The King's Fifth (14 page)

"To me," Father Francisco said, "they are grazing deer."

I thought the same.

"It is your duty to save souls," Mendoza said. "It is mine to save lives. Our lives." He put on his helmet. "We go now and without the food. Pray that we reach the defile before it is closed."

As we set off, Mendoza hung back. When we came to the path that followed the stream, I turned to see where he was. He had not left the fire. He stood with his eyes fixed on the line of dark figures, moving at the base of the cliff.

Suddenly, while I watched, he seized a burning faggot and threw it into the dry grass. He threw another and ran. I looked for Father Francisco, wondering if he had seen, but he was hidden by a willow copse.

"That will give the Indians something to think about," Mendoza said, overtaking me. "Both those in the grove and those skulking along the cliff."

Small rings of flame surrounded the two faggots, as we stood watching, and I thought they would die out. Mendoza thought so too for he was on the point of going back to rekindle them when they were caught up by a gust of wind.

With a roar that seemed to shake the earth beneath my feet, the flames joined and in one vast sheet, which covered most of the surrounding meadow, leaped skyward. Actually, the fire had crept stealthily through the grass, unseen by us, until it was struck by the wind.

Hurrying on, we came to Roa and Zuñiga. They had
just driven a small flock of sheep across the stream, thus to stir the sand and float the gold flakes over the anchored fleece. They now stood on the near bank, watching the fire.

"Drag out the fleece," Mendoza shouted. "You can observe the fire afterwards."

It took time to do this, for the fleece were heavy with gold. From them we pressed the water as best we could, but even so we could carry only four, one to each of us.

Zia and Father Francisco, who were farther along the path, had stopped to watch the fire. Staggering along under our burdens, we overtook them.

Mendoza said, "The fire is a great misfortune, revered Father. I thought that it had died out. But the wind, the wind searched around in the ashes and found a spark."

Father Francisco looked at Mendoza, squinting his eyes. But so regretfully had the captain spoken, so humble were his words, that if any doubts crossed the priest's mind they were fleeting.

"The wind found a small spark, Father. A very small one. Now behold it!"

"I behold it." Father Francisco crossed himself. "What can be done?"

"Nothing," said Mendoza. "It will soon burn itself out. But let us go and quickly."

He gave the helmet, which was half-filled with gold, to me and we started off.

The fire had raced through the meadow, through a field of unharvested corn, and had nearly reached the south bastion. Sheep and deer and other animals that I
did not recognize fled before it. Three boys, whose task it was to guard the corn, were fleeing also.

We had traveled most of the distance to the defile when suddenly Zuñiga dropped his fleece and said that he would go back for another. Since he had the strength of two men, Mendoza permitted him to go.

In a short time we came to the defile and found to our relief that the entrance was open. Rocks piled on either side of it had not been moved. The dark figures, which earlier we had seen moving at the foot of the bastion, had disappeared.

Mendoza pointed to where, with a fleece over his back, Zuñiga ran along the path. I saw him stop to pick up the second fleece and move on.

"If he gets here," Mendoza said, laughing, "I will send him back for another."

Zuñiga had traveled more than halfway, to a bend in the stream, and to a second bend, when the wind lessened. Like an animal at bay, the flames moved in one direction, then another. Slowly the wind shifted, gained strength and blew hard from the south.

Zuñiga was not yet within hearing, but Francisco shouted for him to drop the fleece. "Run,
hombre.
Run for your life," he cried.

Fed by the wind and the bone-dry grass, the flames twisted, veered sidewise and in a wide curve swept down upon the stream.

Perhaps Zuñiga failed to see that the wind had changed. Perhaps he thought to outrun the fire. Whichever it was, he did not drop the fleece. He came on, stumbled under
the heavy load, picked himself up, again slung it on his back, and started toward us.

Francisco, knowing he did not mean to leave the fleece behind, once more shouted a warning. Zuñga looked up. I could see his face clearly. Then a wall of flame roared over him and he was lost to view.

The flames forced us back into the mouth of the defile. The four of us stood there in the darkness and looked out at the blazing fields. There was no sign anywhere of Zuñiga and the fleece.

The Fortress of San Juan de Ulúa
Vera Cruz, in New Spain
The seventh day of October
The year of our Lord's birth, 1541

T
HE COURTROOM,
on the third day of my trial, is the same as before. The three old judges sit at the long, oak table, dressed in black, fur-trimmed robes, more like
zopilotes
than ever. The clerks sit primly in their places. Counsel Gamboa and the royal fiscal talk together. Don Felipe stands behind me, shuffling his feet.

The courtroom is the same, except that in the part held for spectators there are more of them than before. Judging from their clothes, the newcomers are from Vera Cruz. My fame has spread, or rather the news of the treasure that lies hidden in the Land of Cíbola.

After I have taken the oath, the royal fiscal says pleasantly, as if we were acquaintances meeting in the plaza, "Do you find prison fare to your liking? Is it cooked well? Is it plentiful?"

"Often I have eaten worse and also less," I answer.

"And the bed?"

"Many nights I have slept on the ground."

"Then you like our prison? It is a place where you could spend many happy hours?"

I do not answer. The fiscal takes a sheaf of papers from
the table, which he studies while pulling at his lower lip. He puts the papers down and looks at me.

I expect him to begin where he left off on the first day of the trial. But he takes a different tack and asks me to tell the Audiencia in my own words (whose words would I use if I did not use my own?), about the battle of Háwikuh.

"What was your part in that battle?" he directs me.

