Captain from Castile (59 page)

The prisoners were ranged in a half-circle about the platform. Twenty were told off, driven forward. A shout went up, which Pedro realized was directed at him. He did not need a knowledge of the language to get the gist of it. Let the white Xiuhtecuhtli look! So he would die! A flattering, eager hatred sounded in the voices. Once again he summoned his pride to meet it with a stare and laugh.

"Juan," he said, "I confess to you that my blood is water and I have no heart left. But by the help of Our Lord . . ."

He caught his breath. That man who had been driven out among the doomed wventy. Either he had not seen him before in the crowd of naked prisoners, or he had not recognized him. That stoop-shouldered man with matted beard—could that be—? At the same moment Pedro heard a breathless exclamation from Garcia.

"Ignacio de Lora!"

\Vhat difference between nakedness and clothes, the white Dominican habit, the black cape, the silver crucifix! How different he appeared in the judgment seat as compared with standing on the hot pavement, stripped and pinioned and about to die!

He was tr\'ing to control himself, but his limbs quivered and beads of sweat showed on his body. Purplish ridges, left by the stick, marked his gaunt flanks and shoulders. As he glanced helplessly about, his eyes looked vacant, and the masterful nose had lost its meaning. His lips moved; now and then he ran his tongue over them.

"De Lora!" Garcia breathed. "Now God—"

"Your blessing. Father," croaked one of the Narvaez men, "I confess my sins . . ."

De Lora did not hear. His eyes, grown suddenly intent, were on Pedro and Garcia. They reflected the past and present in one look of horrible awareness, then turned away.

Five men were dragged up to the platform, their feet, legs, and arms bound rigidly, so that they were incapable of movement. Usually at this time a handful of yauhtli or Indian hemp was thrown into the faces of the victims to deaden the coming ordeal, but no such kindness would be wasted on the white enemies. The men were loaded upon the backs of five priests who began a lumbering dance around the fire. Then, one by one, they heaved their burdens into the flames, to writhe and howl until the steaming bodies were hooked out, still living, for the sacrificial stone and knife.

Hypnotized by the horror of it, Pedro could not turn his eyes away;

he felt cold in spite of the heat. But when the next five were taken up to the platform, he did not look although the scrutinizing Aztecs hooted in triumph.

He wondered what Garcia was thinking. The big man stared at the ground, mumbling. Certainly, so far as vengeance went, Garcia could ask for nothing more complete. But strangely enough, Pedro found himself regretting that vengeance should absorb his friend at such a time. De Vargas's personal hatred for Ignacio de Lora had suddenly vanished in favor of pity. Facing together this unspeakable death in a distant, barbaric land, what did former hatreds matter? They belonged to another world, to a half-forgotten life.

"Well?" he said to Garcia and, receiving no answer, repeated, "Well?"

"Peace, comrade." Garcia glanced at his enemy, then dropped his eyes again. "Can't you see I'm praying for him, for all us poor sinners?" He mumbled, ''Madre de Dios, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death."

The moment came; the guards closed in. De Lora, his limbs failing, was beaten and dragged up the steps of the platform.

"Mother of God," Garcia groaned, "he is an old man and weak. I prayed God for vengeance. I didn't mean it—not this. Sinner that I am! Let him not suffer . . ."

But life clung to de Lora's fleshless body, clung as they jerked it screaming from the fire, clung to the last releasing wrench of the priest's hand.

And the gods being now duly worshiped, the remaining half of the prisoners were driven back to their cages to wait for tomorrow.

"Are you afraid, Juan?" Pedro asked.

"Not of them," Garcia muttered, "not of them. But I'm afraid. Remember how I talked about no justice in the world? Look you, comrade, you were right. We have nothing left but our Blessed Saviour. He makes allowances for fools. God doesn't. That's what I'm afraid of— His justice."

The heavy voice shook.

"What do you mean?" said Pedro, startled by the expression on Garcia's face. "Our Saviour is God."

"Not in that way. Listen. I prayed God for vengeance. You wouldn't pray Our Blessed Lord for that: He wouldn't listen if you did. I prayed God. I told Olmedo I had. He cited scripture to me, where God says, 'Vengeance is my business; leave it to me; I'll take care of it.' "

The big man clamped his teeth together nervously.

