For two long and miserable years he led his mules past the volcanoes, whose charm had fled, and he was supported only by the memory of his brief friendship with Cabeza, foremost of the king’s gentlemen, and the hope the latter imparted that day when he took the boy’s face in his hands and said: ‘Lad, you were not meant to be a muleteer.’
As the hot and sultry summer faded in 1538, Garcilaço, age thirteen, was once more journeying toward Vera Cruz, having accomplished nothing that would release him from his virtual slavery. When the mules reached the outskirts of that teeming seaport where the vessels from Spain waited to be unloaded, he felt sick at heart. All he had achieved was learning the alphabet, but he lacked any prospect of ever owning his own mules.
In this cast of mind he came down the narrow, dirty streets to where the cargo waited, and he was dreaming of Cabeza’s clear, open lands ‘up there’ when he heard a deep-throated cry and felt across his back a blow from a walking stick.
‘Watch where your mules go, fellow!’ a man called out, and when Garcilaço recovered his senses he saw that the speaker was a friar of more than medium height and well past forty. He spoke with an accent the boy had not heard before, but he was more smiling than angry. When he realized that he had struck a mere lad, he apologized, and for some minutes the two talked in the narrow street.
‘I am sorry, boy. Did it hurt?’
‘My master gives me worse each day.’
‘He must be a cruel man,’ and when Garcilaço said that he surely was, the friar became solicitous and asked: ‘Are you his son?’ Garcilaço replied: ‘I never knew my father,’ and this became the foundation of their friendship.
He was Fray Marcos, who had recently come to Mexico after service in two lands about which Garcilaço had vaguely heard: Peru, which the friar loved, and Guatemala, which he held in contempt. In Peru he had composed, he claimed, a diatribe against the cruelty with which Spanish conquistadores treated their Indians, and he did not propose to allow such wrong in Mexico. He had arrived only recently and now asked Garcilaço’s master if he could accompany the mule train to the capital, from where he would find his way to the great monastery being built at Querétaro, to which he had been assigned. Surly as ever, Garcilaço’s master agreed.
As they climbed through the jungles leading to the volcanoes, Garcilaço was impressed by the vigor of the friar’s stride; it seemed the mules would tire before Marcos did. His conversation was pleasing, too, for in all he said he displayed enthusiasm: ‘Some day a poet will write of our adventures in Peru! Gold everywhere! Majestic mountains! Spanish heroism never before excelled!’ He spoke in exclamations, and Garcilaço noticed the way he ended each statement in rising voice, as if eager to get on to the next wonder. When Marcos saw the great volcanoes he fell silent, captured by awe, and it was some moments before he could speak. When he did, a torrent of words leaped from his lips, and Garcilaço could imagine him back in Peru, reporting on what he had seen in Mexico: ‘Such towering volcanoes! So perfect in design!’
It took twenty-nine days to drag the cargo from Vera Cruz to the capital, and during that time Garcilaço told Fray Marcos about his friendship with Cabeza, and when the friar learned that the boy knew his letters, he said: ‘You must continue. Learn to read well and you can become a friar, like me, and know a life of adventure.’
When Garcilaço asked him where his home had been, he answered: ‘My real name is Marcos de Niza, for I was born in that city which some call Nice. It pertained to Savoy, so I was like you, a nothing, perhaps Savoyard, perhaps French, perhaps Italian. But I fell in with the Spaniards and was saved.’
‘During the concluding days of the journey he showed Garcilaço his Latin Bible, to see if the boy really could pick out his letters, and the speed with which Garcilaço resumed his mastery of the alphabet, even though he could not understand the words, delighted the friar so much that one evening he went to the master and said: ‘I should like to buy the boy.’ The ugly man said: ‘He’s not for sale,’ but since he was always eager to swing a good bargain, he added: ‘How much would you offer?’ So for two pieces of gold brought from Peru, Garcilaço became the responsibility of Fray Marcos, who said as he led him away: ‘You shall call me Father, both for my religious position and because I love you and will educate you.’
