The King's Fifth (20 page)

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

T
HE SEA IS CALM
after the storm. As we cross the parapet on our way to the courtroom it lies around us gentle as a lake. But across the bay I see rows of palms along the shore of Vera Cruz, cut down by the wind. We walk fast, Don Felipe and I. The sun is overhead and the stones of the parapet burn through our boots.

Don Felipe says, "You remember the little speech we have rehearsed?"

"Each word."

"And remember this, also," he says. "Talk slowly, when you talk. Look at the judges and not, as is your custom, at your feet. Let your manner be courteous. Do not forget that when there is no honey in the jar, it is wise to have some in the mouth."

"Torres," I say, speaking what is most in my thoughts, "have you seen him?"

"No, but from what others tell me, he is a rattlehead."

"A thief," I say. "A stealer of horses."

"Thief or rattlehead or both, let this be of no comfort to you. Torres is not the one who is on trial. He is a witness, brought here by the royal fiscal from a far distance, to prove you guilty of murder. Whatever he says, therefore, will be listened to by the Audiencia as if he were the Archbishop of Cordoba himself."

"This I fear most."

"This I fear, too, but we will give the rattlehead some thought," Don Felipe says as we enter the courtroom, "after we hear his testimony."

I look for Torres in the crowded room, but do not see him. The three judges are there in their rusty black robes. More than ever they remind me of the three black
zopilotes
on the ruined wall at Chichilticale. The room is stifling hot and again the robes are tucked up over their bony knees. Today an Indian boy stands behind them, pulling at a cord which is fastened to a large palm leaf.

The royal fiscal approaches me as I stand in front of the three judges.

I have forgotten what he says at first. In any event, it is not important. Shuffling through his papers, he pauses briefly to read one of them. He gathers the papers into a neat roll and reaching out with it, taps me lightly on the chest.

"You have testified," he says, "that the treasure found by Captain Mendoza in Cíbola required twelve animals to transport."

The courtroom grows quiet.

"That the treasure amounted to some sixty thousand
onzas
of the purest gold. That when you left a place called Nexpan you carried with you only enough gold to fill two helmets."

I listen to the royal fiscal, but I am thinking about Guillermo Torres. He is somewhere in the courtroom. I glance around, everywhere except behind me. At last I see him or someone who looks much like him.

"Am I correct?" the fiscal says. "Have you testified to these facts?"

"I have, sir."

Yes, it is Torres. He is sitting beside the window, almost hidden by one of the notaries. I can just see his head over the notary's shoulder, the puffy face and bulging eyes.

"Now I would like to know," the fiscal says, "how the two helmets of gold became a hoard which only many beasts could carry. Tell us,
señor,
how this came about."

"The helmets of gold did not become a hoard," I answer. Raising my hand I point straight at Torres, the thief. "For the reason that this man, Guillermo Torres, stole them from us while we slept."

The royal fiscal waves the roll of papers above his head. He shouts something at me, yet I go on.

"While we were encamped near the City of Nexpan, he, Guillermo Torres, stole the gold and our best horse, and fled."

Onlookers crane their necks to get a view of the man I have pointed out. But Torres, like a turtle, draws in his head and is suddenly hidden behind the notary.

One of the judges warns me against further outbursts, and the fiscal, still waving the papers, adds a word of his own.

"It is you who are on trial, not Señor Torres," he says,
repeating what Don Felipe already has told me. "Kindly, therefore, answer the question asked of you."

My counsel rises to speak for me, but is told by one of the judges to be seated.

After a moment or two, when I have controlled myself, I begin the story of our arrival in the City of Tawhi. I tell how we discovered gold in the lake and how it got there. I am careful not to say that the lake bottom was covered deep with it. Nevertheless, the fiscal interrupts me.

"The gold at the bottom of the lake," he says. "From whence did it come?"

"From a mine far distant in the mountains," I answer. "Its location we never learned."

"How much gold did the lake yield?"

I answer his question truthfully. "The gold we carried away."

