My master’s hair had already started to grow, shooting out in tiny spikes from beneath his helmet. He rode with his back very straight, one fist holding the reins and the other resting on his thigh. We were in a clearing now, but in spite of the sun and the heat the horse shivered.
Abejorro’s ears are leaning sideways, Señor Dorantes said.
He loved that horse dearly, had been riding him since he was a young lad on his father’s estate near Salamanca, and was particularly sensitive to his moods and needs. I stepped out of my master’s shade to get a better look at Abejorro; it was true, his ears were lowered.
I hope, Señor Dorantes said, his tone halfway between a warning and a threat, that you haven’t been giving him some of that fruit you keep eating.
No, Señor.
A horde of mosquitoes moved drunkenly toward me, and I untied the red rag from my neck to swat at them. They were diabolically persistent, a species unlike any I had seen before, a torment for every one of us. All day long, the mosquitoes hummed and the men slapped their arms and legs, like a procession of penitents. I yearned for some lemon and garlic, a mixture my mother used to rub on me to protect me from these parasites in the summer, but despite its richness the Land of the Indians did not have any lemon trees.
That palm fruit could make him sick, my master said.
I did not give it to him, Señor.
As if to expose my lie, Abejorro’s stomach growled loudly, to which my master responded by casting me a grim look. I had grown attached to Abejorro during the journey across the Ocean of Fog and Darkness, so I hated to see him remain hungry after he had finished his feed. I had given him only a small handful of fruit. Now I put my ear on his belly, just behind his ribs, but the gurgling sounds I heard seemed ordinary to me.
If anything happens to my horse, my master said, I will flog you.
The memory of the Indians being whipped came to me, unbidden. It seemed to me I could still hear their howls of pain reverberating against the walls of the storehouse in Portillo.
Just then, Abejorro defecated; Señor Dorantes and I both turned to look. It is hard and dry, I said. He needs more water, Señor. That is all.
Señor Dorantes chewed on his lower lip. Although the horses had been watered at the river, they were kept on strict rations during the march, because the porters could not carry large amounts of water and it was impossible to know how long we would have to walk before we came to another clean source.
I will find him some more water, I said.
How?
The ration master is Portuguese. I will speak to him.
Very well.
As I turned to go, my master called after me. Estebanico.
Señor?
Do not get caught.
The governor was exceedingly strict about rations, so of course I had to be discreet. I walked back to the end of the procession until I found the ration master. He was a man of middle age, with a sweaty forehead and a thick beard. I did not know him well, having conversed with him only when necessity demanded it. Still, I made my request, speaking to him not in Spanish but in his native language, which I had learned as a child in Azemmur. I hoped that this would earn me some goodwill, but his only reply was to ask me, Why should I give you more water?
I told you. My master’s horse is ill.
You know the rules.
The horse could die in this heat. Have some mercy, I beg you.
Mercy is from God. I only ration the water.
But I have no money.
You have this.
The ration master reached for the hatchet I had tied around my neck, and which I had taken from the Indian who had tried to kill me. As a slave in Seville, I had not been allowed to carry a weapon, but here in the Indies, Señor Dorantes had not asked me to relinquish this native ax. Its blade was made of limestone, so finely sharpened it could easily cut through thick pinewood, and its handle was painted in a pattern of white and blue stripes. I put my hand on the weapon to stop the ration master from taking it. It was the only means I had to defend myself in case of an attack. But when I thought of what might happen if Abejorro fell ill — and what might happen to me as a result — I relented. Gingerly, the ration master put his finger on the blade, and when it cut a sliver of his skin, he whistled in admiration. Let him take the hatchet, I said to myself. Let him take the hatchet if it means I can help Abejorro and elude the whip.
Well done, Señor Dorantes said when I reported to him that I had secured a larger ration for the horse. He did not ask how I had managed that feat. Instead, he turned back toward the sunlight and I took my usual place, one step behind him, in his shadow.
THE GOVERNOR HAD ORDERED the Indian captives to take us to the kingdom of Apalache, but they led us into a village of thatched-roof dwellings, arranged in a half-moon against a horizon of pine trees. It was barely larger than Portillo, the fishing settlement where I had found the gold. Inside the firepits, I noticed, the ash was fine and white. Animal bones, all of them picked clean, were drying in the sun. A lone sandal sat in the middle of the square. The colors of the village — the brown of thatched roofs, the red of doorway blankets, the green of ripening corn in the field — seemed to blend together in the hazy heat. I felt dizzy and had to steady myself against Abejorro’s saddle.
From the height of his horse, with his hand shielding his eyes from the light, Señor Narváez spoke: Search the village.
His page repeated the order in a loud voice, so that no one would miss it. Search the village!
The soldiers fanned out through the settlement. They turned the blankets upside down, patted the animal hides that hung on rails, ran their hands through stored beans, checked water urns, and looked inside cooking pots, but none of them reported any trace of gold.
By then, I had tethered Abejorro to a tree and was following Señor Dorantes and Señor Castillo as they walked about. They went in and out of a few homes — simple huts that contained little more than bedding made of animal fur, baskets for storing food, or a few children’s toys. Then they entered the largest lodge, which was the temple. It had a high ceiling and a dirt floor, now covered with the soldiers’ bootprints. A few wooden idols sat along the far end of the lodge, three in the shape of eagles and two in the shape of panthers. Hanging from the ceiling on opposite walls were a dozen ceremonial headdresses, of the same kind as those we had seen in Portillo.
The two señores were walking back and forth along the temple walls, looking for anything of value, when suddenly Señor Castillo stopped in front of one the headdresses; it stood out from the others because it had red and yellow parrot feathers instead of black and brown hawk feathers. The leather strap that maintained the parrot plumes in place was decorated with a multitude of beads and charms, arranged in several neat rows. Señor Castillo unhooked the headdress from its string and in a voice high with excitement he called out: Dorantes. Look at this.
In three strides, my master was standing beside his friend. Señor Castillo dislodged one of the charms with his thumbnail and held it up to the light that came in from the doorway. Motes of dust floated in the air, which carried with it the faint smell of pine trees. In the distance, a horse moaned with exhaustion.
Gold? Señor Dorantes whispered.
His tone was conspiratorial. Instantly, I was reminded of the time he had asked this servant of God to commit a sin on his behalf: to eavesdrop on a private meeting. This happened in Santo Domingo, on the island of La Española, where the armada had stopped for supplies on its way to La Florida. Señor Cabeza de Vaca, the treasurer, had asked to speak to Señor Narváez in private, a request that made my master think he was trying to arrange for a position as lieutenant governor of the new territory. While the treasurer and the governor ate their lunch in the dining room of an inn, I sat underneath the open window and listened. If I had been found, I knew, my master would have denied any knowledge of my mission and instead would have beaten me for spying on his gentleman friends.