Aztec Rage (16 page)

A remarkably beautiful india with tanned skin, large brown eyes, long dark eyelashes, and waist-length ebony hair, she was tall for the women of her race, with shapely legs and graceful arms.

Dismounting, I grinned at her. “I'm not a padre, señorita, but a lay brother, nor am I bound by priestly vows of chastity.”

Her eyes widened, and I heard Lizardi groan. Perhaps lay brethren were not meant to be so frank with women?

A priest came out of a building and was hurrying toward us.

“Who is that, señorita?”

“Padre Hidalgo, the curate of our church.”

Hidalgo was a little shorter than I. Large limbed and round shouldered, he was of somewhat stout proportions, with a casual but distinguished air about him. He was bald on top, with a ruff of white hair. His eyebrows were prominent and nose straight. As with most secular priests, he was clean shaven.

He wore short black trousers, with black stockings made of a material similar to that of his trousers, a loose raglan also of black cloth, leather shoes with large buckles, and a long gown with a cape.

The padre gave us a wide enthusiastic smile. “It is always good to see members of your fine brotherhood. Few orders are as dedicated as you Bethlehemites in treating the sick.”

Lizardi introduced us: I was Juan García, and he Alano Gómez. Lizardi had insisted after we assumed the roles as lay brothers that I keep my first name the same. “Yours is the most common man's name in the colony,” he had said, “and you're not bright enough to remember a new name.”

We were still at each other's throats, at least with insults, but I'd decided we made a good team. Lizardi supplied book knowledge; I was wise in certain ways of men. We needed both sources of strength now that we had to act like priests but were not and had to know something about healing but didn't.

The priest had a scholarly stoop, created no doubt from hunching over books. His eyes were bright and clear, full of intelligence and curiosity. He appeared inquisitive, as if he analyzed everything that fell within his sight.

“You must join us for dinner,” he said, “and, of course, you will lay your head on our pillows tonight. Marina, make sure to let the housekeeper know we will have special guests.”

Lizardi and I mumbled our eternal thanks. Like the priest, I also had an exploratory mind—of sorts. I wanted very much to explore Marina in my bed that night.

“Come, my brothers, let me show you what my indios have achieved.”

Tethering our horses to a hitch rack, we followed Hidalgo. The young woman looked over my horse before we followed behind Lizardi and Hidalgo.

“Do you know horses?” I asked her, to make conversation, knowing, of course, that horses were beyond the comprehension of women. I never believed for a second that she would see through Tempest's “disguise.”

“A bit, yes. My husband and I owned a caballo rancho. After he was killed, I raised the horses myself, from birthing the mares to saddle-breaking the colts, from working the pony herds to breeding the studs.”

“Muy bueno,” I said. But it was not good. What a terrible hand Señora Fortuna had dealt me again—a woman with knowledge of horses when I was trying to hide Tempest's pedigree.

Marina tenderly stroked the side of Tempest's face. He let out a snort that indicated he liked it when she caressed him.

“I see your stallion has fine lines, champion lines. Other than the . . .
unusual
markings, he is a finer caballo than any in Dolores.”

I could have told Marina that no horse outside of a few in Méjico City could match Tempest. I quickly changed the subject.

“What happened to your husband? An accident training horses?”

“An accident with his pants. He let them drop once too often, and a jealous husband shot him.”

I mumbled my regrets and dutifully crossed myself.

“It's all right,” Marina said, “the wronged husband saved me from the gallows. I would have killed him myself. I'm sure you know, Brother Juan, a man can kill a woman he finds in flagrante delicto, but a woman who slays her husband for the same reason will share the scaffold with killers and thieves.”

Marina gave me a look when she spoke of killers and thieves. Did I have bandido written on my face? I found it strange that a woman would use a Latin expression. I knew the Latin phrase for a bedroom indiscretion, having been accused of committing it more than once myself.

“But, of course, Brother Juan, that is just one of the unjust laws we must change.”

I was shocked to hear her speak this way. Raquel had spoken of ideas and philosophy, but at least she was part Spanish. Now I was hearing an india speak of politics and justice . . . and horses. Perhaps my recent ordeal had befuddled my brain more than I realized.

“I have disturbed you with my blunt remarks,” Marina said.

“No, my child. You are just mourning the loss of your husband.”

Throwing her head back, she laughed with derision. “I mourn the loss of my horses. A good horse is hard to find, but men . . . they are easily replaced.”

I looked Marina up and down. Although she lacked Isabella's striking beauty, her voluptuous body was more shapely and sensuous than Isabella's. Moreover, I was genuinely interested in what she said. This was disconcerting. In truth, I had never viewed indias as anything more than serving wenches or repositories for my lascivious lust. Now I found myself conversing with one.

My male physical needs were undeniably urgent, and I suspected she knew it. In fact, when she looked me in the eye, her smile seemed to search the darkest dankest depths of my sin-stained soul, as if she discerned every dirty deed I had ever done.

It had been a long time since I lay my head upon a woman's bare
breasts, kissed her soft lips, and caressed the hidden treasure between her legs. I wanted this Aztec woman of wit and bearing more than I had ever wanted any woman in my life.

“Why did you give up your horses?” I asked.

“Men refused to buy horses raised and trained by a woman. More than one suggested the only business fit for a woman was to raise babies, make tortillas, and break her back in bed. I soon tired of their ignorance and came to work for the padre. He is the most enlightened man in the colony.”

“Brother Alano and I will sup at the padre's table tonight. Perhaps, señorita, afterward we could take a walk together? I have some questions about the area that you may be able to answer.”

