Chapter 63

“Gonzalo… Rodriguez?”

“Yes, that’s my name. A slave trader,” Gonzalo said.

The harbor master glanced past him at the small vessel in the bay before speaking. “Come on in. You’ve done a brave thing, crossing the Atlantic in times as dangerous as these.”

A brave thing, indeed. Crossing the sea was always a test of courage, but these days it had become a perilous adventure, especially for Spanish merchants.

“Did you not encounter any Englishmen?”

The reason was clear: the notorious Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh. There were other pirates, of course, but none were as relentless as those two. They pursued any Spanish ship without a second thought, and they were known to be particularly harsh and merciless toward slave traders. For a Spanish-speaking slave trader to have crossed the Atlantic now was a feat worthy of praise. After all, wasn’t the supply of new slaves already becoming a bit unstable?

“Well, they let me through when I pretended to be a Dutch merchant.”

“Hahaha! I’ll have to try that one myself.”

The harbor master was quite taken with the trader’s guts and spirit. And his clothes—weren’t they impeccably clean, as if he’d come from a nearby port rather than all the way across the ocean?

“So, the number of slaves you’ve brought is…”

“I’ve already sold most of them elsewhere, so for now, I only have thirty.”

“…Hmm. No matter, they all look to be in excellent condition. It’s rare for them to all survive the journey across the sea. In any case, this way. We’ll move the slaves to a suitable place. Hey! Get these things to the quarters!”

“Right away! You there, do you speak Spanish?”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Goddamn it, just follow me!”

While Gonzalo and the harbor master laughed and headed toward a tavern, a foul-tempered foreman herded the thirty tense slaves away. When they reached a set of lodgings that was suitably shabby and foul-smelling, the foreman threw open the door. As the new arrivals wrinkled their noses at the stench, he lit a torch, hung it on the wall inside the dim room, and announced, “New meat! Greet each other, screw each other, do whatever you want!”

Cackling, he walked away. The new slaves let out a collective breath of relief and slowly moved to one side of the long, narrow room. Gradually, gazes turned toward them. Backs scored with whip marks twitched, and weary eyes, devoid of focus, stared blankly at the ceiling. From among the figures, who looked as lifeless as soulless dolls, someone emerged.

“N-n-newcomers? You look so clean. What are your names?”

“…Cheyan.”

“Where are you from… ugh. It stings.” The man shivered, his back crisscrossed with angry red welts. “H-hey. Your beds are over there, so get a move on. The work is simple, nothing much to teach…”

“Does your back hurt?”

“Ah, uh, yeah… Why?”

“Should I treat it for you?”

“What?”

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. The one who seemed to be the leader of the thirty newcomers came forward and took something out.

‘Madecassol’.

He squeezed a strange-looking salve from a tube and applied it to the man’s back. The man, though grateful, was flustered. “Y-you must be a shaman, then? Thank you. Your name was…”

“Cheyan.”

“Cheyan the shaman, got it. What spirit do you serve?”

“…”

“D-did I say something wrong…?”

“You,” Cheyan said. “Have you ever heard the name ‘Nemo’?”

***

“As you commanded, I have selected thirty volunteers to organize the local slaves. To be honest… I was surprised when hundreds of them flocked to volunteer, but we chose only a few from among them. Yes, we had to consider their abilities. They have sailed for San Agustín, the heart of the Florida colony, on a ship crewed by Vicente’s men. Now, they will begin to subtly leak information to the slaves there. What better profession to earn trust than a doctor’s? I had Lady Dare provide them with various medical supplies and taught them emergency first aid, so they should get off to a good start.”

***

A few days passed. The man introduced himself as Wayetu, of the Vai people, and when his wounds healed with astonishing speed, he joyfully expressed his thanks to Cheyan.

“Hey, it’s thanks to you I healed so quickly. That salve is incredible! Can you not make more of it here?”

“…Unfortunately, I didn’t make it myself.”

“Is that so? Then was it also a gift from that renowned spirit? What was its name again? Ne…mo?”

