Captain from Castile (55 page)

him, together with writing materials. Bending over these, he communed with the stars—or perhaps with the devil—pronouncing secret words of power, asking questions, writing symbols, deducing answers.

It was expert magic, such as Catana Perez and Maria de Estrada had never seen, and they counted themselves privileged to behold it, though the rolling of the Master's voice, the dark and terrible formulae he used, prickled their scalps. He tolerated the presence of witnesses, all the more as Catana had darned the seat of his breeches and thus restored dignity to his person which might otherwise have been wanting.

"If you must be present, women," he stipulated only, "at least be silent, or I shall call on Amadeus, the fiend, to blast you."

In the gathering dusk, a pine torch fixed to a cresset cast uncertain light on Botello's divinations. The long, bare room, once inhabited by an Aztec princess; the suspense of the oncoming night; the drizzle which had begun outside—each added an uncanny touch to the proceedings. Intent on the future, neither Botello nor the women noticed that Cervantes, the fool, had entered and stood grimacing in the shadows.

"I conjure and constrain thee, Amadeus," intoned the Master, "by all virtues and powers, and by the Holy Names of God, Tetragram-maton, Adonay, Agla, Saday, Saboth, Planaboth . . ." He added many others, crossing himself after each, while the onlookers devoutly copied him. ". . . Salvator, Via, Vita, Virtues and Powers, I conjure and constrain thee to fulfill my will in everything faithfully, without hurt of body or soul, and so be ready at my call as often as I shall call thee, by the virtue of one Lord" (more signs of the cross), "Jesus Christ of Nazareth."

Botello, as well as the witnesses, had no doubt of his magic: anyone could see that this was a mighty spell.

"I now constrain thee, Amadeus," he went on, "to answer certain questions which I shall ask. Guide thou my hand in the writing and divination. . . . Am I to die here in this sad war in the power of these dogs of Indians?"

Having made some gestures that sent a chill along Catana's spine, he took up his quill, wrote out the question, and pulling his bushy brows together made slowly a series of symbols, which he then examined with the intentness of a cat watching a mouse hole.

"Ha!" he exclaimed at last. "There's the answer. Thou shalt not die. . . . But once more, good Amadeus: Shall I die?"

When he had written down the first answer and the renewed ques- -

tion, more figuring followed. A bead of sweat trickled along his nose. He drew a long breath. "Nothing could be clearer. Thou shall not die."

He set this down with a flourish.

"But once again, Seiior Amadeus, once more. Will they kill my horse?" He frowned and worked his mouth over the symbols, then weighed and reviewed them. His head drooped. "Yes, they will kill it. They will kill my horse." He sighed heavily. "A shrewd blow. I spent all my winnings on him—all. A noble horse."

Catana could no longer contain herself. "Good Master Botello, while the Senor Spirit is present, ask him how it will fare with Captain de Vargas."

"And is Pedro Farfan going to marry me?" put in Maria.

"And how about me?" whined Cervantes.

Botello came to himself as if from a trance. "God in heaven!" he fumed. "Did not I tell you trollops to be silent! And what of you, simplon! Who asked you to stick your nose in! Now the spell is broken. Now Amadeus is a thousand leagues off, and it would take more conjuring than I have time for to recall him. For a bad copper, I would put the evil eye on the three of you."

Instinctively Catana made horns with her fingers. "Nay, Master Botello, I beg, do not do that. It was only a slip of the tongue. I meant no harm."

"Nor I," echoed Maria and the fool.

"A slip of the tongue!" Botello muttered. "Do you think it is an easy thing to raise mighty spirits out of the deep? It takes not only cunning charms, but strength of will, sweat of mind. And I am put off by the clack of jades and jokers! Ah, well, I learned the chief point: I shall not die."

"No," Cervantes jibed, "you'll live forever. But I won't. I know my horoscope. The comrades wrote it on my back at Cempoala. I'm still too sore to march, let alone run. So I don't expect to journey far from Mexico. But there's one comfort. At least they won't kill my horse."

"You have no horse, rascal," said Botello.

"Yes, and for that reason they won't kill it."

Cervantes tried a feeble caper, as feeble as the joke; but no one smiled. The chill rain, dripping outside, and the prospects of the night did not make for humor.