They had been in Mexico City only two days when a detachment of soldiers came to the monastery where they slept: ‘You’re both to come with us. Bishop Zumárraga wants to interrogate you.’ Garcilaço, remembering the austere figure sitting in his palanquin, started to tremble and then to sweat, for in a swift series of images he could see himself being questioned, condemned, and led to the pyre during some tremendous auto-da-fé. Quaking with fear, he asked the friar: ‘What have we done?’
To his surprise, Fray Marcos was completely at ease, even smiling: ‘In Peru and in Guatemala, I received many such imperative orders. They usually mean some good thing’s about to happen. Let’s see what it is this time.’
But when they were marched like prisoners through the streets, Garcilaço kept looking at the passers-by and at the patches of sky as if this were the last time he would see either. However, when they were delivered to Bishop Zumárraga they found a kindly man, dressed in the informal working robes of the Franciscan order, who said, as if he were their uncle: ‘Sit down. Take refreshment if you wish. We’ve important matters to discuss.’ With that he rang a small silver bell, whereupon Indian servants appeared, bringing with them a man Garcilaço remembered well and loved. It was Esteban, the Moor.
‘I have a new master, Little Muleteer.’
‘And I have a new father, Big Dancer.’
‘What happens here?’ the smiling bishop asked, and he was told that Andrés Dorantes, one of the travelers across El Gran Desplobado who had owned the slave Esteban, had sold him to the viceroy for reasons not clearly understood, while Garcilaço’s master had sold him to Fray Marcos for reasons left unexplained.
‘So you two know each other?’ the bishop asked. ‘That’s good. You can tell your stories to the viceroy.’
But before they were taken to that austere master of Mexico, Bishop Zumárraga wanted to satisfy himself on one point, and to do this he asked Garcilaço to stand before him and submit to questioning: ‘Boy, you traveled with Cabeza de Vaca?’
‘I did.’
‘And he spoke with you constantly, they tell me.’
‘Yes.’
‘And did he ever speak of the Seven Cities?’ At this point the Moor shot Garcilaço a warning side glance, but to what purpose the boy could not determine, so he answered honestly: ‘He spoke of them often.’
Before Zumárraga could question further, Esteban broke in with the start of the great deceit which would engulf many men and color the early history of Texas: ‘Excellency, I saw the Seven Cities. They were glorious, and Cabeza de Vaca saw them, too.’
When Garcilaço heard this lie he remembered the honest voice of Cabeza as they had talked on the way to Guadalajara: ‘Lad, understand. This Indian woman, she had never seen the Cities, her mother claimed that she saw them. Nor had the Indian man ever seen them, a friend had reported that he had seen them. And certainly none of us Spaniards had come close to seeing them.’
But it was obvious that Bishop Zumárraga wanted to believe that everyone had seen them: ‘So Cabeza de Vaca, wily man that he was, kept the secret of their wealth to himself?’ As this question was asked, Garcilço could see Esteban smelling out the situation and identifying what those in authority wanted to hear, so in response to sharp questioning, the Moor divulged these supposed facts: ‘The Cities have enormous wealth, the Indians assured us. When I asked about gold and silver, they cried “Yes!” Jewels, cloth, cows twice as big and fat as ours. Cabeza himself saw them, didn’t he?’ When everyone looked at Garcilaço, the boy had to nod, for this one small part of the statement was true. Cabeza had told him of the large cows with humps over their shoulders.
‘Let us speak with the viceroy,’ Zum
árraga said as he called for his carriage, and off they hurried to meet the man who ruled Mexico.
Few men in history have looked more imperial than Don Antonio de Mendoza, Count of Tendilla, did that day. He was tall and properly lean; his mustache and beard had been neatly trimmed that morning by the barber who visited him each day, and when he looked at his visitors he seemed to regard everyone but the bishop as a peasant. He had sharp eyes which penetrated nonsense and a deep, resounding voice accustomed to command. He was keenly interested in everything relating to New Spain, and even before his visitors were seated he plunged into discussion: ‘Tell me, Bishop, what facts do we know about the Seven Cities?’ and Zumárraga replied:
‘Some say it was in A.D. 714 when Don Rodrigo of Spain lost his kingdom to the Muhammadans, but others with better cause say it was in 1150, in the reverent Spanish city of Mérida. In either case, seven devout bishops, refusing to obey the infidel Moors who had conquered their city, fled across the ocean, and each bishop established his own powerful city. We’ve had many reports of the riches those good men accumulated and the wonders they performed, but we’ve not known exactly where they went. Many have searched for them, and I’ve even heard it claimed that the Italian Cristóbal Colón was seeking the Seven Cities when he discovered our New World. All we know for certain is that the Seven Cities are grouped together.’
