PREVIOUSLY.
["It is a necessary endeavor," interjected another cardinal from the northern region. "We will not cease our study of other religions, for knowledge is our greatest defense. However, it is time our own gods see our loyalty reflected in the expansion of their worship. We cannot allow foreign faiths to be the only ones walking the paths."
I remained silent, watching their faces lit by a newfound fervor. The concept of 'Suaza missionaries' had not been part of my original plans, yet it aligned perfectly with my need for cultural cohesion in the face of impending European pressure. Faith, it seemed, was ready to march in step with the kingdom's armies.]
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Year 13 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fourth Month (June 1495).
Sea of the Floating Islands (The Caribbean).
The Caribbean sun—or the Sea of the Floating Islands, as my people now called it—beat down with an intensity that not even the canvas awning of the Wayamú could fully mitigate.
The air was saturated with saltpeter and the stale scent of damp hemp ropes. Around me, the activity was frantic: sailors of Taíno descent, their copper torsos gleaming with sweat and exertion, shouted orders in a blend of their native tongue and Muisca.
To the men around me, however, I was not the 'Son of Heaven'—at least, not in this guise. Beneath my coarse cotton clothes and simple cloak, I was merely Sansua, just another traveler making his way toward the city of Guava (Léogâne, Haiti).
At my side, Quemuen—Michuá's nephew and my usual companion on these incognito escapades—inspected several bundles of cargo with silent diligence. He did not entirely understand the value of these journeys, but I did. I knew that to rule such a vast kingdom, it was sometimes necessary to cease being the sun and mingle with the shadows.
But my mind was not on the ship, nor on the dexterity of the sailors maneuvering the mixed sails, nor even on the impressive silhouette of Guava beginning to take shape on the horizon, where the ancient chiefdom of Jaragua was now transforming into one of the great metropolises of the FRFI.
My thoughts remained anchored to yesterday's meeting with the cardinals.
Suaza missionaries, I repeated mentally, feeling a shiver that had nothing to do with the sea breeze.
In my past life as Cyrus, back in that distant future, I would have considered it blasphemy—or a distasteful irony—that a religion created by me, bearing such unorthodox traits, would spread across the world.
It was not due to some vestige of ancient faith; in fact, I realized I would feel much more comfortable debating theology with a Spanish inquisitor than navigating the waters of this new spirituality I myself had helped birth. European Christianity was predictable to me; I knew its light, its shadows, and above all, its endgame.
What disturbed me was the moral 'Frankenstein' I had constructed.
I watched the white foam the Wayamú's hull left in its wake, my mind still submerged in a swirl of thoughts.
Unwittingly, in my attempt to forge social cohesion to prevent millions of Europeans from devouring our culture, I had distilled the best of the religions I remembered.
I had taken the sacred value of life, the almost mystical respect for one's neighbor, the solidity of family values, and that visceral connection to nature the peoples of the Great Quyca already possessed. I had elevated honesty and good deeds to the rank of divine mandate, establishing respect for our ancestors as the anchor of our identity.
It works too well, I thought with a mixture of pride and dread.
Suaza society was fairer, more peaceful, and more prosperous thanks to this moral compass.
I had cleared away the weeds that used to choke the religions of the Old World: there were no dogmatic scriptures to be wielded as weapons, no fanciful explanations about the origin of every living thing, and I had ensured that no priest could claim their word was the word of God in order to oppress others. Added to this, I had eliminated social class distinctions and the disdain for foreign beliefs.
But in doing so, I had created something new—something the cardinals now wished to carry beyond our borders. I knew that, on the grand chessboard of history, the dominant religions were usually those with the sharpest steel or the most inflexible dogma.
Mine—if I could even call it that—was too human, too logical. I feared that in the inevitable clash against the fanatical fervor coming from the East or the sheer demographic immensity of the West, my creation would simply vanish for being 'too good' for such a violent world.
"Sansua..." Quemuen's voice broke my trance, pulling me back to the Wayamú and the sticky midday heat.
I looked up. Quemuen stood by the gunwale, pointing ahead. His typically stoic face showed a small spark of anticipation.
"We are entering the port of Guava," he said quietly, ensuring no sailor overheard his familiar tone with me. "You should get ready. A hard day's work awaits us. They say the city's market is busier than ever with the arrival of the ships from the Southern Quyca."
I stood up, adjusting my cloak and hiding my thoughts behind the mask of an ordinary traveler. Ahead of us, Guava's stone piers stretched out like open arms, brimming with the vibrant life of a kingdom that never stopped growing, blissfully ignorant of the doubts tormenting its architect.
"Thanks for the warning, Quemuen," I replied, letting out a long sigh in an attempt to release the tension from my shoulders.