I start at the beginning, at the place when I followed Captain Mendoza into the city. I describe how we reached the first terrace and how the Indians hurled rocks upon us.

I have the feeling, as these things are recounted, that the fiscal has heard them before, from someone else. I tell of the attack by the young Indian and the struggle that followed and how we both lay wounded on the terrace.

Here the fiscal interrupts me. "How bad were the wounds you suffered?"

"Bad, sir."

"Will you describe them?"

I do so.

"The wound on your head. Was it the worst?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long did it take you to recover from this wound?"

"Several weeks. Three."

"Not longer?"

"No, sir."

"You have recovered from this wound?"

"As far as I know."

The royal fiscal glances at the judges. "As far as you
know," he says, "you have recovered. But you are not certain."

Aware of my mistake, I say, "I am certain."

"One moment you are not certain. The next moment you are."

"I am certain."

"But is it not true that for a month after you left Háwikuh you were troubled by pains in your head and by poor vision?"

"I did have trouble."

"The trouble is gone?"

"Yes, sir."

Again the fiscal looks at his papers. "When you left Háwikuh," he asks, "how much gold did you carry?"

"None, sir, because none was found there."

"The first gold. Where did you find it?"

"In the City of Nexpan."

"Will you tell the Audiencia how it was found and in what amounts?"

In detail I recount the story of the stream and of the fleece, of the fire and how Zuñiga was consumed in it. Once more I feel that, like that of Háwikuh, he knows this story. Who could have told him? Who surely but Torres, the armorer, the blacksmith, the thief?

"This was the first gold," the fiscal says. "What did it weigh?"

"It filled one helmet by half. And there were three fleece."

"Enough, then, for you to quarrel over," the royal fiscal says.

"There was no quarrel," I reply.

"None?"

Before I can answer Counsel Gamboa is on his feet, trying to talk for one reason or another. Meanwhile, the fiscal glances through his sheaf of papers.

I notice for the first time that on the outside of the sheaf he holds is a red seal. These are not his own papers, therefore, but papers sent to him from somewhere, possibly by the Viceroy or from the frontier in Guadalajara. And in them is the testimony of a sworn witness. The testimony of Guillermo Torres? Yes, of Guillermo Torres, the thief.

My counsel is told politely by one of the judges to sit down, which he does.

"About this matter of the quarrel," the fiscal says, "after you found the gold...?"

"There was no quarrel," I repeat.

"About anything?"

"Well, one between Captain Mendoza and Father Francisco."

The fiscal glances at the ceiling in despair. "First there is no quarrel. Then there is a quarrel. Remember, Señor Sandoval, that you speak under the oath of the cross. Tell me what the quarrel was about."

"About the fire. The cause of the fire. And the death of Zuñiga."

"During these quarrels..."

"There was only one," I break in.

"During these quarrels," the fiscal continues, "which side were you on?"

"On neither side."

The fiscal turns and speaks to the judges.

"Your Excellencies, we have a fire which caused the death of one Baltasar Zuñiga. The priest, Father Francisco, accuses Captain Mendoza of starting the fire. Captain Mendoza, denying the accusation, says that it was caused by an accident. The young man who stands before you was present at this quarrel. And yet he claims that he favored neither one side nor the other."

The fiscal faces me. "You had no opinion in this matter?" he asks.

"I had an opinion."

"But you did not express it. Why?"

"Because Mendoza was our captain."

The fiscal smiles. "In other words, you were really against Captain Mendoza in this quarrel. You thought him guilty."

I see my error, but it is too late.

The fiscal goes on, "And because in your mind he was guilty, you actually threatened his life. What did Captain Mendoza say when you made this threat?"

"I made no threat." The trick of putting words in my mouth I am now familiar with. "None, sir."

"Let us see," the fiscal says. "You were recovering from a severe wound at this time. You were, in fact, suffering from pains and poor vision. Is it true?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then it is possible, is it not, that what you did at this time is really not clear to you now? That you have forgotten what took place?"

"There are things I do not remember, but I remember this."

"You remember that you did threaten Captain Men doza?"

"No, sir."

"You have forgotten that you threatened Captain Men doza?"

"No sir. I mean..."

The royal fiscal strolls to the window and looks out at the sea. It is silvery and calm, the color of hot lead. I am confused by all his questions. Since I have pleaded guilty to the charge of defrauding the King, why does he ask them?

He leaves the window and crosses the room towards me. He has an odd way of walking. He puts his toes down first, then his heels, and then as his heels strike the floor, he bounces up on them, with a little jerk. It is the walk of a man well satisfied with himself.

He stops within a pace of me and says in a soft voice, almost as if he were talking to himself, "I shall prove to the Royal Audiencia that the threat against Captain Mendoza's life, which we have discussed, is only the first of many such threats."

He glances at the onlookers in the back of the courtroom. They have been restless throughout the questioning, disappointed, I believe, that little has been said about the treasure.

"I shall prove," he says, raising his voice, "that the accused made many threats against the life of Captain Mendoza."

A suspicion crosses my mind. Since the questions I have answered had nothing to do with my crime against the King, they were asked for a different reason. Something that Guillermo Torres has accused me of and which I know nothing about.

"I shall prove," the fiscal says, "that these threats, repeated over a period of time, in the end led to a fight. And that this fight resulted in the death of Captain Bias de Mendoza at the hands of the accused, Estéban de Sandoval."

The courtroom is silent. I hear Don Felipe whispering over and over, "
Madre de Dios,
" like an old crone, and the onlookers muttering among themselves and Counsel Gamboa on his feet with a shout and one of the judges rapping on the table.