City of Silver

by Annamaria Alfieri

  She could not give up the idea that this mysterious substance had something to do with the deaths of those girls. The two flails lay on the counter beside the vial. It also seemed clear to her that Hippolyta had taken Inez’s flail and used it to punish herself. Was that just an act of self-mortification offered for the repose of her friend’s soul? Or was it an act of penance for the sin of murder?

  Monica held her head in her hands. Try as she might, she could not accept that Hippolyta had killed Inez. If that child had committed such a sin, then perhaps this substance had nothing to do with the deaths. It belonged to Juana. And what could Juana, so beloved of the young girls, have to do with any of this?

  Monica racked her brain to remember some piece of gossip Vitallina had been blabbering. Something about Juana having given her brother the money to pay instead of taking his place in the mine. They called it making an Indian in silver. Monica ordinarily ignored convent gossip, but Juana’s problem had interested her. The sturdy, dependable maid was a good sort, and the dangers of the mine were legendary. People said that Indian women maimed their male babies so they would not have to serve in the mine. And because the smallpox plagues had killed so many natives, fewer and fewer men came to work. The ones who did were forced to labor harder and harder. Padre Junipero said the azogueros sometimes made the workers stay underground for two days at a time, even sleep there. Cutting rock with bars weighing thirty pounds, crawling along like snakes, burdened with ore, they sweated blood. They were whipped and lashed. The King had sworn to protect the Indians. There were judges specially appointed to hear their suits, but still they suffered miserably.

  Vitallina appeared at the door, carrying the cat.

  “What was it, Vitallina, that you told me about Juana’s brother?”

  “That Juana had given him money to buy his way out of service, but that a card trickster cheated him out of it.”

  “I want you to—”

  Vitallina turned and took the cat to the counter against the wall. She held the struggling animal in one hand, spilled the gummy substance from the vial onto the counter, poked the point of a knife into it, and thrust the knife into the cat’s paw. Its limbs went immediately stiff; it made one small, desperate gasp and died.

  Monica gasped, too. At the suddenness. She gripped her arms across her chest. One hand went to her throat. “But—What—”

  “It is called curare. The Indians along the great Brazilian river make it. For hunting.”

  The hand on Monica’s throat tightened. “But I ate some.”

  “It does not kill that way. Only on the tip of a knife or a dart.”

  Monica stared at the flails. Those barbs. “Come with me. We must find Juana.”

  “Most of the maids are in the choir for a service.”

  Monica scooped the poison back into the vial and took it with her. They hurried across the rear cloister and up the narrow stairs. Monica pulled her veil over her face as she reached the top. Unlike the old thick-walled churches with their single narrow nave and octagonal altars, this new church was in the form of a cross, with a dome over the altar. The convent choir overlooked one of the arms of the cross. The heavily decorated dome soared gold and gorgeous above them. The great stone arches echoed with a “Dies Irae” being sung for Hippolyta by her father’s Indians. The girl’s funeral was to take place the following morning.

  The maids of the convent chanted with them. One, no more than a child, sobbed softly as she tried to sing. Monica touched her shoulder as she scanned their bowed heads.

  Juana was not there.

  They found her in the maids’ dormitory, spinning vicuña yarn with a drop spindle. Piles of wool, pale yellowish brown, gray, black, lay on the floor near her feet.

  Confronted with a murderer, Monica could not speak. Her racing mind stumbled. She held up the vial with the poison wad at the bottom.

  The arm with the spindle dropped to Juana’s side. Her eyes glanced toward the box under her bed. Recognition dawned in her bright, black eyes. Vitallina’s powerful hands closed on her shoulders.

  “We know,” Monica said simply. “Tell me how this came to be.”

  “There is a snake,” Juana said, “a huge black snake in the mountain. It has a flat head and fiery eyes, and it causes the earth to shake and cave in.”

  It was as if Juana had started to speak a language Monica did not understand. She pulled Vitallina’s arms away and backed Juana into the corner. “What are you talking about? What does this have to do with those poor dead girls?”