"Comrade, it would have been better for de Lora if I had killed him at the quarters. But God wouldn't have it. It wasn't His idea of justice. No. He planned this. Can you think of any vengeance like His? May our Saviour protect us and all men from it!"

LXll

To THEIR SURPRISE they found that an Indian mat had bepn provided for Catana, and a cotton blanket to cover her with. The cage had been cleaned. But they were not misled into believing that these attentions were dictated by kindness on the part of the guards. No doubt since Catana-Chantico belonged to the fire goddess she must be kept alive and in condition for the sacrifice.

Catana raised her head when Pedro and Garcia were returned to the cage and their swollen arms released.

"God be praised!" she said faintly. "I never expected to see you again. What happened? I kept hearing cries."

"Indian deviltries," Pedro shrugged. He sank down next her. "How is it with you, dearest?"

"Well. But never mind about me." She drew her forefinger gently along an angry welt that crossed Pedro's shoulder. ''Ay de mi, they have beaten you?"

He forced a smile. "It was nothing. My good father's riding whip used to hurt worse."

Catana's eyes, which had grown larger and deeper, met his.

"Tell me the truth—are we to die tomorrow?"

"That's the intention," he answered carelessly. "But give no heed to it, dulce mia. God may determine otherwise."

Still absorbed by his theological qualms, Garcia put in a groan.

"Well then," said Catana, "we must confess to each other before dawn and make ready to meet Our Lord in the best shape we can. He was merciful to give us more time for preparation and to let us die together."

"Merciful!" Garcia put in. "For a maravedi, I'd dash my brains out or make shift to hang myself." He stopped short. "I didn't mean that either. May God not charge it against me! Whatever I do, he'll be waiting on the other side. There's no escaping."

"Of course you didn't mean it," retorted Pedro. "Let it never be said among these Indians that two Spanish cavaliers were driven by

them to take their own lives. We owe that much to our names and to the gentlemen who will sometime reconquer this city for the King. Let alone that we're the ranking officers of the company here and must not disgrace it."

Garcia shook his head. "I'm not a hidalgo. But just the same—"

The cage doors were reopened to admit food and water, which the guards shoved in from outside, taking care not to expose themselves to the grip of the prisoners. Their service had no compassion in it; but Xiuhtecuhtli's victims had to be fed.

"Harken, you cahrones" Pedro called, "what's the meaning of that paper outside there?" He pointed up at the place where the sheet of picture writing was tied to the cage; and racking his brain for a word that would mean something to the guards, he added, "Tonalamatl?"

For a moment, the Indians stared at him through the wooden bars; then, catching his meaning, they burst into jeering explanation.

"Does it mean anything to you?" Pedro asked Garcia.

"Not much. Something about sacrificing us to Xiuhtecuhtli and Chantico tomorrow. They kept saying 'Coyoacan.' You remember the place at the end of the southern causeway. Maybe we're to be killed there. I hope not."

"Why? What does it matter?"

"The things I've heard they do to prisoners there before killing them. Besides, remember the Chief of Coyoacan, whom Cortes had fastened to the big ship's chain. He'd be glad to see us. . . . Well, we'll find out what they meant soon enough."

But hunger now had the best of suspense. They ate the tortillas which the guards had brought; and, to keep their minds off tomorrow, they discussed the army, how many had escaped, what the chances were of the survivors reaching Tlascala and finally the coast.

The outlook was none too bright. Pedro summed it up: "It isn't much they can do. Two thirds killed or taken, no horses, no cannon, no powder, nothing but swords and bucklers, almost everybody wounded. It's a long way to Tlascala across the mountains. They won't get out of the Valley without a battle. And then afterwards—" He shook his head. "It's a thin chance. Of course, if the General's living, he may pull it off."

"We must pray for them," said Catana. "I love them all—I mean the old company. What good times we've had!"

Their thoughts taking refuge in the past, they sat watching the fall of evening. At long last, the temple drum had stopped, and in place of it sounded an infinite confused moan from the still crowded cages.

An endless litany: calls on God, the Blessed Virgin, and the saints; lamentation, of which no one was ashamed; the effort of the soul to prepare itself for the supreme departure. And like an answer to it, when night fell, came the roaring of the beasts in Montezuma's former palace. Excited by the smell of blood they claimed their share from the day's slaughter.

