Captain from Castile (48 page)

He put the question half to himself. Though often unexpressed, it was the all-important question at the back of everybody's mind. With Cortes gone, his master hand no longer at the helm, the difference in leadership was felt through every rank: by Montezuma, craftily smiling and assured; by the officers, short-tempered and covering up anxiety

with bluster; by the Tlascalans, who whispered of Malinche; not least by the commanders themselves, Alvarado and Vargas. Good intentions, consciousness, courage, did not make up for genius, and genius alone could cope with the situation. Everything that was done seemed tentative and imitative. It was haunted by the afterthoughts: Was that right? Would the General have done that?

Was it right, for instance, to have granted permission, at Montezuma's request, for the feast of Toxcatl, the annual dances in honor of Witchywolves and some other unpronounceable god ? The festival lasted twenty days. It meant a gathering of chiefs from all Mexico and tributary provinces. Clearly the Aztecs meant to strike if Cortes lost his battle against Narvaez. But if they were denied the use of the central teocalli on this occasion they might strike at once? It meant a gain of twenty days. Under such circumstances, to grant the permission, barring only human sacrifice, looked like a sort of compromise that Cortes would have made. One couldn't be sure, however.

"Brains?" Pedro repeated.

Garcia tipped his steel cap to one side and scratched his head.

"Brains? Ah, I see what you mean, comrade."

He glanced at the distant figure of Alvarado, who stood sunning himself on the terrace of his quarters. The sunlight, playing on his golden beard and splendid equipment, gave him a glittering appearance which deserved the Aztec nickname, Tonatiuh, Sun God. On the other hand, Pedro sometimes thought of him in terms of a glorified onion. Peel off his genial and popular manner which captivated everybody, and you came to his marvelous physique, his flawless daring; peel that off, and you found cold greed, edged with cruelty; peel that off, and what lay under it? Shrewdness, ability—or nothing?

"No, I didn't have Alvarado in mind, Juan. I meant myself, perhaps all of us. Christ! Little I knew what it meant to be a captain two weeks past. Carry out orders, lead a detachment, do a certain job—yes. But this weighing and balancing, groping, guessing! Makes me feel like a schoolboy. It's beyond me."

Garcia grunted. "You're doing all right—as well as anybody could in your place. Don't take it to heart, nino. What we need here is the General. Seems a long time since he and the comrades marched, doesn't it?"

They were crossing the courtyard past a group of Tlascalan warriors, who were painting their naked bodies white and yellow. One of the number tapped a hand drum and sang monotonously, like the howling of a moon-struck dog.

"Hm-m," muttered Garcia, "painting for war, eh? Maybe they're right. They've got a feeling for it."

"What I want to know," de Vargas went on out of his own thoughts, "is why he picked me out to stay behind—us. We'd have fitted in on the march or down there at Cempoala. There's no question about Alvarado; he's a senior captain and would have to be chosen. But for my place, why not Ordas, Morla, Marin, a half-dozen others? Why us?"

"I'll tell you," answered Garcia in his literal fashion. "I've given much thought to the matter. The General always has two or more reasons for everything he does. One's on the surface; the rest he keeps to himself. It's in my mind that he remembered Catana's promising condition. He knew that she can't march and that you wouldn't want to leave her at this time. He says to himself, 'De Vargas would be torn two ways, half with us and half with his wench. He's a good man— none better, certainly not Ordas, Marin, or Morla. He's of more use to me in the city, looking out for his leman and the company's stakes at the same time, than he would be languishing on the march.' But he couldn't tell you any of that. As to why he chose me," Garcia added complacently, "it's plain as my foot. He wanted a seasoned man of experience to steady you, my lad. And who in this company has more experience than I?"

Pedro laughed, but Garcia had made a point about Catana; perhaps he was right.

"Well," he returned, "for whatever reason, here we are. Now see what we'll make of it."

They strolled over to the front wall of the courtyard, which had been heightened by a palisade since the alarm in April, discussed its merits for defense, then passed the time of day with the two sentinels on guard at the gates. Since one panel of them stood open, they crossed the threshold, standing outside for a look at the great plaza.