The viceroy pursed his lips, reflecting on what the clergyman had said. Then he asked bluntly: ‘Do you believe the Cities exist?’
‘Of a certainty.’
‘Ah, but do they? Dorantes left a deposition which I read again only yesterday. He said he had met no one, not a single soul, who had actually seen them or known anyone who had.’
For some moments that November day no one spoke, and finally Bishop Zumárraga uttered words which summarized reasonable thought on the matter: ‘God never works accidentally. It stands to Holy reason that if He placed Peru far down here, with its golden treasury, and Mexico here in the middle, with its wealth of silver, he must have balanced these two with some great kingdom up here. The Rule of Three, the rule of Christian balance, requires the Seven Cities to be where Cabeza de Vaca’s Indians said they were. Excellency, it is our Christian duty to find them, especially since the seven bishops probably converted the area, which means that Christians may be there awaiting union with the Holy Mother Church in Rome.’
‘My view exactly!’ Fray Marcos cried, with the enthusiasm he always showed, after he, like Esteban, had decided what his superiors wanted to hear, but the viceroy made a more sober comment: ‘If we send a conquistador north to the Seven Cities to bring them back into the fold of the church, who will pay the vast expense? Not the emperor in Madrid. He never risks a maravedí of his own money. I pay, from my own fortune and my wife’s, and before I do that I want reasonable assurance of success.’
Suddenly his manner changed, his voice brightened, and he asked: ‘What have you heard about this young nobleman Francisco Vásquez de Coronado?’ and the bishop said quickly: ‘He could lead your expedition. And he could help with the costs.’
‘But we must not mount a great expedition—all those men and horses—before the region has been properly scouted.’
‘That’s why I sought this audience,’ Bishop Zumárraga said, and with a bold sweep of his arm he indicated that Marcos, Esteban and Garcilaço were to leave the room.
As soon as only he and Mendoza were together, the bishop said: ‘By the greatest good fortune, that friar who just left us is an excellent man with wide experience in the conquest of Peru. I find him a man of prudence and one to be trusted.’
When the viceroy asked if there was aught in the friar’s history to be held against him, the bishop replied: ‘I would be less than honest with you, Excellency, if I did not also share with you his three weaknesses. First, he has been in Mexico only briefly. Second, he is extremely ambitious, but are not, also, you and I? I cannot hold this a disqualifying fault. Third, he is not a Spaniard, but then, most of our emperor’s subjects are Austrians, Lowlanders or Italians. The emperor himself is a German, or, if you wish, an Austrian.’
When the viceroy showed signs of accepting the friar, the bishop seemed eager to disclose even the smallest weakness lest he later be called to account: ‘The final point, Excellency, is a delicate one. The boy you saw with him, this Garcilaço, stays by his side constantly, and who he is I cannot say for certain. Some claim he accompanied Marcos from Peru, and these insist that Garcilaço is his son. Others say he was acquired in Guatemala, in which case the boy must have been eight or nine when Marcos got him. Such suppositions are foolish, for we know he was already in Mexico traveling with Cabeza de Vaca. Others, with the better argument, I feel, say that the boy was an alley rat in the sewers of Vera Cruz when Marcos rescued him. You’ve seen the lad and he seems to show promise.’
‘I think we had better question the friar and his boy more closely,’ the viceroy said.