  Juana sank to the floor and sobbed, “Pachamama, now the Spanish will kill me.”

  “You can have sanctuary here,” Vitallina murmured consolingly. “Just tell us what you know. Help us help the Abbess.”

  The anguish fled from Juana’s face. “Sanctuary. Will you grant me sanctuary?”

  “Yes,” Monica said. The Abbess would say yes. She was sure of that. “Tell me. Tell me quickly what you have done.”

  “I put the poison on the flail.”

  “But why? Why would you kill those girls?”

  Juana stared at them for a long time, but she did not answer.

  “Tell me, and I will do anything I can to save your life.” Monica was not sure she could keep such a promise or that she really wanted to. This woman had murdered Inez and Hippolyta. Monica had to extract the information she needed.

  Juana stammered and finally said, “I killed Inez because of what she did to Sor Eustacia.”

  “What do you mean?” Monica demanded.

  Vitallina put out her hand. “The maids have all known that Inez seduced Eustacia. The maids know everything.”

  Monica’s mouth gaped. Her hand rose as if to slap Juana but stopped in midair.

  Juana cowered. “She ruined the life of the kindest sister in the convent. I put the poison on the flail because I knew she would use it and kill herself. She loved the flail. She was evil.”

  “Did you punish Hippolyta, too?” Monica asked. “Why did she have to die?”

  “I did not mean for her to die,” the Indian woman said. “I did not know she would take Inez’s flail and use it on herself.”

  “Do not leave this room,” Monica said. “I will be back. Vitallina, stay here and make sure she does not leave. But first, I must speak to you in the corridor.”

  When they were out of earshot of the maid, Monica asked, “Do you believe that she did this?”

  “Oh yes,” Vitallina said. “I believe that she meant to kill Inez, but I do not believe her reason.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Nineteen

  PADRE JUNIPERO STOOD in the reception parlor of the monastery of San Augustín, gazing up at the statue by Gaspar de la Cueva of Christ bound to the column. It seemed sculpted by angelic rather than human hands—the kind of statue that might perform miracles. Perform one for me, he prayed to it. Help me save the Abbess.

  Fray Vincente entered the room and embraced him. “I have seen the Abbess. She has been taken by the Tribunal.”

  “I know. It is the gossip on every street corner.”

  “She asked for me to go and confess her, but instead she gave me messages. She told me to tell you to go to the Alcalde and to—”

  “I cannot,” Junipero said. “The Alcalde’s friends are trying to kill me.”

  Vincente’s eyes clouded over.

  “I must speak to the actor Sebastian,” Junipero said.

  The portly man frowned. “I am sorry, my friend, but he is not here.”

  “Not here? You let him go?” Vincente had the soul of a saint and the intelligence of a wood-and-gesso statue.

  “He told me you were finished with him. He was truthful about his origins. Why would he lie about that?”

  “Do you know where he went?”

  “He promised that if I did not denounce him to the Inquisition, he would leave Potosí and go east to Brazil. But I doubt he has left yet. He was going to try to find a smuggler to travel with.”

  Juni
pero’s fingers went to his lips. “I have to see him before he leaves. I must hurry. But listen. I have an idea what the Abbess suspects. You must go to find Gemita de la Morada and tell her that I said she may be in danger. Tell her to go to the house of Tovar. I will find her there.” He turned to the door immediately.

  Vincente put a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry to tell you, my friend, but the Tribunal has put out an order for your arrest. They charge you with blasphemy for burying the Morada girl in a consecrated place.”

  Junipero looked into Vincente’s eyes, showing the monk his desperation, reading his friend’s compassion.

  Vincente removed his hand. “Be careful, amigo. There are many others who would hand you over to the Inquisition without muttering a Miserere.”

  Without another word, fearing speech would break the spell, Junipero covered himself with the motley cloak and black felt hat Barco had given him to disguise his identity and ducked through the monastery’s side door to the street.

  Feigning the ambling gait of a bowlegged muleteer, he hurried along the Calle Quijarro, which zigzagged to break the impact of the wind gusts. The street led to that raucous quarter where miners and transients went in search of recreation. Impassive Indian women sat on the curbs, selling medals and holy images, but the priest knew sin was rampant here.

