PREVIOUSLY.
[I stopped before him and rested both hands on the leather notebook he held against his chest. I looked at him with absolute intensity.
"It is highly probable that in these new animals arriving on the ships from Europe lies the true solution. A pure version of the gods' protection, without the risk of death." I paused, ensuring every syllable was etched into his mind. "In the cows, Oiya. In the cows' udders, we shall find the ultimate answer."
The old researcher looked at me, blinking several times. His jaw dropped slightly, far more dumbfounded and astounded than when I suggested inoculating the infants. His voice came out in a slow, incredulous whisper.
"Cows?"]
----
Two weeks later.
Year 14 of the SuaChie Calendar, Fifth Month (July 1496).
Dawn City (Santiago de Cuba, Cuba), Caribá Region (FRFI).
Chuta's Office, Stone Manor.
Fourteen days in which the sun had risen and set over Dawn City, marking a waiting period that was gnawing at my nerves.
I stood before the wide window of my office, feeling the warm breeze drifting up from the harbor. The smell of saltpeter and fish mingled with the cedar scent of the heavy furniture behind me, but my mind was far away. My knuckles, resting against the carved wooden frame, were white from the pressure.
Today was the day. Oiya was due to bring the results of the orphans subjected to variolation. My breathing was steady, but my heart beat with a dull, thudding anxiety.
To keep from losing my mind during that fortnight, I had buried myself in obsessive planning. Oiya and I had outlined a containment strategy that bordered on military paranoia.
The sanitary cordons were already a reality.
I remembered the long nights by the light of oil lamps, arguing over how to protect our healers.
We had designed a model for cloth masks: thick, made of multiple layers of the finest cotton our spinners could weave.
The order was strict: every physician or healer who approached the coasts or treated foreigners had to wear them without exception. To sterilize them, I decreed they must be boiled in water at high temperatures and washed with strong ash-and-fat-based soaps before being reused.
Any tunic, blanket, or sheet that came into contact with an infected person's fluids would be cast into the funeral pyres immediately. The purifying fire left no room for error.
My mind leaped from the hospitals to the docks.
The sea was our greatest blessing, but now it was also a highway for the white death. Until we achieved herd immunity—or at least solid protection in the coastal populations—the movement of foreigners would be cut off entirely.
Any sailor docking in our domains would be forbidden from leaving the port enclosures. However, I knew that in the long run, this would suffocate trade.
As I gazed at the distant line where the ocean met the sky, a pharaonic idea had begun to take root in my mind. With the successful production of hydraulic lime we had recently stabilized, heavy infrastructure projects were no longer a distant dream.
We could build a mega-port; an isolated commercial citadel, designed specifically for transoceanic traffic, complete with locks, impenetrable stone quarantine zones, and ventilated warehouses.
But stone could not cure. The true battle was being fought in fluids and plants. Over those fourteen days, I had guided Oiya subtly, but with haste.
Under the guise of "spiritual revelations about the body's energy," I ordered him to formulate urgent rehydration serums: exact proportions of clean water, salt, and sugars. It was something so absurdly simple to my modern mind, but in this era, keeping a patient from dying of diarrhea or dehydration-induced fever was a medical miracle.
I went even further.
I suggested he begin discreet studies on how to extract the "clear water" from the blood of recovered European prisoners—a rudimentary way of seeking blood plasma serum and its antibodies—in addition to expanding our botanical pharmacopoeia with more potent medicinal plants.
And, of course, I set him on the monumental task of observing the cows.
I still remembered his astounded face. I knew Oiya was inspecting the udders of the imported cattle for pustules. That was the ultimate goal: the true vaccine, safe and free from the risk of epidemic outbreaks.
A sharp, firm knock on the heavy oak door abruptly cut through my internal monologue.
I turned slowly, releasing the breath I had been holding in my lungs.
"Enter."
The door opened with a metallic groan of the hinges. Oiya stepped into the office. His wrinkled face was inscrutable, a mask of absolute concentration. He did not come alone.