“He is not a spirit. He is an emperor.”

“An emperor? Of where?”

“…Actually, on second thought, he might as well be a spirit.”

“What does that mean? An emperor who is also a spirit? Where were you captured from?”

“…”

“…”

Cheyan immediately began whispering with his companions. It seemed they were debating whether to reveal ‘it’ now, or if they should be more cautious.

Crack!

The sound of a whip striking a slave echoed from outside. Here, slaves—who would normally be managed with care as ‘valuable property’—were used and discarded like free scraps of paper.

“…”

“…”

A moment of silence.

“Hey, don’t you trust me? You’re the first person to put medicine on a half-dead man like me. What kind of grand story are you hiding?” Wayetu, unable to overcome his curiosity and tension, muttered with a hint of frustration. Finally, Cheyan leaned in and spoke, his voice a quiet whisper in his ear.

“We weren’t captured.”

“…What?”

“We… came to set you free.”

“…”

As Wayetu stood there, completely dumbfounded, the sound of the whip cracked again from outside, washing over them like a wave.

Liberation…?

Cheyan spoke cautiously. “I don’t know if you’ve heard of a place called Virginia.”

Crack. Crack. Crack. …Thud.

The sound of a body collapsing.

Wayetu immediately gathered every slave in the room. All through the night, they huddled with Cheyan, whispering.

“In that place, everyone is free, and everyone can own land.”

“…”

“…”

“And everyone bows their head to ‘Him’. Other than Him, you need not bow your head to anyone. You are equals.”

“Th-th-that Him is the emperor…”

“‘He’ is no mere emperor.”

“Then?”

The topic was a secret that must never, ever be allowed to escape.

“He is not human.”

And so, the prayer meetings began.

***

“And then, we must gradually win over the others. We will spread information about Virginia among the slaves. The effect of this is clear: Hope. From what we hear of the situation in Florida, it is a hell for slaves. A land where death is closer than life, ruled not by law but by the whip, the boot, and fear. We are seeing the typical behavior that emerges when immigrants are granted unlimited freedom and rights: sexual licentiousness, all manner of violence, and horrific disorder. In such a place, they will encounter hope. And they will be won over to our side. Because, in the end, our cause is just.”

“…Is that so?”

“Of course! Look! Is our plan not perfect? This is all the result of carrying out your instructions to the letter!”

“…”

I… did? When?

I was dumbfounded by what Raleigh added after finishing his explanation. I had asked if we could try to connect with conscientious individuals in Spain. And, uh… I had said to try and set up an escape route for the slaves. I’d said similar things, but I had never ordered him to form a secret spy organization and infiltrate Florida…!

You did that…!

“We can only marvel as you illuminate our path with an insight that seems heaven-sent! Long live the holy community of Virginia!”

“My word, if we can win over the slaves in Florida and form an organization, the strategic advantages would be beyond imagination!”

“It’s truly incredible! Did you foresee all this when you gave the order?”

“…”

Of course, with everyone reacting like this, I couldn’t very well say, ‘Huh? I didn’t know any of this.’ So I just quietly crossed my legs and gave a solemn nod. “It is nothing. I am simply pleased that Walter understood my deeper intentions.”

“I knew it!”

“Uwaaah!”

“…In any case.” Feeling a little awkward, I uncrossed my legs. “It seems there’s a lot we can accomplish with this. What’s the immediate plan?”

“Ah, there is much, indeed. Passively, we’ll be able to dig up various key pieces of enemy intelligence. More actively, we could liberate the slaves of Florida or even sabotage enemy facilities!”

…I nodded again, as if this was all part of my grand design. Walter gave a knowing, wicked grin. “Of course… we cannot expect too much from the very beginning. The slaves alone will not be enough. We must win over more people. That, I think, will take a little more time.”

“What you’ve achieved already is more than enough. Let’s not push our luck so early on.”

“Thank you. I was only following the orders you gave…!”

I’m telling you, I didn’t (give any).

