by Rhys Hughes
I frowned. ‘Yes, of course. His aircraft has no propeller.’
Scipio winked. ‘Let’s go.’
‘You want to give me a tour of Bucharest?’
‘I think that’s a superb idea. There are many places worth seeing near here. We’ll begin with the Royal—’
The sound of yet another engine interrupted him.
‘What can it be this time?’ I cried.
Scipio said, ‘Sounds like a pulsejet to me.’
I looked up. At the end of the street a bicycle came into view, but one with a very unusual quirk. It was powered by a homemade jet engine! An automatic feeder dropped grenades into a combustion chamber. The man who sat astride it wore equally crude armour and carried a lance; he was a curious parody of an ancient knight.
I sighed and turned to Scipio.
‘Permit me to introduce you to Mr Jason Rolfe.’
‘He’s going to charge you.’
‘Will you help me survive the encounter?’
Rolfe slammed down his improvised visor and accelerated his lunatic machine toward me. His lance was aimed at my chest. A second before it made contact, Scipio stepped in front of me, seized the point and pulled. The lance came out of Rolfe’s grip, and as the bicycle passed our table the sailor casually swung the pole like a monstrous club. The butt struck the automatic feeder and damaged it.
Grenades fell into the combustion chamber at a ludicrous rate. With a yell of terror, Rolfe accelerated away. He was soon lost as he struggled to steer through the warren of streets. We watched as he failed to apply his brakes; his engine was stuck at maximum thrust. Scipio said, ‘If he can stay on the saddle and find a way to cross the Bosporus, he might reach the Himalayas before Rais Uli!’
We laughed together, like old comrades.
I had an impulsive thought. ‘Will you come back to Wales with me? I could do with your assistance against Ben Gordon and Hugo Bloat. I have a feeling our fates are still linked.’
Scipio considered my proposition and finally said, ‘I understand there’s a Welsh resistance movement against the English? If that’s true, I’ll come. I always support the underdog …’
‘But first a brief holiday in Bucharest?’
‘Yes, yes, I think so.’
And throwing back our heads we laughed.
PART TWO: DISTANTO
THE GARGANTUAN LEGION
The Lance
The first European invaders of Mexico arrived in 1517 on 4 March after a hazardous voyage from Cuba. They were Spaniards, and the captain of that expedition was Francisco Hernández de Córdoba; he had three ships under his command. The original intention was simply to sail from Cuba to the nearby Isla de la Juventud in order to procure slaves. A huge storm blew the little fleet off course; and when land was sighted it turned out to be the impressive Yucatán Peninsular.
His ships cautiously followed this unknown coast until they reached a spot where a stone pyramid reared above the trees. This was a surprise for Córdoba; his inability to assimilate the fact that sophisticated civilisations might exist so far from the Old World led him to refer to the pyramid and the city it served as El Gran Cairo, as if they were a Moslem creation. So it was that Mayan buildings first came to the attention of Europeans. And truly those Europeans were intimidated.
But Córdoba was a typical soldier of his times, a conquistador, and he failed to see any merit whatsoever in refusing to make landfall and claim the entire region for the Spanish Empire. He ordered his fleet to anchor as close as possible to shore. Then he made preparations to lead a force onto the beach. The inhabitants of the strange city hurried to the sands to stare and marvel at the Spanish vessels; and some of them launched canoes and paddled out to greet the peculiar visitors.
Córdoba assumed these primitives would regard him as a god, but this was a foolish fancy on the part of the captain, for the Mayan race were far less superstitious than the other tribes the conquistadors had encountered in the Americas; unknown to the captain, the Mayans had seen Spaniards before. Although Córdoba’s crew were the first European invaders of this domain, they weren’t actually the first visitants. Two shipwrecked sailors had preceded them by half a dozen years.
In 1511, a ship under the command of Diego de Nicuesa floundered in heavy seas and was smashed to pieces while sailing to Hispaniola. Taking to a longboat, the survivors drifted for many days. Finally they washed up on the Yucatán shore and staggered inland. There were soon apprehended by the locals, and most of the castaways were sacrificed immediately; the others were enslaved. Those who were enslaved were worked to death, all apart from the toughest pair of the company.