Botello gathered up the ciphered sheet of paper. "I'd always wanted a horse," he said wistfully. "But when you're poor—I was very proud of this one."

The wizard now looked like a schoolboy who had lost his pet thrush. Catana sHpped a comforting arm under his.

"Oh, come, Master, it may turn out better."

"No, such horoscopes as that are never wrong, hija mia. They will kill my horse."

"And if you want the price of three horses," came a voice from the doorway, "you have only to step over to the treasure room. What are Vuestras Senorias dawdling here for? Haven't you heard the news?"

It was Pedro de Vargas, his hair damp from the drizzle. He had witnessed the latter part of the conjuring scene.

"And, Catana," he went on in the mock-bullying tone which she loved, "have you seen to my saddlebags and the boxes? Must I birch you for a gadding wench who gives no thought to her chores? I've spent the best part of a half hour hunting you."

She went over to him. "All's ready, sefior. . . . But what news?"

"We haven't horses enough for the gold. His Majesty's fifth will be carried by seven wounded horses and one good mare under the guard of Davila and Mexia with some Tlascalans. The rest of it— the General's and the captains' shares—belongs to anybody who wants to carry it. The soldiers may as well have it as these dogs of Aztecs, the General says."

"Wants to carry it?" gaped Botello, his personal magic forgotten for a greater, more universal magic. "And this rest, worthy Captain —how much would you say?"

"Six hundred thousand pesos perhaps, not counting the jewels."

"Six hundred thousand—" repeated the wizard. "When—when can we get—"

"Now. But there's enough for all, Master. You needn't run."

The last words fell on vacancy. Botello, followed by Maria de Estrada, had vanished.

Cervantes pinched his chin. "A trick, a trick! What's the trick, my masters? Hernan Cortes giving away his share! He of all men, who knows best how to look after his own. Have we sunk so low? Is it then hopeless tonight? Or a trick?"

"No trick but the one you play on yourself, sirrah," Pedro answered. "The gold's yours. You can take it or leave it. But the General urges caution. There's a march tonight, water to cross, likely enough a battle on hand before dawn. Gold's heavy."

"If that's all!" exclaimed Cervantes, disappearing in turn.

"You mean?" Catana asked Pedro.

"I meant that, as usual, there's sense in what the General says. You

and I have got enough in our boxes if the carriers come through and don't steal it. Otherwise the best men in the army will be poor."

They were standing on the threshold of the room looking out at the thick darkness between the buildings. Now and then a gust of the mist-like rain crossed their faces.

"Una noche triste" Pedro grunted. "A sad night for marching. I'll not load myself down like a donkey even with gold, and don't you."

She nodded. "I've another burden to think of—worth more than gold."

He put his arm around her. "Feeling all right, muchacha?"

"All right so far, seiior, thanks to God."

He growled, "This cursed march! If we could but have had peace till the little one came! It's hard to think of you on foot tonight and me riding. If you could manage Soldan and were in shape for the saddle, it would be the other way. At least you'll carry no arms."

"Yes, but I will, sir. A sword and buckler's nothing. I may need them before daylight. . . . Where do you march, senor—with the vanguard?"

Pedro tried to sound casual. "No, I have the ordering of the line. Be everywhere at once. Keep the companies in touch."

"What honor!" she exulted. "Why, you're almost maestro de campo."

"Almost—for a night. . . . Let's go over to the treasure room. We might find something to take. And it isn't likely we'll ever see that much gold again. Tell our children about it—eh, sweetheart—Montezuma's treasure?"

Picking their way through the darkness to one of the main buildings where the General's quarters, the chapel, and the treasure room were situated, they could hear a number of footsteps hurrying in the same direction. Now and then the flare of a torch revealed fragments of the enclosure and showed eager, bearded faces pressing toward one magnetic point. If the Indians had attacked at that moment, they could have carried the palace almost without contest. But except for the thronging footsteps and mutter of expectation, as the company mounted the terrace toward Cortes's quarters, the night was utterly silent. Then, more swiftly as it drew closer, the crowd trooped elbowing along the passage porch onto which various apartments opened, until it shouldered through a certain door. Always padlocked and double-guarded, few of the common sort had entered it. Many had been the speculations, the fantastic dreams, about the riches it concealed. Now unbelievably it stood open to all, and the dreams had come true.

