Chapter 2: Threat behind the breeze

The night had been long and humid. Diego had not gone down to his bunk. He had remained on deck, not far from the mizzen mast, where Pedro was still tied, his body still standing only because of the stiffness of the ropes. Diego settled among coiled ropes and wet canvases, barely dozing in brief intervals, with his eyes half-closed and his senses on alert.

When he woke up, the sky was beginning to clear on the horizon, and the deck was in an expectant silence. Jonathan Hale was already there, crouched next to the boy, with his instrument box open to one side and his firm fingers manipulating bandages and oils with the precision of always. Pedro was no longer standing: the doctor had loosened the ropes enough for him to kneel, still tied by the wrists to the mast and his face sunk between his arms.

A few steps further, the other prisoner — whom everyone called "Mayor" — had also been lowered. He was still tied, but now he was on his knees, slumped against the trunk with his head tilted and his breathing barely perceptible. The lash marks still open furrowed his back like roots sunk into the flesh. Jonathan did not look at him.

It was then that Diego heard the steps. Edward Blackridge appeared from the hatch with his controlled gait, crossed the deck with a quick glance, and stopped in front of Diego without saying a word. A simple nod, curt, was enough to indicate that his vigilance had ended. It was not an invitation, it was a wordless order. The captain did not stop to observe the bandages, nor to give new instructions. Having delivered the message, he disappeared as quickly as he had arrived.

Jonathan, without raising his eyes, continued his work on the boy with the same imperturbable efficiency. His hands were alien to morality.

Diego got up slowly. He walked towards the mast where Mayor lay, examining the prisoner's condition closely. The body was still warm, still alive, although very far from the world that surrounded him. It was then that Jonathan, without diverting his attention from what he was doing, murmured in a hollow voice that he had strict orders not to attend to him. Without taking his eyes off his work, he added that if he really wanted to do something useful, he could urinate on his wounds: the ammonia, he said coldly, could delay infection without offending anyone.

Diego did not respond. He remained silent for a few seconds, then approached the mast. He loosened the flap of his pants, with the resignation of someone performing a mechanical task, and urinated on the open wounds on the strong back of the man. The golden, warm liquid descended slowly down the broken skin, dragging dirt and dry blood. Mayor woke up. There was no gesture of humiliation on the part of the prisoner, but rather one of involuntary physical satisfaction on Diego's part, since in addition to being his first urination of the day, it was quite abundant. When he finished, he wiped his hand against hi...