Aztec Rage (7 page)

The Spanish Empire was the largest on earth, a domain so vast, the sun never set upon it. Neither Britain's colonies in Africa and Asia, nor the Czar's illimitable Russian domain, spreading across so much of the northern portion of the globe, compared in size to the far-flung empire of Spain.

History, of course, was the interest of priests and scholars. What was important about it to me was that New Spain's mountains of silver dwarfed the wealth of all other Spanish colonies, and my quicksilver business, which controlled the magic element that alchemized silver out of mining rock, would buy me the noble title necessary to win the hand of my true love.

SIX

W
HAT DOES A
woman admire most in a man? Gentleness? Kindness?
¡Ay!
Those are the traits of priests. Wealth? A woman may desire riches, but it is not what she most admires. No, she covets most his virility: the power of his loins in the bedroom and his dominance over other men in the saddle and, when necessary, on the field of honor. Knowing this, when I entered the paseo, I sat tall in the saddle. Even Tempest flaunted his machismo, prancing and snorting at the mares.

I spoke to a few of the caballeros, merely nodded to others, ignored those whom I considered too far beneath me socially to command even a flick of my eye or head. I usually rode alone, while other caballeros went about in groups of two or three or more. In truth, I did not count many men as my friends. I was known as a loner, one who stayed mainly to himself.
Most men my age were fools, and the young caballeros I competed with at night across the gaming tables were no exceptions. While my uncle referred to them as my amigos, they were acquaintances rather than friends. They bored me less when we were playing cards, and only the gaming table and a succession of upturned brandy bottles could provoke me to socialize with them at the inn in the evenings. I preferred the company of my horse and long rides into the wilderness, hunting or just exploring. Isabella says I am like a jaguar, the great jungle cat that hunts alone.

There she was, by the grace of God, the most beautiful woman in Guanajuato! Her carriage was surrounded by criollo caballeros, all begging for attention. I had Tempest prance by her carriage, ignoring her and the mob of admirers begging for attention. She eventually waved me over, laughing. She was as lovely as a goddess, regally attired in a gown of royal purple, embroidered in gold. Her eyebrows were blackened with burnt cork, giving her a wanton air that stirred my sin-black soul.

“Ah, Don Juan, so nice to see you. How were you able to free yourself from your tedious excursions in the wilds and honor us with you presence here on the paseo with the other caballeros?”

“Having observed the ways of your caballeros,” I spoke loud enough for several of them to hear, “I prefer the company of horses.”

Isabella laughed, that tinkling sound that thrilled my heart. But there was no doubt she deplored my wilderness treks. She continually scolded me for the time I spent with my horses rather than socializing. She especially detested the rides I enjoyed with the vaqueros on my hacienda and the bow hunting I indulged in. Such activities callused my hands and hardened my muscles, neither of which the dandies who vied for her attention favored. Isabella's diversions were carriage rides, lavish balls, flirting, shopping, and dancing, activities I found maddeningly dull.

I rode alongside as her carriage rolled down the dirt path that circled the park. A female friend rode beside her in the open coach. Her friend flirted with another rider while I quietly conversed with Isabella. She covered her mouth with her silk fan to keep her voice from carrying.

“Did you speak to your uncle about purchasing a title?” she asked.

“Yes, everything goes well,” I lied. “And your father, did you speak to him about a marriage to me?”

Her fan fluttered. “He wants me to marry a count or marqués.”

“Then I will purchase a dukedom.”

Her laugh again tinkled like a bell. Dukedoms were not for sale. A marqués was lower than a duke and higher than a count, but any noble title would thrill her.

“My father has his eye on a particular marqués. I would nonetheless favor you, even if I married him.” She allowed me a flirtatious smile and batted her eyes coyly. “I would keep you as my lover if you promise never to marry and worship only me.”

My chest swelled with macho vanity. “Señorita, you will never marry anyone but me because I will kill any man who tries to marry you.”

“Then you will be very busy I'm afraid, señor, since all the men in Guanajuato desire me.”

“Only the blind would not desire you.”

She pointed toward an oncoming rider. “Isn't that your servant, the one who cares for your horses?” Isabella asked.

Pablo, my vaquero, hurried to us on his mule.

“Señor, your uncle is very ill.”

SEVEN

D
ID I NOT
foretell this would be a bad day?

