City of Silver

by Annamaria Alfieri

  Ramirez lowered his weapon. “Do you have sins to confess? Shame on you, priest.” He spat out the last word as an insult.

  “God help me,” Padre Junipero whispered.

  Jerónimo Taboada grasped the front of the padre’s cassock. He brought his face close. He smelled of stale wine. “Go and confess,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “We will find you when we want you.” He reached around the priest’s trembling body, opened the monastery door, and tossed the padre into the dark entry.

  THE BISHOP WAS disquieted. Perhaps because the weather had been so violent in the wee hours. Hailstones as large as dove’s eggs had fallen on the town and awakened him even earlier than the dawn Easter ritual required. The noise in the night had sounded like a volcano erupting out in the cordillera.

  Soon the snow would pile up in the plazas and cold wind would torture him. In this comfortless city, with only coal to burn, noxious fumes could any moment cut off his life. He had endured three such winters, and he would endure another. The only alternative was to travel to Lima—mule sore and sickened by horrid meals along the way—and to be greeted by great expense when he got there.

  Ordinarily, a ceremony such as this morning’s welcoming of the Easter sunrise satisfied his Spanish soul. Even on this treeless plain, the grandeur of the ritual matched anything they were capable of in Sevilla or Naples. At three in the morning, he rose and, over his warmest silk-and-vicuña undersuit, donned silver-and gold-brocaded garments befitting the most joyous day of the Church year. He was met at his front door by eight priests, who rode with him on mule back, as Christ had triumphantly entered Jerusalem before his death. Worshippers, resplendent in furs and silk finery, streamed with them out of the center of the city, to the foot of the Cerro, where on a high promontory they faced the brightening eastern sky and awaited the first rays of the rising sun.

  Nothing consoled the Bishop. Not even his entourage of great families with their trains of servants, all decked out in gorgeous clothes and jewels—many purchased within the last few days in anticipation of the coming devaluation. He himself had wished to convert his soon-to-be-diminished fortune of silver into precious stones. But during Holy Week, the head of the Church could not be seen, even through his agents, to be trading rather than praying. So the Bishop took no comfort from being surrounded by the wealthy in full plumage or from the Indians in their native regalia, ready to perform ritual dances to welcome the Risen Christ. His Grace’s mood was set by the thin, icy air, the shrieking wind, the brooding isolation of the vast Altiplano stretching before him, and the snapping of frost-cracked rocks.

  On the horizon, the first light exploded forth—impossibly bright here where no mist obscured it. The Alcalde Morada touched his torch to the great bonfire prepared for the occasion. At once, the sextons of the ninety-odd churches in the town tolled their bells in a glorious cacophony of joy. The crowd of thousands on the mountainside sang out an Alleluia, their voices rich and fervent, but with a shrill brightness of desperation.

  Within minutes, candles were lit everywhere. Shielded from the wind in glass globes, they were carried by the splendidly liveried pages of the wealthy families and glowed in the windows and on the balconies along the route of the holy procession. A canopy was unfurled to be carried over the Bishop’s head, but the wind whipped it so strongly that the men could not hold it and had to put it away. The members of the Cabildo struggled to keep hold of the platforms on which they bore statues of the saints. Led by the azogueros, who—because they were the ones who produced the silver—since the founding of the town had the honor of leading the Easter procession, the faithful descended quickly toward the shelter of the cathedral. Tall, exquisitely handsome Antonio Tovar was at the head, resplendent in a red cape worked with gold, riding a proud black Chilean horse shod and caparisoned with silver. The other miners followed, and their wives traveled behind them in calashes drawn by mules. Their Indian pongos and the caciques of all the surrounding Indian villages followed after, their ostrich-feather umbrellas torn apart by the fierce wind.

  Don José de Aureliano, who earned this honor by making a large donation to the Bishop’s private fund for his burial mausoleum, took the layman’s place of greatest prestige, carrying the cross before the Bishop. Don José held the city license to manufacture playing cards, an extraordinarily lucrative business despite the fact that he had to share his revenue with the Crown.