***

Several months passed. Cheyan and the others were sold off at auctions or distributed for free to new settlers across Florida. In turn, the prayer meetings, the dining clubs… whatever you called it, ‘the movement’ gradually spread thinly across the entire region. But even as it was scattered into something resembling a network of cells, the formation of a secret organizational structure and communication lines among them was inevitable.

The first thirty became ‘priests,’ presiding over ‘Mass’ and, in the most secret of places, offering rites of reverence to Nemo. From them, branches extended. These new leaders became ‘deacons,’ organizers of dining clubs who gathered other slaves, selected trustworthy individuals from among them, and invited them to ‘Mass.’

“Father… a new ‘believer’ has arrived.”

“Is he someone worthy of attending ‘Mass’ with us?”

“Yes. When I told him the stories of His Holiness the ‘Pope,’ he alone shed a quiet tear while the others were merely puzzled. He kept pestering me afterward, asking if there were other meetings, so I believe…”

“Do not be so quick to trust. Not until he has received ‘baptism.'”

This was a land ruled by Catholicism. As such, their code words and secret talks naturally began to follow Catholic terminology. They could chat casually in Spanish about everyday things, then switch to their native tribal languages to discuss ‘religious’ matters. Before long, the number of ‘deacons’ surpassed five hundred, and the number of ‘believers’ exceeded three thousand. ‘Dioceses’ with only a deacon and no priest sprang up, and several ‘prayer meetings’ of only believers formed organically.

Among them, the rumors spread.

Nemo. They say he’s an indigenous emperor. He lives in a house made of gold, commands millions of soldiers, and is of a great bloodline. Nemo. No, he’s a shaman. He wields great power, commands huge beasts made of steel, and allows people to farm with ease. Nemo. That’s wrong, too. He’s a spirit. A spirit who turns to those who cry his name, who weeps alongside those shedding tears of blood.

O, slayer of demons with a weeping saw, O, wielder of cold light. Hear our pleas. Hear our sorrow. Hear our… yearning. And make it so.

His kingdom, Virginia. His great domain, his great wealth, his great laws. Those who live in peace on his land, enjoying freedom. You too can be like them. You too will soon live freely in that place. You too…

…

…

…

“…And that is the gist of the ominous rumors making the rounds.”

The rumors were deliberately spread in a vague manner. They were embellished with so much false information that it became difficult to distinguish truth from fiction. Stories of an indigenous emperor, or a spirit. They had to sound like the mad ramblings of slaves to the ears of the Spaniards, yet just enticing enough to capture the attention of the weary. In this way, those who would dismiss them, would dismiss them, while potential allies would have no choice but to pay heed.

“Do you know what the slaves have been chattering about lately?”

“I do. They say Drake and the native emperor are going to smash Florida and free them all.”

“…Beat the one who said it half to death. My plantation should be quiet now.”

“It seems to have spread like a fever on ours. They carved an idol in the corner of their room and were praying to it, so I smashed it and gave them a good whipping.”

“Satan worship… We must embrace them all in the name of the Lord…”

It was just as Cheyan and the first thirty had predicted. The rumors, being as intangible as clouds, spread just as widely. And from among the masses…

“Is-is it true that you were sent by ‘Nemo’?”

“…Yes. Now cross that hill and run north, nonstop. You’ll be able to escape.”

“…”

“A ship… should be waiting. When you get there, tell them ‘Nobody’ sent you.”

Occasionally, some would escape. The Spaniards never imagined that the ‘evil spirit’ of the rumors was the one behind it. They simply assumed the escapees had fled into the forests or the sea, or had taken their own lives. More accurately, most Spaniards simply didn’t believe the rumors and had no desire to. A terrifying tale of a demon helping slaves would only give them sleepless nights.

‘In his land, everyone sings freely.’ ‘In his land, no one even pays taxes.’

Besides, they already had nothing more to wish for. These ordinary Spaniards had men and women to serve them; they could live like kings of their own small kingdoms on their little plantations.

‘In his land, everyone gets a vast farm.’ ‘In his land, everyone gets livestock, seeds, and a house.’

