The King's Fifth Page 7

  "Guard these well," I told Zia.

  "I will guard them," she said, and from her voice I knew that she would, with her life if necessary.

  I returned and took my place beside Roa and Zuñiga. Holding the matchlock, which reached higher than my head, I waited for a command. I did not feel brave at all. I did not hate the Cíbolans, nor did I wish to shoot at them, but I stood stiffly and looked straight ahead, like a soldier.

  Coronado asked for a sack of trinkets, and with four of his officers spurred forward, motioning the rest of us to follow.

  He came to the row of earthen mounds and dropped the trinkets. The gifts spread out in front of the Cíbolans, yet they made no move to gather them up. Instead, with clubs raised, they pressed on until they were at the very hooves of Coronado's horse.

  The captain-general then spoke to Father Luis, and getting his permission to attack, gave the cry, "Santiago!"

  A hush fell over the field. Mendoza raised his sword and shouted, "Death to the Cíbolans!"

  The cry was quickly taken up, and as the army marched forward, everyone around me began to chant, "Death to the Cíbolans!"

  I stepped out at a brisk pace, the matchlock on my shoulder, but I was cold with fear. I wondered why it was that I, a maker of maps and not a soldier of the King, should be going into battle. With every step my fear increased. I thought of my grandfather who, when he was my age, had fought the Moors at Granada and had been commended for his bravery, yet this did not help. I am not a true Spaniard, I said to myself, for all Spaniards are fearless. Nor did this serve to lessen my fear.

  At the first volley the Indians fled. Some scattered across the plain, but most ran to the walls, where their comrades let down ladders and helped them escape within. Behind, they left twenty killed. More would have been killed if Coronado had allowed his horsemen to pursue them.

  The fighting, this part of it, was over before I could place my heavy weapon on its hook.

  Shortly thereafter, Father Marcos, who was the leader among the priests, came up from the rear. Coronado told him what had happened and that the Cíbolans were barricaded inside the walls.

  "Take your shields," Father Marcos said, "and find them."

  Coronado first sent his cavalry to surround the city. Before he ordered the charge, however, he again urged the Cíbolans to lay down their weapons. He was answered from the parapets by a shower of arrows.

  The shower grew so heavy that the horsemen could not draw near the walls. Crossbowmen and arquebusiers were brought up, but the strings of the bows, which had dried out in the heat of the long march, broke. The arquebusiers arrived so weak from hunger that they could not raise their weapons.

  Coronado, deciding to wait no longer, gathered a few men around him and ran toward the walls.

  Arrows fell upon the small band, struck breastplate and helmet, yet the men ran on. I watched as they reached the shelter of the walls and one by one slipped through a small opening, into which one of the Indians had crawled.

  This secret entrance to Háwikuh, for such it proved to be, was a small hole that only one man could crawl into at a time. The Cíbolans who fled the first volley fired by our soldiers had used the ladders let down to them rather than this opening. Thus its whereabouts would have been unknown to us, except for the Indian who, fleeing for his life, had betrayed it.

  Before the last of Coronado's band had disappeared, Mendoza brandished his sword and again shouting, "Death to the Cíbolans!" advanced toward the secret opening.

  I was the last to reach it, sent sprawling as I was by a rock thrown from above, which would have killed me had I not worn a helmet. Once there, finding that the matchlock was too cumbersome to handle, I threw it aside.

  Blade in hand I crawled through the hole, a dark, winding passageway, filled with a dank and noisome odor. My comrades I could neither see nor hear.

  The passage made a sharp turn and began to climb. I crawled over an object, which partly blocked my way, the body of an Indian. I came to a second turning and still another body. Faint light shone ahead of me. Suddenly I was in the sun, on a wide parapet or terrace high above the ground, the roof of the first tier, which was strewn with rocks and spent arrows.

  Mendoza and my comrades crouched nearby, against a wall that rose to the second tier of the pyramid. Beyond them stood Coronado and his officers, beside the bodies of several Indians. As I ran for the protection of the wall, two soldiers came along the parapet, dragging a ladder.