Behind him, flanking the entrance, came two of my elite guards. The soldiers held their spears steady, but the rigidity of their jaws and the tension in their eyes betrayed what they knew. The entire inner circle was aware of what was at stake.
"Great Leader," Oiya greeted, bowing his head with the utmost respect.
"Oiya," I replied, trying to keep my voice from trembling. I gestured toward the wide, tanned-leather armchair in front of my desk. "Please, take a seat."
The old shaman walked with measured steps and sank into the armchair, resting his old notebook on his knees. The silence in the office grew thick, heavy, interrupted only by the bated breath of the guards at the door.
I leaned against the edge of the desk, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Do not keep me waiting any longer, old friend. How is the progress with the little ones? Tell me the truth, no matter how grim."
Oiya looked at me in silence for an endless second, and then, the wrinkles on his face softened. A slow, warm, and deeply reassuring smile spread across his lips.
"Everything has unfolded exactly as you foresaw, my lord," he said, his voice laced with a relief that stripped ten years from his age. "The spirits do, indeed, protect the pure. The orphans' progression has been far milder and safer than that of the adults in the dungeons."
Oiya opened his notebook, showing me a quick but detailed sketch of a child's arm.
"They had a fever, yes, but a brief one. And the pustules... were minuscule. They formed quickly and dried up within a few days, leaving barely a few small, round scabs. Our group of healers is convinced that these tiny marks will fade completely in very little time, as the young skin grows. Not a single child was at risk of death, Great Leader… Not one."
I closed my eyes and let out a long, loud, trembling sigh, allowing the terror that had built up in my chest for two weeks to dissolve into the room's breeze.
It worked.
Variolation in healthy, well-nourished children had an overwhelming success rate. While it was not the definitive cowpox vaccine, I longed for Oiya to discover later, this gave us something invaluable: time and shields.
It was the fastest measure we had to stop uncontrolled spreads. With this, we could immediately immunize our first line of defense: the physicians, the nurses, the port guards.
I opened my eyes, feeling a renewed fire of determination coursing through my veins.
"Thank you, Oiya," I said, my voice hoarse with suppressed emotion. "You have no idea the weight you've just lifted off my shoulders. Your work will save countless generations."
"The merit of the vision is yours, my lord," he replied humbly.
"I want you to proceed with everything as agreed for the next phases," I ordered, straightening my posture. "We will begin preparing the healers and the coastal garrisons immediately. Everything under the same strict control."
Oiya nodded, taking his quill to note the order. I paused. The moment had arrived. I slowly untied the laces on the left side of my cotton tunic, baring my shoulder and arm.
The fabric fell with a soft rustle.
"I am ready for my turn."
Oiya leapt to his feet, his smile vanishing completely.
His stoic figure drew up before me, gripping the notebook so tightly his knuckles turned pale. Behind him, I heard the sound of leather and metal creaking; the soldiers at the door had tensed like bowstrings on the verge of snapping, processing that their absolute ruler was about to invite death into his own blood.
The tension in the office was so thick it could be cut with an obsidian knife. Oiya stood petrified for a second, blinking at my bare arm, before his stoicism fractured, giving way to an expression of genuine alarm.
"No, Great Leader, please!" the old man exclaimed, stepping forward with his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Not here."
I blinked in confusion, feeling the cool harbor air caress my exposed skin.
"Together with your wives, my assistants, and under the meticulous guidance of Chancellor Zasaba, we have prepared an isolated house on the outskirts of the city," Oiya explained in a rush, lowering his voice to regain his composure. "A remote facility, with all the comforts befitting you, and with a medical staff that has already been immunized… Everything is ready for your care."
A sudden, uncomfortable heat crept up my neck. Embarrassment hit me like a wave. Of course. I had acted with the haste of a theatrical martyr, forgetting my own sanitary rules.
Inoculating myself in my government office, in Stone Manor, would have been a logistical stupidity; I ran the risk of turning the nerve center of the empire into a hotbed of infection.
I cleared my throat, pulling the sleeve of my tunic back up with stiff movements to hide my flush.