The truly greedy ones squeezed their labor force to the absolute limit to acquire more land and slaves, building great plantations and commanding scores, even hundreds of slaves. For them, the songs of the slaves were nothing but an irritation.

And then.

“…Truly? A vast farm, and even livestock?”

On a plantation near San Agustín, Florida, there lived a man who was only moderately greedy.

***

A man caught between the satisfied majority of Spanish slave owners and the rapacious businessmen who clawed for every scrap of wealth.

His name was Asuero.

Asuero did not indulge in the debauched lifestyle of other plantation owners, who kept dozens of local concubines. Asuero’s plantation was of an average size, just enough to be worked by five or six slaves. He was not particularly diligent, nor was he particularly lazy. He was simply… accumulating discontent.

“The plot of land the authorities gave out… isn’t it a bit small?”

“Is it? I thought this was plenty…”

“We are standing on the front line against the English colonies, are we not? Is this paltry patch of land a sufficient price for our lives?”

“When you put it that way, I suppose not…”

Asuero was deeply dissatisfied with his current situation. He believed that he and his father before him had served the great empire their entire lives as mercenaries. When other conquistadors acted uncooperatively toward the colonial authorities who had demoted their hero, Hernán Cortés, he and his father had remained loyal, expecting a few crumbs from the table. Even when everyone called them traitors and opportunists, he had endured it. He thought a comfortable life was finally about to begin…

But… what was this?

‘They stationed me… not in the rear, but on the front lines?’

Land near San Agustín was the number one target for the English. And they put him… here? Unacceptable. The empire should not treat him, who had been its sword and expanded its territory since his father’s time, with such contempt. It should not leave him like this, before the threat of England. He had wanted to become a lord of the New World, not some country squire trembling at the threat of pirates.

On top of that, the humid swampland showed no signs of being reclaimed. The slaves were so lazy they were practically slothful, giving the whip no rest. And under the pretext that the English could attack at any moment, life in the colony was controlled by the authorities in countless ways. Every single thing was an irritation. Besides, on the fringes of this world, there were no pleasure quarters, no taverns, no gambling dens, no theaters. His daily life was unbearably dull.

Except for one thing.

“Malco.”

“Yes, master.”

“Bring me the whip. That stupid daughter of Satan is being too slow.”

“I-I-I’m sorry… my lord… I injured my hand yesterday…”

“And why should your master care that your hand is injured? Here is the whip, sir.”

“Good. Well done, Malco. Strip that thing’s rags off and bring her here.”

“P-p-please! Please just spare my life! I’ll do anything! Anything!”

There was only the pleasure of ruling. That was the only thing he liked about this colony. As long as it wasn’t related to the English or colonial defense, the authorities controlled nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was the backwoods, after all; if a few people were killed and buried, no one cared. It was the backwoods, so firing a few shots at a hostile Indian village changed nothing. No one cared about the screams of Indian and Moor children.

It was a situation similar to Brazil, which he’d visited during his mercenary days. There, the men lived like kings with dozens of native women. If you just replaced the Indians with dark-skinned Moors, nothing was different. The only annoyance was the occasional meddlesome missionary who would click his tongue and walk away. The Spanish colonial authorities didn’t have the manpower to monitor every single plantation spread throughout Florida.

And so, Asuero lived day by day, filling his boring life with the maximum possible stimulation.

“Master? Are you not going hunting for Indians today?”

“Hm? My body is stiff from drinking yesterday… Where are the slaves?”

“It seems they went for one of their ‘dining clubs.’ They’re probably spouting all sorts of strange and blasphemous things there again.”

“Hm? Dining club?”

“Ah, you must not know. They have them. It’s a time for the Satan-worshippers to chatter nonsense amongst themselves.”

That was how things were, until one day, Malco tipped him off about something. Malco was the only one among the Moors worth talking to. He was a devoted and loyal slave who served as his right-hand man and kept him company.

“You… you know the rumors, don’t you? About the indigenous emperor or spirit who liberates slaves…”

“Ah, I’ve heard of it.”

