The Seven Serpents Trilogy (66 page)

D
AZED
, I
RODE OUT OF THE TEMPLE, SCATTERING A CROWD OF WOMEN
who pelted me with stones and curses. Screams followed me up the winding street. By the time I reached the summit and the great wall loomed before me, all sounds had died away in icy silence.

Guards were lounging at the gate as I suddenly appeared before them, not fifty paces away. Taken by surprise, they did not move. Then two of the men recovered themselves and ran to close me off.

I slashed them aside and spurred my horse through the narrow opening. A cluster of stone huts barred the way, and as I chose a path around them, one of the guards overtook me and grasped the horse's tail. I dragged him for a distance, bumping over the rocks, until he finally fell behind.

I rode all that night, still in a daze. I reached Cuzco at sundown and fell asleep in a gutted temple, slept till noon of the following day, and, avoiding Pizarro's garrison, rode out of the city.

I stayed with Manco the farmer, recovering my strength. I learned that Pizarro had struck out for the coast, and that he and Alvarado had become enemies, that ambitious Captain Almagro had sworn to kill Pizarro. The soldiers, as usual, were interested not in killing each other but in gold, which they sat through the nights gambling away. Recovered from the first shock of the Spanish onslaught, the Indians were gather ing in mountain villages, arming themselves against the hour when they could slay their tormentors.

I caught up with Captain Alvarado and served him indiffer ently until the day we reached the sea, where I left him. When I had thoughts, which was seldom, they were confused. One scene faded into another as in a nightmare—the
Santa Margarita
lying wrecked on a hidden reef; Julián Escobar, semi narian, before the god house, blood running around my feet, speaking as a god to the multitude, at Moctezuma's side while he read his fate in a bird that talked; Pedroza's eyes when he ignored the obsidian knife poised above him; Atahualpa, last of the Incas, at the hour of his betrayal and death—all, even the memory of my beloved Chima, everything pointless, con fused, and time distorted as in a frightful dream.

In San Miguel I boarded a ship for the port of Panama, using up the last of the gold I had saved. In time I sold my horse and her gold horseshoes to a young man on his way to Peru, and with the money bought passage to Spain.

After an accident to the ship's rudder in a violent storm that sent us into the Azores for a month of repairs, I arrived safely at the mouth of the Guadalquivir. We made good time against the flooding river and docked in Seville on a feast day.

The city was brimming with joy. Church bells rang the hours and the quarters between. Flags flew from the
embarcadero
, from the Tower of Gold, and from the ships along the river.

By chance, as I went ashore I noticed that the caravel moored at our stern carried the name
Santa Margarita
.

I shouted to a sinewy man leaning against the ship's rail, “Does this belong to Guillermo Cantú, the dwarf ?”

“It does,” the sailor shouted back, “if you refer to Cantú, the Marquis of Santa Cruz and the Seven Cities.”

I was somewhat abashed by the dwarf 's new, resounding title, for I hadn't thought of him in years and I had no urge to see him now. Out of curiosity I asked the sailor if the marquis was on board.

He pointed across the river. “The church over there? Near it, a tower?”

I looked and saw a tower almost as tall as the Giralda.

“That's where the marquis lives when he's here in Seville. Mostly he lives in Madrid.”

“Where's the Marquis of Santa Cruz now?”

“Here. At the
feria
.”

“
Feria
?”

“The fiesta. You never heard of it? You must have been gone a long time.”

“I have.”

“A grand fiesta,” the sailor said. “Dancing. Processions, Firecrackers. The
ricos
have booths and they entertain friends. Every year they have the
feria
, now that the treasure fleets come regularly. It goes on night and day. You're just in time for the festivities.”

At my lack of enthusiasm, the sailor grew suspicious, mum bled something, and walked away—he might, by chance, be talking to a heretic.

Before I had climbed up from the river four boys, mistaking me for a conquistador, fastened themselves upon me—one at the rear, one on each side, and one in front, walking back ward. They wanted gold. I turned my pockets inside out, hoping to drive them off.

“What's in the sack?” the pimply youth in the rear wanted to know.

