by Shirl Henke
The new city, situated on the west bank of the Ozama River, consisted mostly of imposing stone buildings arranged around a major plaza. Directly facing the harbor stood the Tower of Homage, which served as a military fortification and prison, its turrets looming cold and gray even when bathed in golden sunlight.
Rigo quickly received directions to the Dominican monastery and arranged to have their belongings loaded on one of the oxen-drawn cart that served as the principal means of conveyance.
Once Peligro was again on firm land he calmed, and Rigo was able to mount the great black stallion. He then scooped Miriam up in front of him and they set out in search of Bartolome de Las Casas.
The cart driver was obviously a half-caste and eyed Rigo with knowing yet puzzled brown eyes. As they rode beside the slow-moving oxen, Juan described the sights and answered questions.
Miriam forgot her misery for the moment. Setting foot on solid ground and smelling the fragrance of fresh fruits and flowers was balm to her soul. Benjamin had not done his home justice. The warm golden sun felt glorious on her skin, and Rigo's arms held her protectively as he guided Peligro through the narrow streets.
The city was bustling and prosperous. Even though far smaller than Marseilles, it was beautiful and clean. She felt her mouth water as exotic foods were hawked by native vendors from stalls that lined the plaza. Juan identified cassava breads, sweet potatoes, coconuts, wild boar, and endless varieties of fresh fish for her.
“Are you hungry? We can stop and purchase some delicacy,” Rigo offered.
“No, let us first find your Dominican.” She felt his body tense, then relax as he chuckled.
“You think Bartolome an Inquisitor? He is gentler than a spring lamb and would go willingly to his death rather than harm so much as a gnat. Never forget, my lady, in this land you are a Christian,” he whispered low, even though Juan could not hear their conversation.
She did not reply, but instead looked across the way to a beautiful garden, complete with fountain and low, lavishly tended shrubs and flowers. Beyond it stood a magnificent palace with double colonnade arches and large, wide windows. “What building is that?” she asked Juan in the carefully precise Castilian she had been practicing.
“That is the palace built by the Second Admiral, Don Diego Colon. He has been recalled to Spain by King Carlos, but his wife, the Virreina Dona Maria, still resides there. She is a very great lady,” Juan added solemnly.
Rigo snorted. “She is niece to old King Fernando and the Duke of Alva. The Colons always married advantageously.”
Juan shrugged. “Some hate the Genoese dynasty. Others, who hate the royal treasurer Pasamonte, have common cause with Don Diego. Perhaps he will return with his powers restored.” Juan's tone of voice indicated how likely he considered that possibility.
Miriam listened to the exchange silently, thinking of the unfortunate virreina, left alone with her children on Española while her husband was pursuing his dream, currying favor at the royal court.
Juan halted the cart before a low stone building, austere and unadorned. “This is the Dominican Monastery.”
Rigo swung down from Peligro and carefully lifted Miriam to the ground. Instructing Juan to wait with their belongings, he escorted her to the small wooden door and knocked boldly.
“Will monks let a woman inside their walls?” she asked dubiously.
Rigo smiled. “Not to spend the night when there are other accommodations in the city, but Bartolome will best know where we may stay.”
They were greeted by an older monk and escorted into the central courtyard. He bid them be seated on a crude wooden bench beneath the shade of a shaggy gnarled pair of pines. A nervous young novice was sent scurrying to fetch Fray Bartolome.
“Rigo, is it truly you?” A small, thin man dressed in the simple white robe and black cape of his order walked briskly across the gravel path toward them, arms outstretched. Rigo turned to the sound of the query and then raced to embrace the frail older man. Bartolome de Las Casas was in his fifty-first year. His blunt, craggy features, tough and tenacious, were far more indicative of his personality than were his delicate build and balding head, pinkened from working beneath the hot Caribbean sun.
“Yes, Bartolome, tis truly Rigo. I have changed by the addition of many new scars and you have lost your hair.”
