Through half-lidded eyes, Juán watched as the rising sun shattered across the cerulean ocean waves. The collision of light and water glimmered like a flickering lantern, blinding him from his elevated position on the mast.

All he could see was the endless sea of blue melting against the horizon, spreading across all corners of the Earth. For the seasoned sailors on the ship, this was a dream—to be completely surrounded by the sea—but for Juán, it was suffocating.

There was no escape from the fickle ocean. Nowhere to run when she became choleric, bubbled herself into a rage of squally gales and colossal waves that could swipe a group of helpless sailors off the deck in an instant. Or when she became overexcited and her tides swished the boat from side to side, churning the insides of every crew member in the process.

"Juán! Get down here!" Someone shouted from below. "Stop daydreaming!"

He lowered his gaze to where Roberto, the boatswain, was yelling. After rolling his eyes, he jumped onto a rope hanging from the mast and slid down to the deck. "Ay, Roberto. You called?"

The boatswain frowned. "The rope wasn't made for sliding, Sailor."

"It's more a convenient form of transport," Juán answered, wincing at the rope burns now seared into his palms. "What did you need?"

With a self-satisfied smirk, Roberto motioned to the captain's chambers. "He wants to see you."

...

Hernán Cortés grinned wickedly from behind his cluttered desk. "How are you doing, Sailor?"

Juán's eyes flitted over the assortment of oddities cluttering the captain's table. Pens carved from ivory, a bejeweled knife sheath, a cluster of glinting marbles inside a vase. "I'm doing fine, Sir."

Cortés nodded as if he cared. "Since you were sick during the crew meeting, you didn't hear the news."

A brutal warmth flooded Juán's cheeks as he remembered the recurrent vomiting that had left him bedridden for two days. "Apologies..."

"Don't worry yourself," The captain dismissed with the wave of his hand. "We anticipate landing in México within the week."

"And...you wanted me to...come along?"

Cortés suddenly roared with laughter, a bellow that shuddered throughout his office and trembled through Juán's bones. "Of course! You're a strong and sturdy fellow. You'll fare well."

"Th-thank you, Captain."

"We ought to be thankful. The ocean is a kind thing," Cortés said with a chuckle. "It gives to the brave. The strong. It helps those who help themselves. Despite the odds, we will conquer Mexico."

The "odds" Cortés was alluding to were Diego Velázquez, his superior who had originally commanded him to secure México for colonization. However, after they'd gotten into a quarrel, Velázquez revoked the explorer's charter—cancelling everything.

And yet, here everyone was, pummeling through the Atlantic Ocean on an unauthorized voyage to México.

This hadn't bothered Juán. He was an adventurous type, a thrill-seeker willing to break the rules to feel energy coursing through his veins.

The evidence of this being when months ago, under the scorching heat of Trinidad, Cuba in January, and not too long after his twenty-third birthday, he'd kissed Máma goodbye, walked to the Miel Bar, and greeted Truylos Sanz, his friend of almost fifteen years.

"Juánito," Truylos hissed, using his nickname in a way that was more alarming than endearing. "I have bad news."

Growing concerned over his friend's tense countenance, he lowered his voice to a whisper, "What is it?"

"Remember when we 'visited' the alcalde mayor's house some time ago?" After Juán nodded slowly, Truylos continued, "The police are onto us."

"What do you mean? How would they know?"

But before Truylos could answer, the doors of Miel Bar burst open, revealing a group of Inquisition soldiers. Their thick black boots gleamed in the sunlight filtering through the revolving door. "Juán Gascón, do not move!"

He looked at his friend in horror, "How did they know I was here?"

"They caught me pawning the jewelry, Juánito," Truylos rushed, his tone pleading for sympathy. "They knew it wasn't mine."

"You ratted me out? What ever happened to vivir en juntos, morir en juntos!" Juán glanced at the officers who were quickly approaching. There was no escape, no running. He'd been betrayed.

"In exchange for no charges, I had to give up the name of my accomplice," Truylos cried out.

"You traitor!" Juan roared. "I trusted you!" As the officers jerked him from his seat and dragged him away, he bit his lip to stop from screaming.

Vivir en juntos.

Morir en juntos.

It had meant nothing.

After a police search found an assortment of jewelry and valuables hidden in his room, he was transported to prison to await trial. For the next month, he remained there, surviving on one meal a day and wallowing in a self-deprecating spiral of regret.

They hadn't even let Máma visit; except the time she'd bribed a guard using half of her weekly salary. During that visit, he hadn't been able to look her in the eye. Máma had wasted her money to come see him—her failure of a son. All because he wanted a thrill, because he saw the alcalde mayor's house and thought he could get away with it.

At the trial, the magistrate sentenced him to five years of hard labor. The sentence was far more lenient than he would have anticipated but his excitement sank when the judge continued, "Five years of hard labor on the Caravel."

He soon discovered the punishment had been organized by Hernán Cortés in an effort to recruit more crew members for the ships he would mutinously be taking to México.

Juán was grateful to not be flogged, but rotting on a ship didn't seem appealing either. Despite this, he endured the seasickness, dried food, and scurvy in quiet discomfort. He had to finish this sentence, return to Máma who was sick with smallpox.