“Nothing you'll like,” I said, opening the sack.

They all glanced in. One of them said, “Nothing. He hasn't been anywhere.”

“He's been down the river fishing,” another said. “And caught nothing. No wonder he's got a long horse face.”

I lost them in the crowd of revelers.

Both sides of the street that led to the cathedral were lined by cloth pavilions decked with flowers and ribbons and gaudy signs of welcome, belonging apparently to the
ricos
the sailor had mentioned. I recognized none of them or members of their families, but I had not gone far when my name was called out from one of the pavilions.

Guillermo Cantú made his way through a swarm of pretty girls. At first I thought that by some miracle he had grown—he now reached to my shoulder. I saw then that he was wearing gold, stilt-like extensions on his legs and high gold boots. His face had not changed. He still had the twisted little smile and the darting gleam in his eyes. It was, indeed, my old friend the dwarf.

He clasped me in a boisterous
abrazo.
A servant put a glass of
manzanilla
in my hand. The pretty girls, who were half his age and mine, when told by Cantú that I had once been emperor of the Maya, giggled and pressed themselves upon me, clamoring to hear about my kingdom.

“Don Julián Escobar, you come at a lucky time,” he said. “One of my fleets is due in any day. I'll make you my com modore. You'll never need to leave Seville. You'll inspect the ships—there are ten in a flotilla, and I have two flotillas. You'll see that the ships are in condition and properly provisioned.”

He threw his arms about me again, overjoyed with the won derful prospects. For a moment I thought that he might go into his little dance; then he grew sober and tried to explain why, at the hour of danger, when I was in dire need of the
Santa Margarita
, he had turned tail and sailed off for Spain.

I didn't bother to listen. Uneasily, he got around to the subject of gold—the amount he had carried off and the right ful share that belonged to me.

“The governor of Hispaniola took a nibble,” he said. “King Carlos took a bite.” He pointed to a man sitting in one of the pavilions. “That's Don Andrés, the chief officer of the House of Contracts. You can't sail out of the harbor without his consent. Don Andrés took not a bite but a mouthful.”

A tear showed in one of his eyes. He groaned.

“There was little left,” he said with a sigh. “A pittance.”

“More gold than that, Don Guillermo. You can't make soup out of stones, as the saying goes, nor can you build a fleet of ships out of a pittance.”

He studied me. “Four thousand gold pesos?” he said.

A fortune, but the thought of so much gold did not lift my spirits. Truthfully, the thought was distasteful.

“Five thousand,” he said, taking my silence for disappoint ment.

“Double the amount,” I said, as I saw a line of ragged figures approach us.

“Agreed,” he said gaily, delighted that I hadn't demanded more. “Come tomorrow and I'll have it for you.”

The chattering girls were suddenly quiet. The revelers who choked the aisle between the pavilions drew aside to let the figures pass. They carried candles and were dressed in black gowns and black hoods that hid their faces. I recognized them as members of a lay brotherhood whose lives were dedicated to the poor.

“Tomorrow, when you come,” I said on an impulse that I could not explain, “when you bring my share of the gold, give it to these gentlemen.”

The Marquis of Santa Cruz was startled. He had thoughts of backing out of the bargain.

“Little good it will do,” he said.

“It belongs to the Brothers of the Poor,” I said, as I walked away. “See that they receive it, every peso. If you fail, you'll hear from me, Cantú.”

“If it serves to lighten your conscience, Lord Kukulcán,” the dwarf called after me. “You always had a heavy one.”

I did not answer. I left the street of pavilions. The sound of guitars and laughter faded away. A cluster of women sat beside the cathedral door, some with children, all pale, their hands held out for alms.

I went down the long dark aisle to a chapel where I had often prayed before. I knelt in a corner, away from the light of votive candles. The marble floor was cold. I clasped my hands and gazed up at the Virgin above the altar in her white robes. Around her neck were coils of gold, and on her fingers sparkling rings that must have come from the New World, for I had never seen them before.