Wrapping herself in the blanket, Catana got to her knees and said the paternoster and Salve Regina, in which the others joined.

"It's the hour of the Angelus, senor," she said. "Remember? . . . Give me a kiss, you and Juan. Then I shall sleep. We must wake and confess ourselves before dawn."

Exhausted, she sank down again. Pedro drew the covering closer about her. Turning on her arm, she fell asleep.

"Now?" Garcia whispered faintly after a moment.

Pedro, clasping his knees, did not answer.

"I know how it is," murmured the other. "If you want me—" He hesitated. "I'll do it. . . . But it has to be done."

"Yes," said de Vargas, "but I can't do it now—not yet. After we've confessed ourselves and prayed together, I'll do it at dawn. It's better that way."

With a nod of relief, Garcia stretched out in his turn. The fatigue of the last day and night overcame even the dread of tomorrow, and he too slept. But for a while the fever in Pedro's brain, incandescent, consuming, defied exhaustion. He lay painfully awake, haunted by the thought of dawn.

His own death had ceased to rriatter. The spectacles and horror of the past day, contrary to the effect intended by the Aztecs, had left him hardened, almost indifferent. Pain, yes. But he was used to pain. A few minutes of agony and then release. He hoped to be able to steel himself and die as befitted a Spanish captain. That was a physical problem. If it had been the only one facing him, he too could have repaired his strength in sleep.

But Catana!

His mind shrunk back from the duty before him, the necessity of killing her. Fragments of the past year, little, half-forgotten, intimate things, now became a torment to remember. But he would have to go through with it. Terrible as it was, it was incomparably better than to let her suffer what de Lora had suffered. He kept flexing his fingers, rubbing them against his body, as if they had already committed the deed.

Back to the past, to the days and nights together. Once, by some

obscure connotation, the thought of Luisa de Carvajal, as he used to dream of her, crossed his mind. She had been his lady of honor; she had been so designated by heaven itself. How contradictory and tangled life had turned out to be! She, the wife of Diego de Silva; he the lover of Catana Perez. Who could decipher the will of God? Evidently the experience in church long ago had m.eant nothing; the vow taken on the altar cross had been only romantic vapor. But if that was so, then what of all the other impulses and tenets of belief? What of God Himself? Not what one planned, but what actually happened was God's will, he pondered. You could not be sure until afterwards.

Noticing by the vague light from outside that Catana's covering had slipped, he moved nearer and pressed his lips gently on her bare shoulder before drawing the blanket over it. Then crushed by fatigue, he fell asleep, setting his mind, as it were, to waken in a few hours.

He came to himself with the grip of hands on him and the bite of cords around his arms. At the same moment, he heard Garcia's oaths. The thought seared his mind that he had waited too long, that now he would be unable to save Catana.

Dawn had not yet broken and they had not overslept—it was still night outside—but for some reason, probably to avoid a struggle, the guards had forestalled their waking. The next instant they were out of the cage, shivering in the colder air. Then, with a cord running from neck to neck, they were marched across the temple enclosure, into the square beyond, and so down to the canoe basin at the far end.

Catana stumbled from weakness and would have fallen except for the cord binding her to the others.

"Damn me for a fool!" Pedro muttered to himself. "Why did I wait when I had the chance!"

At the boat landing, they were corded still more tightly and laid helpless on the bottom of a war canoe large enough to contain not only them but four paddlers and guards. The latter, squatting down on their prisoners, held them still more immovable. Then the canoe glided off toward the lake.

Looking up along the back of the Indian half-seated on his chest, Pedro could see the starlight, brilliant at first, grow paler as time passed; but he could see nothing else, and, except for the repeated word, Coyoacan, he could not judge of the direction. It was about six miles across the water to Coyoacan, which he had visited seven months ago when the army had first crossed the mountains. He remembered the teocalli there, a grim, bloodstained pile.

As to the reason for this transfer of prisoners from one city to another, it was not far to seek. Coyoacan had lent support to the war and craved sacrifices for its local gods. Perhaps, in this case, quality made up for numbers, or perhaps more prisoners would be sent later. In spite of the discomfort in the canoe, Pedro was glad for Catana's sake that they had not been forced to make the journey on foot along the causeway.

