smart enough. He's the kind of man who thinks he decides when events decide for him."
L/
By three and fours, next day, the Spaniards, duly coached by Alva-rado, sauntered over to the great teocalli and mingled with the crowd inside. Only a handful to guard the gates, under the command of Juan Garcia, and the Tlascalans, who dared not show their faces among Aztec warriors, were left in the compound. That the Spaniards were armed caused no remark, for the city populace had never seen them unarmed. The crowd did not welcome their presence, but tolerated it in a sort of scowling your-turn-next mood. Besides, the reHgious ceremonies of the festival drew ofT surplus attention.
Whatever he might have wished, Pedro could not refuse to accompany the others. He was second in command and under Alvarado's orders. Nothing had been decided anyWay. Moreover, it could easily happen that the small body of men, instead of playing the hunters, might be forced into the role of hares; and in that case it would not do for one of the leading captains to be absent.
Together with Chavez, Nightingale Casca, and a crossbowman named Santesteban, he crossed the square gloomily enough, lamenting the absence of those who had marched with Cortes. The cream of the company had been skimmed off for the campaign along the coast. Pedro felt that if the captains who gathered usually at the council table had been here, Alvarado's essentially stupid plan, however plausible it looked on the surface, would not even have been considered.
The size of today's crowd did not equal yesterday's: that was the one comforting point. Whether today's ceremonies were less important, or whether the capture of the two victims had thrown a cloud over the festival, the throng of Aztec notables inside the temple enclosure did not exceed several hundred. De Vargas noted with pleasure Alvarado's crestfallen expression. Honorable scruples aside, even he must admit that the killing of these warriors, though a blow, would not cripple the Tenochcas.
"Well?" Pedro asked, walking up to the Captain-in-Chief.
The latter frowned. "Well, we'll wait. More may come. As it is, I can see some caciques here who might well be spared from troubling us. The quantity might be better, Pedrito, but the quality's of the best."
He fingered his beard. ''For la Virgen, I wish I knew what to do. It may be our one chance. And yet— Mai haya! Why did Cortes leave me in this pickle!"
Around and around, in and out, wove the dance of the warriors, a shifting kaleidoscope of headdresses, masks, prismatic patterns and colors. A cloying perfume of incense and of lilies filled the place. The thumping of drums and squeal of flutes mingled in a discord of sound, which was yet hypnotically rhythmic. In perfect cadence, every gesture and step prescribed, the chiefs were actors as well as dancers. They celebrated, no doubt, certain episodes in the lives of the gods, now to a slower, now to a faster tempo. Gradually the beat quickened, rising toward a climax; it grew hotter, fiercer, stirring the pulses of the Spanish onlookers. The savage intoxication spread. Eyes became fixed, muscles tense. The blaze of the sun, dazzlement of colors, smell of flowers, relentless crescendo of sound, acted like a drug.
Standing on the lower step of the pyramid, Pedro could overlook all of it. He felt his mind drifting, reeling in a whirlpool of sensation. The sudden voice of a speaker near at hand sounded far off, and it took an effort to steady himself.
"Senor captain, we call on you. Now's the time. Now's the time. Give the word."
It was Francisco Alvarez, an officer whom Pedro disliked as a show-off and trouble-maker, a kind of self-appointed tribune among the soldiers.
"Word?" echoed Alvarado, staring at the dance, his face red, a swollen vein on his temple.
"Yes. Espiritu Santo! It's now or never. Let the heathen dogs have it!"
"Chiton, you fool!" snapped Pedro. He knew what the matter was with Alvarez. His own blood, whipped into foam by the drums, sang dangerously. "Cursed fool!"
The other's hand dropped on his sword. "Did you say jool, de Vargas?"
"By God!" Alvarado burst out wildly. He stretched his huge arms. "You're right, it's now or never. We'll have done with them. We'll give them the steel." His voice rose in a bellow above the thumping of the drums. "Espiritu Santo!"
