The currency had been falsified. Ramirez was the Tester of the Currency. Could false money have been minted without his knowing? He was the Alcalde’s most loyal and closest supporter. Could Ramirez have tampered with the currency without Morada’s knowledge?
These events and Inez’s death must have something to do with one another. She could not prove it, but she was sure that the explanation of the one crime would also explain the other.
She had already charged Sor Monica with discovering who had carried out Inez’s murder and how. She was certain that all the parts of that puzzle of how were still here in the convent. Only by finding out who in the convent had committed the actual murder could they understand the motivation behind it.
The note she had just written charged the padre to find and recover the letters that Inez had talked of to Gemita. Somewhere in them lay the explanation.
This would all take time. De la Gasca had given her only a day or two, but he was unwell with altitude sickness. That could buy her an extra day.
Rather than waiting for Beatriz to be brought to her, she took her letter for Padre Junipero and went in search of the girl.
FRANCISCO ROJAS DE la Morada waited on horse back for Nestares and his honor guard to appear at the entrance to the city. He was certain this expensive charade would not save them. Nevertheless, he had attended—since Inez’s burial—to every detail, for he knew that given the fame of Potosí’s magnificent welcomes of royal envoys, the city could not slight Nestares by stinting today. Though a perfect ceremony would not ameliorate their situation, any misstep, any insult, however unintended, could bring harsher and speedier punishment.
Morada scanned the crowd for Taboada. His bone marrow told him Don Jerónimo was more dangerous as a friend than another man would be as an enemy. Taboada had hinted he would surprise the Alcalde today with yet another proof of his loyalty and friendship. The glint in his eye foretold murder. Morada had admonished him that nothing must happen to the Visitador General once he entered the city. Taboada had smiled and said the surprise he had in mind would free the Alcalde’s heart from a great burden. Morada again ordered Taboada not to harm Nestares. Taboada had a faithful soul, but his desire to please overruled his judgment. And there was no way any of them could survive a mistake now.
The cortege leading Nestares rounded the bend. Morada signaled the ceremonial bearers, who unfurled a canopy of crimson embroidered in gold with the arms of Spain and supported by stout staves of solid silver. The Chief Constable, the Public Trustee, the Inspector of Weights and Measures, and the Collector of Judicial Fines made ready to carry the canopy over Nestares’s head until he reached the first of the triumphal arches erected in his honor. Don Diego de Ibarbarú, Don Baltasor de Salamanca y Lerma, Don Francisco de Sagardia, and Don Juan Bravo, the Count of Portillo—all carrying their glittering wands of office—the corregidors of the surrounding provinces, venerable members of the clergy, doctors and masters of the city, and priests of the nearby towns placed themselves information along the Calle Lima, the main street leading to the center of the city.
The cortege accompanying Nestares neared. At the Visitador’s side, a young nobleman carried in the crook of his right arm a gold-and-silver mace encrusted with rubies, diamonds, and emeralds. This emblem announced that Nestares came on the King’s business, with full authority of life and death. Behind him rode the honor guard uniformed with blue hose and red doublets, gorgeously and profusely ornamented with gold braid.
A detachment of soldiers formed to the rear of the cortege. They carried harquebuses and held their heads up—to a man, maintaining a fierce expression. Safe in the powerful impression of his symbols of authority, Nestares himself affected a kindly aspect and a calm, steady gaze.
“His Majesty’s subjects of the Villa Imperial de Potosí welcome you, Dr. Francisco de Nestares, Visitador General, emissary of our Sovereign.” Morada pronounced the words with what he hoped was a thoroughly charming smile. At his signal, the squadron of nobles that had met Nestares that morning spread out into the field of San Martín, offered a volley, and then preceded the Visitador into the town.
As soon as Nestares began to move down the Calle de Contería, the form of the festival welcome took on a life of its own, and celebration of Nestares’s entry ruled the day.
At the first triumphal arch, the remaining members of the Cabildo, attired in court dress, waited under a canopy of pearl-colored cloth. Nestares nodded benignly to all.
