The King's Fifth

  Don Felipe has left me and I stand blinking my eyes. Then one of the clerks sidles forward, carrying a cross, and halts a step away.

  "Do you swear," he says, "to tell the truth before God, the Holy Mary, and the sign of the cross?"

  I give my reply in a firm voice and touch the sacred symbol with my right hand, according to the law.

  The second clerk rises and begins to read. He runs his words together so that they sound like pebbles falling down a chute. Yet I hear the final accusation.

  "...to defraud and to deceive His Cesarean Majesty, to withhold the King's Royal Fifth, a rightful share of treasure, whose whereabouts is presently unknown, Estéban de Sandoval, a native of the city of Ronda in the Province of Andalucia, and a subject of the true Emperor, stands guilty of a crime against the Crown."

  I already know the accusation, but to hear it spoken aloud in the courtroom gives it a different and more serious meaning. Since I have not been asked for my opinion, I say nothing.

  The judge then asks if I am to be defended by counsel. Before I can reply, the young lawyer in the shabby doublet is on his feet. He bends forward, making a meek bow which I am certain he has practiced beforehand, and announces that I wish to plead guilty to the charge as read, with one exception.

  My plea of "guilty" seems to surprise the royal fiscal, for suddenly he leans forward to whisper to the judges. After a time he slowly rises from behind the black oak table.

  He is a squat-faced Spaniard with a protruding lower lip that reminds me of the King's. He bows to the judge, glances carefully at the window, at the stone walls, at the royal coat of arms, at the stone floor, finally at my boots, the doublet which is too small for me, and the medal which I wear around my neck. He never meets my eyes.

  "Your crime," he says, "is great. Are you aware of this?"

  I sense that he is laying a trap. "I am aware of the accusation," I answer, "but not of any crime."

  He begins to look around the chamber again. "Then you deny that you have deliberately deprived the King of his rightful share of treasure?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do you deny that you found such treasure?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you deny that a treasure exists?"

  In truth, I am forced to answer, "No."

  "A treasure exists?"

  One of the judges, who has been sitting with his eyes closed, now opens them and looks at me.

  "A treasure does exist?" the royal fiscal asks again, raising his voice.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Treasure exists, but you did not find it?"

  "No."

  The royal fiscal's glance now has reached the window, but suddenly he looks at me. His eyes are the shape and color of round leaden pellets.

  "Since there is a treasure and you did not find it," he says, "it was therefore found by someone else. Who?"

  There is no sound in the chamber except the scratching of a quill.

  "Who?" he repeats.

  "Captain Bias de Mendoza," I answer.

  "Who is this man?"

  "He was a member of Coronado's army."

  "Captain Mendoza," the royal fiscal says, "found the treasure which you now possess?"

  Again, the trap. "The gold," I answer, "is not in my possession."

  "Was it ever in your possession?"

  Behind me I hear Don Felipe cough. My counsel is gazing at the ragged lace cuffs of his doublet. One of the judges admonishes me to be more prompt with my answers.

  The royal fiscal asks his question a second time.

  "Yes, it was in my possession," I say.

  "When?"

  I have to think. "Two months in the past. Perhaps longer."

  "How did it come into your possession?"

  "Through Captain Mendoza."

  "By reason of Captain Mendoza, of course," the fiscal says with a show of irritation. "But how? In what manner?" He leaves the table and walks slowly to where I stand. "Did you steal it?" he asks.

  I make no reply, but at once my counsel jumps to his feet. Speaking with an eloquence that surprises me, he objects to what the fiscal has said. He speaks for several minutes and when he is through the three judges nod their heads in agreement.

  The royal fiscal strolls to the window and looks out at the sea. He turns around. "Two months ago," he says, "this treasure was in your hands. Of what did it consist?"

  "Of gold."

  "In what form?"

  "In the form of fine dust."

  "This gold—where is it?"