It was crowded today, but the first glimpse revealed a different crowd than usual. The place blazed with festival garments, the chiefs in their panaches, quilted armor, jewels, featherwork, and skins, the mighty of Mexico. There was a general thronging toward the portals of the Wall of Serpents, surrounding the temple pyramid, where rites of a religious character were about to begin. For if the Virgin and Child occupied one of the shrines on its broad summit, the neighboring shrine still contained Aztec idols, a joint tenancy which every right-minded Spaniard and Aztec alike, for opposite reasons, lamented and was bent on abolishing as soon as possible.

"How many would you say?" queried Pedro, appraising the con-

course of people, while a steady stream along the avenue near at hand continually swelled it. "Two thousand? Three thousand?"

Garcia spat judicially. "Hard upon ten, comrade, hard upon ten. What a load of gold and precious stones wasted on those heathen carcasses! If you could collect it all, it would swell our hoard by two hundred thousand pesos. Well, the time's coming. But note this. The bastards are all fighting men."

"They're unarmed."

"Aye, but when people of war meet together, arms aren't far off."

ScowHng at the two Spaniards before the gates, or with eyes stonily overlooking them, the crowd along the avenue passed. Arms akimbo and legs wide, Garcia and Pedro stared back.

Then all at once a curious procession appeared. Two youths, wearing garlands of flo\vers on their heads and with hair cut short, drew near, blowing reed flutes and strutting in a kind of ceremonial dance. They were the handsomest native boys Pedro had seen, perfectly shaped, finely featured, not too dark. A gorgeous retinue of pages and maidens attended them, strewing flowers, dancing and posturing. The crowd made way for them, some touching hand to ground and then to forehead, others actually prostrating themselves in evident worship.

"Caramha!" exclaimed Pedro. "What cursed Sodomites are these, or princes, or what the devil?"

"No, sefior," said a guttural voice at his elbow, "these are gods."

Pedro shifted his eyes from the procession long enough to see that the speaker was a Tlascalan chief who had picked up enough Spanish words to make himself moderately intelligible. He had been baptized and went by the name of Bernardo, since it was impossible for a Christian tongue to twist itself around his native designation.

"Gods, eh?" De Vargas grinned. "What do you mean?"

"As I say, seiior—gods, dirty Tenochca gods. May Nuestro Sefior blast them!"

"How gods?"

Bernardo explained. Out of the jumble of words, Pedro at last got the drift. If not gods, the youths were at least incarnations. One was WitchyAvolves, the other Tezcatlipoca. They had been selected a year ago by the priests and had been tended, petted, and spoiled as gods should be. The pretty girls who accompanied them were part of the entertainment.

Garcia slapped his thigh. "I'd be a god myself on those terms, Bernardo."

"Humph!" said the Indian. "Would you, sefior? They go now to

death. Soon they be naked. No flowers then. Soon they break the flutes. They go up the teocalli. Soon their beflies ripped up and hearts taken out. Bloody hearts for Tezcathpoca and Huitzilopochtli. Then people eat them. Cut ofl" heads and stick them on the tzonpantlis there."

Pedro followed the pointing of the Indian's finger toward two high poles, which he had not before noticed, appearing above the wall of the temple enclosure. His smile was gone.

"Look you, Bernardo, you speak of human sacrifice, hombre. And that we have forbidden. The Aztecs accepted the condition when we gave them leave to hold the festival."

Bernardo shrugged. He needed no words to express his belief that the Aztecs would do as they pleased, Spanish permission or not.

"No sacrifice, no feast," he said.

The muscles stood out on Pedro's jaws. "We'll learn the truth of it and at once." His eyes fell on a black-coped native priest with white hen feathers in his hair, who was evidently late for the ceremony and was elbowing himself forward through the crowd on the avenue. "Bring me that fellow here, Juan, if you'll be so kind."

Garcia crashed into the passing throng, his bulk shattering it. With one huge hand gripping the priest by the nape of the neck and with the other clamped on his captive's shoulder, he re-emerged like a seal carrying a fish.

A growl went up from the crowd.

"Turn out the guard," called Pedro.

The sentinels at the gate, reinforced by pikemen on constant duty beyond them, formed a hedge between the crowd and the priest, who now stood confronting de Vargas.

"Xiuhtecuhdi, Fire Lord!" muttered the people. It was Pedro's title among the Aztecs, drawn perhaps from his red hair. It implied both respect and fear. Whether because of that or because the religious ceremonies were beginning, they did not press upon the pikemen, but moved sullenly on. Only a few eddied around in an outer, scowling circle.

