City of Silver (34 page)

Vincente put a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry to tell you, my friend, but the Tribunal has put out an order for your arrest. They charge you with blasphemy for burying the Morada girl in a consecrated place.”

Junipero looked into Vincente’s eyes, showing the monk his desperation, reading his friend’s compassion.

Vincente removed his hand. “Be careful, amigo. There are many others who would hand you over to the Inquisition without muttering a Miserere.”

Without another word, fearing speech would break the spell, Junipero covered himself with the motley cloak and black felt hat Barco had given him to disguise his identity and ducked through the monastery’s side door to the street.

Feigning the ambling gait of a bowlegged muleteer, he hurried along the Calle Quijarro, which zigzagged to break the impact of the wind gusts. The street led to that raucous quarter where miners and transients went in search of recreation. Impassive Indian women sat on the curbs, selling medals and holy images, but the priest knew sin was rampant here.

Where would one begin to search for one man in all this chaos? There were more than a dozen dance halls, but somehow the priest felt Sebastian would not look for lewd entertainment. The actor would want a place where he could meet smugglers and other desperadoes, not women.

Junipero entered one of the two score gambling houses that lined the side streets of the district. In a low, dark room that stank of men who had sat too long on mules, he had no sooner begun to describe Sebastian to the barman when three officers of the Inquisition burst in. The soldiers, dressed in black with shining steel breastplates and long swords at their sides, stopped all conversation.

In terror, expecting instant arrest, the priest forgot his disguise of a Mestizo in search of easy money and blessed himself and prayed.

“Sinners, repent,” announced one of the officers. He proceeded in a loud voice to denounce the gambling that was almost universal in the city. It was a mortal sin, he said, and then gave the familiar laundry list of how gamblers, their families, and Almighty God suffered because of it.

Weak light from candle stubs on the tables glinted off the soldier-priest’s shining armor. A scruffy llama driver near Junipero rose, doffed his cap, and, after expressing disgust at this own weakness, publicly swore he would never play at cards again.

“What will you forfeit if you sin again?” demanded the soldier who had preached.

“One hundred pesos in pure silver,” the penitent croaked out.

It was a fortune for the man. And if he was anything like the thousands of others who had made the pledge before him, he would inevitably backslide and forfeit his fine to the pious uses of the Inquisition.

A few more wretches were cajoled into similar vows while
Padre Junipero sweated under his coarsely woven cloak and tried to be invisible.

When the black-and-steel envoys of the Wrath of God finally departed, Junipero cautiously got up to leave. A stranger to his right stopped him.

His heart thudded while he turned to face the man.

“The transient you asked after,” the tall, thin stranger said in a heavy Italian accent. “For ten reales, I might tell you where he is.”

The padre eyed the man. His clothing was of good cut and fabric but worn and dirty. The priest grasped his own grimy cape. “How could a beggar like myself produce such a sum?”

“It was worth a try,” the Italian said with a twinkle.

“Do you know something? For the love of God, tell me. It could save a dear friend’s life.”

The man shrugged. “Since you put it that way, why not? It may not even be him, but a man who looks as you described is staying at the Tambo Lo Caliente.”

Junipero bowed to his informant and beat a hasty path down the street and around the corner to the inn. It was a reputable-looking place and smelled of good, spicy chicken stew.

Determined not to let his haste draw anyone’s suspicions, the padre first took a seat at a table in the outer courtyard and ordered a cup of
chicha
. About him, traders in everything from Persian rugs to English and French furniture gossiped about what devaluation would do to business.

He ran his hand over the name
Juan Ulloa
scratched into the table in front of him. Every table or bench in every public room in Potosí was carved like this—with first and last names, often with dates. What did they hope to accomplish by inscribing their names here? In olden times, pilgrims to Rome or the Holy Land put their names on the walls of hostelries to give notice of their route to anyone who might be searching for them along the royal road. Now, with no apparent usefulness, the practice
had become so common in New Spain that every inn and drinking place was adorned with names and obscene words. Thus, the priest supposed, the common man hoped to leave his mark.