But as I gazed, slowly her face disappeared. Instead, I saw the great gold image in the Temple of the Sun. Then Chima's face—all innocence and beauty. Then this changed and the priestess was looking down at me, as her raven locks took on the shape of writhing serpents.

In panic I sought a chapel where no candles burned. It be longed to wise St. Augustine, bishop of Hippo. I got to my knees and gazed up at his painting. In the darkness it, too, slowly changed and showed no longer St. Augustine but a portrait of Bishop Pedroza as he lay on the sacrificial stone, the obsidian knife poised above his breast.

I hurried away. At the cathedral door I stopped suddenly, as if an iron fist had grasped me.

Beside the curtained door that shut out the church from the sounds of revelry was an alms box and an old woman on guard, sitting behind it asleep. In one painful moment, I wrenched the amethyst ring from my finger and pushed it through the slot. I heard a small tinkling sound as it struck copper coins on the bottom of the box. The old woman opened her eyes and blessed me.

I stood in the darkness looking down at her. You do not understand, old woman, I said to myself. I had the power to save Pedroza, but I let him die. He died because I could not live in peace knowing that he held power over me and something that I coveted. I was like Pizarro, the pig boy, who coveted the power of Atahualpa. No, giving this amethyst ring to the poor does not absolve me of the crime. Nor does the gift of gold I have made. I must seek it in some other way, old woman. But how? In some other place, old woman who blesses me. But where?

I went out into the April sun and chose the road toward Arroyo. Near the top of the first hill, the stagecoach overtook me. It was the old one I had ridden in before, many times, only now it was painted blue and yellow and red for the fiesta and had a young driver I hadn't seen before. He cracked his whip and drove on when he learned that I was penniless.

Don Alfredo Luz, the
alcalde
of Arroyo, riding a sleek gray horse with his wife on a pillion behind him, came up the far side of the hill. In my present condition, having no desire to talk, I glanced about for a place to hide. The hill was without tree or bush. I stood in the middle of the road and greeted them with a stiff bow.

“Welcome, señor,'' Don Alfredo said. “You have been away a very long time. Welcome, welcome! We've heard so many things, we scarcely know what to believe. We heard you were with Hernán Cortés. Then it was Francisco Pizarro.”

Doña Elena, his wife, said, “Then Magellan and you sailed around the world. Is that true? Is the world really round?” She paused. “Your mother died of pains in her chest, did you know?”

“No, I didn't,” I said without emotion. Now at least my mother wouldn't be disappointed because I was not yet a bishop, let alone a priest—that I had come home from the golden cities empty-handed.

“Your sister is married and has two children,” Doña Elena said. “The boy looks like you.”

“I guess it doesn't make much difference about the world,” the
alcalde
said, “whether it's round or flat.”

“Other things,” I said, “are more important.”

“You've seen so many sights in your wanderings,” Doña Elena said from her soft perch behind her husband, “do tell us about them sometime.”

“Round or flat, the world's far bigger these days,” Don Alfredo said, “since Magellan and Pizarro and Cortés have been nosing about.”

“And so full of wonders,” his wife said.

“It's not only the world that's full of wonders,” I said. “Life is full of wonders, too, monstrous wonders!”

My words were lost on Doña Elena.

“Yes,” she said. “When Captain Pizarro came asking for money—three years ago, was it not, Don Alfredo?” The
al calde
thought it was three. “Anyway, he brought a band of Indians with him to show everyone. You should have seen them. All decked out in feathers and swirly tattoos and big round rings in their ears. The men, that is. The women had hair they covered with some kind of purple grease, and it hung down below their waists. And they wore bells on their bare ankles.”

“And millions of them out there in Spain's new world,” Don Alfredo said. “Little wonder that Pizarro has such a time try ing to save souls.”

“Honestly, Julián, do you think that these heathens
have
souls?” Doña Elena asked me.

“Yes, souls,” I said. “Also, the men bleed when wounded and the women weep in sorrow.”

Don Alfredo was suddenly uncomfortable, as the sailor on the banks of the Guadalquivir had been uncomfortable. He turned his horse in a circle and Doña Elena raised her pink parasol.

“Are you returning to your studies?” she said.