“Sometimes, those ignorant fools build shrines to worship such spirits, and it’s similar at those dining clubs.” Malco glanced around with a contemptuous look, as if the other slaves were right in front of him. “They seem to call it ‘Mass’ or what have you, but they probably just kill some poor animal as a sacrifice.”

He didn’t know the true nature of the widespread cell organization, so he just spouted nonsense.

“…I’m not sure I know the exact details of this ‘Nemo’ rumor. Explain it to me.”

“Well… you know. That in ‘that place,’ a field many times larger than what the slave owners here possess is waiting, that fertile land stretches out, and that in ‘that place,’ all slaves are freed… It’s all absurd nonsense.”

“Hoooh.”

Malco, realizing his master had taken an interest in the story, added a few more words.

‘That place’s’ palace is said to be filled with a precious metal called aluminum, and all sorts of gold, silver, and jewels. And ‘that place’s’ emperor is a man named Nemo, who despises slavery and bestows immense treasures upon those who free slaves. Furthermore, he treats those who free slaves with the utmost respect and makes them his vassals, at which point they are rewarded with rich and vast lands, and beasts made of iron farm in their stead.

With every word, Asuero found himself drawn in.

“…Where is this domain of his said to be?”

“They say it is in the land of Virginia, to the north.”

“Virginia, where the English are… hoo.”

Asuero felt an unknown intuition tapping at his chest. The rumors were strangely specific. While the identity of the emperor, Sir Nemo, was vague, the descriptions of his list of treasures, his beasts of iron, and the riches he bestowed upon his vassals were incredibly detailed.

‘Is this… real?’

He could have dismissed it as nonsense and moved on. But wasn’t he a mercenary? He had chased after far more nebulous rumors in search of El Dorado and the like. And that intuition of his was ringing.

This was a risk worth taking.

“…”

“…Master? What is it?”

“…Ah, Malco. Don’t you feel something?”

“Feel what, sir?”

“…”

Asuero grinned. “…The smell of money.”

The next day, all the slaves under his command who had been part of the ‘dining club’ were tortured to the brink of death. There were no ‘deacons’ or ‘priests’ among them, but even with the meager information he obtained, Asuero was certain.

This was it.

“Ugh, ughh, ughhhh…!”

A slave he had just disemboweled was trying to hold his own intestines in. Looking down at him, Asuero thought, This is it.

If England threatens me, and the Spanish colonial government fails to protect me… if the enemy threatens me and my allies cannot defend me… then it is better to become an ally of the enemy.

“Master, let’s go.”

“Ah, just a moment…”

At Malco’s words, Asuero looked around the blood-spattered cellar.

“Augh… gurgle…”

“S-save, save… me…”

He saw chunks of meat that had once been people, now unable to form human words. Looking them over, Asuero clicked his tongue. “You had such… worthless information. I don’t know why you tried so hard to hide it.”

In truth, Asuero knew. He knew that nothing was more precious to a person than hope. To them, Virginia was a land of hope, and its emperor was salvation. They could not betray their salvation.

Not that it was any of his concern. He wiped the blood from his hands with a towel, threw it to the floor, and spoke to Malco. “Let’s go now. We must prepare to leave for Virginia, mustn’t we?”

“Yes, sir.”

Their bags were already packed. What they had to do was clear. They would take the small boat they had just bought and follow the coast north. That would lead them to Virginia. To the land of the ‘Emperor.’

To go before the emperor who was so generous to slaves, to have his merits recognized and receive wealth and land… hmm. Naturally, he would have to remain a benevolent man who freed slaves. But, had he ever been good to those things? Hmm… no. A bad rumor shouldn’t be allowed to spread.

“…Malco, let’s go.”

“Yes, master.”

And so, the two men left the cellar. They placed a large boulder over the door. All manner of screams and the sound of fingernails scratching at the wood continued from within, but it was no longer Asuero’s concern.

He was going to Virginia. That place… was truly a land of hopeful, fresh starts.