but with their sails so tightly furled the ships looked fairly plain. They didn’t seem to be new ships either. With so many scratches and barnacles marring their hulls, they appeared as worn as the sailors milling about them.

“Beauties, ain’t they? I’ll be on the Dirty Mary myself.”

I spun around, startled. To my side stood a thickset, grizzled man who seemed to have more scraggly hair on his face than on his head. The man’s eyes were a happy, milky blue, and they stuck out slightly from his red, puffy face. His accent sounded Northern to my untrained ears, but it was a common, pleasant Northern, not the lofty staccato I’d heard spoken by bejeweled merchants who occasionally passed through town. No, this man was one of the regular folk for sure. He wore the short slops of a sailor and drummed a wooden hammer against his thigh. A ship’s carpenter, I gathered — and a drunkard, if his breath and complexion were any indication.

“An absolute beauty!” the carpenter went on. “Bet a young buck like you would love to be on top of a woman like that!” With a thick, well-callused finger the carpenter pointed at the largest of the three vessels, the one that was moored closest to us. “But Dirty Mary’s only what we call her, see. Her real name, my boy, is
Santa María
.”

Santa María.
Unlike her namesake she was a sturdy old thing and definitely no virgin to the high seas. Clearly her worn, round belly had been filled many times before — with barrels of spices, Valencian silks, or even African slaves.

“Looks like a trading boat,” I pointed out, and the carpenter clapped me on the back so hard most of the air whizzed right out of me.

“Well done, boy! That she is! A trading boat called a carrack. Sailing on her, we’ll be rich in no time. You know, you should join us! With a mind like that you’d make one hell of a cabin boy.”

I coughed away a laugh. Me? A sailor on a trading vessel? Oh, Aunt Serena would love that idea.

Nevertheless I laced my fingers together and stretched out my arms. “I might be up for it. Where are you going?”

The man’s milky eyes nearly bulged out of his head. “Haven’t you heard? To the Indies, of course! To an entirely new world of profit. We’ll meet the Grand Khan, load
María
here up with spices, perfumes. And gold — gold, of course! With Admiral Colón at the helm we’ll make a bundle in no time! And history,
too.” The carpenter moved in close to my face so I could better smell the booze on his breath. “You see, this time we’re going west. Around one side of the world to the other.” Tracing his finger around the circumference of his hammer, the man illustrated the concept.

I raised my eyebrows. By this time in my life, I knew the world was round; it was common knowledge in Palos, where that information had practical applications for our sailors.

But a trip from one side of the globe to the other?

“Isn’t that . . . I don’t know. Dangerous?” I ventured.

“Well, of course it’s dangerous! What would an adventure be without danger? And isn’t that what a boy your age wants most of all? Adventure?”

I glanced past the carpenter in the direction that would lead to my friends. I supposed adventure sounded fine and all, but right now I had a card game to get to.

“So what do you say? Interested in being the admiral’s new cabin boy?”

I gingerly extracted myself from the carpenter’s grip. “I say I’ll think about it.”

“Sure! You think about it. The name’s de Cuellar — Antonio de Cuellar. When you’re ready, come look for me at the Dark Sea Inn. You will consider it, won’t you?”

“Absolutely!” I lied. Tossing a final glance at the disappointed de Cuellar, I hurried on my way.

Pushing away any thoughts of hamehs or my uncle or mad voyages around the world, I swerved around the corner past the house that once belonged to Amir al-Katib. For as long as I could remember, this house had been abandoned. Tattered shutters hung limply from the windows. Some tiles from the roof had long ago fallen and shattered. Time had muted the brick-red doors into a threadbare, muddy pink, and the iron bolts that striped that entrance were now crudded over with rust.