  Where would one begin to search for one man in all this chaos? There were more than a dozen dance halls, but somehow the priest felt Sebastian would not look for lewd entertainment. The actor would want a place where he could meet smugglers and other desperadoes, not women.

  Junipero entered one of the two score gambling houses that lined the side streets of the district. In a low, dark room that stank of men who had sat too long on mules, he had no sooner begun to describe Sebastian to the barman when three officers of the Inquisition burst in. The soldiers, dressed in black with shining steel breastplates and long swords at their sides, stopped all conversation.

  In terror, expecting instant arrest, the priest forgot his disguise of a Mestizo in search of easy money and blessed himself and prayed.

  “Sinners, repent,” announced one of the officers. He proceeded in a loud voice to denounce the gambling that was almost universal in the city. It was a mortal sin, he said, and then gave the familiar laundry list of how gamblers, their families, and Almighty God suffered because of it.

  Weak light from candle stubs on the tables glinted off the soldier-priest’s shining armor. A scruffy llama driver near Junipero rose, doffed his cap, and, after expressing disgust at this own weakness, publicly swore he would never play at cards again.

  “What will you forfeit if you sin again?” demanded the soldier who had preached.

  “One hundred pesos in pure silver,” the penitent croaked out.

  It was a fortune for the man. And if he was anything like the thousands of others who had made the pledge before him, he would inevitably backslide and forfeit his fine to the pious uses of the Inquisition.

  A few more wretches were cajoled into similar vows while Padre Junipero sweated under his coarsely woven cloak and tried to be invisible.

  When the black-and-steel envoys of the Wrath of God finally departed, Junipero cautiously got up to leave. A stranger to his right stopped him.

  His heart thudded while he turned to face the man.

  “The transient you asked after,” the tall, thin stranger said in a heavy Italian accent. “For ten reales, I might tell you where he is.”

  The padre eyed the man. His clothing was of good cut and fabric but worn and dirty. The priest grasped his own grimy cape. “How could a beggar like myself produce such a sum?”

  “It was worth a try,” the Italian said with a twinkle.

  “Do you know something? For the love of God, tell me. It could save a dear friend’s life.”

  The man shrugged. “Since you put it that way, why not? It may not even be him, but a man who looks as you described is staying at the Tambo Lo Caliente.”

  Junipero bowed to his informant and beat a hasty path down the street and around the corner to the inn. It was a reputable-looking place and smelled of good, spicy chicken stew.

  Determined not to let his haste draw anyone’s suspicions, the padre first took a seat at a table in the outer courtyard and ordered a cup of chicha. About him, traders in everything from Persian rugs to English and French furniture gossiped about what devaluation would do to business.

  He ran his hand over the name Juan Ulloa scratched into the table in front of him. Every table or bench in every public room in Potosí was carved like this—with first and last names, often with dates. What did they hope to accomplish by inscribing their names here? In olden times, pilgrims to Rome or the Holy Land put their names on the walls of hostelries to give notice of their route to anyone who might be searching for them along the royal road. Now, with no apparent usefulness, the practice had become so common in New Spain that every inn and drinking place was adorned with names and obscene words. Thus, the priest supposed, the common man hoped to leave his mark.

  At the next table, a man who dealt in purple satin from Florence was refusing the coin of the city and demanding gold for his goods.

  When the skinny, sour-faced innkeeper brought the drink, the priest asked if anyone answering to Sebastian’s description was at the inn.

  “He came in a few hours ago. He said he is here to transport clothing to France to be cleaned. He was talking to another carter about going by mule or llama to the coast.” The skinny man leaned closer. He smelled of onions and hair pomade. “Don’t tell the priests,” he whispered to the man he thought a Mestizo trader, “but I think your handsome blond might be a Jew. I gave him bacon for his dinner, and he didn’t eat it.”

  The priest grunted noncommittally and then followed the innkeeper’s directions to a room that opened onto an inner courtyard. A sign on the wall declared, “It is forbidden to cook or bring horses into these rooms.”