The rhythmic dip of paddles, the tapping of water on the sides of the dugout, an occasional word of Nahuatl, were the only sounds. It came as a surprise when a chorus of hails rose near at hand and was answered by the men in the canoe. A moment later the craft nudged gently against the stone of the landing.

Yes, it was Coyoacan. In the twilight, Pedro recognized its squat outline dominated by the sawed-off pyramid of the temple. But the prisoners were given no time for more than a glance. Awaiting them stood a throng of warriors wearing ceremonial regalia—plume and bangle, jade-and-turquoise masks. They surrounded the three white captives like a pack of wolves. Words, apparently of thanks and farewell, were exchanged with the men in the canoe; and the victims, gathered up in the midst of the rout, were swept off toward the temple. But to de Vargas's surprise, the throng did not stop at the temple. It pushed on south through the still sleeping town, whooping, dancing, and evidently in a hurry to reach the appointed place of sacrifice. When Catana faltered on the point of fainting, she was swung indecorously across a pair of broad shoulders, and the pace continued. Then suddenly the town gardens ended, as if trimmed off with a knife, and black wasteland began.

It was the Pedregal, a lava stream, which in former days flowed down from one of the volcanoes at the end of the Valley. Like a dark scab amid the surrounding green, it extended fifteen square miles, a labyrinth, honeycombed with caves and threaded by blind trails. Here, if anywhere, was the appropriate haunt, the palace, so to speak, of the divinities of fire. Here the victims of Xiuhtecuhtli would be most acceptable to the god.

In spite of courage, Pedro's blood ran cold as the party, grown silent now, penetrated deeper into the maze of black basalt. The path wound between rough, jagged walls, serrated at the top. No color but the color of death. At this hour just before dawn an unearthly atmosphere, heightened by the fantastic costumes and masks of the warriors, clung to the place, which seemed to lie across the threshold of life in some never-never land of demons.

"We're in hell already, comrade," Garcia whispered. "I wonder when we died."

De Vargas plucked up spirit enough to make a wry face. "From the pain in my feet, I'm still alive, Juan. I wish I wasn't."

It was torment indeed to walk barefoot on the sharp rocks of the trail, which cut the soles of the feet like so many knives. Observing that both prisoners were limping and scarce able to walk, sandals were provided by a couple of the band, whose feet were toughened by long custom. It would not do, Pedro reflected, for victims to appear crippled before the god.

At last they came out into an open space, formed by a whirlpool in the molten lava long ago, a small amphitheater, evidently sacred to Xiuhtecuhtli, for his grotesque statue stood on a kind of natural altar, with the grisly platform in front of it. This then was the end of the road. There remained only the kindling of the fire, a dance before the god, the final horror. And now dawn was breaking.

"They'll wait till sunup," said Garcia, moistening his lips. "It won't be long. AdioSj friends. We may not have time to say it later."

Catana was lowered to the ground and stood a moment half-supported by the man who had carried her.

"Good-by, Juan. Good-by, querido serior mio. Only it isn't good-by. I know that."

She was interrupted by the voice of the leader of the band, a magnificently bedizened cacique wearing a skull mask. He was giving orders.

"Nuestro Senor Salvador . . ." said Catana.

A warrior approached with a drawn knife. But as Pedro made an instinctive movement toward her, he saw, to his amazement, that the Indian merely cut the thongs around her arms. At the same moment he felt his own arms freed.

"What's this!" exclaimed Garcia.

The next instant three featherwork mantles were thrown over their nakedness,

"A part of the mummery," Pedro growled under his breath. "But if they think—"

He stood speechless. An Indian was holding out to him a sword. He recognized it at once. His own sword. The one that had been stripped from him at the moment of capture.

"Diablos!'' he muttered, with a sense of dreaming, as his hands closed on the scabbard. "Do they want a fight? Well then, by God—"

His voice, rising in a lilt of joy, stopped. He found himself confronted

by the skull-masked leader, who at that moment took off his headpiece. Pedro stared, gasped.

It was Coatl.

"Senor Pedro," said the Indian, struggling with long-unfamiliar Spanish, "you save my life." He held up two fingers. "Now I save yours."