THE WHITE INDIAN in the condor mask remained unconvinced by that beneficent smile. He saw in the Visitador’s severe pointed collar the real indication of his character. In fact, everything about him was pointed—his chin, his nose, his gaze. And the condor man had heard from an unimpeachable source that whatever aspect the emissary from the King portrayed, he was arbitrary, irritable, and above all suspicious.
The band of dancing Indians followed Nestares as he passed down the cobbled street between the whitewashed brick-and-stone buildings. Cheering crowds filled every space. Thanks to the generosity of the Cabildo, even the poorest in the city were decked out in silk. The rich found they could afford to dress the destitute in vanities today.
Flags flying from the belfries whipped in the stiff breeze. The pealing of bells of every church and convent made an almost deafening din. The Alcalde and his friends bore all the cost of this pageantry. The members of the Cabildo, fearing for its power and prestige, had decided they must give their own money rather than tax the less fortunate. It was not charity that moved them. Devaluation, they knew, would punish the poor more than anyone. Poverty, if it became desperate, became dangerous.
Everywhere along the route of the march, the buildings were hung with inscriptions, symbols and devices, and emblems of the King. Nestares rode triumphant to the music of drums, horns, trumpets, timbrels, pipes, and flutes. The Mestizo musicians were dressed all alike in sandals and belts of silk and gold worked with pearls and rubies, shirts and jackets of fine brocade, and, as was their wont, many heavy chains and pendants of gold. Women and girls in brilliantly colored, fur-lined silk cloaks jammed the wooden balconies overlooking the narrow streets. In this climate where no plants grew, they strewed Nestares’s path with flowers made of feathers.
The priest disguised as a dancing Indian despaired that all these tributes would not influence Nestares at all. Not the three triumphal arches that graced the Visitador’s route to the Plaza Mayor, not even the eight hundred silver ingots that had been paved into the street along which he passed. Since there had not been time to paint simulated jasper and marble, the constructions were draped with precious stuffs, costly embroideries, and rich silks. The first spanned the small plaza near the Church of San Martín, close to the eastern limits of the city. The second, and more magnificent, in the Plaza la Merced was constructed of Ionic, Corinthian, Doric, and Tuscan columns. Its architrave was decorated with mirrors, ribbons, and, on top, statues—some enameled, some dressed in fine cloth—that signified the moral virtues.
The irony of those virtues gazing down on this city was lost neither on the Visitador General nor on the priest dressed in feathers, so intent on his mission, so incapable of completing it with dispatch. How could a man save a life if he had to dance in a vain parade just to cross the town and speak to someone? And there was DaTriesta’s face in the watching crowd to remind him of the urgency of his task and the snail’s pace of his progress.
DaTriesta took no notice of the dancing Indians. He was focused on the triumphant expression on the face of Nestares. His own triumph had been postponed. The Abbess and her perverted sister were still in the convent, when by right they should be chained to the stone walls of the keeping room in the rear of his house. Standing on the steps of the Church of the Mercedarians, he felt himself completely at odds with the shouts of the joyous crowd as Nestares stopped under the arch. Just as His Excellency entered underneath, a folded cloud opened and disclosed a tiara, which dropped a good distance through the air and stopped a fe
w inches above his head and hung there. At that moment, the girls on the surrounding balconies showered the Visitador with beaten gold and silver that glistened in the blinding sunlight.
Enormously proud of their city, the citizens had, for the while, forgotten their worries and lost themselves in the spectacle and celebration.
Nestares went on to pass under the largest arch, at the entrance of the main square, twenty-five yards high and ten yards wide, its top tier surmounted by a handsome throne in the form of a cedarwood pedestal all carved with curious moldings and covered with shining gold. On the throne sat an image of His Majesty Felipe IV of Spain and beside it Gemita, the daughter of the Alcalde, representing Fame. She was dressed in a tunic covered with flowers made of silk and feathers, girdled with a richly embroidered sash. A yellow banner flew from her hand. Though she affected a brave smile, the condor man came close enough to see she was sad and frightened.
