Boot Print in Time

  by Kevin Schmitt

  

Chapter One

“Maldicion,” the horseman groaned as his right boot cleared the hind quarters of his battle weary mount.

 Pulled muscles were rare in the nether regions of a cavalryman, but this particular warrior had been reaching too far with his sword. Primarily because the enemy heads were too close to the ground. The young man yanked off his helmet, which along with his stained riding boots were the only belongings that identified him as a Conquistador, albeit a torn and battered one.

 His clothing was made up of dense quilted cotton, courtesy of the people he had been fighting. The material was called lchcahuipilli, and while it was inferior to steel plate armor, it could turn away most obsidian swords or atlatl darts. It was lighter and cooler than chain maille and didn’t rub against the flesh. It also didn’t rust, not that the young nobleman would have to concern himself with that little problem. A gentleman need only keep his beard trimmed and his cock out of reach of any pox infested whores, and as of late, that had been fairly easy to do.

The gore covered Spaniard took a swig f cheap wine from a goat skin then wordlessly nodded to the servant who was never out of calling distance, regardless of the circumstances.

 “Jefa---I am wondering---do you think there are cities in hell?” queried the servant as he slung the goat bag over his chest and shoulder.

 Captain Cisaro Longoria gazed up at the red haze that haloed the nearest wall of the Aztec metropolis. It came from a thousand fires that would illuminate the city until dawn.

 “Oh yes. But that need not concern you my old friend. The Devil would never allow you in. Your farts would be worse than any brimstone smell. Not to mention the rest of you.”

 Old Pedro Gonzales smiled at the joke; anything to divert his attention from the sounds of women shrieking in the distance. Gonzales had long served Cisaro’s father, and in those days he had learned that a city is not simply taken, it is raped, looted and brought down to its lowest possible level of humanity. The Spaniards were taking little joy in that. Their leader, Hernan Cortes had spent the last year recruiting native warriors from the outer regions, and those men were teaching the Spaniards the real meaning of total warfare.

 The Aztec capital was called Tenochtitlan and since it’s founding in 1325 it had faced no real destructive force save that of occasional floods from surrounding bogs. But the endorheic basin wet lands made the city into a kind of Island, which was beneficial from a defensive military point of view. The city itself was incredibly symmetrical with over forty public structures and enough living quarters for twenty-thousand people. Of course as a hub of commerce, the city could also accommodate many thousands of citizens from the outer reaches of the realm.

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