  Roa pointed above, from whence rocks were raining. The Cíbolans have escaped us," he said, "but we will follow and slay them one by one."

  The soldiers set the ladder against the wall. Brandishing his sword, Coronado beckoned us to follow and began to climb toward the second parapet. He had mounted only half the length of the ladder when I heard the thud of stone upon steel. The sword dropped from Coronado's hand and slowly he fell backwards. His gilded morion rolled to my feet.

  He lay stunned for a moment or two, then got to his knees, found his sword, and held it aloft. He was standing with one boot on the ladder, ready to mount again, as a second stone struck him, this time with such force that he slid to the parapet and lay still.

  Meanwhile, the Cíbolans shouted in triumph, seeing that our leader had been gravely hurt. And between shouts they made ready to unloose an avalanche of stones upon him.

  Stones whistled downward through the air, but in that instant before they struck, both Alvarado and Cárdenas threw themselves across his body. Thus he was saved from further injury. Yet he was close to death, with bad wounds about his head and an arrow deep in his leg.

  Soldiers moved him from the parapet and out through the passageway, to where he could be given help, though rocks kept falling and the air was alive with arrows. Cárdenas and Alvarado, vowing death to the Cíbolans, started up the ladder. Our four followed hard on their heels.

  I was the last to go, but as I put my foot on the first rung I felt a heavy blow upon my shoulder. Thinking that it had come from above, I reached for the next rung. Then I heard a sound close at hand. I turned. An Indian was crouched at the foot of the ladder. I saw him in time to dodge a second blow which surely would have felled me, for it shattered the rung where I stood.

  The Indian stepped back and raised his club. He was young and had a broad face painted with swirls of black and red.

  There were two things I could do. I could climb the ladder, for I already had a foot on the second rung. Or leap down upon him, using my sword. One instant the choice was mine, the next instant it was taken from me. With the club still raised, the young Cíbolan, instead of striking again, reached up and grasped my leg.

  His grip was hard, as if a trap had sprung shut upon me.

  I did not try to wrench myself free, but aimed a blow at his arm. The thrust was quick, yet it missed the mark when he loosed his hold and jumped back. Left suddenly off balance, I pitched forward, with good fortune caught his arm as I fell, and we both went sprawling to the parapet.

  He was the first to gain his feet. He had lost his club in the fall and ran to pick it up. In the meantime, on guard with my sword, I rose and circled him until the wall was at my back.

  He was older than I, perhaps by a year, and taller. Yet I had the advantage of a helmet and a cuera made of thick layers of bull's hide heavily stitched, which covered my body from neck to thigh. His sole protection was a short leather skirt. One advantage was his, however. He was fresh, while I was weak from hunger and the long march.

  His back was toward the edge of the parapet. Quickly I moved in with a feint 1 had learned in camp, thinking to rouse him from his crouch and thus place him for a fatal thrust. The feint was good but as I lunged forward he caught my sword in mid-air with a blow of the club and sent it spinning.

  Like a swamp cat, like a tigreillo, as the sword left my hand, he was at me. The first blow was glancing. It caught the side of my helmet and slid off, yet I felt it strong. The second blow, which he delivered with all his strength upon m
y shoulder, made me grind my teeth in pain.

  He must have thought that I had not been hurt, that my armor could withstand his blows, for suddenly he dropped the cudgel. Another blow surely would have brought me down.

  My sword was some ten paces away. I edged toward it, but before I had covered half the distance the Cíbolan leaped upon me. A hand reached my throat and as it tightened I gave a mighty buffet with my knee. The Indian made a sound deep in his chest. His grip weakened and he bent forward, yet when I aimed another buffet he caught up my leg and we fell together, he on top.

  For a while we lay still on the hard earth of the parapet. I was glad of the respite, though my mouth was pressed against the dirt and a dull pain wandered through my skull. From far off came the cries of men, the clash of arms, the wailing of women, a dog barking.