At the next table, a man who dealt in purple satin from Florence was refusing the coin of the city and demanding gold for his goods.

When the skinny, sour-faced innkeeper brought the drink, the priest asked if anyone answering to Sebastian’s description was at the inn.

“He came in a few hours ago. He said he is here to transport clothing to France to be cleaned. He was talking to another carter about going by mule or llama to the coast.” The skinny man leaned closer. He smelled of onions and hair pomade. “Don’t tell the priests,” he whispered to the man he thought a Mestizo trader, “but I think your handsome blond might be a Jew. I gave him bacon for his dinner, and he didn’t eat it.”

The priest grunted noncommittally and then followed the innkeeper’s directions to a room that opened onto an inner courtyard. A sign on the wall declared, “It is forbidden to cook or bring horses into these rooms.”

Before the priest could knock, a weathered wooden door beneath the sign opened and the actor came out carrying a red sack. He smiled until the priest doffed his hat and revealed himself. “Padre . . . Padre . . .” He eyed the corridor that led toward the street.

“Stay, my son. The first time we met, you left me unconscious. This time I beg you, give me the information I require. I will not ask you to testify before the Tribunal. I will not reveal who and what you are.”

The actor backed into the room, pulled the priest in with a rough jerk, and silently closed the door. “Make your threats more quietly, Padre,” he whispered, “or I’ll be carted off to the dungeons before I can tell you anything.” He gave the priest the only chair and sat cross-legged on the bed.

Guilt tightened Junipero’s throat. He loathed threatening the young man with the same odious fate the Abbess faced, but he knew no other way. “Tell me or I will have no choice but to identify you to Grand Inquisitor de la Gasca’s men.”

“If I tell, you will betray me anyway.” In sadness, the actor’s face was even more beautiful than when he smiled. A sculptor would model John the Baptist after him. “Perhaps I should give myself up and accept my father’s fate as my own.”

“Your father’s?”

“I almost prefer it to this life of constant fear.” His eyes searched the priest’s. “My father was Francisco Maldonado de Silva.”

Junipero drew a breath of amazement. Everyone knew de Silva’s story. The Inquisition made sure everyone heard it as an object lesson in its own inexorable tenacity to convert the wicked or destroy them. Sebastian’s father was a surgeon of high repute in Concepción de Chile, the son of a Portuguese who had been arrested as a Jew, been reconciled, and brought up his children—two girls and a boy—as Christians. The boy, Francisco, was a good Catholic until the age of eighteen, when he chanced to read the
Scrutinium Scripturarum
of Pablo de Santa Maria, Archbishop of Burgos, who had been the Rabbi Solomon ha-Levi. Converted in 1390, ha-Levi had risen to be Regent of Spain in the minority of Juan II and later a papal legate and a bishop.

Instead of confirming Francisco’s faith, the book raised doubts. He consulted his father, who, he found, still secretly practiced his ancient faith. Francisco became an ardent convert to Judaism, but he kept his secret from his mother and two sisters and from his wife. Eventually, though, he revealed his beliefs to his sister Isabel and tried to convert her, but in vain. Though she loved her brother and he was, by then, the sole support of her, her mother, and her sister, she loved God more. She denounced Francisco to the Inquisition. For this, she was extolled from the pulpits as a brave defender of the Faith. Padre
Junipero tried not to despise her as a traitor. His own sister had protected him from the consequences of his sin, helped him escape to the monastery.

After Francisco’s arrest, the priests of Concepción, Santiago, and Lima made many attempts to convert him, but he was resolved to die in the faith of his ancestors. He was brought out in the great auto-da-fé at Lima in 1639.

“I wish I had his courage,” Sebastian said. “When my mother was away, before I was born, he circumcised himself. Can you imagine it?”

A chill hit the priest’s crotch and ran up his back like a bolt of cold lightning. He drew a gasping breath at the very thought.

“When they read his sentence in the square, a sudden whirlwind tore away the awning under which he stood before the Inquisitor. He looked up and cried out, ‘The God of Israel does this to look upon me face-to-face.’ That was the last thing he said before they burnt him alive.”