I glance beyond the fiscal to where Torres sits, still hidden from sight, as though he would rather be any other place than in this courtroom. For the first time it occurs to me that he may be here against his will. If so, then what I have said against him is a mistake.

"Continue," the fiscal says sharply.

I gather my thoughts and do as I am bidden. I tell the Audiencia of Mendoza's scheme for seizing the treasure. How the scheme was secretly carried out in the night, and of the dawn when I stood below the mountain and watched the unloosed lake pour over the cliff.

"You were not with Captain Mendoza?" the fiscal says.

"No, sir."

"Where were you?"

"In camp."

"Below the mountain?"

"Yes, below."

"Why there and not with Captain Mendoza?" the fiscal asks. "Was it because he did not trust you?"

"Someone was needed to tend the animals."

"As I understand it, there were two others in the party. A priest, Father Francisco. And Zia Troyano, a guide. Why could they not tend the animals?"

I am surprised that he knows Zia's name. Truly, the Royal Audiencia is thorough. It is as thorough as the
Supreme
and the Grand Inquisitor.

"Speak!" the fiscal commands me.

"The priest was lame. Zia Troyano is a girl."

"But they could have tended the animals, and you could have helped with the tunnel, if Captain Mendoza had not mistrusted you."

I say nothing.

The fiscal looks at the papers.

"We know from your testimony," he says, "from your last appearance before the Audiencia, that you and Captain Mendoza quarreled over the gold found at Nexpan."

"There was no quarrel," I break in. "And so I testified."

I remember because the day I testified to this I carefully wrote down my words. And only this morning I have looked at them again.

The fiscal goes on as if he had not heard me. "We shall prove that bad blood between Captain Mendoza and the defendant, which existed at Nexpan and at Tawhi, led to
the death of Captain Mendoza at the hands of the defendant."

He turns his back upon me, and in a loud voice calls Guillermo Torres to stand before the Audiencia.

I sit down beside my counsel. Torres leaves the corner and takes his place before the three judges. He keeps his eyes on the floor, even when he swears upon the Cross.

The fiscal asks his name, the name of his birthplace, his occupation, the length of time he knew Captain Mendoza. To all these questions, Torres gives slow answers, while he shifts about. More than ever, I am certain that he is here against his will. My counsel thinks likewise. We are wrong. He is here to get his hands on the treasure, if he can.

"Now," the fiscal says, "will you tell the Royal Audiencia about the quarrel between Captain Mendoza and the defendant? How it began?"

"It began while they were away in Nexpan," Torres replies. "So I did not see the beginning. But when they came out of the Abyss and I was waiting there with the mules and horses, the Captain and Father Francisco were arguing. The argument went on for a while just between the two of them. Then Estéban there" (Torres pauses and for the first time casts a glance in my direction), "Estéban took the side of Father Francisco and the three of them argued. Then Father Francisco walked away and the others argued together."

So far Torres, the thief, has spoken untruthfully.

"Did Estéban de Sandoval threaten Captain Mendoza?"
the fiscal asks. "Did he say at this time, 'Someday I shall kill you?'"

Quiet falls upon the courtroom. Everyone is listening, even the three judges. There is no sound except the rustle of the big palm leaf as the Indian boy pulls it up and down, up and down.

Torres shows no surprise at the fiscal's question. "He has heard the question before," my counsel whispers. "He has been waiting for the fiscal to ask it."

Torres looks at the judges and says, "I was standing about ten paces from them by the fire and I saw Estéban raise his fist and say this."

"Say what?" the fiscal prompts him.

"'Someday I shall kill you!'"

Anger seizes me. I rise to my feet, but the counsel grasps my arm and forces me back.

"'Someday I shall kill you,' "the fiscal says. "You heard these words spoken clearly?"

"Yes, clearly."

Slowly the fiscal walks to the table and pours himself a drink of water. Slowly he walks back and takes his position in front of the three judges.

"Now, Señor Torres," he says, "Captain Mendoza and the
conducta
went on for several days. Tell the Audiencia what happened during these travels."

