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São Vicente and Santos were paralyzed. Arrows sewed in the air along with lead bullets, gunpowder mixing with the bark of trees that fell with the impact and shouts in Tupi, Portuguese and Dutch as the battle continued in the region of the fortress of Barra Grande.
In front of him, a young boy breathed heavily, with human blood spattering his body and machete dyed red, rabid as he kicked the lifeless body of a batavo who was holding the villages hostage.
They could remember the days of childlike innocence in the small country town and how they were slowly replaced by a rebellious, jovial spirit. How he looked utterly mortified upon his first entry, and as time went on, only tales of his glorious deeds were heard.
Nothing, however, would prepare them to see their little brother fiercely brandishing a weapon, with only one goal in mind:
To kill.
"Piratininga." The second oldest said, almost out of breath. His stomach turned over the whole scene that developed quickly – one hour, they were surrendered to the Dutch and, after a rush between the foreigners, reinforcements from the village of São Paulo arrived from the plateau already with open fire in the bloody battle for the resumption of Santos.
São Paulo of Piratininga slowly turned, lips curled down in contempt and hatred in its eyes, walking towards the two coastal villages.
Santos was recovering after being hit with the butt and kicked in a fight with the Dutch and São Vicente seemed frozen, as if refusing to look down at the bodies around and accept the reality of the facts in front of him.
Piratininga stuck his machete into the dirt between the two brothers, a sly smile, and even amused, if it weren't for the red lines running down his face. His blood? Most likely not.
"No one, ever again, will subdue my coastline."
He crouched down in front of the older brothers with a proud air, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "I will protect them from now on."
"The coast is not yours." Out of the corner of his eye, Santos saw the Dutch canoes at sea, fleeing while the bandeirantes celebrated with the natives and the Portuguese, weapons up.
"The coastline belongs to the one who protects it." São Paulo stared at São Vicente, holding out his hand. The oldest jumped back, fingers digging into the damp branches on the ground – however, the São Paulo's fingers only reached a leaf caught in his hair, seeming unaware of the fearful reaction of the head of the captaincy. "I will escort you to the city."
"It-it won't be necessary, your, your men must be looking for you!" The teenager looked back, lingering a while on the boats beyond in the sea in the distance.
"I'll go with you. If there's any more left, I'll finish him off myself." He got to his feet, pulling the machete from the floor and placing it in a cloth tied around his waist.
"The justice-"
"Judges didn't saved the villages." He waited for the older ones to get to their feet, shouting something in the General Language (that one that mix portuguese and tupi) to the paulistas who accompanied him before they went on their way. "As soon as I found out from these invaders, we collected a body of men at our expense and descended as quickly as possible. There were Dutch at the foot of the Serra do Mar."
"You killed them?" The youngest, who walked in front leading the way (which wasn't really necessary, everyone knew that place by heart) denied it.
"They managed to get away." Santos nodded in understanding.
São Vicente squeezed his brother's arm, cold hand and face troubled by words he didn't want to say aloud. Both looked at Piratininga's back, at the arcabuz slung over his shoulder, the machete at his waist and the dirty clothes, painted with burgundy liquid.
It was nothing like the little São Paulo they knew.