Las Casas chuckled. “Small loss since I was tonsured when I joined the order anyway.” His shrewd hazel eyes moved from Rigo's elegant clothing to the woman who stood quietly behind him. “I think much has befallen you, little brother, that you must explain. But first, your lady, is she not weary from the long journey?” He turned to Miriam and made a courtly bow.
Rigo felt his face heat and for once was grateful for his swarthy complexion as he made introductions between his wife and his foster brother.
Bartolome observed the strain between Rigo and his lovely French wife, but decided the best approach to finding out the cause was an oblique one. As he ushered them inside the visitors' room of the monastery and ordered a monk to fetch food to refresh them, he said, “You are both far from home, Rigo. Always you swore to me you would never set foot on your mother's homeland. Have you, like me, suffered a conversion of the heart?”
Rigo's thoughts were in turmoil as he seated Miriam and then faced Bartolome's shrewd inspection. Never had he been able to dissemble with this man. “No, I feel as I always did about your Indians,” he began darkly. “But I was wounded in the siege of Marseilles and rescued from death by a young physician. He was my brother...” Rigo briefly outlined the past months' events, leaving out the broken betrothal between Miriam and Benjamin as well as any mention that his French bride was a Jewess.
When he had finished, Bartolome de Las Casas stroked his receding chin in amazement. “Aaron Torres' lost son,” he echoed in wonder.
“You have heard rumors of this child?” Rigo's voice betrayed hostility and suspicion.
“Only when I first came to Santo Domingo in 1502 with Governor Ovando. I have never met the First Admiral's reclusive fleet marshal, but many fantastical stories circulate about him and his son by his Taino mistress. That the babe my father brought from Xaguara should be the same boy!” His expression was troubled.
“I do not believe as my brother does that Aaron Torres wants me restored to him. What think you of this, Bartolome?”
“I was here only briefly, then off to Cuba and from there to Rome, so I can only dredge up rumors from distant memory, but twas said he searched for you and offered a great reward to any who could restore you to him.”
“As you say, rumors of the long-dead past.”
“Then why would Benjamin have been raised to believe such a tale—or told of Navaro at all?” Miriam interjected.
“Your lady has made a telling point, Rigo.” Las Casas bowed to Miriam as he offered her a goblet of watered wine and a tray of fruit and cheese brought by a novice.
“I shall learn the truth in due time. Since everyone was so certain of this birthright, I brought Miriam here to secure her a better life than I could offer her as the wife of a mercenary.” He bit into a juicy slice of some strange melon skewered on the tip of his dirk and waited for Bartolome to speak.
“Aaron Torres, from all reports, is a wealthy man. He and his family live in the high, fertile valley far to the north of here where he raises cattle and fine horses. His factors ship hides and tallow as well as some gold from here to Seville. The same man who runs Diego Colon's hato is Torres' business representative in Santo Domingo. The Torres and Colons have always remained friends. Don Aaron sells foodstuff and horses to the adventurers bound for Mexico and the Pearl Coast. He has much to offer you and I believe he will do so.”
“Why? He is wed to a Castilian noblewoman and allied with the aristocratic Colon family. You know as well as I how such people regard Indians.” Rigo took a swallow of wine and waited for Bartolome's reply.
“Torres has befriended the Taino people.”
Rigo gave a
derisive snort of impatience. “Yes, by laying with their women.”
Bartolome's eyes traveled quickly to Miriam's stricken face. “Rigo has always had a temper to match his bitterness, and often he lashes out, not meaning to hurt those nearest him,” he said softly to her, then turned sternly to the grim-faced younger man. “The Torres hato is home to several hundred Tainos from the cacizago of Marien. Their cacique, or chief, is Guacanagari, who shares the task of managing the hato. Tis no encomienda, Rigo, but a true partnership of equals.”
“This princely Guacanagari is my mother's brother. Benjamin sang his praises to me.”
“But you will believe none but your own eyes. Go then and see for yourself.”
“How long is this journey to the Torres hato?” Miriam asked.