  I had lost my helmet in the fall. With one hand—the other I held locked beneath me—the Cíbolan grasped my hair and tried to force my head back. With the strength left to me, I resisted him. His club lay just out of reach. He was quiet for a moment and I knew he was thinking of some way to retrieve it.

  The sounds from above grew faint. I could not tell one from another. I was aware only of the blood beating in my head and the sound was like a bell tolling.

  The Cíbolan began to writhe, moving little by little toward the cudgel. The arm I held was smeared with grease, strong and evil-smelling, as was his body.

  The cudgel drew closer, but it still was beyond his reach. Suddenly he grasped my hair and again forced my head back. With a quick push he then smashed my face against the earth.

  The taste of blood filled my mouth. With it came the thought, and for the first time, that I was struggling with death itself. It was either his life or mine. This knowledge gave me the strength to rise slowly to my knees. At the same moment I loosed his arm and lunged for the club.

  It was heavy in my hand. But as he drew himself together and like an animal came toward me on all fours, I brought the club down. He made no outcry when it struck, only the whimper of a hurt child.

  Minutes must have passed, perhaps many, I do not know. I was aroused by a voice that came from above. The voice was familiar and I tried to answer, but the words would not come.

  Near me lay the young Cíbolan, the cudgel between us.

  His eyes were open and in them was no longer the hatred that I had seen before. Behind the swirls of black and red, which only a short time ago had given him the look of a demon, I now saw a young man, scarcely older than I. We could have been friends who had paused to rest beside the road after a long journey.

  I heard footsteps and looked up to see Captain Mendoza standing over us. My sword was in his hand.

  "Mapmaker Sandoval," he said, "I again come to your aid."

  He held out my blade, hilt first.

  "Use it," he said.

  I raised myself to one knee. My fingers fumbled for the hilt and at last closed around it. Staggering to my feet, I looked down at the Cíbolan. He did not move. He glanced at the bright sword and then at me. In his eyes was neither fear nor hatred nor pleading, only a faint look of puzzlement.

  "Strike," Mendoza shouted, "while there is still time."

  I could hear him clearly but could think of no words to say. I could not tell him why I stood there with the sword raised and would not use it.

  "Death to all Cíbolans!" he cried.

  The sword fell to my side, then from my hand. Mendoza picked it up.

  "I will teach you to be a soldier," he said, and with one thrust ran the sword through the young Cíbolan.

  12

  I WAS CARRIED from the parapet to a tent outside the walls, where I lay a week or more between life and death. I therefore know nothing of what happened during the rest of the battle, save what I was told.

  It seems that Captain Cárdenas took command, after Coronado's injuries, and with great ferocity drove the Indians from one tier to another, higher and higher, until at last they were cornered on the farthest parapet. The Cíbolans then made signs, saying to harm them no more, they wished to leave the city. Cárdenas told them to descend, which they did. They let down ladders and in silence went away to the distant cliffs.

  When the last had gone the army broke ranks. It rushed upon the plentiful storehouses, which were filled with maize and beans and turkeys larger than the men had ever seen. More food was eaten that day than on any score of days since the army had left the Valley of Hearts.

  After the feast the men slept, feasted again and once more slept. Like terriers they raced through all parts of the city, rooting into bins and the sacred kiva, digging under floors, toppling walls and baking ovens, in search of treasure.

  Little was found—no golden basins or portals or paving stones. A few poor trinkets, bits of turquoise, two points of emeralds, and small broken pebbles the color of garnet was everything that the search uncovered.

  I was not there to see their disappointment, but it was bitter beyond my power to tell. Mendoza's above all. The first clear sound I heard was his step outside the tent where I lay, six days after the battle. Striding back and forth, he was cursing the old man of Chichilticale.

  "On the morrow, as God is my witness," he said, "I shall climb the mountains, cross the Despoblado, find that infamous teller of lies, and remove his tongue."

  The threat came to naught.