By the light of torches which filled the upper half of the room with

a haze of smoke, an incredible scene was going forward. It reminded Pedro of what he had read in romances or in fabulous stories about robbers' caves. The mountains of gold which Cortes and other promoters of the expedition had promised were there—or, at least, if not mountains, high stacks of gold bars, each stamped with its value, into which grains, nuggets, and Aztec works of art alike had been melted down. There were boxes, too, containing turquoises, emeralds, jade, opals, moonstones, chalchuites, trinkets of mosaic. There were mantles of gorgeous featherwork in heaps, precious objects of shell or silver richly engraved. Generations of Aztec craftsmen had created the bales of treasure, strewn here and there and trampled under the feet of the soldiers.

Yes, dreams had come true with a vengeance, dreams which had launched the ships in Cuba, which had led the adventurers from Spain, which had imposed the hardships of voyage, march, and battle. For many, the object of their lives lay now within grasp, to be snatched, embraced, stuffed into wallets and bags, wrapped into bundles. Hunger, thirst, wounds, impending dangers, were forgotten in this delirious moment. The prize of life being attained here and now, what more could life give?

But there was a difference. Pedro took pride in noting that the Narvaez people, the hungry pockets from Cuba, did most of the grabbing. A number of the Cortes men, the old companions, held aloof, slightly sardonic, faintly cynical. They strolled here and there looking on or occasionally, as connoisseurs, selecting a jewel or object of price, half in the spirit of a keepsake. To be sure, many had feathered their nests and wore their takings in the form of chains or rings; whereas, for the new people, this was their first great chance. But that did not account for all the difference. However dimly, the Cortes men had caught their leader's vision of something beyond gold—call it New Spain, the dream of empire. To load themselves with gold no longer satisfied them. Life had something more to give. They had grown to think of themselves as conquistadors, not gold-seekers. They thought of the march and fight ahead and remembered Cortes's warning.

Not all. There was Botello, the wise man, stuffing gold into his sack; and Cervantes, the fool, with a bar under each arm and one in each hand. And the Nightingale's person bulged with hard lumps in every direction.

'Tor Dios, comrade," said Pedro, "by the time you add sword, buckler, and pack to that, you'll be carrying a hundredweight. Think you can make it?"

The Sicilian spat. "Two miles across the causeway, perhaps five to Tlacopan? We'll go no further tonight. Why, hombre, I'd make it with five hundredweight—when the weight's gold."

"It may be a hot five miles."

"Don't you worry. Better look out for yourself."

A confused growling and panting went up from the treasure grabbers, as each one snatched and pouched to the overflowing point, then snarled helplessly because he could manage no more. Now and then oaths and blows flared up like a straw fire; but time was too precious and the opportunity too great for quarreling.

"Talk about hogs!" murmured Catana. "Juan, you don't need a farm in Andalusia."

Garcia, standing fist on hip, looked on thoughtfully. "That I should ever see this day!" he growled. "That I should ever see thousands of pesos under my nose and not stretch out a hand to pick them up!"

"Why don't you?" Pedro bantered. "It isn't practical, Juan."

The big man looked embarrassed. "Well, for one thing, I'm to be hanged when this is over; for another, let somebody else get something; for another, we've got to think of the company, my friend. You officers aren't the only ones with too much conscience to make pack mules of themselves when battle's in the wind. If you and the General and others can stand by watching your shares gobbled up by bobos who did nothing to earn them, I can stand by too. Practical yourself I Look at Sandoval."

The burly young captain could be seen across the room, half-leaning against the wall and picking his teeth. He grinned but shook his head at the rough and tumble over the gold—a professional reaction. Near by, Cortes, lynx-eyed as always, seemed impatient and uneasy. But no one could have told from the expression of either of them that practically all their winnings in New Spain were disappearing into the pouches of the rank and file. The same was true of Pedro and the other captains. At this crisis in the fortunes of the enterprise, they were playing for higher stakes than treasure.

"Pretty, eh?" remarked Bernal Diaz, El Galan, showing four chal-chuiteSj the opaque green stones highly prized in Mexico, which he had just acquired. "And light. Only fools stock up with metal. I'd wager these against a fifty-weight of gold. There're some emeralds in that coffer yonder, de Vargas, if you're interested."