The Sun Virgin
The thing behind the governor’s frown was out at last. He was jealous
of Pizarro, and no argument could move him from his hostile decision.
Father Luque rose to add his voice to the plea of his associates, but
Pizarro seized him and scowled.
“Not another word. We will not grovel before such petty jealousy.”
They left the governor immediately.
At the council which followed Almagro angrily proposed to build their
ships and sail without the governor’s approval or aid.
But Espinosa shook his head.
“We dare not move without a charter from the government, gentlemen.”
“Has a free man no longer the right to breathe without a license?” the
fiery little adventurer scolded.
“He has not!” the chief justice promptly answered. “More and more our
governments are regulating every detail of life. The concentration
of power in the hands of ruling kings has brought us to this state.
This man’s word, conceived in the meanest spirit of jealousy and low
ambition, is still the law in Panama. We must face the facts.”
“And let the toil, sacrifice, and faith of years go for naught?”
Almagro flared. “Shall we stand idle while others leap in and seize
our prize? _Por las entrañas de Dios_, I’ll strangle the upstart
first!”
Father Luque lifted his hand in disapproval, both of the blasphemy and
the threat of murder.
“There’s a way, gentlemen, and we must take it.”
He spoke with the conviction of a man who had carefully weighed
his plan. His associates drew close and waited in silence until he
continued.
“Our remedy will mean delay. But I have the firm faith that in it we
will find a sure triumph. We are soldiers of Spain. We are working
for the Crown. We are extending the boundaries of the Empire of our
Sovereign, Charles V. Our glory will be his; our success his. He is
more interested than any man on earth. We’ll take our cause to the
Emperor and ask of him a royal charter.”
Almagro leaped to his feet and shouted:
“And make the pig in his Panama sty eat dirt.”
The approval was unanimous. It was the one move which Rios would least
suspect and in his stubborn pride was sure to ignore as another dream
of fools.
The plan was discussed in detail. The man on whom the choice of
ambassador to the Court of Charles fell at once--Father Luque--could
not leave his duties at Panama. Espinosa had been chief justice under
Pedrarias and his many enemies at the court rendered his selection
unwise.
Pizarro and Almagro were not only unlettered soldiers, but it was known
of all men that both were born out of wedlock and had lived the lives
of nameless waifs in Spain. Pizarro had been abandoned in Truxillo by
the humble peasant girl who gave him birth.
While a tiny boy he had earned a scant living by tending pigs; had
slept with them and had saved himself from starvation more than once by
nursing their friendly mother. He had never been to court even as a
kitchen scullion; he had never looked on royalty.
Almagro was small of stature, ugly in features, and much disfigured
by the loss of his eye. Besides, his quick temper and easily roused
passions made his selection a thing beyond discussion.
Father Luque suggested that they appoint the Licentiate Corroll, a
reputable lawyer about to return to Spain on public business.
Almagro flung himself from his chair with a snort of disapproval.
“God’s wounds, no!” he shouted. “He’ll forget us in his own business.
One of us must go. One whose heart and soul is in the work. I’ve
quarreled with Francisco Pizarro as I shall again. But I like his ways.
No court can frighten him. I’ve seen him in close quarters. No man can
tell the king the story of our adventures as well as he who led us. To
hell with his lack of learning and his sad birth! He’s a man for all
that, a strong man, and a leader. I ask Francisco Pizarro to go for us
to the court of the Emperor!”
The one eye flashed its light into his comrade’s face and waited for
the answer. But Pizarro was loath to accept the grave responsibility.
“Frankly, my friends,” he concluded his objections, “I’d rather lead a
dozen expeditions into the wilderness against wild beasts and savages,
but--” He paused and drew his fine figure erect--“if you think that I
am the man to entrust with this mission, I will go.”
Father Luque was doubtful, yet no better choice seemed possible and
he acquiesced. He placed a hand on the shoulder of Pizarro, another on
Almagro’s shaggy head and earnestly prayed:
“God grant, my children, that one of you may never defraud the other of
his blessing!”
Pizarro solemnly promised to consult the interests of his partners
equally with his own.
It was not until early in the spring that he sailed--the spring of
1528. He took with him Pedro de Candia as a living witness, two natives
of Peru to train as interpreters, three live llamas, and specimens of
fine cloth, and vases of gold and silver.
He arrived early in the summer at Seville, the port from which he had
sailed for the New World more than twenty years before, an obscure
common soldier.
The people heard him with deep interest and excitement. The news of his
arrival and mission to the court spread over the city with remarkable
swiftness. His dreams were coming true.
On the day he was packing for the journey to the court a loud knock
on his door accompanied by the terror-stricken voice of the landlord
announced the arrival of a servant of the king. Pizarro smiled at what
he thought was the quick response of an eager Crown and opened the door
with pride.
He was dumfounded to discover that the servant of the king was a common
bailiff charged with his arrest on a warrant sworn out by a certain
lawyer, Encisco, who had come to grief at Darien during Pizarro’s
first expedition with Ojeda. Encisco accused the bold adventurer of
ruining him by having Balboa ship him back to Spain. Pizarro saw the
fine hand of Rios in this warrant.