Pedro eyed the papa with distaste. He was dark, defiant, and snarling. His lips and cheeks were smeared with something shiny like honey. The white feathers in his hair stood up in the fashion of enormous bristles.

"Hark you, padrino," said de Vargas. "What's the meaning of those two sharp poles over yonder in the temple yard? You ought to know the purpose of them if anyone does. . . . Tell him my question, Bernardo."

The Tlascalan, frowning at the hated Aztec, haughtily translated.

The priest's eyes spat dark fire; he ground his teeth. At another time he might have answered discreetly, but Garcia's handling had infuriated him. He burst into a hiss of words, then drew himself up and tried to outstare the green eyes of the Spanish captain.

"Well, what does he say?" Pedro demanded.

Bernardo Hcked his hungry lips. "He say—the hijo de puta say those poles to stick our stupid heads on after his people kill us all. Cierta-mente, he say, they sacrifice to his gods anyhow they damn please."

Pedro's hand leaped to his knife. "Cut off our heads, eh? By the mass, he'll not live to see it!"

But at that moment, a cool demur sobered him and pressed the half inch of steel back into the scabbard. He was no longer a free agent, but one in authority. What would the General do in this case? Certainly not that. It was no time to resent insolence. He sighed.

A new pulse of anger shook him. Gripping the man's wrist, he lifted the arm, strong as it was, and swiveled the edge of the priest's hand against the steel gorget surrounding his own throat.

"A tough neck, pa'drino," he laughed. "Too tough for you. Let him go, Juan."

Working his half-numbed fingers, the priest gave a final glare and turned away through the line of pikemen. Garcia aimed a kick at him, but missed. A loud guffaw sounded from the gate.

"Too bad, Juan! What's up, Pedrito? You look like a ruffled gamecock. Trying to convert a priest? I take it you didn't prosper."

Alvarado's splendid figure filled the panel of the gate. Pedro rapped out what he had learned, and the golden smile faded.

"That's the way of it, ha?" the Captain-in-Chief rumbled. "We'll look into the matter. We'll teach the false dogs to stick by their bargain. Offend Our Lady's eyes and Our Blessed Lord's by their butcher tricks, would they? . . . Fifty men for a guard here!"

A trumpet called. There was no time lost in arming, for every man ate and slept with his weapons. Five m.inutes later, Alvarado, Vargas, and fifty others were marching toward the doors of the Wall of Serpents. They cut the crowd as a wedge of iron cleaves \vood, scattered the gorgeous throng inside the temple yard, and found themselves before an open space reserved for the ceremonial dancing. Here, between tAvo lines of chiefs in magnificent regalia, the black-gowned priests with their white hen feathers and honey-smeared faces were weaving a slow dance accompanied by the girls who had attended the two victims. It was a moment before Pedro recognized the youths, stark naked now, their hair hacked off, standing at one side.

As to what awaited them, there could be no doubt. Soon, among the priestly procession, they would be winding their way up the steep sides of the pyramid; would be breaking at every step, one by one, the flutes they had played during their year of divinity; would be stretched on the stone of sacrifice. They stood head up and exultant, gods about to pour out their blood for the good of the people. At the zenith of life, they were spending their final hour in a trance of rhythm, color, and fragrance of incense.

But the Spanish platoon had no training or time for mystical reflection. At one moment, the two gods stood on the brink of eternity; in the next, they found themselves the center of a steel column, which swept them out of the temple yard, across the square, and into the maw of the white men's quarters. A roar rose from behind, but the unarmed crowd could do nothing. Its leaders must take council; rites must be performed, omens consulted.

"Arquebusiers, arbalesters, to their posts!" Alvarado commanded. "Open the embrasures. Level the cannon."

But except for a hum, as of infinite, enraged bees, nothing happened.

"Well, hijos mioSy' he beamed at the rescued gods, "you were saved in the nick of time, and I bet you're grateful. You'll tell us what these Aztecs have up their sleeves. . . . Throw a cloak over them, someone, lest they affront our ladies. Adelante! Bring them into my quarters and fetch Doiia Marina to talk their lingo."

Catana stopped Pedro. "What's afoot, sefior?"

"Nothing much, querida. Don't fash yourself. Only Indian stuff. We've kept those fellows from being cut to pieces in the cu yonder. Now we're going to examine them and find out what's happening in the city. I'll tell you about it later." He added half to himself, "I wonder how the General would handle it."