"Certainly," I said, feigning a grave and calculating tone. "I was just... checking that you were willing to do it without hesitation. Excellent coordination work. Lead the way to this house, Oiya."
The shaman nodded, though the faint gleam in his eyes told me he hadn't bought my excuse. Without another word, he led the way.
As we made our way through the wide corridors of the government building, my thoughts grew heavy. Upon reaching the main entrance, the entourage halted.
There, framed by the golden morning light, stood Umza, Nyia, and Turey. My three wives waited in silence, their faces tense and their postures rigid. Under any other circumstances, a farewell before a journey would have prompted me to crack a lighthearted joke to dispel the gloom. I would have laughed or played with their hair. But the shadow of the white death commanded a visceral respect… I merely remained silent.
I approached them and, without a word, opened my arms.
As if they had rehearsed it in secret, all three reacted in unison. They threw themselves toward me in a perfectly coordinated movement, surrounding me. I felt Umza's firm arms, Nyia's delicacy, and Turey's protective warmth.
We tried to melt into that embrace, holding each other tight until the heat of our bodies became one. I breathed in the scent of crushed flowers and essential oils from their hair. It was the scent of my home, of my life in this world.
"I will return safe and sound. That is a promise," I murmured against them, pulling them a little closer.
None of them answered with words. I only felt their faces bury into my chest and heard their soft hums of agreement, vibrating against my skin.
After a few minutes that felt like hours, the embrace unraveled with a slowness heavy with reluctance. I took a step back, forcing myself to look at them one last time before turning toward the door. I began to walk away, hardening my expression, when I felt a gentle but firm tug on the edge of my tunic.
I stopped and turned around. Nyia was there, one step ahead of the others. Her dark eyes shone with an unusual intensity. For a moment, my modern man's mind thought that perhaps she had gathered the courage to kiss me in front of the guards and old Oiya, breaking public protocol. But instead of seeking my lips, she rose on her tiptoes, leaned her face close to my ear, and her warm breath made my skin prickle.
"It seems the gods have blessed our union, Chuta," she whispered, her voice trembling with pure emotion. "It is possible that I am expecting our child."
The whole world stopped. The sound of the harbor, the creaking of the soldiers' armor, the morning breeze... it all vanished, swallowed by the echo of her words. I stood paralyzed, eyes wide open, holding my breath.
A child? Now?
The news was a lightning bolt in a clear sky.
But then, as I looked into her tear-filled, hopeful eyes, I understood. My brilliant and sweet Nyia surely had known for days, perhaps weeks. She had kept it a secret with an ironclad purpose: to deliver it to me right on the threshold of sickness, as an unbreakable shield, as a supreme reason not to surrender to the fever… She wanted to give me the strength to survive.
I could not form a single word. The lump in my throat was too thick. I looked at her with a tenderness that overflowed my soul. Slowly, I lowered my hand and, with a reverent gentleness, rested my fingers on her lower belly. It was still flat beneath the cotton fabric, but it harbored the future of our lineage.
Nyia blushed deeply at the gesture, lowering her gaze with a shy smile. I said nothing; there was no need. I conveyed all my love, my gratitude, and my resolve through that look of extreme affection. Then, I turned around and marched with a steady stride alongside Oiya and the soldiers guarding us.
Now I had one more reason to return.
Half an hour later, the atmosphere changed drastically. The scent of the sea and flowers was replaced by the clinical smell of alcohol, boiled herbs, and ash soap.
I found myself in the main room of the quarantine house. Zasaba, in his eagerness to please me, had decorated the place with absurd luxuries: tapestries, silks, and a majestic bed.
The first thing I did was reject all of it. I settled in a corner, on a simple rustic wooden cot with a clean straw mattress. To me, it was simply stupid and an economic waste to lie on fine linens and noble woods that, by protocol, would have to be burned to ashes once my recovery was complete.
I sat on the edge of the simple cot. Oiya entered the room, this time without soldiers.