Standing upon the wooden planks of the Wayamú, I felt the morning sun warm the fabric of my coarse cotton tunic, which was already beginning to cling to my back from the humidity.
I stretched forcefully, listening to the crack of my vertebrae, while my fingers instinctively sought the leather strap of my eyepatch. I adjusted it carefully, ensuring it completely covered my left eye.
Heterochromia was far too distinctive a mark; in a kingdom where I was worshipped as the 'Son of Heaven,' an eye of a different color was a signature that not even the simplest clothes of my Sansua persona could hide from an observant gaze.
Scarcely a few minutes later, the calm of the voyage ended.
The ship's owner, a broad-shouldered merchant of Tairona descent whose face was furrowed with sun-scars, burst onto the deck. His shouts in the Tairona language cut through the air like a whip, scattering the seagulls fluttering above the mast.
"To the ropes! Lower the gangways! Time is gold and the pier waits for no one!" he roared, gesturing toward the port of Guava.
Under his command, the chaos fell into order.
Quemuen and I joined the rest of the sailors and hired laborers. The air was suddenly filled with the pungent smell of poultry thrashing in their cages and the dry dust of grain sacks.
We began to unload the cargo: heavy cedarwood crates, sacks that weighed like stones, and wooden cages vibrating with the frantic flapping of animals.
The merchant, noticing that the flow on the pier was beginning to bottleneck, signaled to me. At the port of Dawn City, I had already earned a certain reputation as a useful polyglot—someone capable of untangling the linguistic knots that the new general alphabet had not yet managed to fully unravel.
"You there, Sansua!" the Tairona shouted. "Bring some order to that shore before the foremen fine us!"
I leapt onto the limestone and wooden pier, feeling the solid ground beneath my feet. I began barking specific orders, translating the merchant's desires for the local stevedores.
"Handle those cages with care!" I commanded, raising my voice over the din. "Secure the ropes to the bronze bollards! Nobody rests until the animals are in the shade and the pier is clear!"
Just as the merchant wiped the sweat from his brow, preparing to order a brief respite, I spotted three figures appearing in the standard tunics of the Ministry of Commerce: the port overseers.
The Tairona tensed and gestured desperately for me to approach. He began speaking hurriedly in his native tongue, explaining the origin of his cargo, while the Taíno officials blinked in confusion, scanning the crowd for an official translator.
I intervened immediately, adopting my role as a humble facilitator.
"Honorable overseers," I said, bowing my head slightly. "The master says he brings vast quantities of wheat from the men of the East (Europe), a cargo of cacao from the lands of the Mexica, and exotic animals brought from across the sea as well."
One of the overseers, a middle-aged man holding a clipboard, arched his eyebrows with interest.
Upon hearing the mention of the cacao and the animals, a smile of satisfaction crossed his face. Mexica cacao remained a prized luxury, and European animals were highly sought after for the new dietary standards I had personally promoted.
"Where did you say you hailed from?" the overseer asked, scribbling feverishly.
"From Dawn City, sir," I answered calmly.
The official nodded, but his tone turned more formal. The bureaucracy I had designed to prevent smuggling was relentless.
"I need the departure pass from the previous port to verify the route and the cargo," he requested, holding out his hand.
I translated the request for the merchant. He searched a leather pouch tied to his waist and extracted an engraved bronze plaque bearing the official seal of the Dawn City Council House. The overseer examined it under the sunlight, running his thumb over the reliefs before returning it with a nod of approval.
"Everything is in order. You may proceed."
Under Quemuen's and my supervision, the men began the final transfer. We loaded the merchandise onto reinforced wooden carts to haul to the local warehouses, from where it would be distributed to the city's commercial streets.
The physical exertion was exhausting, but it allowed me to observe the efficiency of my own system up close; to witness how the products of the 'Commercial Trident' flowed into the very heart of the FRFI.
Upon completing the task, Quemuen and I dusted off our clothes and headed toward the city center. As we approached the market, the clamor of the stevedores was replaced by a vibrant, multicolored human roar.
Guava was not just a port; it was a fervent melting pot of trade.
I stopped at the entrance of the main plaza, awestruck. There were stalls from every region: woven blankets from the southern mountains, goldsmithing from the southern valleys, and fruits that only grew in the distant jungle.
The sheer variety of faces and languages crossing paths before us was living proof that the Suaza Kingdom was no longer a mere project, but a giant breathing on its own.
A couple of hours later.
The roar of Guava's main plaza still vibrated in my ears as the sun began to set, dyeing the Caribbean clouds in a furious orange.
I was observing a row of exotic fruit stalls when the city's spell was broken. A crewman, possessing weathered skin and a scar running down his forearm, appeared through the crowd, shouting names and making imperious gestures.
"To the pier! The master doesn't pay you to stare at blankets!" he roared, his voice cutting through the haggling of the merchants.