The silence of stupefaction was emphasized rather than broken by a heartfelt ejaculation from Juan Garcia, ''Que vaina!" He added with equal fervor, ''Que diantre!"

Coatl himself bridged the gap. "You forgive, Seilor Pedro? I not wish to take you here. I not wish to frighten the senora. I play trick on the Tenochcas."

Pedro had his arm around Catana.

"Trick? What do you mean?"

"Listen. Before the last fighting, I speak to Cuitlahuac, Uei Tlatoani of Tenochcas after Montezuma. I say to him, 'Listen, I bring many men to help in this war against the white men. I ask one thing. Give me the Spanish chief de Vargas, called Xiuhtecuhtli; give me his woman, Chantico; give me his friend, Tepeyollotl (for I know you grieve, Seiior Pedro, without them); give me Diego de Silva.' I say, 'Give me these teules if men take them in battle. Coatl ask no more. Coatl sick for their blood. This hand tear out their hearts. This hand burn them to please the fire gods.' He say, 'It shall be so. I swear by Huitzilopochtli, I swear by Tezcatlipoca, gods of my people.' He give order and writing."

The picture sheet which he had asked about crossed Pedro's mind. He was beginning to piece things together.

"I look for you in battle," the Indian went on. "I look for Diego de Silva. When I hear you taken, I turn back from de Silva to save your life."

All at once de Vargas's eyes burned. He recalled the day long ago in the barranca near Jaen.

"Cahallero!" he smiled.

Coatl shook his head. "Caballero Castilian. I hate Castilians; I love my friend. Now we speak no more; we march—fast."

It appeared that the sacrifice was supposed to have occurred at noon when the sun was at its height, and that the people of Coyoacan would have attended it. Perhaps some were already on the way. Therefore, it behooved the Zapotecs to cross the mountains before the fraud was discovered.

"In what direction?" Pedro asked.

"Where the sun goes." Coatl pointed west. "Long march." He held up three fingers. "So many days."

"But if you could guide us to Hernan Cortes, to Malinche, he would greatly reward you, Coatl."

"Reward from him!" The Indian's eyes smoldered. Then he folded his arms. "Malinche dead. Castilians dead."

"Dead?" The word came from the lips of Catana and Garcia as well as from Pedro.

"Dead. Tenochcas kill him at Otumba."

Terrible as this news was, it was too much expected to be open to doubt. Solemnly Pedro made the sign of the cross.

"Now we march," Coatl repeated. "We rest later."

"The sefiora cannot march."

"We carry her."

Meanwhile, the thirty-odd warriors of Coatl's escort had stripped off their ceremonial trappings, rolled them into bundles, and now appeared in the scantier garments of the trail. They carried shield, bow, spear, and knife—evidently a picked troop. Coatl explained that the main body of Zapotecs had returned home after the battle.

An improvised hammock litter was produced for Catana. A few minutes afterwards, the band, in single file, was winding southwestward through the labyrinth of the Pedregal.

For a time, Pedro and Garcia walked on silently in the footsteps of their silent guides. One of the chief elements of life, the sense of a goal, even if that goal was death, seemed to have dropped out. At the moment, helpless and purposeless, they could only drift. They were reprieved from death, but life had become fog without landmarks. Behind them lay New Spain, the lost conquest, the dead companions. Before them, cut off in the barbaric world, lay what?

"How about God now, Juan?" Pedro said after a while. "Suppose you had killed yourself last night. Suppose I had—" He thought of Catana and of what might have been. ''Que dices ahora de Dios?"

Part Four

lx;m

The trail leading southwest from Cuauhnahuac (not yet corrupted into Cuernavaca) entered a world unknown to white men, an unimaginable country beyond the furthest horizon. It was almost impenetrable, a region of bare or forest-clad summits, subtropical valleys, headlong streams, narrow canons; a region rich in precious metals, rare woods, vivid flowers, and wild life; rich too in the secrets of vanished peoples and forgotten civilizations.

After a day's grueling march from Coyoacan, up and down hill, fording streams and threading thickets, Coatl called a halt among the mounds of a ruined temple half-submerged in undergrowth. Fires were lighted, garments dried, and a ration of maize eaten. Then the Zapotec warriors filled paper-thin reeds with tobacco in token of relaxation.

