The King's Fifth

  "Yesterdays reading may be wrong," I said and fetched the cross-staff from the case she had made for me.

  Zia had helped me many times on the trail and was now expert at this difficult task. Holding one end of the staff on her shoulder, she stood, scarcely breathing, while I placed the peepholes in line with the sun and the horizon.

  "May I ride away now?" she asked.

  Usually, she waited until I had made the notations.

  I helped her into the saddle and she set off along the path we had just traveled. This time she rode without grasping the colt's mane. With her free hand, she waved to me. I have never seen anyone so happy. If I had not told her to return in time to help me with the baggage, I believe that she would have ridden until dark.

  25

  MY READING with the cross-staff proved to be the same as the one I had taken the day before, and with it I laid out what I thought would be a shorter route to Háwikuh. I spent the afternoon doing this. At dusk I watered the animals and laid out the pack saddles, ready for morning.

  When I reached camp, dusk was deepening into night. It was the hour when the two men would be in their hut, waiting for darkness.

  Zia and Father Francisco had roasted a rabbit in the pit, which the three of us ate with fried corncakes. As I sat beside the fire I thought, this is the time Roa and Mendoza have begun to dig the channel across the top of the dam. They take turns, one pushing the earth aside while the other loosens it with spade and bar. They work fast, pausing to listen, talking in whispers. I could see them clearly, as clearly as if I were there on the mountain.

  Father Francisco was talking about the people of Tawhi, and how he hoped to save many of their souls.

  "They are like the people of Nexpan," he said. "Devout but misguided. Tomorrow I will go again to talk to them and raise the cross I have spent this day in making. They are stubborn, yet I will wear them down."

  "Tomorrow," I said, "we leave Tawhi."

  He looked across the fire, cocking his head to one side, like a bird.

  "By whose command?" he asked.

  "By the command of Captain Mendoza."

  "He said nothing to me."

  "I am sorry, Father, it is my fault. He told me to tell you that we are leaving. But I forgot. In the morning he and Roa return. Everything is to be ready. That is the command."

  Father Francisco fell silent. In a short time, he rose and hobbled off to bed, mumbling to himself. Zia, exhausted by excitement and the five leagues she must have ridden back and forth, followed him.

  I walked out from the trees. The air was clear and the moon had not risen. The fires of Tawhi glowed against the darksome sky.

  I went to where the animals were tethered and tried the picket ropes. Everything was secure. I stretched out in the grass, but did not sleep.

  The moon came up. It was the shape of a bitter orange and pale gold. By its light, I thought, the men will be able to work faster. They have been digging for more than two hours. The channel, wide as a man's body, now must be a fourth of the way through the earthen dam.

  The fires of Tawhi grew faint and died and the stars above the mountain shone bright, red Antares in particular, and two small stars in the Scorpion's tail.

  I dozed, but not long, for Antares had moved no more than the breadth of a finger. It was very quiet. From the mountain I heard the barking of a dog. Mendoza and Roa hear the barking, too, I thought. They have stopped their work and are listening.

  Minutes went by, but the dog did not bark again.

  "The men have gone back to work," I said to myself. "They dig faster now, to make up the time lost."

  The two small stars in the tail of Scorpion disappeared behind the mountain. A chill came into the air and dew began to cover the grass. I threw more wood onto the fire and went again to look at the animals. From somewhere near a wolf coyote called. From far off it was answered. I was tired yet I dared not lie down for fear of falling asleep.

  Faint light showed along the horizon. Quietly, I began to saddle the train, taking care that the pack frames sat evenly and secure. From time to time I looked up at the mountain. All was dark and quiet.

  The first breakfast fire showed on the mountain. Now the time is near, I thought. It was still a half hour before sunrise, but the men would not wait much longer. I stood away from the trees, where I had a better view of the mountain, the houses, and the western cliff rising sheer to meet them.

  The horizon grew brighter. The Indians of Tawhi would soon be leaving their homes, walking across the plaza and up the terrace to the lake.

  I watched the cliff and the houses huddled on its edge. Minutes passed. It is too late now, I thought, already the Indians have left their homes and are on their way to the lake. Yet, it is possible that this is the very moment Mendoza has waited for.

  Suddenly, the thought came to me that something had gone wrong with their plans. Had they been attacked as they worked there on the terrace? Unmindful of my warning, had Mendoza tried to dig a tunnel through the dam and been trapped by a fall of earth or rushing water? With such a mad scheme, many things could go amiss.

  Above me and seemingly from a long distance, as if it came from the sky itself, I heard a sound. It was like the soughing of a strong wind or the movement of great wings. The sound did not come from the sky, but from the mountain. It was no longer the sound of wings or wind, but a roar.

  The roar grew. As I stood transfixed, a plume of white water broke from the mountain, hung in the bright morning air, and fell sparkling to earth.

  I ran through the forest and, gathering the pack train, set off toward the cliff. Zia and Father Francisco stood awestruck beside the fire, but I passed them without speaking. I rode up the trail to where it ended in a pile of rocks, some fifty paces from the cliff and the dangling ladder.

  By the time I had dismounted, turned the train around, and faced each animal down the trail, the first bag of gold had fallen. It lay at the foot of the cliff in a grassy swale. A second, a third bag thudded into the grass, as I was loading the first. I saw Roa standing on the cliff. He waved and disappeared.

  Above me, not a sound came from the City of Clouds.

  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

  THE 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 fa
stened 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."

&
nbsp; "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."