  On foot now, to the beat of the savages’ drums and their strumming vihuelas, the Bishop kept an appropriately stately pace down the cursed rocky trail. By the time he reached the stone-paved streets, his gout-punished left toes throbbed and his stomach growled from the forty-day fast that would blessedly end after this morning’s Mass. Longing for a sumptuous lunch plagued him almost as much as his burning foot.

  When the classical façade of La Matriz, the cathedral, was finally in sight, he allowed his pace to quicken across the Plaza Mayor. Inside, the nave was suffused with gentle candlelight and sonorous chanting of the monks in the choir. The Bishop ascended the altar and commenced the Mass of the Resurrection.

  During the Offertory, he sat on his golden throne and sighed with, he feared, a too audible relief from the pain in his foot. He received the faithful who came forward on this joyous day to make their petitions to the Church. He himself had inaugurated this ritual to give the subjects of Spain, so far from their King, an opportunity to beg favors.

  A couple of destitute priests from the outlying districts entreated better assignments, but they knew as well as he did that ecclesiastical patronage belonged to the King and that their Bishop could appoint only those the Council of the Indies had chosen. He did not hide his annoyance at these ragtag clerics for reminding him of his lack of real power. They bowed and backed away, already mouthing the usual antigovernment grumbling.

  More than twenty women came forward who wished, by claiming brutality, to avoid living with their legal husbands. He refused, as he always did, to involve himself. He did not wish to appear arbitrary, but he was—unlike so many of the low-class ruffians they sent to be priests in the New World—a nobleman and completely celibate. What could he know of marital matters? The disappointed ladies returned to their pews. One of them had the gall to weep openly.

  To his enormous consternation, the Abbess of Los Milagros came forward to beg him to protect her from the Inquisition. Given her elegant approach and regal bearing, he rather wished to grant her petition. He was a bishop, a prince of the Church. It rankled that the Holy Tribunal had the power to overrule him. The Inquisitors divided the Church’s power—a danger in these times of growing Protestant strength. They collected fines, used the money for their own ends. No one, not even a bishop, could defy them.

  Behind the Abbess stood the last petitioner in the line—the impenetrably obstinate Fray Ubaldo DaTriesta, a man who worshipped the Virgin and his own mother but despised all other women. “I can do nothing for you, Lady Abbess,” the Bishop whispered as she knelt to kiss his ring. “Tomorrow, when Visitador Nestares arrives, he will become the principal director of the King’s affairs—and of your fate. You might appeal to him, but since he and the Grand Inquisitor are coming together, your entreaty would likely fall on deaf ears.” He raised his hand to bless her. She crossed herself, rose, and walked away with an elegant carriage and serene, noble countenance that made her look as if she had triumphed in the dearest wish of her heart.

  The upstart DaTriesta began, in his typical rude fashion without any greeting or deferential preamble. “I have heard some very bad news from the Tester of the Currency, Felipe Ramirez. It is time we drew Padre Junipero into the noose.”

  The Bishop was amazed that the Commissioner saw fit to begin this conversation here at Mass. “What did he do?”

  “Let us just say that he has committed many acts that make him unworthy of his priesthood. We both know that the Jesuits are too liberal, almost Protestant. Our Padre Junipero cannot seem to comprehend—for all his supposed incisive intelligence—that
there will always be injustice and unhappiness in this world. The majority of people have never known happiness before, therefore would never miss it.”

  The Bishop sighed. He had no idea what DaTriesta was going on about. “Very well,” he said wearily, beginning to think of the great feast that would await him and his guests after Mass this morning. “Arrest him, too, if you must.”

  Fifteen

  ON THAT STRANGE Easter Sunday, more Potosinos were engaged in preparations to welcome Visitador Nestares than in the usual feasting and singing of glorious hymns. Though it was the holiest day of the year, many labored. Far into the following night, work ran at fever pitch. Cloth was draped. Colorful feathers were arranged. Children who had been scrubbed the night before for Easter were scrubbed again. Wrinkles were steamed out of heavy satins and brocades. Vihuelas, violins, and guitars were tuned.