The tension of the past two weeks, the rising flood of fear, uncertainty, desperation, broke its dike at the word and toppled forward in release. Like a flash of lightning, Alvarado's sword passed through the nearest of the dancers, jerked back and half-severed the neck of a
second. A poniard in his other hand buried itself in a third. Roaring some kind of shout, he struck and stabbed among the gaily dressed throng, his steel helmet towering above it. On every side other blades flashed, then hacked and thrust. The beat of the drums gave place to a pandemonium of shrieks, yells, oaths—an agonized outcry that rose from the shambles, like the spirit of madness made articulate.
Rushing toward the gates of the enclosure, the Aztecs fell upon the swords of the soldiers who filled the openings. Turning toward the steps of the pyramid, they again faced a line of steel. Dashing toward the entrance of the shrines, they found the Spaniards here too on guard. Without weapons, taken utterly by surprise, the greater number had not the remotest chance. If they tried to scale the walls, they were cut down; if they begged for mercy, a blow silenced them. Relatively few escaped wounded to spread the news.
Buffeted here and there, Pedro could only look on helplessly. His first shout of protest had been lost in the explosion, and now there was nothing to do but watch the massacre, disgusted, ashamed, and sick at heart.
As the dead bodies piled up, littering the courtyard, a scramble for loot began, a plucking and tearing of gold ornaments or jewels from the corpses.
"It's mine, I tell you."
"No, by God, it's mine. I killed him."
The wranglers collided with Pedro, who, infected by the savagery around him, now saw red in his turn. Unsheathing, he brought the flat of his sword down on the head of one of the Spaniards.
The man turned with a snarl. It was Francisco Alvarez. A hot joy leaped up in de Vargas. By the saints, this was a relief! He could shut out the beastly scene for an instant and let his jangled nerves loose.
But the release was short-lived. Pedro's reputation in the company as a swordsman stopped the other even before their blades clashed. Alvarez received one stinging cut across the face and one on the shoulder, then backed away and took frankly to his heels, plunging into the mob that still eddied through the courtyard.
"Come back, obscenity," de Vargas shouted, starting to follow, when a group whirled in front of him and caught his attention. A tall Aztec, wearing the green panache and rich accouterment of a chief, had somehow got possession of a Spanish sword, with which he was laying about him and, for the moment, holding off a couple of prize-hunters. Untrained in the use of it, he could not last long, all the more as Nightingale Casca, an expert in rough-and-tumble, half-crouching
behind his buckler, circled around on the lookout for an opening.
Then, as the Indian turned full in his direction, Pedro recognized the Aztec whom he had previously taken for Coatl. He had seen that face wearing the same masklike ferocity in the barranca near Jaen. It was the man who had spared his Hfe and whose life in turn he had saved.
He acted on the impulse of the moment.
Springing forward, he caught the Indian's sword with an enlacing movement of his own, gave a twist of the wrist, then a jerk that disarmed him. And at the same instant, which brought them almost hand to hand, he saw that Coatl recognized him.
"Bravo!" said Casca. "But, Redhead, I claim my share. I'd have had the dog at the next turn except for you."
"And so would I," put in Santesteban. "I say it ought to be a third share each. . . . Here, I'll do the dirty work."
Expecting it, Pedro turned the blow of the dagger.
"No, amigos, by God, let me have him. I've taken a fancy to his equipment complete. It'll make a proper gift for Catana. I'll pay your shares—say fifty pesos each, eh? Hurry on, or you'll miss something better. I'
ll deal with him."
A quick estimate convinced the two men that fifty pesos each was well-paid or at least surer in stamped gold than in the form of rings, bangles, and turquoise. They knew also that Captain de Vargas's word was good. At another time, they might have been curious to see how he would finish the Indian; but at the moment the scramble for loot was too hot. Fortunately Coatl had the shrewdness to stand quiet like a
man awaitmg execution.
"Have it your way then," said Casca, hurrying off. "Remember— fifty pesos."
Pedro kept a grip on the prisoner's throat, sword point against his belly. He did not need to explain that play-acting was necessary.
"It's been a long time since Jaen," he said. "To think we should be meeting here, Coatl!"
The other nodded, his dark eyes searching Pedro's. The glance expressed uncertainty.
"I didn't know you were an Aztec then."
Coatl shook his head. "Not Aztec. My land west. Friends to Tenoch-cas. I Zapotec."
