The Rose Demon

would-be protectors, pointing back down from where they had come.

    ‘Fall back!’ Matthias screamed.

    To his horror he heard a loud ululating war cry come from the trees behind him. He whirled round. A second horde of Caniba were now streaming from the jungle on their left. As they did so, the column of Caniba to Matthias’ right shouted their war cry and raced towards the small, chaotic Spanish force. All order and any hope of defence broke down. Guitirres tried to form his men into a circle but this proved fruitless, and the men streamed back towards Matthias. They pushed and shoved each other, splashing through the small brook, some even dropped swords and spears in their haste to get away. Matthias drew his sword and tried to stop the deserters but they pushed by him. The group which had stayed round Guitirres were soon overwhelmed. The Caniba burst amongst them, axe and club falling, their short stabbing spears thrusting in and out. Matthias watched in horror as a Caniba took one of the young Indian girls away from the group and, with one quick cut, slashed her throat and, kneeling down, burrowed his face into her bloody neck.

    Some of the Spaniards were also not being killed but were clubbed and pulled away, hands and feet tied. A few Spaniards broke through, fighting coolly with sword and spear whilst others kept firing their arbalests, yet the Caniba seemed to have no fear. These, too, were overwhelmed and already the Caniba were in hot pursuit of those who had fled. Matthias stood his ground. He loaded the arbalest and, taking shelter behind a palm tree, loosed whenever he could. A few Spaniards joined him in an attempt to protect their fleeing comrades, yet it was a desolate fight. Matthias looked to his left and right: the Caniba were now entering the jungle in an attempt to outflank and encircle him, whilst others pursued the rest of the small force back to the stockade which, Matthias knew, despite the bombard, would soon be overrun.

    The massacre in the middle of the valley now ended. The Caniba reorganised and streamed up to where Matthias and a few Spaniards still maintained their futile defence. Matthias kept loading and firing his arbalest. As he did so, Caniba broke out from the trees on the left and right, engulfing Matthias and his small party in a ferocious hand-to-hand fight. Matthias, his back to a tree, sword and dagger in his hand, cut and thrust. His body was soaked in sweat, his arms ached yet he felt cold and composed. The fight seemed to represent his entire life but now he could see his enemy and give blow for blow, thrust for thrust. The air rang with the screams and groans of his dying companions. They had seen what had happened to the rest; no man wished to be taken alive.

    Matthias noticed something extraordinary. The Caniba now surrounded him, a party of at least thirty, but he had received no wound, though they could have killed him easily. Time and again warriors came in, their fierce faces gaudily painted in red and white. They seemed more determined to disarm him than deliver any killing blow. Eventually, Matthias, by sheer power of numbers, was forced away from the tree. In one wild rush the Caniba surrounded him, catching at his arms and legs. Matthias lashed out. He felt a blow to his head: the branches of the palm tree above whirled and he lapsed into unconsciousness.

    When he awoke, Matthias was lying in a small glade. A Caniba, his ferocious face daubed in war paint, was bathing the wound on his head, talking to him softly, though the words were guttural and harsh. Matthias tried to rise but others appeared and pressed him gently back on to the ground. Matthias stared to the left and right. Through the trees he could just about glimpse the valley, and saw Caniba warriors dragging away the dead. He sniffed the breeze, his stomach curdled, he caught the smell of woodsmoke and, beneath that, burning flesh, a sickly sweet odour. He stared up at the warrior.

    ‘Kill me!’ he whispered.

    ‘Canabo! Canabo!’ he said and thrust a finger into Matthias’ stomach. ‘Cacique Canabo!’

    He narrowed his eyes and Matthias, despite the pain in his head, understood that he was to be taken to their chief, the cacique Canabo. The warrior allowed Matthias to drink from a calabash of water and threw the rest over his face. Matthias continued to lie there. Any attempt to turn over or get to his feet was gently but firmly repulsed. Looking around, Matthias saw the legs and