In his hands, he held an object that caught the light from the window: a rudimentary but functional syringe, equipped with a very fine steel needle. It was, undoubtedly, one of the few metallurgical marvels of precision that existed in the entire kingdom, forged exclusively for this purpose.
I extended my arm without hesitation. The cold steel pricked my skin, followed by a slight pressure. The inactive pus, the very essence of the disease reduced to its absolute minimum expression, entered my bloodstream.
At first, nothing happened.
Throughout the entire first week, I felt in perfect condition. I read reports, planned the port from the window, and convinced myself that perhaps my reincarnated body was naturally resistant.
How naive I was.
From the eighth day on, the world collapsed.
It began as a deep chill in my bones that no cloak could soothe. Then, the fever erupted. My body became a furnace. Though I lacked a modern thermometer to measure it, the sensations and vague memories of my past life set off alarms in my head: I had to be pushing past 39°C.
The muscle ache was agonizing, as if I had been beaten, and the constant sweating left my mouth as dry as a desert… I was dehydrating with terrifying speed.
In the midst of my feverish stupor, the door would open every so often. Figures shrouded in tunics, their faces covered by the thick cotton masks I myself had designed, drifted in and out like ghosts. They were my nurses.
They propped me up with firm but gentle hands, forcing me to drink. The salty-sweet taste of the oral rehydration serums brought back my sanity for fleeting moments, followed by the bitter gulps of antipyretic infusions made from willow bark.
I had forgotten what it felt like to be truly sick, trapped in the fragility of a flesh-and-blood body. The delirium, the weakness, the feeling of standing on the edge of a dark abyss. I never wanted to repeat this misery again.
But as the sweat soaked me and the world spun, one image clung to my mind with desperation: Nyia's hands resting on her belly...
Two weeks later.
Year 14 of the SuaChie Calendar, Sixth Month (August 1496).
Dawn City (Santiago de Cuba, Cuba), Caribá Region (FRFI).
Chuta's Office, Stone Manor.
Fourteen days had passed since the fever had dragged me into that burning abyss, and though I had emerged victorious, the fire had left its invisible scars on me.
I was back in my main office at Stone Manor.
The morning sun filtered through the large windows, bathing the polished stone floor and warming the surface of my desk, where a mountain of scrolls and tablets awaited my attention.
I turned a page slowly, feeling a residual heaviness in my muscles. My movements were still limited, clumsy, as if my joints were rusted. Technically, the variolation had been a resounding success, but the pervasive weakness clung to my bones.
Oiya, with that protective stubbornness of his, had insisted I maintain strict bed rest for at least another week. But I couldn't afford that luxury. A leader cannot show vulnerability to his people in times of uncertainty; I had to be the living banner proving that our "medical barrier" worked. I wanted to be the unbreakable example.
Besides, if I were completely honest with myself, the isolation was driving me mad. I wanted to see my wives with an urgency that burned inside me, especially Nyia. I wanted to be near that little spark of life beating within her.
I remembered my arrival the previous afternoon.
Barely had I crossed the doors of the manor, before even taking off my travel tunic, I had summoned the nurses and doctors assigned to my family's care. I needed certainties, not just the sweet hopes whispered before my quarantine. The healers, with knowing smiles, had confirmed everything.
Apparently, Nyia had reported her missed cycle to the nurses weeks before giving me the news. And by today, the signs were undeniable: the morning sickness that forced her to eat only mild broths, the evident swelling and tenderness in her breasts, and the incessant, almost comical, urge to relieve herself every hour.
Everyone in the medical wing was certain. I was going to be a father.
The joy that flooded me upon hearing it was so pure it almost made me forget the ache in my joints.
However, not everything was perfect harmony in my chambers. As I read a report, a mischievous smile spread across my face as I recalled what Nyia had confessed to me last night between the sheets. There was someone experiencing a profound emotional contradiction: Umza.
Of the three, Umza was the one who had thrown herself into the task of conceiving with the intensity and ferocity of a warrior on campaign. That so much physical effort and dedication hadn't yet borne fruit pricked her pride. It wasn't that she wanted to be first out of sheer vanity, but rather that her competitive spirit made her frustrated by the lack of results.