The other Indians in the band saw this, too. “The height of her perch and the stares of the crowd frighten that poor girl,” one of them remarked. But the white Indian knew better what her fear was made of.
The procession moved toward the cathedral, where a “Te Deum” was sung and the Bishop offered a prayer more or less in Latin. The honored guests moved out again to the Plaza Mayor, where on a platform erected for the occasion, a chair and cushion awaited His Excellency. Two children, representing Urbanity and Generosity, guarded this place of honor.
The cavalier who carried the mace mounted the platform and proclaimed an amnesty for all past offenses by the inmates of the city’s jail.
While the crowd of Indians around the Visitador cheered the amnesty, the condor man shook his elaborately dressed head. The announcement was not motivated by compassion. The intention, he was sure, was to clear the jail cells for the people Nestares himself would put there.
No sooner had the Visitador taken his seat than trumpets blared. In the four corners of the square stood four pyramids decked with silver work. Multicolored pennons flew from their summits. At a signal from the Alcalde, who stood beside Nestares, companies of cavaliers rode in, one from behind each pyramid, and executed four charges in close-order drill, all very showy and greatly admired by the ladies who observed from the balconies.
The Alcalde then gave a short, formal speech of welcome and announced a composition in Nestares’s honor by the Reverend Maestro Padre Fray Juan de la Torre, sung by a chorus of Indians.
When the music stopped, Nestares stood to speak. Despite the urgency of the white Indian’s task, he stopped to hear the man who could visit devastation on the city. Suddenly, after all the din of the cheering, the square went still. In the hush of the crowd’s collective fear, only the horses and the snapping banners dared make a sound.
But Nestares spoke no evil. He made reference to the hard mule ride, to his twenty-five-day journey. Finally he waved and said, “Thank you for this glorious welcome, for this outpouring of goodwill. I offer you my goodwill in return.”
The citizens who heard him stared in wonder. Perhaps they were safe. Perhaps with this great show of their respect, they had convinced Nestares to blink at human foibles, show kindness to ill doers.
The white condor man had mounted the steps of the Alcaldía to pass to the other side so he could continue on to the river and across. Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder. “What are you doing here?” a voice growled.
The condor man trembled. Morada’s men, bent on vengeance, had found him. How? He had been betrayed. He opened his mouth to defend himself, moved his hand to remove his Indian garb.
A powerful grip stayed his arms. “Away, Inca.” It was a soldier of the guard. He smelled of chicha and slurred his words. “Get off these steps. This is a place for white people.”
While Nestares was entertained by more close-order drill, the condor man ran from the center of the festivities, down the Calle Lanza. The drunken guard pursued him and caught him by the arm. The white man in the Indian costume shook with fear. He bowed and apologized in Aymara and broken Spanish, like a properly subjugated slave. His humility seemed to further enrage the guard, who drew his sword and ripped off the Indian’s headgear to reveal Padre Junipero of the Compañia de Jesus.
The astonished guardsman drew back.
The priest knew he could not explain himself. He turned and sped off, praying the drunk would be too stupefied to follow.
Half a block away, he allowed himself a glance over his left shoulder to see. The guard was holding his head and vomiting in the street.
When the priest turned to continue on his way, a sword pointed at his throat stopped him in his tracks.
“Interesting garb for a priest,” Don Jerónimo Taboada sneered.
The terrified, confused padre looked around for anyone who might help him. The street behind him was deserted. He folded his hands at his chest in a gesture of prayer—to his attacker, to God. He did not know.
“It is time for you to pay for the murder of the Alcalde’s daughter.” The sword drew closer to his eye. Taboada gripped his arm and began to drag him toward the deserted lanes near the Ribera. In the dark corner of an ingenio entrance, Taboada pressed the padre to a wall.
“I did not kill her,” the priest barely choked out.
“He told me himself that you did.” Taboada’s powerful grip tightened. His sword grazed the hair that had fallen into the priest’s eyes. “And I intend you to die for it.”
“It is a lie.” The priest prayed for the courage to fight back.
“Why would the Alcalde lie about such a thing?”
Terror blotted out all reason. “I—I—” The priest groped his stricken mind for any answer.