As part of the duties, I had assumed under the guise of Sansua, I joined him. We scoured the side streets, searching for the scattered laborers who had lost themselves amidst the steam of the food stalls and the music of the local flutes.
It was a tedious chore; the port of Guava was a labyrinth of distractions, but we eventually managed to round up the group.
We walked back to the pier, where the Wayamú rocked lazily on the turquoise waters, now cast in shadows. The Tairona merchant, bearing his usual air of impatience, sought me out and gave a sharp wave.
"Sansua, listen closely," he said, pointing toward the stone buildings lining the port. "We have an urgent contract for Tacaino City (Île-à-Vache, Haiti). The capital of the FRFI cannot wait. There is a batch of goods in Warehouse 15 that must be in the hold before the moon reaches its zenith... We depart at dawn."
I signaled to the men, and we headed to the designated warehouse. As we pulled open the heavy wooden doors, the air grew thick and dry. The place was packed to the rafters with fine timber beams and, most prominently, hundreds of sacks of crushed limestone. A powdery white dust hung in the air, irritating my lungs.
Only I, and perhaps Quemuen, understood the true value of that cargo. That limestone was the foundation of the cement transforming the kingdom; it was the 'dust of progress' that made it possible to raise cities of stone where once there had only been straw.
I felt Quemuen's gaze burning into the back of my neck. When I turned, I saw his face coated in a fine layer of white dust, his eyes bloodshot from the irritation, glaring at me with genuine malice. His lips moved soundlessly, but the message was clear: What kind of hell have you dragged us into this time?
"This is the life of common men, Quemuen," I told him quietly as I adjusted my tunic. "You cannot govern what you do not understand through sweat... We must learn from this."
He did not reply, but his silence was an insult in itself. He joined the line of laborers with a grunt. I began directing the movement of the material, coordinating the trips back and forth between the warehouse and the Wayamú's gangway.
Quemuen, with his warrior's strength, carried sacks two at a time, but with every completed trip he shot me an irritated glare, as if every step on the pier were a personal affront to his lineage.
By the final load, exhaustion weighed heavily on my own thirteen-year-old bones. I approached one of the last sacks remaining in the shadowy corner of the warehouse. It weighed dozens of kilos; limestone was dense and treacherous. When I tried to hoist it onto my shoulder, I felt my knees buckle for a second.
Quemuen appeared at my side instantly, extending his large hands to take the weight.
"Leave it, Sansua. You have nothing to prove here," he muttered, his tone wavering between concern and annoyance.
"No," I replied, gritting my teeth and straightening my back. The sack groaned against my shoulder, releasing a cloud of dust that made me cough. "I, too, eat the bread of this kingdom."
"Use the handcarts, then," he insisted, pointing to the wooden wheelbarrows other workers were using. "Don't be stubborn."
I shook my head, keeping a steady pace toward the ship. I needed to feel that weight; I needed my body to remember that the decisions I make in Stone Manor culminate here, in the physical exertion of a child carrying the future on his back.
Half an hour later, we finished stowing the merchandise in the belly of the ship. The Tairona merchant, wiping his hands with a filthy rag, gathered us all on the deck beneath the torchlight.
"Good work," he said, though his voice held no gratitude, only calculation. "Those who wish to sleep on the ship to be ready by dawn may do so. It will cost you a small percentage of today's pay. As for the rest of you, find somewhere in the city to drop dead."
I felt a twinge of bitterness in my stomach.
It struck me as a cruel gesture; after breaking their backs loading his ship, he was charging them for a wooden corner to rest. However, as I observed the other laborers, I saw that many accepted without complaint.
The afternoon's pay was not modest; it was enough to cover a night at a local inn or to pay the 'rent' for the spot on the Wayamú, to buy a meal, and even to save a fair amount.
There is no mistreatment, I reflected as I sat on the pier, watching Quemuen count his coins with narrowed eyes. There are no whips, no eternal debts. It is a free exchange, albeit a harsh one.
I kept my gaze on the horizon, where the Dawn Ocean merged with the darkness. Tomorrow we would be in Tacaino City, the demographic heart of the FRFI. It was something that sparked quite a bit of anticipation in me, since on previous visits I had only been passing through for formal meetings with Foza or his ministers.
We left Guava's piers behind, the weight of exhaustion still vibrating in my muscles and the limestone dust embedded in every pore of my skin.
Walking through the city streets alongside Quemuen, beneath the fading light of the torches that were just beginning to be lit, felt like wading through a fever dream. The bustle of the markets was dying down, replaced by the murmur of families retreating into their stone and wooden homes.
Finally, we arrived before a facade I knew well, even if my presence there was a secret: one of Za's Lodges.
Seeing the emblem of my mother Za's restaurant-inn chain brought me a pang of pride mixed with profound nostalgia.
