Читать книгу The Crimson Conquest - Charles B. Hudson - Страница 21

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The day following was one of activity. The first task was to clear the square. The hundreds of prisoners herded in one of the buildings were set at the work, noble toiling beside common without distinction or favor. Not even Indian stoicism was proof against the calamity, and old men, scarred from a hundred battles, worked with streaming eyes, dragging forth the bodies of their friends to be stripped of their ornaments by the Spaniards and borne away for indiscriminate burial.

Hernando Pizarro was sent with his troop to the Peruvian camp to break up whatever force might be lingering there, and to plunder the Inca's residence. Toward midday his return was announced by a sentinel, and Cristoval formed his guard. The troop entered the town with a flourish of trumpets. Its leading platoon was followed by a long procession of captives laden with spoils, of hamacas bearing the women of the court, of disarmed warriors, and of townspeople who had been removed from Caxamalca at the approach of the Spaniards. The men, stupefied by what had befallen, marched in stolid indifference. But the women, dishevelled, wild-visaged, and dreading all things for themselves and the children in their arms or clinging to their robes, filled the air with their wailing and frantic lamentations, until securely housed in the buildings on the square.

Late in the afternoon an orderly summoned Cristoval to a council of the officers at Pizarro's headquarters. He picked up Candia on his way, and the two were the first to arrive. They found Pizarro watching the veedor at work appraising the plunder brought from the Inca's villa and taken from the bodies of the Indian nobles. The commander's face was haggard, and he looked years older. He greeted the two officers cordially and said, pointing to the table on which were heaped the spoils:—

"The first fruits, camaradas! We have come to the harvest season at last. Not a bad wage for one day's work! What say you?"

Cristoval looked with astonishment at the wealth stacked upon the stone table on which the veedor, or inspector, had set his scales. In the middle was the chair of the Inca, a fortune in itself, and heaped around it the royal table service of gold and silver. On one of the plates was a little mound of emeralds, some of them of unusual size and brilliancy, and near by, a disorderly heap of the personal ornaments taken from the slain. On the floor were piled rugs, furs, embroidered tapestries, and fabrics of finest weave and dye.

The veedor ceased his work as he arose and walked round the table. He was a fat, puffing, putty-colored individual of fifty years, with a peculiar falsetto voice and a habit of perpetually snuffling. Now his bulging eyes were more bulging than ever in their greedy leer. "Ah, look upon it, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "Behold it! Satiate your eyes! Let them revel, my friends! Is it not a feast? Delicious! Delicious! Look at these plates!—gold—solid gold! And these goblets—silver! And these precious stones—ah!" He dug his hands into the heap of emeralds and let them sift through his fat fingers, his head on one side, fairly drooling with delight, while he screwed his face into so gross and atrocious a smirk that Cristoval looked away with an oath under his breath. The veedor snuffled and went on: "And see these gewgaws—stripped from the heathen! Oh, my soul and body, what pickings! They are bloody yet, but how they'll shine when they are clean! They'll weigh too. Eh, Pizarro?—Treasure, treasure, compadres! The reward of our courage! A fitting reward of gallantry! We'll divide it by-and-by—we'll all have some! But stay, my friend Cristoval, thou didst not fight! What shall we do about Cristoval's share, General? We all know he did not fight. Of course, nobody would question his courage—but there are so many brave fellows to provide for, and after all there is not so very much to divide."

He turned to Pizarro, puffing out his cheeks and wiping from his forehead the perspiration started by his emotion over the treasure. Cristoval had listened with disgust, hardly able to restrain his hands from gripping the fat throat. The slurring reference to his inactivity in the massacre roused his ire, and the veedor encountered a scowl so black that he started back with a gasp and shuffled precipitately behind the table.

"Pizarro! Pizarro!" he cried, his peculiar falsetto rising to a squeak. "That man meditateth violence! He contemplateth doing me an injury! I see it in his eyes! Restrain him, Pizarro! I am an officer of the Crown, and call upon you to protect me with your sword. I have a wife and five small—"

"Be done, Rogelio!" commanded Pizarro, who had small liking for the timorous member of his civil staff. "Thou talkest too much. Learn to hold thy tongue. Come! Get back to thy work, and I'll vouch for thy safety."

"I am a civilian, and a man of peace," piped the veedor, rolling his colorless eyes at Cristoval. "I am an officer of the Crown, and I want it understood, Pizarro, that I'll accept no challenges. He may meditate a challenge."

"I think thou doest him injustice," replied Pizarro, with sarcasm. "Thou 'rt safe. Now return to thy work."

Cristoval had turned his back with a snort of contempt, and Rogelio resumed his weighing and figuring, his fear gradually giving place to malicious glances directed toward the back of the stout cavalier.

José entered, and Pizarro hailed him.

"Hola, José! Thou 'rt in good season. I have been hearing of thee from Fray Mauricio. Dost know that he hath denounced thee as a heretic?"

"He promised so to do, General."

"A serious charge, José! It would bring thee trouble were we at home, and might do so here, had I less authority. The friar saith thou didst utter blasphemies enough to bring thee before the Holy Office. Many a man hath gone to the stake for less."