The sermonizers left these last facts untold, but the young man had the air of one telling the truth, and the priest was inclined to believe him.

“You can get at least small revenge,” Junipero said. “They killed your father, but at least you can thwart them now. You can save the Abbess from them.”

Sebastian smiled and shook his head. “A point, Father, but a weak one.”

Junipero considered the actor’s countenance. That smile had beguiled Inez. Suppose Sebastian’s story was all a fairy tale. Suppose he was not the son of Francisco de Silva but merely a wastrel plying his actor’s trade to foil a sympathetic priest? The youth had fooled him before with his perfect Castillian accent and his aristocratic manners. Why not with this story?

The courtyard outside was now in shadow. The room had grown so dim, it was difficult to read the man’s eyes. Why would a man who was not a Jew claim to be one? More than trusting
the actor, the priest knew he must win his trust. There was only one way to do that—to prove he trusted him.

“I will tell you a story in return. My real name is Diego Cortéz de Aragón,” the priest said. And in response to a quizzical grunt from the actor, “Oh, yes, I am a real priest. But I am also a notorious felon. I was born in Hispaniola of Spanish parents and sent to Madrid at a young age to live with an uncle and be educated. There in the company of other wild boys, I raped a great nobleman’s daughter. I escaped to Sevilla before her father caught me. I changed my identity and, unrepentant, spent my time in seduction.”

The actor snorted and eyed Junipero’s emaciated form.

The priest smiled despite the guilt that ground at his heart. “I know I do not look the part now, but I have not always had the physique of a penitent.” He remembered his youthful beauty only with remorse. “After years of debauchery, I suddenly became ill. I could not eat. I vomited everything. My sister visited me and asked if I had finally become disgusted with myself. I entered the Jesuits and was, by the Grace of God, received into holy orders, but my crime was notorious. If my real identity was ever made known, I would be disgraced. Now, Sebastian, you have information sufficient to threaten me as I might threaten you. Please. Trust me. Tell me what you know.”

“If you protect me and they find you out, you’ll be sent to the galleys for life, priest or no priest.”

“I am doomed anyway, to tell the truth,” the priest said. “Morada’s men are trying to find me to kill me, and the Tribunal is after me for burying Inez in a consecrated place. I only want to save a holy woman before I die.”

Sebastian moved from the bed and sat on the floor close to him. “I did not want Inez to die,” he whispered, the way men did in the confessional. “I wanted her to come away, to join the troupe. She would have made a great actress. You saw how she beguiled everyone. She was a natural.”

The priest nodded. “And now she is dead. Tell me how, why.”

The actor opened his hands and shrugged. “All I know is that she was blackmailing her father. She said she had the means to ruin him. She wanted money for us to go away together, lots of money, so she could live like the princess she has been. She was using what she knew about him to get the money and to protect me. Once he killed her, I knew I was a dead man. I am a dead man. She told her father about her love affair with me, though I warned her not to.”

Padre Junipero shook his head. This was madness. The man could not be telling the truth. In confession, Inez had revealed none of this. “Why would she have told her father? Did she tell him you are a Jew?”

“She did not know that. I am not circumcised.”

“Nevertheless, I simply do not believe you.” He made as if to go.

Sebastian rose to the bait. He held up his hand. “Wait. I will show you. I have a letter from her.” He riffled through his red sack and handed a piece of paper to the priest. The room was too dark now to read. Junipero went to the small unglazed window and held out the paper in the scant light. The words were scrawled in a hasty script, but unmistakably in Inez’s hand: “You were right, my darling. I have overstretched my father’s love. He has taken back the evidence I had against him. I have threatened to testify against him myself. But I am afraid. Since I am lost to him, I fear he does not care if I live. He loves me only if he can control me, and he loves his honor more.

“I am going to the convent where he will not be able to harm me. From the safety of that sanctuary, I will force him to give me the money we need to go to Buenos Aires and establish ourselves there. You will see. We will become great in that city. My father will pay for my silence. Then we will be richer than your wildest dreams.

“I kiss your sex and long for the day you kiss mine again. Inez.”

The final words sent a shudder through the priest, of disgust and arousal.