I thumbed an itch off my nose and slowed my pace as I passed the building. When I was a boy I’d often played in this house, pretending to be Amir al-Katib, the Moorish hero of Spain. One time my friends Ruy and Tristán found me inside, waving an invisible cutlass at the rats that had taken up residence within. My friends laughed and told me I couldn’t play al-Katib — that Moors were always villains and tyrants and sneaks. I calmly countered that al-Katib was different. Despite his Moorish name he was a Spaniard — a hero through and through. The legends even called him the Eagle of Castile for the services he had rendered the crown.

So you can imagine how I felt when I learned that al-Katib had betrayed us, had run off to fight for the Moors in Granada. I was twelve, rambling around town with Tristán and Ruy, when we saw eight-year-old Luis de Torres and his mother sobbing in each other’s arms.

“What happened?” I said.

“His brothers died,” was Tristán’s answer.

“What? All four of them? How?”

“In Granada. The Eagle of Castile cut them down in one big swoop. You know, your old hero. Amir al-Katib.”

And my cheeks flushed so hot I thought they’d melt off right there. “No, he couldn’t have. He wouldn’t. If he did it would make him —”

“A traitor.”

“Yes. It would make him a traitor.” Amir al-Katib, my childhood hero. My friends had been right about him all along.

Fortunately this January, news arrived that the kingdom of Granada was ours, and Amir al-Katib had died in battle. The citizens of Palos rejoiced that day, and my aunt and uncle grieved for their lost friend. But all I felt was relief. Now the abandoned house I was standing next to was my only reminder of my childish stupidity.

“Stop it, you thief! Gonzalo, give it back!”

The sound tugged me out of my memory, and quickly I peeked around the corner. Down the street Luis, Ruy, and Tristán were sitting on rotting barrels in our hideout, an alley full of empty wine jugs and vomit. They were currently being terrorized by five of our local bullies, Gonzalo Brasa and his four sadistic friends.

“It’s not fair!” the same young voice cried. It was Luis de Torres, now ten years old. For the past two years I had invited him to our daily card games as a penance for once idolizing his brothers’ killer.

“Please, Gonzalo!” Luis de Torres begged. “My mother gave me that money. Now give it back or I’ll —”

“Or you’ll what?” a bored voice drawled. “Or you’ll run home? Call your brothers to save you?”

Expectant hoots rang out behind Gonzalo. No doubt about it; he and his friends were itching for a fight.

“You just wait,” Luis sniffled at his lap. “You just wait till Baltasar gets here.”

Oh, no. I slouched back against the nearest wall. I didn’t mind inviting Luis to our midday card games, but I
did
mind that he had started to look to me for protection after his brothers’ deaths. How in the world did he expect
me
to deal with Gonzalo? Didn’t he realize I had trouble just lifting the heavier books in my uncle’s workshop? I had a hard enough time avoiding Gonzalo’s attention. His favorite pastime was harassing
conversos
like me for sport.

“Infante?” I heard Gonzalo laugh. “That scrawny Jew couldn’t beat up a cat. Talk about Baltasar Infante like he’s some hero. He’s probably never even kissed a girl.”

Exactly. Leave it to Gonzalo Brasa to get to the heart of the matter. Now he would flex his muscles, and Luis would cave like he always did. Then Gonzalo would return home, victorious, and I could finally walk around the corner without getting involved in this nonsense.

But today luck was not with me. Because today Luis — Luis, Luis, that baby-faced half-wit Luis! — finally discovered his
courage. “That’s not true!” the little boy cried. “Baltasar has
so
kissed a girl! I saw him kissing Elena Hernández in the market yesterday!”

Uh-oh. I quickly swiveled on one foot, ready to quickstep it back home.

Or at least that’s what I tried to do. What actually happened was that I slipped over a cobblestone and fell chin-first into a muddy puddle. A cry of pain fell from my mouth before I could catch it, and within moments, finely-made shoes surrounded me on all sides. A sizable hand dragged me to my feet, and I found myself facing a giant with a broad snout and bull-necked snarl.