Gonzalo Guerrero and Jerónimo de Aguilar were their names, and they preserved their lives through luck and sheer stamina. Guerrero impressed his captors with his bravery and strength. Not only was he set free, but he was made an honorary Mayan and eventually became a minor chieftain in his territory. Both men were living close to El Gran Cairo while Córdoba fancied himself the first Spaniard to gaze on the pyramids and houses and inhabitants of this mysterious civilisation.
The Mayans already knew that the Spaniards were men, not gods, but nothing of this was suspected by Córdoba, whose strategy was still to act like the avatar of a terrifying divine force. But he waited patiently on the deck of his ship for the curious canoes to reach him, and tried to communicate with the occupants with crude sign language when they arrived alongside his flagship. He was reasonably successful in his efforts. Strings of green beads were lowered down into the canoes.
The hour was late; the sun was setting. The Mayans made it plain that they would return the next day, and it seemed best to Córdoba to wait until the resumption of daylight before attempting a landing. The night boiled in the sweats of anticipation, as Córdoba wasted slow tropical time in his cabin, playing at dice with a few officers. At last he dismissed them and went to sleep. Dawn appeared on the horizon shortly afterwards as the signal to rise and oversee developments.
The Mayans began gathering on the beach. Now they were numerous indeed and armed with slings and bows. Nonetheless they maintained the friendly manner of the previous day. They paddled out to Córdoba’s ships and invited the conquistadors into the canoes to be ferried ashore, and the Spaniards accepted the offer without hesitation, for they too were armed, with muskets and crossbows. Córdoba carried a lance he had borne from Spain, a weapon precisely as tall as himself.
As soon as the canoe that held him reached land, Córdoba called to his priest to give him the crucifix. The priest was horrified. He had forgotten to bring it! Córdoba scowled and paced the sand in dismay, uttering curses into his beard. For without a symbolic planting of a crucifix in the ground, the domain couldn’t be claimed for Spain. The priest cowered, then came out with a notable suggestion. A crucifix, he claimed, could be created on the spot, improvised from available materials.
Córdoba regarded this idea as a fine solution to the crisis. Into the soft sand he stabbed his lance, then bound his own musket to it at right angles with lashings of cord. Kneeling before this rough simulacrum of the most true and holy cross of their faith, the conquistadors pledged to occupy the land in the name of God and the King of Spain. Then they stood and eyed their hosts warily. The Mayans kept smiling, offered to lead the Spaniards to the city and feed and entertain them there.
Half expecting an ambush, Córdoba and his troops allowed themselves to be guided into the jungle. Mayan warriors were hidden in the branches of trees; they dropped stones on the heads of the invaders, who relished a chance to fight. Crossbow bolts pierced flesh; the stink of gunpowder and blood drifted through the forest. The Spanish were outnumbered. Mayans fired arrows with tips that shattered on contact into the conquistadors, and these fragments caused an excruciating death.
The order to retreat was shouted. The invaders hurried across the sand back to the canoes, with arrows, darts and stones felling them as they ran. Córdoba was closely pursued by three warriors. He tripped and sprawled on the b
each; his sword was flung out of reach. Now his enemies howled in triumph as they bore down on him. But he reached out, felt the shaft of the improvised cross. Hauling himself to his feet, he swivelled the musket and pulled the trigger. There was no need to aim.
The flint sparked and the weapon discharged with an incredible sound, a roar of fury and callous joy. The projected ball passed through the torso of the first pursuing warrior and also penetrated the second. The third lost his nerve at this sight, turned and ran. Staggering and screaming, Córdoba reached the nearest canoe and was soon paddled back to his fleet with the other survivors. The ships subsequently returned to Cuba. And so the first invasion of Mexico was a convincing failure.