Bartolome looked worried as he considered her pallor and pregnancy, now becoming plainly visible although Rigo did not see fit to speak of the child or express any happiness over it. “It is some days' ride on horseback and there are no roads sufficient for a cart to pass. I will send to the virreina, who I know will wish to offer hospitality to Aaron Torres' son and his bride. While you rest and refresh yourself, her servants will notify your family of your arrival.” Why was no word sent months ago? Why did Benjamin Torres not return to his home with you? A mystery, this strange match.
Miriam knew the cleric was deeply concerned and mystified about Rigo and his marriage. Wetting her lips nervously, she took courage in hand and said, “You have heard many tales of the Admiral's marshal and his exploits. What do you know about the family of Aaron Torres?”
The little man sat on a rough cane chair next to her and took her hand in his. His face creased in a gentle smile that exalted its plainness into touching beauty. “I have heard he is a New Christian and that his parents were killed unjustly by the Holy Office. Also that his illustrious uncle, one Isaac Torres, adviser to old King Fernando, fled to France rather than convert.” He felt her hand flinch and patted it reassuringly. “Was it not Marseilles where he took up residence? Have no fear, my child. The Dominicans in the Indies have too much to do saving the lives of innocent Tainos to waste their time searching out Jews.”
Rigo smiled grimly at Miriam. “I told you he was no inquisitor.”
Miriam felt her cheeks pinken but looked the wizened older man in the eye and replied, “I was a Jew in Marseilles, but now I am a Christian in the Indies. We were wed by a priest.”
“And that means you have no family now but the Torres,” Bartolome replied in understanding. “They will welcome you. Have no fear, Miriam, have no fear.”
She rewarded him with a radiant smile as he summoned a novice and instructed him to go to the Second Admiral's palace. “Dona Maria Colon, too, will make you welcome—she and her seven children.”
The austereness of the monastery was in sharp contrast with the lavish appointments of the viceregal palace that Miriam had admired on their ride into Santo Domingo. The wide lower colonnade of arches opened into a spacious hall. As they passed beneath the columns, a servant ushered them into the hall and said the virreina would join them immediately.
“I never expected such civilized beauty in the Indies. Benjamin described his parents' hato as comfortable, but this...” She gazed at the Genoese cut-velvet wall hangings and Spanish leather screens. Walnut chests and curule chairs, all intricately carved, were placed gracefully about the room. A massive walnut table inlaid with gold arabesques stood in the center.
On one wall a huge mirror of polished steel caught her reflection and she paused to brush a stray wisp of hair into place. She could see Rigo's reflection as he stood behind her, resplendently handsome in a black velvet doublet and woolen hose.
“A thousand apologies for keeping you waiting, but my youngest son was most insistent about being fed. He is scarce a year old and quite a tyrant, I fear,” Doña Maria Colon swept into the room imperiously, her full rose silk skirts swaying gracefully as she raised her hand for Rigo's salute.
Her black hair was dramatically streaked with silver and piled high on her head with ornate amber combs. Her nose was long and thin, her cheekbones high and sculpted and her chocolate eyes alight with both shrewdness and humor. She was a handsome woman, strong, not conventionally beautiful. Yet in any royal ballroom she would hold every man's attention. “So, you are the son of my husband's hero, the great Aaron Torres.” She studied his face with fascination. “The likeness is uncanny. Welcome, Navaro, and to your lady as well.” She turned to Miriam and clasped her hand, noting with approval her ripening figure. “I hope we shall become fast friends.”
“So do me, your Excellency,” Miriam responded.
“You must call me Maria. The governorship hangs like a lodestone about my neck until my Diego returns from Spain.”
“Dona Maria, might I ask you to call me Rodrigo? Twas the name my foster parents gave me.”
The virreina studied his expression. He could mask his feelings just as Aaron could. “Of course, Rodrigo, if you too will forgo the formality of ‘my lady’ and call me Maria.”
Within moments, Maria had them ensconced in spacious quarters on the second floor of the palace, with instructions to rest before the evening meal. Hot bath water would be sent up and anything else they desired, they had but to request.