“Ah, afternoon, Gonzalo!” I exclaimed. “Thanks for helping me out of that puddle —”

Gonzalo pinned me hard against the outer wall of Amir al-Katib’s house. Gonzalo Brasa was the son of a powerful local merchant, and he spent most of his free hours lording his power over the rest of us. Despite his fine clothing, he looked more like a farmer’s son than a trader’s, with his rocklike muscles bursting through the sleeves of his doublet. With little effort he held me against the wall, pressing only one forearm up against my throat.

“What were you doing with my girl, Marrano?”

You can see the level of Gonzalo’s delusion here. Thought he owned everything, everyone.
His
girl! Since when was Elena Hernández
his
girl? The last time Gonzalo had tried to make
a move on her, Elena had actually kicked him in the shins.

His
girl! If Elena Hernández was
his
girl, then I was the queen of France!

Pointing this out, however, would surely lead to my murder, so I simply raised my hands as much as I could, considering I was trapped against a wall.

“‘Marrano’?” I said as innocently as I could manage. “Oh, ‘Jewish pig,’ right? Because my parents were Jewish! I get it.”

Gonzalo slammed me harder into the wall. “Answer the question, Marrano! What were you doing with my girl?”

“What girl, Gonzalo? Dirty Mary, that flower girl near the docks? Dark hair, big lips, hips like the bow of a carrack? That’s why the sailors love her, you know. She reminds them of the sea!”

But Gonzalo didn’t appreciate my stories. My words met a punch in the jaw. A slab of hurt smashed against my cheek and temple and dropped me down into the mud.

“You son of a whore!” Gonzalo blustered. “You want a story? Well, here’s a story for you: You knew Elena Hernández was my girl, and you went after her anyway! You’re a goddamned traitor!” Gonzalo tromped up to me and sent a swift kick into my gut.

“Gonzalo, listen,” I croaked out.

Gonzalo didn’t listen. He seemed to have a thought, and he laughed to himself above me. “But what did I expect? Treachery’s in your blood.” Gonzalo grabbed a handful of Luis’s
coins from a pouch on his belt, and shook them slightly in his hand. He pressed the coins into his fist for a moment before chucking the lot at my face. “Well? Go ahead, Christ-killer! Jew banker. Go on and buy something for my woman, pig — or do you want to keep the coins for yourself?”

It’s funny how words can sting worse than coins thrown with full force at your face. And it’s funny how a punch in the jaw wasn’t enough to rile me, but being called a banker was. My breaths became quick and labored, and I felt heat rising on my cheeks where the coins had hit them.

“Oh, he’s angry now!” Gonzalo mocked me. “What, piggy doesn’t like that name? Is ‘pig’ not kosher enough for you, Jew boy?”

Sitting up in the mud, I drew in a painful, livid breath and bent my fingers into a shaking fist.

“Oh, the scrawny piggy wants to fight me! Aw, what are you doing, piggy?”

“Don’t listen to him!” Luis de Torres blurted out.

Ruy and Tristán joined him. “Come on, Infante!” “Punch him in the face!”

Yes. Yes, I would fight! I clenched my teeth, full of resolve.

But as I did, the tip of my tongue caught on the gap where one of my canines used to be. It was cold reminder of my fighting abilities: The last time I’d gotten into a scrape with Gonzalo, he’d smashed that tooth right out of my face. The merchant’s son had eighty pounds on me, easy. If he wanted,
he could rip off my arms without a second thought.

Gonzalo laughed. “Right, like you’re going to fight me. Come on. Everyone knows that you’re a coward.”

“Coward, coward,” one of Gonzalo’s noble buddies cried, and the others added their voices to the choir. Behind them, my friends seemed to have shrunk. I slumped down in my puddle, feeling the word weighing down on my shoulders.

Coward. Coward.

Worst of all, I knew it was true.

I let my fist fall pitifully beside me. And I knew exactly what I had to do. I would hate myself for it later — I knew that, too — but it seemed I had no other choice. If I tried to fight, they’d probably take their anger out not only on me, but on my friends, too. We were outnumbered, and Luis was only ten.