Some tributary state. Pedro glanced toward the wall of the enclosure, a hundred yards off, and jerked his head. For a moment the coast was clear. The remaining Indians, herded in the center, were
surrounded by a circle of swords, focusing the butchery and clamor. Scattered Spaniards were engaged in rifling dead bodies.
"Hark you, Coatl. Beat my sword aside. Give me a shove and make for that wall. Hasta la vista!"
The other lifted two fingers. "Twice," he said.
"Quick, you fool!"
"Twice, cahallero,"
Then, following Pedro's directions, Coatl put on a convincing act— struck the sword to one side with his naked arm, twisted out of de Vargas's grip, sent him staggering back with a blow on the chest, and streaked for the wall. Leaping high, he caught the coping, lifted himself to the top, and disappeared on the other side.
Pedro ran and shouted, then with a wry smile put up his sword. He felt a twinge of superstition. What strange conjunction of their stars had brought him and Coatl twice together from across the world? Why should he twice have saved this man from death? Compulsion of circumstances. But who arranged the circumstances? What power—
"Let that be a lesson to you, de Vargas," said a familiar voice. Alvarado stooped over and, ripping a clout from a dead Indian, wiped his sword. "When you have one of those dogs in your grasp, don't give him time to say a prayer to his devils. Knock him on the head. Slippery vipers!"
In spite of his nonchalance, the Captain-in-Chief's sunniness was gone. He wore a hangdog, preoccupied look.
Pedro glanced at the pavement veined with rivulets of blood.
"Well, Senor Captain," he said dryly, "compliments on a noble feat of arms!"
Alvarado blazed up with all the passion of a tormented conscience. "Will you be pert with me, little master! Who spoke of feats of arms? A stroke of policy, yes—and to my mind a sound one. I don't care for your tone, and, by God, I'll chastise it."
"Chastise it?" echoed Pedro, his glance level. "Pick your words,
sefior."
"Not too carefully, my son," Alvarado retorted, the devil in him on top. "But pick them yourself. Are mutinous young puppies chastised or whipped? Or perhaps hanged? Who's the commander here?"
Pedro drew a step closer. Unconsciously, at the moment, his father's lisp crept out. "You, sir. You, sir, by all means. Who denies it? And do you take refuge behind that, eh?"
"Refuge?"
"Aye, sir. Or have you the stomach to meet me face to face? Then
we'll determine this chastisement you speak of. But if not, without picking words, I'll ask you, who's the coward here?"
"Stomach to meet you!" Alvarado grinned. "Surely even you haven't the gall to apply coward to me."
Pedro bowed. "And the time of this meeting, Sefior Captain?"
"Now!"
Alvarado snapped down his vizor. Whatever his faults, certainly cowardice was not one of them. He stepped back to gain room and drew his sword. Pedro kissed the cross hilt of his for good luck.
But at that moment a distant sound, which they had been too absorbed to notice, grew in volume and forced itself on their attention. Alvarado lowered his point.
"Wait! Harken! What the devil's that noise?"
It had the quality of an earthquake, of an approaching hurricane. The far-off rumble swelled to a roar. Both men listened a second.
"God in heaven!" exclaimed Alvarado suddenly. He sheathed his sword. "We have no time for this now. Our duty's to the company. The city's on us!"
He was already striding toward the center of the enclosure where the last piteous remnants of the Aztecs had been hacked down, and the Spaniards were busy with plunder. His voice filled the space.
"To your quarters! To your quarters! Dense prisa! A la can era!"
Pulling the men off their prey, like dogs from a quarry, with a blow here, a kick there, he and Pedro spread the alarm. Several minutes later, the soldiers were streaming out of the temple yard and across the plaza toward the gates of Axayacatl's palace. There was no semblance of order. To Pedro, following in the rear, they looked like a pack of hard-pressed bandits loaded with booty, their clothes, hands, and faces smeared with blood. He followed, burning with shame, feeling a personal degradation. Where was his army, the army he had been proud of, the men he loved?