"We went on," Torres says, "for two days, I think. And then a storm came and we took shelter in a cave and waited for good weather."

"While you waited in the cave, did Estéban de Sandoval
again threaten Captain Mendoza's life?"

"I did not hear the threats."

"There could have been threats that you did not hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"You left the cave after a few days and returned to Háwikuh alone. Why?"

"Because," Torres says, "I did not want to stay with men who were fighting."

"Was there another reason for leaving?"

"Yes. They had promised me a share of the gold, but I did not receive it."

"Continue, Señor Torres."

"When I did not receive the gold from them, I took what was my rightful share and left and rode back to Háwikuh."

Lies, all lies! I sit listening to each one, helpless, silent. My counsel says for me to wait until he questions Torres, then things will be different. But when he does, it is the same. The lies are spoken again. Torres does not change his story by so much as a word.

My own story, which the counsel asks me to tell, sounds flat as it comes from my mouth. There is no air in the courtroom. The fan moves up and down, yet no air stirs. Light from the sea casts gray shadows on the faces of the three judges. Behind me I can hear whispers, the shuffle of feet, and, very far somewhere, the tolling of a church bell.

As I finish the story of Torres' theft, the fiscal rises and says to the judges, "The defendant is excused. I do not wish to question him." He says it with indifference, as if
anything I might answer would be of no importance to him or to anyone.

At this point my counsel takes the notes I have put together and gives them to the fiscal, who does not look at them. He tosses the notes on the table in front of the judges but makes no comment.

"I ask," he says, "that the trial be adjourned for two days, until the twelfth day of October. At that time I will present an item of written evidence. And a second witness."

Thus ends this day before the Royal Audiencia, a day that has not gone well for me.

My legs feel weak and my head is giddy as Don Felipe and I cross the parapet on our way to the cell. The sun rests heavily on my back, like a hot stone. It is the stone of Sisyphus which I carry upon my back.

"What," I ask, "is the written evidence the fiscal spoke about?"

"That I do not know," Don Felipe answers. "But the witness I have news of."

I wait for Don Felipe to continue. We pass the cells where the prisoners stand because they cannot sit and he pauses to inquire if everyone is in good health. He is greeted by silence. He has forgotten what he started to say. He is thinking about the map I make for him, on what day it will be finished, what he will then do with it, the treasure he will find.

"The witness," I say.

"Oh, the witness, the one the fiscal mentioned. It is the guide, Zia Troyano."

"Zia?"

The sun suddenly bursts into a thousand pieces and the stone terrace seems to melt beneath my feet.

The cell is quiet. Don Felipe has been here to see how the map progresses. He has left now on his evening rounds, satisfied with what I have done. In appearance it is a good map, yet with it he will never find the treasure.

The star shines wanly in the west. I must go on and tell the story of our journey from Tawhi, the Cloud City, of the death of Captain Mendoza and the evil it brought. But how do I ever write this down when my head whirls around and around, when all I can think of is Zia Troyano?

B
EFORE THE SUN
stood three hours high, all of us working at the task except Zia and Father Francisco, the pack train was loaded with the bags Roa had tossed down from the cliff, and we had left the Cloud City and the forest far behind.

We rode hard and warily until noon, in corselet and helmet, though there was no sign that the Indians followed us. Then beside the stream we halted to rest the animals and adjust the bags, which in our haste to leave Tawhi had not been properly balanced.

I was surprised at Roa and Mendoza. They were grimy with dirt, but seemed as fresh as if they had slept all night. I was curious to know what had happened to them on the mountain, and here as we rested beside the stream Roa told me. It was not the same story that Mendoza told Father Francisco.

"We traded with the cacique until dark," Roa said. "He was very pleased with the trading, for Mendoza planned it that way. He kept making signs about the mule that Mendoza had promised to barter, but Mendoza made signs back that he would have to wait until morning."

Roa paused and glanced around to see that Father Francisco was not within hearing. The priest had said nothing when Mendoza explained to him that once each year the lake was emptied in order to retrieve the gold, and that the bags he had tossed over the cliff he had bargained for.