  Into the dark, deep silence of the cloister of Santa Isabella de los Santos Milagros, where, like a knight in the court of the Cid, the Abbess kept vigil, sounds from the street—hammering and shouting and heavy things being dragged—penetrated and distracted her from her prayers.

  If the truth were known, she could not bring herself to bother God with the same repeated requests. She looked up blankly at the image that hung on her cell wall of the Virgin of Carmen and her baby son. Their skin, white as wax, glowed in the candlelight. The eyes of the mother and child were starry with love for each other. Maria Santa Hilda had seen that sort of adoration in the eyes of the Indian children when she brought them bread and warm clothing. In her best moments, she felt that kind of love for God.

  She rose from her chair and paced. After such a cheerless Easter Sunday, all she felt was desperate homesickness for the Spain she would never see again. For the steep streets of Guadaloupe, for the awe-inspiring music in the monastery church where the pilgrims came and went on their travels to Rome and the Holy Land. For the taste of real fruit and real wine.

  She sat again and, exhausted as she was, tried to force her heart to the problems of here and now. Dawn would soon come and then, at noon, the procession to welcome Nestares. Some time after that, only the Lord knew how long, the officers of the Inquisition would come for her. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps they would give her a few extra days to pray. But for what?

  She sank to her knees at her prie-dieu. She tried to pray, but her thoughts went again to the mystery of Inez’s death. Her investigations had uncovered no useful defense against the Holy Tribunal. What she had learned only incriminated her more. By rights, she should spend whatever time remained preparing her community for her arrest. She had already begun. She still had much to do. Forcing her eyes to stay open, she went over again her decisions, like a litany: Sor Monica would take over the management of the kitchens and the work of the missions. Lord, have mercy. Sor Barbara would look after the children who came for lessons. Lord, have mercy. Sor Olga would . . .

  Chains. They weighed on her arms. She had to get away. To go to the Royal Audencia. A priest would be unjustly removed from office. She wanted to run, but she could not free herself from the chains. They bound her to the tree in the square outside her grandmother’s house. In front of a workshop nearby, an ugly old man sat and painted clay pots. She slammed the chains back and forth, trying to tear them loose. They clanked and rattled, but they would not release. The bell of the church across the square began to ring. Her grandmother stood in the door of the church and called for her, did not see her, though she was right there. The pot dropped from the old man’s hands and smashed on the paving stones. . . .

  “Mother . . . Mother . . .” Sor Eustacia’s voice called over the rapping from the outside door and the ringing of the bell.

  The Abbess was on her feet before she realized she had been asleep. “A moment,” she called out.

  “Mother,” Eustacia said in a loud stage whisper, “it is Fray de la Gasca at our door. He has come.”

  The Abbess’s heart thudded twice and turned to stone. Pedro de la Gasca, the Grand Inquisitor, was one of the most famous men in Perú. She had expected his officers. DaTriesta. Perhaps a guard of soldiers. But not the Inquisitor himself. His reputation made him the more fearsome. Brilliant, they said. At military matters as well as theology. He had defeated a group of heretics in Spain and come to the New World with full ambassadorial powers. He had put down an uprising of colonists against the King. Yet his humility was his most talked-of virtue. He conducted his affairs with little pomp, traveled with but a small retinue.

  The banging on the outside door came again.

  “Mother, we must answer,” Eustacia insisted.

  The Abbess blessed herself with holy water from her chapel font and went out into the hall. With Eustacia at her side, she unlocked the front door herself and faced, in the eerie, predawn light, a tall, handsome priest in severe, plain black, who bowed and said, “God’s blessing on you, Lady Abbess,” in a perfect Castillian accent.

  She bowed. “And on you, Father.” There were others with him. Three wearing priestly collars and metal breastplates, with swords at their sides. And behind them, in the shadows, DaTriesta.

  “Forgive me for arriving at this hour, Mother,” de la Gasca said, “but I was unable to sleep and thought it was time to be about God’s business.”

  “It is always time to be about God’s business,” she said. And bit the tongue that so often betrayed her with sarcastic, rebellious words. “I hope,” she said sweetly, “that Your Excellency is not ill.”