A red cape flashed to his left. Before he could turn his head, the man in red shouted, “Halt, whoremaster.”
Taboada spun around, still gripping the priest in the feather costume.
Domingo Barco, sword drawn, charged them. With one gesture, he threw off his cape and smashed his weapon into Taboada’s. The priest was pitched to the ground. Clanging steel echoed from the buildings of the narrow street. Padre Junipero crawled into a doorway.
Taboada bellowed and attacked mercilessly, but the Mestizo, with great agility and grace, parried the powerful blows and returned them.
With his left hand, Taboada fumbled with the ornate clasp of his heavy ceremonial cloak. “Mierda,” he growled.
Barco seized the moment and charged. With shattering two-handed blows, left and right, he smashed Taboada’s sword from his hand. It clattered across the paving stones to the priest’s feet. Still gripping his weapon with both hands, Barco held its tip to his opponent’s throat. “Pick it up, Padre. You finish him off.”
Beneath the ice crust of fear, rage seethed in the priest. He began to move toward the hilt of Taboada’s weapon. His vow stopped him. Never. He had promised God never to touch such a thing again. He stood and withdrew again into the doorway.
Barco spat in disgust. Then, smiling malevolently, he swung his weapon back and spun forward with it, smashing Taboada’s chest with the hilt. The blow lifted the vanquished man from his feet and sent him sailing several feet before he landed, unconscious, against the wall across the street.
Only then did Padre Junipero take up Taboada’s sword. “Thank you, my son.” He offered the weapon to Barco.
Barco took it and slung it toward Taboada’s inert body.
“I truly owe you my life,” the priest said.
Without putting up his sword, Barco scooped up his red cape and threw it over the priest’s head. “Perhaps I will take the life you owe me,” he said coldly, and at the point of his sword, he marched the padre through the now dispersing crowd.
NO ONE TOOK any special note of Don Antonio Tovar’s mayordomo marching an apparently drunken Indian dancer toward the Mint. The crowd expected such an aftermath of the ceremony they had just witnessed.
Nestares himself was being ushered much more ceremoniously in another direction, to the mansion of His Grace Bishop
Don Fray Faustino Piñelo de Ondegardo.
After breakfast with the Bishop, the Visitador rested only briefly before the guild of amalgamators escorted him to the performance of Mareto’s Trampa Adelante. The Visitador remarked at finding such an opulent and modern theater in such a remote place. The citizens smiled and accepted his compliment, though inwardly they were insulted and disheartened that Nestares did not seem to understand that Potosí was the most important city on earth. After the play, the weary Nestares dined with the Alcalde Morada and the members of the Cabildo at a state banquet, where the table was set with vessels and plates of gold-plated silver adorned with diamonds, pearls, and rubies. As if he weren’t totally exhausted already, his hosts promised him three days of bullfighting sponsored by the officials and silver traders, banquets and fireworks every night in the major plazas, and daily tournaments of jousts.
He wished they would just stop.
Seventeen
BEHIND THE WALLS of the cloister of Los Milagros, a thin edge of chaos had wedged into the calm. Mother Maria would very soon be taken away. The small planets that had circled that sun would be left wandering in space.
Sor Monica, though racked with remorse, fought to carry out—amid the confusion around her—the instructions of her Abbess. Her own words about the Abbess to the Grand Inquisitor de la Gasca had sealed Mother Maria’s fate. She had no choice but to prove herself instead the instrument of the Abbess’s salvation. That meant assuming a posture of command that terrified her.
“It is an act of pride . . . well, perhaps it is an act of pride,” she told Vitallina, “but I will die before I see Mother Maria burn. She is innocent.”
“You are all innocent,” Vitallina muttered with that cynical edge she gave nearly all her words, as if they meant less or much more than they seemed.
Monica studied the tall, stately Vitallina but could not fathom her. Her neat, graying hair was pulled back in a tight knot. Her broad mahogany face was impassive, like the face of a woman carved on the prow of a ship, whose features never changed no matter how storms raged and waves crashed, not even when the souls of her sailors sank to hell.
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