The vultures had gathered at the house by the time I returned with Pablo. A pack of demanding cousins who had come over from Spain and continually entreated us for handouts hovered about. I ignored them, as I always did. I didn't grow up with any of them and shared no family resemblance, experiences, or common interests with them.

The doctor came out of the room when my presence was announced. He blocked the door so I could not enter my uncle's room.

“You must not go in,” he said. “You uncle is very ill, I would say near death.”

“Then I should see him.”

He avoided my eyes. “He does not wish to see you.”

“What?”

“He has asked for his priest.”

I did not know what to say. I left the room and went down to the stable to check my horses. My uncle was dying and did not wish to see me? True, we were not close, but other than that grasping pack of importuning cousins, I had no other family in the colony. Were there to be no last words between my uncle and me?

His sudden illness puzzled me. I had never known him to be sick. I went back upstairs after the priest arrived and waited in the anteroom outside my uncle's bedroom. After a while the priest came out. I thought for a moment he would speak. He stood in front of me, wide-eyed, his jaw moving, then fled the house. I stood at the window and watched him rushing up the street. Eh, he too had hellhounds at his heels. Where was he rushing to? Was it not the duty of the priest to be at my uncle's bedside when he gave up the ghost?

The doctor came out of the bedroom, saw me sitting in the anteroom, and ducked back into the bedroom, slamming the door.

Dios mío, what had happened to the world? Had the earth stopped revolving around the sun? Was the sky about to fall? Nothing would surprise me.

I went back down to the stable to talk to my horses, taking a jug of wine with me.

When Pablo informed me that Luis de Ville, the alcalde, had arrived, I only shrugged. That the mayor of the city had rushed to my uncle's bedside was unexpected, but then everything that had happened that day had been
muy loco
.

Minutes later, Pablo informed me that the
corregidor
had come.

The mayor and now the chief officer of justice. To my uncle's deathbed?

Yet they failed to summon me, Juan de Zavala, who was both my uncle's heir and his employer. I was the imposing, important personage, not Uncle Bruto. Nothing would happen after his death except I would bury him and find someone else to manage my affairs.

I decided to remind the offensive fools that I was both gachupine and a man of substantial means.

The entire group—doctor, priest, mayor, and officer of justice—was in the anteroom when I came in. They turned and stared at me as if I were the one who was about to give up the ghost.

“Bruto de Zavala is dead,” Señor Luis de Ville, the alcalde, said. “He is in the hands of God.”

Or El Diablo,
I thought.

The alcalde grabbed my arm and rushed out of the room. “Come with me,” he said.

I followed him into the kitchen. He turned and stared at me, at my face, intensely.

“Juan, I have known you since you were a child.”

“True,” I said.

“Bruto spoke to all of us before he passed. He told us something.”

“Yes. Is it bad news?” I asked. “He has mismanaged my estate, is that what he told you? How bad is it? How much do I have left?”

“Juan . . .” The man looked away.

“Alcalde, what is it? What are you trying to tell me?”

“You are not Juan de Zavala.”

EIGHT

I
LAUGHED AT
the nonsensical statement. “Of course I'm not Juan de Zavala. And you're not Don Luis de Ville, the alcalde of Guanajuato.”

“You don't understand.” His voice rose to a shout. “You're not who you think you are.”

I shook my head. “I am who I am. Have you gone loco?”

“No, no, no—you're not a Zavala. Bruto confessed his sin to the priest, then had us hear his deathbed confession.”

“What confession?”

“Over twenty years ago, Antonio de Zavala and his wife—”

“My mother and father.”

“The brother and sister-in-law of Bruto, landed in Veracruz with their child, Juan. Bruto was with them. Before they reached Jalapa, all three suffered yellow fever, the deadly vomito negro. They died.”

“My parents died.”

“Antonio de Zavala, his wife, María, and son died.”

“What nonsense is this? I'm the son of Antonio and María. Are you saying there's another?”

“They had only one child. Juan de Zavala died at the age of one year, along with his parents.”

“Then who am I?” I shouted.

He stared me for a long moment. When he spoke, the words punched me in the face.

“You are an hijo de puta.”

Son of a whore.

NINE

I
WALKED THE
streets of Guanajuato aimlessly, going nowhere, not even aware of where my feet took me. Night was falling. I walked in a daze, the alcalde's words playing over and over in my mind.