  I hesitate. I hear someone shuffle his feet. It is likely my jailer, Don Felipe.

  "Where?" asks the royal fiscal.

  "In the Land of Cíbola," I answer.

  "Where in terms of the cross-staff?"

  "These terms I do not remember."

  "When you hid the gold—and I presume that it is hidden—did you make note of the place?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "But now you do not remember."

  I am aware that I ask the Audiencia to believe something that is unbelievable. Yet I am determined not to confess that I know where the treasure is hidden, if, indeed, I do know.

  "I have forgotten," I answer. "The notes are not in my hands."

  Behind me Don Felipe clears his throat.

  The fiscal says, "I presume that the notes are hidden also, like the gold."

  I do not reply.

  The fiscal's lead-colored eyes narrow. "Wherever they are, these notes," he says, pausing after each word, "whether they are ten leagues away or a thousand, you shall have them brought here before the Royal Audiencia. And if need be, we shall adjourn the trial until they are in this courtroom. For a year, if necessary, or longer."

  The fiscal stares straight at me for several moments, as if to allow time for the threat to sink in. Meanwhile, my counsel has risen to his feet and with hand raised is asking for the judges' attention. When it is given, he says something to them, all of which I cannot hear. It concerns the notes, an effort he will make to have them brought before the Audiencia, for the trial is then adjourned until the sixth day of October.

  As soon as I am back in my cell, Don Felipe closes the door behind us. He has said nothing on the way. He stands at the door while I light a candle, and smiles. He is the only person I have ever known whose smile makes me uncomfortable.

  "I am proud of you," he says. "The way you stood before the Audiencia. It was with great dignity. Like a true gentleman. As if you did not care one maravedi whether you were guilty or not."

  "I am guilty."

  "For a certainty, caballero. As I have said already. But the guilty I have seen many times. Commonly they pretend to more innocence than those who are innocent. And are quicker to declare it."

  He draws closer, within the candle's glow.

  "You are now a person of importance," he says. "From this day onward, therefore, until the day you are freed or left to rot, you will be watched. Your every word will be weighed. To the end that the hiding place of the treasure may be found. You will also have visitors—old friends, new friends, persons you have never set eyes upon. Therefore, be cautious with your tongue."

  Don Felipe's words are prophetic. He is scarce gone before I am visited by a Captain Martín, commander of the fortress. A round, jovial man, he was not present at the trial, nor at first do I recall having seen him elsewhere. But when he comes into reach of the candle I recognize him from the old days, as a lieutenant in Coronado's army.

  Captain Martín accepts my offer of the bench. He speaks of the battle at Háwikuh, in which he was severely wounded, and recalls the morning I set forth from that city with Captain Mendoza.

  "How we laughed, hombre, to see you go. A girl for a guide, a lame priest, two musicians, an armorer and keeper of horses who could not make a good bodkin. And that madman, Mendoza. Yes, how we laughed. Not to mention you yourself. A stripling who yet could not raise a beard."

  We talk for most of an hour about the battle of Háwikuh, but not once does he mention th
e treasure. Nor when he leaves, though he does say that if there is anything I need he hopes I will inform him of it.

  I look forward to his next visit, since he is a freehearted fellow with whom I have shared danger.

  The wind still blows hot from the far jungle across a quiet sea. The star, whose name I do not know, shines brightly. Since the next part of my trial is many days away, I have ample time to write down the events of our journey from Red House to the city of Háwikuh, and of the savage battle which we fought there.

  10

  THE COUNTRY THAT LAY between Red House and Háwikuh was named Despoblado, the Uninhabited.

  The name was chosen well, for it was a vast wilderness of desert and plain, a land so fierce that at the end of the first day Coronado sent Captain Cárdenas, one of his trusted officers, ahead to explore the way and give warning of dangers. Each day thereafter word came back by messenger of what had been found. The reports were never good, but to know what we would encounter was better than not knowing.