“I will also be at the dinner. We can discuss the matters then.”

I wanted to tell her that it would be difficult for me to have a discussion with a servant when she was attending to the dinner guests, but I held my tongue. After dinner and her cleaning chores were done, I might be able to arrange an assignation.

As I followed “Brother Alano” and Padre Hidalgo around, I learned more about Dolores. Not only was the padre growing grapes and making wine, he also had started a number of industries, all employing indios.

The priest bubbled with enthusiasm, telling us about his work with the Aztecs. I listened but could not stop staring at the padre. He reminded me of someone I could not place.

“When we came to the New World,” Hidalgo said, “we Spaniards did not conquer savages but great and proud empires. These indios we call Aztecs—the Mexica, Mayas, Toltecs, Zapotecs, and others were on a cultural level that was in some ways superior to our European civilizations. They had books, great works of art, engineering skills that allowed them to move blocks of stones larger than houses over mountains, a more accurate astronomy, and more mathematically precise calendar. Their roads were safer and more durable than the foul ruts running through many of our locales, and their buildings more solid. In other words, we annihilated civilizations of cultured intelligent peoples.”

I stared at the padre as if he were mad. Every Spaniard knew that Cortés had conquered naked ignorant savages who sacrificed virgins and practiced cannibalism. Yet I could see that Lizardi was not as shocked as I by the priest's ignorance. Marina gave me an amused look as I tried to keep my face blank while the padre made the outrageous comments about indios. If she had been my servant, for such impertinence I would have given her a beating . . . after I made love to her.

The padre showed us to an area where clay pottery—bowls, cups, pots, and jars—were baked in an oven. “None finer are made in the colony,” he said. He pointed at my leather boots, the ones I was gifted by the lady-in-black, who I was certain was my own sweet Isabella. “The indio workmanship on those boots is finer than anything produced in Spain or the rest of
Europe. The hands that crafted those boots and the pottery are as skilled with leather and pottery as any in the world. Why, we've even imported mulberry trees from China. Silkworms will feed off the white fruit, and we'll in turn use the worms to weave silk.”

He enthusiastically explained the process of making silk from worms: “The silkworms are nurtured from egg to maturity by feeding on the mulberry trees. They build their cocoons by producing and surrounding themselves with a long, continuous fiber. Incredibly, each little cocoon produces a very fine fiber about a thousand paces long. Several fibers are twisted together to make yarn that's woven into cloth.”

The padre beamed at us. “Is it not wonderful? Aztecs producing wine as fine as the vineyards in Jerez, silks as delicate as those made in Cathay.”

“And pottery exquisite as the Greeks,” Marina said.

“Bueno, bueno,” Lizardi said.

I kept my face expressionless. I would not be surprised if he now told us that his indios were building a stairway to heaven.

He was different from any priest I'd ever met. Other priests knew and spoke of little except the narrow precepts of their church. When they dealt with matters outside those confines, they were often wrong and inevitably tedious. But the curate of Dolores's church was intelligent, enthusiastic, and energetic. When he spoke of the vineyard, silk making, and other crafts, he had the fervor of a merchant and the intellect of a scholar.

And, of course, he was also quite mad. Who but a madman would teach peons crafts that competed with the work of their betters?

When we were out of the padre's hearing, Lizardi whispered, “Do you realize everything you see is illegal?”

“What do you mean?”

“Were you educated by moonbeams, señor? Growing grapes for wine, silk works, pottery—he even has an orchard of olive trees. I've told you, the colony is barred from the production of all these things because they compete with imports from Spain.”

“Spain sells us wine that tastes like mule piss for extortionate prices. The priest probably has a special dispensation from the viceroy.”

“No, I've heard talk about him in the capital. He's known as a notorious advocate for indios, but he walks the razor's edge. He won't get away with these illegal industries forever.”

I scoffed. “These projects don't threaten the empire.”

“It's their nature, not the size, that threatens the gachupines. The padre wants to prove that peons are as capable as Spaniards, that they lack only training and opportunities. How would the gachupines you know react to Aztecs and mestizos being their equal?”

The question didn't require an answer. We both knew that the viceroy had men strangled in his dungeon for lesser sins.

“ ‘Brother' Juan, one day the viceroy's men or the Inquisition will stop
the padre from his folly. He'll die on the scaffold or at the stake. Only the remoteness of this town and his priest's robes have protected him from harm's way thus far.”

Lizardi rejoined the priest as Marina approached. She glanced down at my caballero boots. It was a deliberate look. I pursed my lips and locked my eyes on hers.

“You have an amazing facility with language, señor.”

I didn't know what she meant, but I took the bait. “I speak French, Latin, and an indio tongue. But how would you know that?”

“I wasn't referring to those but to your command of our colonial dialect and idioms and, as you say, of one of our indio tongues as well . . . all in such a short time.”

She gave me a knowing smile that meant many things, none of them good for me. If nothing else, she implied that she had seen through my monk's masquerade.

Averting my eyes, I turned to join Lizardi and the padre when it struck me with hammer force:
I had met the padre before.

He was the priest with Raquel who had stopped me from beating the lépero-beggar.

TWENTY-THREE

W
E HAD DINNER
at the padre's, and Marina was there—as a guest. Should I have been surprised that she was not a servant? The entire dinner party was a strange concoction. The padre even had his mistress—an actress he had produced a play for—present.

A priest producing a play?

The other guests were a young Aztec novice for the priesthood from León, a criollo hacendado, owner of the largest hacienda in the area, and two criollo priests from Valladolid who had come to speak to the padre about his indio industries.