Once they were alone in the opulent room, Miriam paced nervously over to the balcony and looked out the arched window to the busy port scene spread below them. “The virreina is most kind. Do you think she suspects my heritage, too?”
“She is astute, but her husband idolized Aaron Torres since they were children. The Second Admiral would not have told anyone the fate of his hero's family. You are safe, Miriam. It would seem everyone on Espanola is in awe of Aaron Torres.”
“If your foster brother speaks so well of him, perhaps—”
“Bartolome has by his own admission never met the man,” he said harshly. A gentle tapping at the door interrupted them.
Two burly African slaves carried in a heavy copper tub and one informed her she had but to ring and they would bring hot water to fill it. When they were dismissed, Rigo turned to her and said, “Why do you not rest? Twill ease the aches from such a long and arduous journey. I would not have you overtaxed.”
“I am pregnant, not sick, Rigo. Please stop treating me as if I were an invalid.”
He stepped close behind her and placed his hands on the lacings across the front of her gown, now loosened to accommodate her fuller breasts and belly. “You are the doctor. If you feel so hale, then you may perhaps welcome me in that monster bed tonight.”
The huge canopied bed was the central furnishing in the large room. She had avoided looking at it when they entered. “You are my husband. Tis your right to lie with me any time you choose,” she replied in a low voice.
“I want no martyr doing her duty, Miriam. If you are not unwell, then why have you been so cold these past weeks?” Why did I ask such a dangerous thing?
“I am grown fat and ugly now. Surely you do not wish—”
“I have already told you I do not find your body displeasing at all—only your manner.”
“As ever you did,” she snapped, breaking free of his hold and turning to face him.
“The dislike has been mutual, if memory serves me, from the day we first laid eyes upon each other. But it never stopped the passion that flared between us…until now.” He turned on his heel and quit the room, slamming the heavy door firmly behind him.
Leaving Miriam to rest, Rigo set out on Peligro to survey the city. Both man and horse were eager to work off an excess of pent-up energy. He passed the site of the huge cathedral, whose construction had begun two years earlier. The massive stone foundation had been laid but it was obvious that it would be years before such a vast project could be completed. As he rode through the narrow streets, he observed the prosperous permanence of the city, now built mostly of stone. The early wooden structures across the river had been destroyed in a fierce huracán, the incredible storm Ben
jamin had described to him.
When he reached the plaza, he stopped at a small stall where an Indian woman sold trinkets. Although of little intrinsic value, they were lovely pieces of jewelry made from shells delicately woven together into necklaces and earrings. One fragile necklace of vibrant salmon color caught his eye and he envisioned it about Miriam's slender throat.
Feeling foolish, he gestured to the piece and asked the price, which proved to be a modest sum. After carefully tucking the treasure into Peligro's saddle bag, he rode on, wondering why he had bought a woman used to precious stones a rustic shell necklace.
While riding through the busy streets and pausing to make his purchase in the plaza, he imagined someone was following him, yet whenever he looked about, he could see nothing amiss. Remembering the assassin aboard ship, he considered the possibility that another such lurked in Santo Domingo.
Over the years he had made enemies. In his profession that was inevitable. But who would follow me to the Indies? Rigo ticked off a long list of jilted lovers, cuckolded husbands, even fellow soldiers who had been bypassed when he was favored for promotion. Finally he gave up the pointless task and returned to consider the teeming city.
The busy fruit and craft stalls in the plaza as well as the construction sites were filled with African slaves, working under the direction of Spaniards. Only a few Indians were scattered about the city, recognizable by their long straight hair and obsidian eyes, as well as the shapeless peasant's clothing they wore.
They were used as slaves just as surely as the Africans, although such was not allowed by the crown unless the particular savages were cannibals, like the fierce Caribes on the southern mainland. Rigo looked at the poor wretches toiling beneath the warm February sun and scoffed at the idea of their ever being warlike man-eaters.
Beyond the walls of the city, the lush countryside beckoned to him. Is it in my blood? He guided Peligro past the gate and out onto the open river plain, quickly kicking the stallion into a swift trot down the road heading toward a towering stand of silk cotton trees.