Garcilaço would always remember how proud he was of his father that day as the two faced Mendoza and Zumárraga. Marcos wore a voluminous robe made of the heavy fabric favored by the Franciscans, who were often called in the streets of the city ‘Christ’s little gray chickens,’ a phrase he did not find amusing. He was obviously a serious man, and if upon first appearance he had any defect, it was his piercing gaze which revealed him to be a fanatical believer, though what he believed in—the mystery of Christianity or his own destiny—no one could guess.
‘Are you a Spaniard?’ Mendoza asked bluntly.
‘I’m a servant of Christ, and of the emperor, and of you, Viceroy, should you employ me.’
‘But you were born in France, they say.’
‘No, Excellency. In the city of Nice.’
‘So you’re a Savoyard?’
‘No, Excellency, I’m Spanish. Through service to my church and emperor, I’ve made myself so.’
‘Those are good words, Fray. Now tell me, who exactly is this lad who stands beside you?’
‘I was ordered to bring him, Excellency.’
‘Indeed you were,’ Zumárraga broke in. ‘Now explain.’
In the moment of silence which followed this abrupt command, all in the room looked at Garcilaço, and they saw the mystery in the boy. He was one of the first of Mexico’s mestizo children, half Spanish, half Indian, that durable breed which even then seemed destined to take over Mexico and remote Spanish territories like the future Texas. In the audience room that day Garcilaço represented the future, a first ripple in the tremendous flood that would one day remake his land.
The boy heard Fray Marcos speaking: ‘I have worked in lonely places, Excellencies, and one morning as I stepped off a boat in Vera Cruz, I saw this child here, a lost soul, no parents, no home …’ He said no more.
‘Who were your parents, son?’
Garcilaço shrugged his shoulders, not insolently but in honest ignorance: ‘Excellency, here I am, just as I stand.’
For the first time the viceroy smiled. He then turned to Fray Marcos: ‘If I gave you Esteban as your guide, could you scout the Seven Cities and then give some would-be conquistador, Coronado for example, instructions as to how to reach them?’
‘I would be honored,’ Marcos said with no hesitation, and so it was agreed, but after Bishop Zumárraga had taken his charges, and Esteban, from the hall, the viceroy mused:
Who are these strangers who just left my office? Is the friar a faithful Catholic or has he been corrupted by modern ideas? Why should Spain put its trust in such an unknown? And this Esteban, what is he? Dorantes when he sold him assured me he was a Moor. But what’s a Moor? The Moors I knew were not black. They were white men bronzed by the sun. Look at him. He’s not black. He’s brown. And what religion is he, pray tell me that? He was born a Muslim, like all Moors. When did he become a Christian? And how sincerely? And what of the boy? Is he the first of the mestizos who will be seeking power? Spain! Spain! Our emperor is a German. His Spanish mother who should be reigning is ins
ane. And look at me, sending out an untested friar to find the new Peru, and a man of doubtful allegiance to be his guide. Where will it all end?
In order to ensure that at least one verifiable Spaniard participate in this critical venture, Mendoza asked Bishop Zumárraga to nominate as second-in-command a younger friar with impeccable credentials, and the cleric selected a Franciscan in whom he had great faith, Fray Honorato. Mendoza was delighted: ‘The Spaniard can keep an eye on the Frenchman, and both can keep an eye on the Moor.’
But this canny safeguard did not work, because when the entourage was only a few days north of Culiacán, Honorato reported a slight indisposition: ‘I don’t feel well. Nothing, really, but …’ With remarkable speed Fray Marcos bundled him up and sent him posting back to the capital. He was now in sole charge and intended to stay so.
But there was in the entourage a man just as ambitious as Marcos and even more flamboyant—Esteban, who, since he was the only one who had ever seen the north, now had to be promoted to second-in-command. Younger than Marcos, he matched him in brain power, and was vastly superior in knowledge of terrain and ability to work with Indians. He could speak in signs with many tribes, but more important, he displayed an exuberance which delighted the people of the villages through which the little army passed, and many who saw him shouted greetings, for they still remembered the magician who could heal.
When it came time to depart a village, more women would insist upon accompanying Esteban, so that his harem increased constantly. He had the capacity of being able to keep his many camp followers happy, and at one time nearly a hundred trailed along, singing with him, hunting food for him, and crowding his tent at night.