  Food had long been scarce. When none was found, save cactus apples and beans from the mizquitl bush, we tightened our belts and reduced our rations.

  It was the horses that suffered most. At the end of the first week in the Despoblado, they began to die, two one day, three the next. Yet, while others grew gaunt or sickened, Mendoza's animals fared well. He ordered Torres to gather grass for the blue roan as we moved ahead, so at night she always had plenty. Her foal actually gained weight. Zia did little except search out tender roots and the young shoots of mizquitl and cactus, which she stored in a bag and fed to the foal when we made camp.

  When more horses died, Coronado in desperation commanded everyone who was riding to dismount and walk.

  Thus on the fourteenth of July we came to a river which ran cold and clear. We crossed it on rafts and suddenly were in a country of heavy timber and grass like that of Castile. Here we grazed our livestock.

  The rest gave me a chance to collect the notes I had carefully taken along the way and to begin the map of the Despoblado. But after two days Coronado pressed on into the high mountains that rose in front of us, for his army was starving.

  Climbing hard we reached the summit and at the eastern edge of a forest a cold spring. As soon as we had encamped, hungry men went in search of berries and roots. Of them, three found a patch of wild parsnips, which they ate. The following day the three died in agony and were buried beside the trail. Their deaths cast a pall upon the army.

  That evening horsemen captured three young Indians who were skulking in the trees, and brought them into camp. From them we learned that Háwikuh was only two suns away. But we were told to be cautious, for the Chief of Háwikuh had sworn vengeance upon all Spaniards.

  Again Coronado sent Captain Cárdenas and fifteen horsemen ahead. The next afternoon, while we rested on the trail, a rider came galloping toward us, dispatched by Cardenas with news of an ambush.

  "Late yesterday," the rider said, "as we neared a small pass, Indians were sighted on a nearby summit. Captain Cárdenas made signs of peace and, leaving us, went forward with gifts. The Indians came down from the summit and took the gifts and listened respectfully to his words of friendship.

  "When they had disappeared," the rider continued, "the Captain posted a mounted guard at the pass and the rest of the men unsaddled. Some hours later, at midnight exactly, a large band of Cíbolans attacked. They made a fearful noise and shot many arrows, which stampeded the horses, leaving most of us on foot. Despite these things, we kept in good order and withstood them. Then the Indians retreated, sounding a little trumpet as they fled."

  The army had traveled far that day. We were tired and ready to encamp, but Coronado ordered us forward. We went, aware that it was not because of the ambush. Nor because Háwikuh, the golden city, lay close at hand. At last, after three months and four hundred leagues of marching, the army was down to its final ration—two bushels of corn.

  "We reach Háwikuh on the morrow," Coronado told us, "or we starve here on the trail. There is no other choice."

  By a half-moon the army traveled late, finished the two last bushels of maize, and while it was still dark marched once more.

  We sighted Háwikuh at dawn.

  We saw it from afar, through misty air, the sun not yet risen, across a deserted plain, against sombre red cliffs. The city rose in tiers, many tiers high, each tier stepped back from the one lower, so that it had the shape of a crumpled pyramid.

  A hundred shouts went up from the marching column.

  But Roa said, "I see no gold."

  "How could you see gold?" Zuñiga asked. "You do not have the eyes of an eagle. Wait until we draw nearer."

  We climbed out of a swale to the plain where the city rested, tier upon tier. We were so close now that dark figures could be seen standing on the parapets. As we drew nearer we heard voices calling, whether in threat or greeting could not be told.

  A hush fell over the army. Even Señora Hozes grew quiet. There was no sound except the muffled thud of hooves in the tall grass, the jingle of spurs and hawk bells.

  The trill of a small trumpet drifted down the wind and as the sky brightened smoke rose from the topmost tier. A solitary figure held up his hand. Was it in friendship or to warn us away?