Instead of an audience with His Majesty, Charles V, the ambassador
found himself that night talking from the inside of an iron cage to the
turnkey of a jail. He promptly sent Pedro de Candia with a message to
the Emperor.
The moment Charles heard, he dispatched a courier with orders for
Pizarro’s release and an invitation to present himself immediately.
From the depths of despair the prisoner was lifted to the heights. Of
the royal courier the soldier of fortune asked eagerly news of the
sovereign, his character, and of his achievements and triumphs. Buried
in the depths of the Isthmus of Panama and the trackless seas that
wash its shores, he had heard little of Europe. To him the Emperor was
merely a name to be spoken with awe. Now he must appear before this
august presence with his future in his hands. On the turn of a little
finger for him rested the issues of life or death.
The courier was deeply impressed by the tall, bronzed man from the
wilderness, and described his royal master with enthusiasm as they
journeyed to Toledo.
“Know this, Señor, that His Majesty is yet a very young man. Although
his fame fills the world he is but twenty-eight years of age, a man
of unusual strength of character, born the heir of four great royal
houses. He wears the crowns of Austria, the Netherlands, Aragon and
Castile, and he’s just been called to be the ruler of Germany. At the
age of fifteen the crown of Charlemagne was placed on his head at
Aix-la-Chapelle. He owns the kingdoms of Naples and the two Sicilies
and is about to depart for one of his palaces in Italy.
“He has just defeated Francis I, King of France, and taken him
prisoner. He is too great for petty thoughts and petty grudges. Win his
favor and you may have what you wish for the asking.”
Pizarro lifted his head with elation. He thought of Rios with contempt
and threw off fear. He could talk to a great man in a language that
he could understand. He must keep his poise amid the splendors of the
Emperor’s court and say the right word.
As the cavalcade approached Toledo across the desolate stretch of
parched sands, the proud old city, set on its seven hills, loomed
suddenly in grandeur beyond the yellow waters of the Tagus. The rising
sun touched with splendor the towers of the cathedral and the ramparts
of the royal Alcazar in which Charles held his court. He had rebuilt
the old palace-fortress in a style befitting his new power. Somewhere,
beneath the pile of the cathedral, moved the archbishop of Toledo,
supreme ruler of the Church in Spain. His authority was second only to
that of the Emperor, and his hand had been felt more than once in the
affairs of the New World. A word that might offend the prelate would be
a fatal mistake.
At the Alcantara bridge Pizarro paused to await the arrival of Candia
in charge of his precious llamas, and the treasures of Peru. On the
high hill above the bridgehead loomed the great rectangular fortified
convent and beyond it the towers of the city. Throngs were passing
over the highway, across the bridge. Vast clouds of dust filled the
skies from the plains. The capital of Spain at this time boasted of a
population of two hundred thousand people.
Something in the contagious excitement of the throngs pushing, shoving,
jostling, shouting as they passed over the bridge, caught the heart of
the adventurer from the outlands. For more than twenty years he had
lived in the far wilderness. The crowded life of the city that loomed
above frightened him.
A moment of panic seized him. What if he lost his head before the
august presence of the young Emperor, whose fame had reached the limits
of the earth? The results would be tragic. It would mean the loss of
all his years of toil. It would mean the end of his hopes. Encisco and
Rios would secure his rearrest. A man in jail in Spain at his age of
fifty-five would be doomed! The records of court were vain imaginings.
Once there, prisoners languished in dungeons and died without trial,
their very existence forgotten. Luckily for him the fame of Cortez’
conquest of Mexico had stirred Spain, and the Emperor was interested in
the possibilities of Peru.
In spite of his iron will Pizarro’s panic grew at these thoughts until
a shout from Pedro de Candia reminded him that he was the leader of a
great cause. On his shoulders rested the responsibility of success or
failure. He lifted his stalwart figure and rode across the Alcantara
bridge with as high head as the royal courier who accompanied him.
They threaded the narrow, winding, gloomy streets and reached the
triangular plaza of Zocodoro without mishap. And here the ambassador
was grateful for the guidance of the courier. No stranger could have
found his way through the labyrinth of crooked streets without a guide.
Pizarro protested at stopping in the tavern beside the square. He
wished to pass straight on to the Alcazar and see His Majesty without
delay.
The courier laughed.
“It will yet be hours, Señor, before His Majesty rises. On awakening
about eight, it is his habit to eat in bed a royal meal of spiced
chicken and beer, turn over and sleep again for several hours. It
would be unwise to see him until he has had his mid-day repast, a more
leisurely and substantial feast. Woe betide the man who interrupts
a meal of Charles V. He is not only the greatest potentate of the
world--he is the greatest eater of all time.”
It was past two o’clock when Pizarro finally stood before the audience
chamber of the Emperor.
The courier gave him friendly advice.
“Show His Majesty your llamas and woolen cloth first. He is keenly
interested in developing his textiles. Then your golden vessels. He
needs gold. The _Cortes_ will grant him no money for foreign wars.
He has just beaten the King of France, but a new war looms. The Pope
will soon crown him Emperor of Italy, but he must defend his title.