  Soon thereafter, when Coronado had sufficiently recovered from his wounds, he asked Mendoza to go with him to a place nearby called Corn Mountain. There they talked with the ruler of the Province and its chiefs. The Cíbolans promised to become subjects of the Spanish King, saying that many moons ago it had been foretold that people like Coronado and his men would come from the south and conquer them.

  They also said that to the northwest was a province called Tusayán, where there were seven cities. Surely, they said, these were the cities the Spaniards sought.

  Coronado doubted the cacique and his chiefs, but when he told them that the army would camp at Háwikuh the rest of the summer, cities or no cities, they still swore that they were saying the truth.

  He told them that men would be sent to seek out this place of Tusayán and return with word of what they found. Did the ruler and the chiefs still speak the truth? Did they wish to change their story of the Seven Cities now, before it was too late?

  No, there existed to the northwest a province called Tusayán, a place of many people, of gold and turquoise.

  Coronado sent Captain Pedro de Tovar with twenty picked men to look for it. In a different direction he dispatched Captain Cárdenas to find a river where, the cacique said, there lived a nation of giants.

  Mendoza could have joined either of these expeditions, but he was jealous of both these officers. Instead, with Roa and Zuñiga, he decided to visit villages nearer at hand, which were said to be like Háwikuh though much smaller, thinking to discover something by chance. If not gold, then he might find turquoise or precious stones.

  He had been gone about a week when for the first time I was able to leave my pallet, to sit outside the tent for long hours in the bright summer sun. In another few days I was on my feet, and only because of Zia's care.

  From the best spring in Háwikuh she brought me a gourd of cold water thrice each day. If there was a special viand cooking on a fire anywhere in camp, like a haunch of venison, she would manage somehow to bring me a piece of it. She even fetched a barbel fish that Señora Hozes had caught.

  "You bring these things," I said, making a joke with her, "so I will become strong enough to work on the map."

  She smiled her quick, shy smile. "Because of that alone," she said. "When is it you begin?"

  Montezuma, the aguatil, peered out at me from her pocket.

  "Tomorrow," I said.

  "You have the strength now."

  "This evening," I said, "if you fetch me one of those flavorsome fowls the Cíbolans raise."

  "I will bring it."

  And she ran off through the camp, to the silvery ringing
of the bells that hung from the brim of her corncake hat. Out of breath but within the hour she was back with a plump fowl which we spitted and set to roast over a piñon fire.

  The map, with Zia's help, went quickly. When Captain Mendoza returned from the six villages it was complete and we began another.

  The men returned without gold or turquoise, but the moment I saw Roa's face, which could not keep a secret, I felt that somewhere among the villages the three had come upon good news. And that whatever the news might be, Mendoza was determined that the rest of the camp would not know about it. My suspicion was soon borne out.

  The next morning he left to talk with Coronado. He came back late that afternoon with permission to make a long journey into the northwest.

  The following day we spent packing the leather panniers with maize and beans, horseshoes, horseshoe nails, bullet bags, two small casks of gunpowder, lead and fire-stones, steels and match cords and tools. As gifts to the Indians we would meet, three panniers were filled with hawk bells, bits of mirror, old gaming cards, trinkets and gauds.

  It was only an hour before our departure that Captain Mendoza decided upon a guide. And it was I who changed his mind. He preferred an old man who had gone with him to the six villages, as being more experienced than Zia, and less trouble.

  "Maps," I reminded him, "are important to you, or at least that is what you told me when we talked aboard the galleon. In the making of maps on this journey, Zia has been of help."

  "In what way?" he asked. "Tell me of one."

  "In the mixing of colors. The cleaning of brushes. The gathering of soot, which is necessary but not pleasant. She even can draw a map by herself. A small one."

  He was surprised at this, but not convinced. "She is a girl," he said. "We are starting on a long journey."

  "She has just finished a long journey," I said, "and in better health and spirits than any of us, except Father Francisco. Recall that Cortés, conqueror of Mexico, was guided by a girl. By Marina, without whom he would have been lost. Who not alone guided him but also won him friends among hostile Indians."