  We approached a wide space where nothing grew, beaten hard by many feet and criss-crossed by low mounds behind which men might conceal themselves. Here Captain Coronado gave the command to halt.

  At that moment the sun rose. It reached the sombre cliffs behind the city. It touched the highest tier of Háwikuh. I watched, holding my breath, while the sun reached lower and lower, until in one burst of radiance the city stood clearly forth.

  I saw then that Háwikuh, its walls and parapets, even in the golden light of morning, were fashioned of mud. They glittered here and there with mica and were a lighter color than the walls of Red House, but they were made of mud, nevertheless.

  The gathered army was silent. As I looked at Captain Mendoza who stood beside Coronado, I heard him say, "Perhaps the gold is elsewhere. The old man at Red House said it was hidden from sight."

  "Perhaps," Coronado replied in his quiet voice. "We will soon know. But it is food that we need now more than gold."

  The army was massed behind him, waiting for the order to attack. There was not a sound on the plain nor in the city of Háwikuh. The parapets were deserted. Smoke no longer rose above the topmost tier.

  Suddenly a trumpet called from the direction of the mounds, a distance of a crossbow shot. Before the notes had died away, from behind the mounds, a phalanx of warriors jumped to their feet. They rose as one man, though there were more than two hundred. They stood facing us, armed with arrows and war clubs and protected by round, leather shields.

  We were not aware at this moment that news of our coming had spread through the province.

  From far-off places warriors had hurried to Háwikuh. All the women and children of the city, and most of the men over sixty, had been sent to a safe place on the high cliffs. Only the braves were left, together with a few old men to counsel them. Nor did we know that hidden within the walls were twice the number that faced us.

  The trumpet sounded again. Four of the Indians strode out and marked a line on the earth with cornmeal. At once their comrades began to make hostile gestures, waving shields, brandishing clubs, daring us to cross the line of sacred meal.

  Coronado ignored their challenge. He called Captain Cardenas and five mounted men to his side, also Father Luis, Father Daniel, an interpreter, and Bermejo the notary.

  "Tell the Cíbolans," he said, "that we come not to injure them but to defend them, in the name of the great Emperor across the ocean."

  Captain Cárdenas advanced with his band and halted short of the line which had been marked, making signs of peace. His men laid down their weapons and he urged the Cíbolans to do likewise. Bermejo the notary then spoke to them for several minutes, but the Indians paid no heed.

  Without warning, w
hen Bermejo had finished, a band of Indians rushed forward and began to shoot arrows right and left. One of the shafts pierced his armor, another wounded his horse, a third cut through the skirtw of Father Luis' robe. Then, quickly, the Cíbolans drew back.

  11

  A SHORT TIME before this encounter took place, Captain Mendoza called me aside.

  "You will need this," he said.

  We stood about ten paces behind Coronado, shielded by him and his officers, from the Indians.

  Mendoza pushed a matchlock into my hands.

  "What do I do with this?" I asked.

  "Fool," he said, "you aim it at the Cíbolans and fire."

  "But I know nothing about a matchlock," I protested. "I have seen them, but have never used one."

  "I will show you. Look closely," he said and instructed me in the way to set the hook, which held the weapon, how to fix the charge and ignite it. "There is nothing to a matchlock," he said. "It is much simpler than an arquebus."

  "But I am a cartographer," I said, "not a soldier. I do not wish to shoot anyone."

  Mendoza laughed, a laugh without mirth. "You will learn to shoot soon enough," he said. "When you get an arrow against your breastplate, you will suddenly become a soldier. Would you rather be a dead soldier than alive one?"

  "Neither," I said, truthfully.

  But I took the matchlock, which was now loaded, and a good Toledo blade, which he strapped to my waist.

  "Wait here," he said, and went forward to join Coronado.

  Beside me were Roa and Zuñiga, also with matchlocks. I still clung to my bundle of maps and materials, so I handed Roa the weapon and ran back to where Zia and Señora Hozes stood under a tree.