For several days, the lance remained where Córdoba had thrust it, but the ruler of the city finally decided to claim it. The moment he plucked it, he realised something about it had changed. The crucifix is a symbol of a particular type of holiness; the musket is a symbol of war. The vibrations when the weapon was fired had passed into the lance, and in some manner the primal energies of holiness and war were now blended: the lance was saturated with both qualities simultaneously.
When the Spaniards returned years later to do a better job of conquest, the ruler of El Gran Cairo gave the lance to Gonzalo Guerrero, the castaway who had converted to the Mayan cause. Guerrero worked as a tactician for the Mayans. He showed them how to defeat the invaders in skirmishes, for he was familiar with the thought processes of the conquistadors. The mystical lance was carried by him into dozens of successful battles but eventually the Spaniards proved too stubborn to defeat.
What happened to the lance in the aftermath of Guerrero’s death is an unsolvable mystery, but presumably the Mayans took good care of it, for it reappeared almost three centuries later in the hands of Miguel Gregorio Antonio Ignacio Hidalgo y Costilla y Gallaga Mandarte Villaseñor, a man better known as Miguel Hidalgo and generally acclaimed as the godfather of Mexican independence. There was surely Mayan blood in his veins, an arterial connection with those brave warriors.
The lance became also his symbol and totem, a lever to break open the manacles of the Spanish Empire; thus its destiny continued in new hands. Tired of the impositions of the occupiers, Hidalgo raised a fierce army of peasants dedicated to revolution. Onward they marched. Stopping at the Sanctuary of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe in Atotonilco, Hidalgo affixed an image of the Virgin to his lance and cried, ‘Death to bad government!’ Then he rushed his troops into battle joyously.
His insurrection was eventually crushed by the Spaniards, but Hidalgo had murdered the moral authority of the occupiers, and a short time later, Mexico was truly free. The lance vanished. The dusty decades sighed into the past like the pages of an old book. Mexico was an independent nation now but it acquired a pack of dictators. Each dictator was overthrown and replaced with another; at last, in 1910, there was a revolution that brought a bloody and justified end to this sequence.
This famous revolution was the work of such men as Emiliano Zapata, Pancho Villa and Francisco Madero. At first all went well with them. The new government attempted to put right the wrongs of history, to improve the miserable living conditions of ordinary people; but cruelty is never so easily cheated as that. A sly counter-revolutionary general by the name of Victoriano Huerta employed assassination and sabotage to install himself in power. Then he resurrected the repressions.
Huerta had all the delicacy of a cactus, and yet his regime was greeted with relief by most of the major world powers. He allied himself to Japan and Germany; and an arrangement with Paul von Hintze, the Ambassador of the Kaiser, ensured that in the event of a World War, mutual aid would flow in both directions. But disillusionment with Huerta soon set in. Poor organisation and a violent skirmish with United States marines in the port of Veracruz helped to propel Huerta into hell.
His abysmal government lasted from 18 February 1913 until 15 July 1914 and then he fled, his ministers scattering in all directions. One of his most fanatical followers happened to be in possession of the mystic lance. He was Mario Granieri, son of an Italian immigrant, and instead of taking refuge in the backwaters of Central America, he developed an audacious plan to sail to Spain, invade and conquer that noble country; but to do so by stealth. He believed the lance would aid him.
The Tavern
It had been supremely educational and enjoyable travelling across Europe in the wise company of Scipio Faraway; but anyone who crossed borders at that time couldn’t fail to notice how clouds of war were gathering, and because clouds of war are always storm clouds, I won’t deny that I pulled the collar of my coat symbolically higher around my neck as we reached the magnificent city of Dresden. My reflexes often made Scipio grin. We found a cheap hotel and then he said:
‘Look here, Mr Griffiths, you’ll have to excuse me for tonight. There’s someone I want to see who lives here.’
‘An old flame perhaps?’ I smiled.
He nodded. ‘A girl I once had a connection with. The daughter of the last authentic alchemist in Germany.’
‘Alchemy! You don’t approve of that nonsense?’
‘It depends,’ he answered.
‘You never fail to amaze me. Surely, trying to make artificial gold is the proper occupation of charlatans?’