According to what Nyia recounted between giggles, Umza had been gossiping with Turey, formulating conspiracy theories about how and when the miracle had occurred.
They came to the conclusion that Nyia must have frequented my office in secret, taking advantage of the times I was immersed in state affairs, and that everything had happened there.
The mere mental image of Umza muttering such things amused me greatly.
But Nyia hadn't just sat idly by in the face of the gossip. Her retaliation was worthy of a master strategist.
First, she silenced Umza with a flurry of hard, precise pinches to the arms that left the warrior whining. Then, with artistic cruelty: she drew a portrait of her, but painted her completely bald and scandalously overweight.
The sight of that painting had traumatized Umza so much that she ended up begging Nyia for forgiveness with tears in her eyes.
I let out a soft laugh, leaning back in my chair.
It hurt to have missed that tender and chaotic squabble between my women. That profoundly human and noisy dynamic was exactly what anchored me to this world, what made all this titanic effort to build an empire worthwhile.
I sighed, trying to focus my eyes on the documents in front of me. They were Zasaba's reports on the citizens' response to the health campaigns.
The people were embracing variolation with a religious fervor, calling it "the gods' defense against the evils of the east." It was poetic and functional. But, as much as I tried to read about the distribution of the masks, my mind kept drifting toward the future.
Toward my child.
My child, I thought, savoring the words.
What would he be like? What name would the heir to this clash of worlds bear?
Suddenly, my mind began to play absurd tricks on me. I pictured myself holding a baby wrapped in native cotton blankets and presenting him to the crowd.
'Citizens, I present to you Maximus Decimus Meridius,' I thought, picturing the boy as an adult in gladiator armor.
I couldn't help it; a burst of laughter escaped my lips. But the ideas kept flowing, each more ridiculous for this historical context.
'Son Goku? Or maybe Vegeta so he has character?' I thought, biting my lip to hold back the laughter at the mental image of the spiky hair. 'Optimus? No, that's too metallic... Adolf?'
That last idea crossed my mind like a spark of pitch-black humor, highlighting how absurdly inappropriate and terrible it would be to give a child that name in pre-Columbian America.
The laughter started to bubble up, one burst after another. I clutched my ribs, which still protested from the effort, but I couldn't stop.
'What if he's a boy with powers and I name him Luke Skywalker?'
I was laughing openly now, head thrown back, reveling in my own private stupidity.
Right at the peak of my laughing fit, the sound of the door opening snapped me back to reality.
It was Nyia. She walked in with soft steps, carrying a heavy carved wooden tray with steaming clay bowls, giving off the scent of corn broth and sweet herbs. She wore her hair down, falling like a cascade of obsidian over her shoulders, and a maternal blush seemed to give her skin a special glow.
Quickly, I signaled the aide standing guard by the door.
"Help her with that, please. Don't let her carry heavy things," I ordered, my protective instinct kicking in immediately. The guard hastened to take the tray from Nyia's hands, setting it down carefully on a side table.
Nyia approached my desk, smoothing her tunic over her belly. She looked at me with a mix of curiosity and tenderness.
"What was so funny, my husband?" she asked, in that soft voice that always managed to soothe my demons. She had heard it from the corridor.
I leaned my elbows on the table, looking at her with a radiant smile.
"I was thinking of names for our child," I confessed, omitting the examples so I wouldn't have to explain what a Jedi or a Saiyan was.
Nyia blinked, surprised by how far ahead my thoughts had leaped. A delicate blush spread across her cheeks, tinting them a warm shade.
"I... I haven't thought about it at length yet," she murmured, shyly playing with the edge of her sleeve.
She stood in silence for a long minute.
She turned her face toward the large windows, letting the sunlight trace her silhouette. Her eyes got lost in the blue sky stretching over Dawn City, perhaps searching for the answer in the wind or in the will of the spirits.
Finally, she turned her gaze back to me. Her dark eyes shone with serene conviction.
"But... if it is a girl..." her voice was a steady whisper, "I think she should be named Za."