The old armorer's dark eyes glowed, and he replied bluntly: "If it was blasphemy to defend the Holy Mother and Santiago from the charge of aiding in yesterday's butchery, then I blasphemed, and would blaspheme again; for I tell you, Pizarro, the work of your men was naught less than hellish."

"Have a care, old man!" said Pizarro, with a scowl. "Thy words are more dangerous than blasphemies. Imperil thy soul if it please thee; but understand that, by Heaven, I'll brook no criticism!"

There was no flinching in José as he met the threat in Pizarro's words and look, and he answered hotly, "Then let me not be put to a defence of my words to Fray Mauricio."

De Soto and other officers had entered, followed by the friar, unobserved and in time to catch José's challenge. The monk moved quickly forward and confronted the armorer. "Thou libeller! Blasphemer! Heretic! What!—hath the Church no power to punish such as thou? But we shall see! We shall see! Officers, seize that man! General Pizarro, I demand his arrest in the name of the Congregation of the Holy Office!"

No man moved. All stood for a moment aghast at the friar's invocation of the dread power of the Inquisition. Its very name carried terror, and they hated it as much as they feared its wrath. They stared in silence at Fray Mauricio, but José alone stood unmoved. He faced the friar with calm scorn, his tall, soldierly figure towering above him like a tree. Cristoval glanced at Pizarro and stepped to José's side. De Soto and others followed, and the group faced the Dominican. The commander's irritation at the armorer's criticism was smothered in resentment of the intrusion of the Inquisition in his affairs, already difficult enough, and in a quick detestation of Mauricio as its avowed agent.

"My good brother," said Pizarro, coldly, "thou hadst best reconsider thy demand."

"Oppose me at thy peril, Pizarro!" shouted the friar, whirling upon him savagely. "Dost thou know this man? Dost know that he is a Morisco—this unknown who calleth himself José? Doth any man here know his name?"

"No man here knoweth my name, friar," interrupted José, "but thou shalt have it! I am Abul Hassan Zegri—a Moor. My father was Abul Hassan Zegri—a Moor.—And now hearken!" he thundered, approaching the monk at a stride and glaring down into his eyes with an expression that chilled his blood. "Hearken! If thou seekest more of me, or breathest my name again in denunciation or accusation, to-day, to-morrow, or twenty years hence, thou diest—and I swear it! By the Almighty, if thou barest thy claws again at me, I'll not spare thee! Now go! Go!—or I'll kill thee in thy tracks!"

Mauricio hurriedly retreated. José thrust his poniard back into its sheath with a snap and faced the officers. During the outburst they had stood petrified. His bold declaration that he was a Moor—one of a people which had been proscribed and driven from Spain with every form of persecution, outrage, and cruelty that hatred of their race and greed of their wealth could inspire—staggered even Cristoval. The others had been too much astounded, and even horror-stricken by his rash defiance and arraignment of the Inquisition to interfere in behalf of the friar had they been so inclined. José looked from one to another for a moment with all the pride and fierceness of his race now aroused and burning in his defiant eyes.

"Señores," he said, "ye have heard my name. There may be one among you who liketh not the sound of it, or who would question me further. If there be such a one, I will give him answer on horse or on foot."

"Nay, nay, José!" cried Cristoval, advancing and grasping his hand. "None of us will quarrel with thy name. Thou 'rt a gallant comrade and honest gentleman. That sufficeth. If any man here would dispute it, he hath affair with me!"

"And with me!" added De Soto, with emphasis. "I believe, on my soul, thou 'rt a good Christian, Abul Hassan Zegri, whatever thy blood. Thou may'st count Hernando de Soto one of thy friends."

Hernando Pizarro and others joined in their protestation of friendship, but the rest hung back, fearing the danger involved in adhering to a man under ban of the Inquisition. Mendoza's muttered "Morisco infiel!" was taken up, but the group around José was too formidable to encourage open hostility, and the rest stood sullenly apart.

It was noticed by the commander, who said briefly: "There shall be no quarrel about José, nor with him.—José, or Abul Hassan Zegri, or whoever thou art, thou 'rt among friends. Thou hast been a stanch companion, and whilst I have power no hand shall be raised against thee. But guard thy tongue, and beware throwing nettles to the clergy. We are far from Seville, but the Inquisition hath long arms, as men have learned before. But—thou 'rt not an infidel?"

"I am a Christian," responded the armorer with dignity.

"That answereth every question thou shalt be asked. Señores, this affair is mine. It endeth here." He glanced significantly at the lowering group around Mendoza, then, after a pause: "Now, to the business for which I have called you together. These are my orders, and ye will see them carried out to the letter. The captives shall be released and go unmolested. A sufficient number shall be retained as hostages and for such services as may be required. The Inca shall be established with his wives and household, and shall have every privilege and liberty consistent with security. His nobles and people are to be admitted to him without hindrance, and for the present he shall be allowed to conduct the affairs of the empire—with our guidance and counsel when it seemeth expedient. The nobles shall be treated as befitteth their rank, and we'll have no violence offered any man or woman, noble or other. Ye will make this understood among the men and see it enforced. Thus far our arms have been blessed with success, but for the future as much dependeth upon discretion as upon courage. Be prudent, therefore, as vigilant, and vigilant as ye have been resolute.

"One word more: To-morrow I send a messenger to San Miguel, and with him goeth Fray Mauricio. That is all, Señores. Adiós."