And meanwhile, down the two avenues leading into the central square, rolled slowly, because of their very mass, human torrents roaring louder as they approached—armed torrents, yelling, whistling, conch-blowing, drum-beating, the plumes of the warriors floating, like spindrift, above the surface. No more than a glimpse of this as the Spaniards plunged through the gates of their quarters. But before the last men had crowded in, the deadly rain of the oncoming storm began. Arrows and stones rattled on Pedro's helmet, corslet, and greaves. One of the foot soldiers, less well armed, pitched forward suddenly, a shaft quivering in his back. Two others dragged him through the gates.
Then, before he entered himself, Pedro de Vargas turned and, for the honor of Spain, faced the sleet of missiles, raising his arm in defiance, and, drawing back slowly, crossed the threshold.
Lll
It seemed a miracle that the outer walls stood. Like a canopy of black spray, hissing above the palisades, a continuous volley of arrows and sling-stones plunged into the courtyard. Because of the din outside, orders had to be given by gesture instead of voice; even the blare of the Spanish trumpets sounded thin and remote in the enveloping clamor.
Recently ashamed of his comrades, Pedro now could not help a feeling of pride. Anarchists when it came to loot, the company met oncoming annihilation as a disciplined unit. The training of the past year asserted itself. Neither panic-stricken nor with rat-in-the-corner courage, the cutthroats of a few minutes since were again veterans, coolj determined, even gay. It was after all a relief to have done with suspense and to feel the hot breath of war on their faces.
Embrasures were opened, cannon rolled up; and their thunder added a heavy note to the howl of attack. No aim was necessary, since they fired point-blank into the mass pressing against the other side of the enclosure. Their stone balls cut lanes through the crowd which were instantly filled up. The guns were rolled back, reloaded, fired again— back and forth as fast as their crews could ram home the charges. The Indian torrent rose higher, men clambering on each other's shoulders, clutching at the palisade that topped the wall—to be met here by crossbow and musket, sword and pike, while the cannon bellowed underneath—but still clutching, still clambering, and some indeed plunging over and down to die on the steel of the defenders below.
But the garrison suffered as well. Especially the more lightly protected Tlascalan allies were exposed to arrows and slingshots, while the Castilians themselves did not escape. Wounds accumulated, and while these for the most part were not serious, they increased the fatigue which began to show as the attack went on.
Pedro met Catana, as she passed from group to group, a bucket of water in each hand, a bunch of rags st
uck through her belt. She was stopped continually to the tune of, "Water here, for the love of God!" or "Bind me a clout around this bleeding, camarada." Several arrows,
which she had not had time to pluck out, dangled from her tabard of quilted armor.
"Will you get back to your quarters, moza!" Pedro shouted, raising his vizor. "Have you no sense at all!"
She teased him with a smile.
"You wait!" he stormed. "If I don't give you a ration of stirrup leather on the right place this evening!"
"Meanwhile, have a drink, sefior," she answered, handing him a ladle of water. "And let me wipe your face. It's all of a sweat."
"Please go back to our quarters, querida. You know you ought to."
"Not for anything. I can do more good here."
He drank thirstily. Dipping a clout in the water, she sponged his face which was half-parboiled in the closeness of the helmet.
"You're such a donkey, Catana!"
''Seguro,"
"Be damned, if I don't make you take me seriously."
"Caramha! I do. But whether you beat me or not I'm not going back to our quarters."
A stone grazed her shoulder. Pedro started working at his corslet. "Well then, you'll put on my armor."
"Your armor, nothing!" she flared. "Do you think I'll let you stand naked in battle while I wear your harness? I have some decency! A pretty sight to be carrying water buckets in a suit of steel! What do you take me for!"
The figure of Alvarado clanked up. "Water, angel mia!" he croaked, raising his vizor from a fiery red face. "Ah!"
He rinsed his mouth, spat out the water, then drank a ladleful.
"GraciaSj Mistress." Glancing at de Vargas, his blue eyes twinkled. "Might as well say it as think it, Pedrito. You were right, I was wrong. The hell of a mess!" He thrust out his hand. "To the devil with bygones!"
"Con mucho gusto!" nodded the other.
The two gauntlets locked. Pedro added, "But put in your word, sir, as captain, with this woman of mine to get her out of the fight. She's in no shape for it."
Alvarado nodded. "Go inside, Catana."
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