My mother, the first great businesswoman of the kingdom, had managed to standardize comfort and fine dining at strategic points throughout the realm, and across the Floating Islands in recent years.
We stepped into the lobby, where the air smelled of clean wood and spices. Under my Sansua identity, I requested two single rooms. After dropping off our belongings—the small bundle of coarse clothes and the merchant's pay—we headed to the bathhouses.
Half an hour submerged in hot water—one of the sanitations measures I had championed since Year 1—was enough to remind me why I fought so hard for civilization. The lather of the artisanal soap and the steam scrubbed away the last traces of 'Sansua the laborer,' though the patch over my left eye remained, reminding me of my true burden.
We descended to the ground floor, where the dining room was illuminated by beeswax candles. We ordered the menu of the day: a warm potato puree mixed with fresh tomato and creamy chunks of avocado, accompanied by a citrus fruit juice and hot corn tortillas with wild fruit jam.
At the first bite, I closed my eyes.
The flavors flooded my palate with a familiar warmth; although they lacked the sophistication of the chefs at Stone Manor, or that mystical touch my mother brought to her own cooking pots, the recipes were undoubtedly hers. It was a feast compared to the smoked fish and stone-hard tortillas the merchant had given us as rations aboard the ship.
I observed Quemuen. The nephew of General Michuá, a hardened warrior, was licking his lips savoring the jam, his face relaxed for the first time all day.
In that moment, in the dim light of Za's Lodge, we were not a leader and his escort, but two men enjoying the peace that the Suaza Kingdom had built for its people.
After paying, we went up to the second floor. Upon entering my room, I collapsed onto the bed. It was comfortable by the standards of the era, but nothing compared to the mattresses I had developed for my fiancées and my immediate family.
However, the physical exhaustion of carrying sacks weighing dozens of kilos proved far stronger than any discomfort. Before sleep finally claimed me, my mind drifted toward the Central City.
I thought of my parents, Hyba and Za, and especially of my little sister, born just a few months prior. I missed her with an intensity that reminded me of my human fragility beneath my aura as the 'Son of Heaven.'
The following day.
The Wayamú cut through the waters heading east with a favorable wind. A few hours after our departure, I stationed myself at the bow next to the Tairona merchant as the silhouette of Tacaino City emerged from the horizon.
I was left breathless. I had visited the capital of the Federal Region of the Floating Islands (FRFI) before, but always on official missions, leaping from the royal ship directly into meetings with Foza or his ministers.
Seeing it from the perspective of a common sailor was a revelation. Tacaino City was, truly, the demographic heart of our kingdom in the Caribbean.
A massive number of ships were docked at the stone piers, and many more awaited their turn nearby. But unlike Dawn City, which was dominated by the large vessels I had personally designed, the style here belonged to the common people. I saw dozens of Wayamú and only a couple of the imposing Tequendama.
The most striking sight, however, was the tide of canoes and small boats swarming everywhere. They looked like hundreds of wooden ants seeking to devour the island, a hive of human activity proving that internal trade was more alive than ever.
"Incredible!" I whispered unconsciously in Tairona.
The merchant beside me nodded, letting out a raspy guffaw as he adjusted his leather belt.
"It is worthy of the capital of the people of the Floating Islands, isn't it, Sansua?" he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "But don't get lost staring at the clouds. That chaos only means one thing: we are going to have more work than our backs can bear."
I smiled, feeling the sun warm my face. The giant I had created—the Suaza Kingdom—was breathing with a force that even I, its architect, found overwhelming. The adventure of being Sansua was only just beginning to show me the true face of the world I had sworn to protect.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Thank you all for your support. Let's get straight to the chapter comments.
CHAPTER COMMENTS
First, I should mention that there will be at least one more chapter of this in the near future, and as Chuta gets older, there will be a few more, but not many... I don't want to overuse these kinds of chapters, which I really enjoy writing.
On another note, I want to clarify that most trade and minor business transactions are carried out through bartering. This isn't because there's no currency, but because it's difficult to change everyone's habits, and also because it's more convenient.
Regarding payments, they are mostly made with raw materials, but also with coins.
In industries connected to Chuta, men close to him, in the administration, and in the military receive salaries in coins.
AUTHOR'S COMMENTS
First, I really enjoyed these kinds of chapters. I even considered simply writing that Chuta was preparing his people for the arrival of the Spanish, establishing a peaceful union, and founding a viceroyalty alongside the Spanish officials.
But as soon as that idea came to me, it vanished. Hahaha
On another note, there are new maps. Just a heads-up, these are heavily compressed, so a lot of quality has been lost... If you think the images look great now, imagine what they looked like when they were over 100 MB.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 91) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 34) (ON HOLD)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 14) (ON HOLD)
You can find them on my profile.]