Squatting against a fragment of serpent-carved wall, Coatl, who had talked little on the trail, broke silence.

"Now you are safe, seiior. Tenochcas not follow here." He made a wide gesture with his arm. "This Zapotec country. Welcome to you, and peace."

Worn-out by the ordeal of the past days and of the recent march, it seemed to Pedro an effort even to voice gratitude.

"My friends and I thank you, Coatl."

"Thank him!" exclaimed Garcia, who was massaging his tired calves in front of the fire. "That's pretty pale! When he has worked the miracle of getting us out of hell! By God, Senor Cacique, when I forget what I owe you, call me dog!"

"Not talk of debt," Coatl grunted. "Welcome in my country." He then added, "Two more days we get home."

Catana caught Pedro's eye and smiled; but the word home echoed dolefully in his mind. Home! How long, he asked himself, would they remain here? How long had the interpreter, Jeronimo Aguilar, who had been marooned among the savages of Yucatan, remained? Eight

years—until he grew like them, forgot his own tongue, painted his body, squatted like an ape. Eight years. And that was near the coast.

Mechanically his fist clenched. "Home, Coatl?" he repeated. "I seem to remember that you did not call Spain home."

The other exhaled and nodded. "I cannot send you to Spain, seiior. Perhaps someday Castilians come again. I send you to them. Now"— he opened his hands—"now, except here, you die."

It was too obvious for debate. With the army destroyed, no help remained except the refuge offered by Coatl. Between this wilderness and the coast stretched leagues of enemies bent on offering any white man to the gods.

"How will you know when ships come?"

"After while I hear."

Silence descended. The twilight turned dark, and fireflies showed more vividly among the ruins of the temple. The damp breath of night thickened. Somewhere on the mountain slope above, an ocelot wailed. Pedro thought of Aguilar.

Two days later, they reached a large pueblo of cubical houses with flat roofs, spilling down from one of the lower ridges to the communal valley land. Other, smaller pueblos appeared on neighboring slopes within a circle of higher mountains. These villages, Coatl explained, were ancient seats of the Zapotec people, the greater number of whom had moved eastward to Oaxaca long ago. Looming above the housetops of the main town stood the tribal temple and, adjoining it, strung out along the ridge, the group of one-story adobe buildings which formed the palacio of the chief. In one of these, complete with its own terrace, azotea, and small, luxuriant rear garden, the Spaniards were housed.

From the terrace next morning, de Vargas and Garcia gazed northward beyond the checkerboard of roofs at the labyrinth of mountains which they had just crossed.

"Could you find your way back to Mexico without a guide, Juan?" Pedro asked. "At a pinch, I mean?"

The big man frowned. "Not easily, comrade, though perhaps in time. It's a fair tangle, this land."

"Aye," Pedro muttered, "and a cursed long way from the coast." His thought brooded disconsolately on the distance. "Might as well be in the moon." Then, struck by an idea, he added, "But mark you. Did we ask to come here? We did not. Had we any choice? No. Then clearly it is an act of God. To what purpose, ha?"

Garcia shook his head. "I am an ignorant man."

"I do not see it clearly myself/' Pedro admitted. "But that there is a purpose, I know—also what we must do first and at once."

"What's that, comrade?"

"Make one of our rooms into a chapel. Set up the Gross. Pay honor to Our Lady of Rescue."

"It's well thought on," Garcia agreed. "We couldn't start better."

In fulfillment, at least, of the divine purpose which had made them what they were, the three exiles consciously and unconsciously organized their life according to the Spanish pattern. By instinct they put first things first. Since religion chiefly gave character to Spanish life, they were careful in their devotions. Since clothes are the outward token of an inner attitude, it was not long before they called on Goatl's sewing women to furnish them with approximate Spanish dress. Since language determines thought, it was not they who learned Zapotec, but the Zapotecs who were taught Spanish. Since the dissolution of the company did not cancel their allegiance to the King, it behooved them to view this land as a future royal province, assay its resources, and plan for the day of its annexation.

"You see how it is," said Pedro: "we'll have to watch ourselves. It reminds me of the swamp in Tabasco when our good horses all but foundered that day of the battle. The earth of this country sucking us in. It may be years; but we'll keep our heads up. We're Spaniards, and Spaniards we remain."