  Before the priest could knock, a weathered wooden door beneath the sign opened and the actor came out carrying a red sack. He smiled until the priest doffed his hat and revealed himself. “Padre . . . Padre . . .” He eyed the corridor that led toward the street.

  “Stay, my son. The first time we met, you left me unconscious. This time I beg you, give me the information I require. I will not ask you to testify before the Tribunal. I will not reveal who and what you are.”

  The actor backed into the room, pulled the priest in with a rough jerk, and silently closed the door. “Make your threats more quietly, Padre,” he whispered, “or I’ll be carted off to the dungeons before I can tell you anything.” He gave the priest the only chair and sat cross-legged on the bed.

  Guilt tightened Junipero’s throat. He loathed threatening the young man with the same odious fate the Abbess faced, but he knew no other way. “Tell me or I will have no choice but to identify you to Grand Inquisitor de la Gasca’s men.”

  “If I tell, you will betray me anyway.” In sadness, the actor’s face was even more beautiful than when he smiled. A sculptor would model John the Baptist after him. “Perhaps I should give myself up and accept my father’s fate as my own.”

  “Your father’s?”

  “I almost prefer it to this life of constant fear.” His eyes searched the priest’s. “My father was Francisco Maldonado de Silva.”

  Junipero drew a breath of amazement. Everyone knew de Silva’s story. The Inquisition made sure everyone heard it as an object lesson in its own inexorable tenacity to convert the wicked or destroy them. Sebastian’s father was a surgeon of high repute in Concepción de Chile, the son of a Portuguese who had been arrested as a Jew, been reconciled, and brought up his children—two girls and a boy—as Christians. The boy, Francisco, was a good Catholic until the age of eighteen, when he chanced to read the Scrutinium Scripturarum of Pablo de Santa Maria, Archbishop of Burgos, who had been the Rabbi Solomon ha-Levi. Converted in 1390, ha-Levi had risen to be Regent of Spain in the minority of Juan II and later
a papal legate and a bishop.

  Instead of confirming Francisco’s faith, the book raised doubts. He consulted his father, who, he found, still secretly practiced his ancient faith. Francisco became an ardent convert to Judaism, but he kept his secret from his mother and two sisters and from his wife. Eventually, though, he revealed his beliefs to his sister Isabel and tried to convert her, but in vain. Though she loved her brother and he was, by then, the sole support of her, her mother, and her sister, she loved God more. She denounced Francisco to the Inquisition. For this, she was extolled from the pulpits as a brave defender of the Faith. Padre Junipero tried not to despise her as a traitor. His own sister had protected him from the consequences of his sin, helped him escape to the monastery.

  After Francisco’s arrest, the priests of Concepción, Santiago, and Lima made many attempts to convert him, but he was resolved to die in the faith of his ancestors. He was brought out in the great auto-da-fé at Lima in 1639.

  “I wish I had his courage,” Sebastian said. “When my mother was away, before I was born, he circumcised himself. Can you imagine it?”

  A chill hit the priest’s crotch and ran up his back like a bolt of cold lightning. He drew a gasping breath at the very thought.

  “When they read his sentence in the square, a sudden whirlwind tore away the awning under which he stood before the Inquisitor. He looked up and cried out, ‘The God of Israel does this to look upon me face-to-face.’ That was the last thing he said before they burnt him alive.”

  The sermonizers left these last facts untold, but the young man had the air of one telling the truth, and the priest was inclined to believe him.

  “You can get at least small revenge,” Junipero said. “They killed your father, but at least you can thwart them now. You can save the Abbess from them.”

  Sebastian smiled and shook his head. “A point, Father, but a weak one.”

  Junipero considered the actor’s countenance. That smile had beguiled Inez. Suppose Sebastian’s story was all a fairy tale. Suppose he was not the son of Francisco de Silva but merely a wastrel plying his actor’s trade to foil a sympathetic priest? The youth had fooled him before with his perfect Castillian accent and his aristocratic manners. Why not with this story?