  “Merely light-headed from the altitude,” he said.

  She bowed again. “Won’t you enter my humble convent and allow me to offer you an elixir to relieve you.” She stepped back, and they entered. DaTriesta gave her one of his disgusted sniffs but did not look into her face.

  She and Sor Eustacia conducted them to the patio of the outer cloister, where in the days before the new theater was built, passion plays and religious masques had been staged. Other sisters, who must have heard the uproar and come to eavesdrop in the dark recesses, retreated to the rear cloister as soon as the men entered.

  The Abbess drew Eustacia aside. “Have Sor Monica prepare her infusion of coca and tree bark, but tell her to put honey in it. We do not want him to think we are drugging him.”

  Eustacia bowed and left in silence. With the help of the maids and Sor Barbara, the Abbess made de la Gasca comfortable with a chair and table. Though chairs were provided for the others, they remained standing.

  After the elixir had arrived and he had taken a few sips, the Inquisitor looked around him. He stroked the scrolls and leaves carved in low but clear relief on the slender column next to his chair. “I can see that, isolated here together, the Spanish and Indian arts are uniting into something new.” He sounded as if he were talking to himself.

  He put down his gourd with a thump and turned to Eustacia, who stood beside her Abbess like a guardian angel. “Please call the Mistress of Novices, the postulant Beatriz Tovar, and the Sister Herbalist to testify.”

  Eustacia hurried away.

  Testify? The word turned Maria Santa Hilda’s veins to burning ice. Testify? Surely they would not conduct an official hearing here on her patio, at this hour. The Inquisition was formal. It followed rules and protocols. Her frozen heart began to thud.

  When they were all gathered, de la Gasca motioned to one of his men, who set a large black book, ink, and quills on the table before the Inquisitor.

  Panic seized the Abbess. Her legs shook. Her breath stopped.

  De la Gasca folded his elegant hands on the still closed book. “Our chief occupation here today is to find facts. Discipline and moral rectitude should be our bywords. Submit to our authority, my daughter, and you will be pardoned.”

  Without thinking, the Abbess blessed herself and bowed. The hospital. The orphanage. The convent. Her mind screamed out the ways in which she had labored for the glory of God. But her silent mouth would not protest. She knew too well that a woman’s accomplishments meant nothing to the men of the In
quisition. Good works were credited to God’s Grace and inspiration. Only evil redounded to the individual woman.

  While her insides screeched with outrage, de la Gasca sat with that placid exterior of calm, even-humored masculinity she had learned to despise in her father. To complete her purgatory, DaTriesta stepped forward, moistened his cruel lips, and spoke. “With your permission, Your Excellency, I will begin.”

  Already tall, he stood with his head up, nearly leaning backward, emphasizing his hateful superiority. “We know, Your Excellency, how easy it is for convents to become depraved. Being insufficiently attractive to bind some man to their maintenance, women in such a place as this can easily sink into sin. Since her deceits and guile have not worked in the outside world, I will prove that this woman, the Abbess Maria Santa Hilda, has turned her cloistered domain, which should be a wellspring of grace for the community, into a university of evil that instructs the young in diabolical arts.”

  The Abbess remained stupefied. Shock and shame froze her deeper into inaction.

  “What witnesses do you offer?” de la Gasca asked in his maddeningly calm, nearly bored voice.

  “I call the postulant Beatriz Tovar.” With a gesture, he signaled her forward.

  Poor little Beatriz, silly romantic girl, stepped out of the shadows. The smooth skin of her face was still lined with the impression of her pillow. Her white postulant’s veil was askew. Her dark eyes were huge with awe and fear. She smiled awkwardly at the severe man in the chair. “Do not be afraid, my child,” he said in a kindly voice.

  But be careful what you say. Oh, be careful. Silently the Abbess prayed to her young charge as if she were a saint in a painting.

  DaTriesta did not look at the lovely girl. “Tell us what you know about the sinful practices of this place,” he said. “If you but tell the truth, you will be saved.”