‘That’s not what real alchemy is about, Mr Griffiths, but I don’t care to argue such topics at the present time. I’m interested in the girl, not in what her father did. I promised to visit her if I happened to be in this town, and now I’m here and must keep my word.’
‘Go ahead. I’ll be fine on my own,’ I said.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow morning. Then I’ll show you the sights of this incredible place. Until then, farewell!’
And off he went, his black pea coat buttoned to the throat, his creased cap tilted at the angle always described as ‘jaunty’. He looked just like the adventurer he was. I had no doubt that the girl in question would swoon into his rough arms the moment he appeared. How many damsels around the world had given him their hearts? Hundreds? Thousands! Certainly I was envious, but I was also acutely aware that I could never compete with him, so I smiled with resigned tolerance.
The hours passed slowly. I started reading a book, a volume loaned to me by Scipio. Candide by Voltaire. But I wasn’t in the mood for whimsy and polemic, however accomplished. Even the amusing wordplay failed to satisfy me. I grew pensive. We have all grown pensive at times in our lives, its roots spreading through our brains, its leaves bitter with anxiety. That’s wordplay too. I closed the volume.
Our journey overland from Romania back to Wales was half done. As historical events seethed around us, it was becoming increasingly difficult to travel without harassment from border guards. War was certainly on its way, perhaps within the next few months. I shuddered and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. It was growing dark outside and I was bored. At last I decided to go out and entertain myself.
I had no map and no guidebook, and I didn’t know anyone who lived there, but my advantage was that I was Welsh. Even the most belligerent of the locals would probably fail to recognise my accent. If accosted by a mob of patriotic ruffians, I would simply deny my British nationality and speak in Welsh. That might seem a cowardly recourse; but I’m a survivor, not a hero, not a skilled fighter like Scipio.
I wandered the streets alone. A city of incomparable grace, Dresden. If only I hadn’t already visited so many other cities of incomparable grace! I hope you appreciate the wistfulness of that comment. Europe was packed with monumental grace in those days. I turned down a narrow alley. Fogs poured down it, having overflowed the banks of the cold river. Losing my way in the soupy labyrinth, I chanced on a tavern, pushed my way within. I ordered a stein of beer and sat at a table.
Another man was also seated at that table, hunched in the shadows. In the flickering firelight only part of his face was visible. I studied it with a frown. He turned to meet my gaze. I jerked in surprise. It was Scipio! This coincidence wasn’t so weird really;
it was logical that he might choose to meet his girl in a tavern. I hoped he didn’t think I had followed him! Then I realised that he had changed his clothes. Not only that: he had managed to grow a thin moustache and lose a finger!
Shipping Out
It was awkward sitting there in silence, so I said, ‘Didn’t you find her? Or maybe she didn’t want to see you?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ he answered slowly.
Acutely embarrassed, I tried to make amends for my clumsiness with the offer of buying him a beer. ‘No thanks, it’s time to go back,’ he said politely. ‘I’ve drunk enough,’ he added.
I drained my own brew, wiped my mouth on my sleeve. ‘As you wish. Nothing much to do at the hotel, though.’
He frowned. ‘Hotel? I’m referring to my ship.’
‘Ship? You’ve acquired a ship? That was quick!’ I was overjoyed for him. He had been without a vessel for far too long; and for a man with brine flowing in his veins, that’s a situation only marginally preferable to losing all his limbs and senses. ‘Well done!’
‘Yes, of course I have a ship,’ he said in a puzzled voice.
‘Let’s leave at once, in that case!’
We stepped out of the tavern together, into the fog, which had clotted into a yellowish froth that lapped the walls of the houses on both sides of the narrow alley. Visibility was reduced to the distance of one’s own hand in front of one’s face; the streetlamps were ghostly haloes, indistinct, eerie and somehow menacing. But he set off with a confident step and I trusted his judgment entirely. His instincts hadn’t let me down yet. The twists and turns of the maze ahead were considerable, but I assumed he was heading unerringly in the direction of the river.
‘You never cease to impress me, Monsieur Faraway…’