It had been ravaging Cuba, but only the indigenous Taíno seemed to be catching it. Máma told him it was their disease, and he hadn't fallen prey because their conquistador blood swirled within him, protected him from the diseases silently killing off his mother's people.

In bouts of hysteria, Máma often spoke of the afterlife, of her father and grandfather who had died at Spanish hands, and of her mother who had also contracted smallpox and withered away. She seemed to know she was going to die, but he refused to accept it the way she had. Somehow, he would make sure she survived.

If only he could jump into the sea and swim back to Trinidad.

But he couldn't. So instead, he smiled at Cortés, hoping the captain would let him go. "That is wonderful, Sir."

Cortés stared at him oddly. He had lustful eyes. The kind that longed for things in excess—like bloodshed, and plunder, and women. "I don't expect the battles to be long. The natives are inferior in intellect."

Juán didn't visibly respond, though inwardly he seethed with a trembling rage. For, no one—no one on this ship—knew he was a mestizo. His mother had been the granddaughter of a Taíno chief, until Cuba had been invaded by the Europeans. By men like his father, a white nobleman who'd settled on the island in search of fertile farming land to begin his tobacco business.

Juán was the product of the white man's lust for the exotic. Of rape. And he couldn't imagine what would happen if they discovered his incredibly light skin was simply luck and not pure-blood European heritage.

"Oh...I see, Sir."

Cortés frowned as if he could sense Juán's anxiety. The room was thick with it, clouded with his paranoia of being caught, his unease among Spanish people. Fortunately, the man was merciful, "You're dismissed, Sailor."

...

They'd landed in México, on "Mayan territory." Juan didn't know who the Mayans were, but he was certain they wouldn't appreciate their land being encroached upon.

For several days, they heaved supply crates onto the sandy beaches of what Cortés called the Yucatán, and when the night sky plunged the world into darkness, they'd rest beside a fire. Then, they'd wake before sunrise to begin the work again.

Eventually, they finished unpacking and began the trek inland—a battle against Mother Nature herself. They trudged through the overgrowth, tearing aside the leaves that snapped at their faces, stomping on the mud that sank with their every step.

As his thin boots sloshed through the cocoon of tropic and his mud-slick face burned in the heat, Juán's chest twisted in realization.

He was conquistador.

He, along with these other men, by force or by choice, were going to colonize México. They were going to conquer the Mayans. Destroy everything the people had built, everything they had. Just like what they'd done to the Taíno in Cuba. Just as his Mother had told him:

"They said they were here to civilize us," She had muttered with an angry edge in her voice. "But they were the real savages."

...

"This land now belongs to the Spanish Empire!" Cortés cried as he thrust the Cross of Burgundy in the sky. Its red and white hues waved in the wind as his men shouted in response. It symbolized the beginnings of one empire. And the end of another.

They continued their march, until the procession was halted by a group of Mayan fighters who weren't willing to let go—not yet.

But just as Cortés had promised, the battle wasn't long. The skirmish ended after the Spanish began firing their guns. Juán, who had quietly given his gun to someone else, stood in the backlines, catching glimpses of dark-skinned bodies falling to the ground like stone slabs.

When the defeated Mayans gave them twenty indigenous women as a surrendering gift, all Juán could see was his mother. He saw her hue in their dark, brown skin, saw her tresses in their flowing, black hair, saw her memories in their terrified eyes. The fear they emanated was her same fear, the one she'd felt when his father had overpowered her, taken what he wanted, and left her with a baby: Juán, the mestizo who after hearing the story could never look at a white man the same.

...

For his next feat, Cortés wanted to take over the eastern coast, Veracruz, before moving inland to fight the Aztecs whose vast empire extended throughout most of mainland Mexico.

As they camped near the native Totonac settlements, Juán heard an explosion. After sprinting to the shore, where the noise had originated, his worst fear was confirmed.

Cortés had scuttled their ship.

"I don't want anyone to retreat before the great battle against the Aztecs," He explained to his bewildered crew. "We must remain united."

While Juán watched their ship slowly sink into the water, he felt his hopes of returning to Cuba sinking along with it. But in his despair, he managed to channel fury.

Juán hated him.

He hated the Spanish.

He wanted to return to Cuba. To smell the sea salt in the air, walk across its sandy beaches, see Máma and be with her as she took her last breath. To pretend he hadn't been part of the siege of the Americas.

To pretend he wasn't a conquistador like the man whose European blood churned within him.

...

The final installment of Cortés' plan was being enacted. As they began the march to Tenochtitlan, the Aztec capital, Juán remembered Cortés' words during the voyage.

We ought to be thankful. The ocean is a kind thing.

It almost made him chuckle.

Had the ocean been kind when it led his father to Cuba? Where he raped his mother and countless other helpless women? Had it been kind when it led Cortés to México? Where he was slowly destroying everything that had been built before him?

While the other men merrily hailed their God and kingdom, all Juán wanted to do was scream. Scream for Truylos, for Máma, for Cuba—scream for México.

But instead, he bit his lip.

And he kept quiet.

alcalde mayor: also known as a corregidor; a local administrative and judicial official who represented the royal jurisdiction over a town and its district

vivir en juntos, morir en juntos: live together, die together

conquistador: a conqueror; a term widely used to refer to the knights, soldiers and explorers of the Spanish Empire

mestizo: a man of mixed race, especially one having Spanish and indigenous descent