Chapter 20 Columbus by Rafael Sabatini
THE GIPSIES
The departure of the two Venetians from Cordoba on that Saturday morning of early June was delayed by a congestion of the streets and of the road which, crossing the river by the Moorish Bridge, runs south-eastward through the Campina. For it happened that on this same morning the Sovereigns, with imposing warlike pomp, were setting out for the camp in the Vega, to take in hand the last stage of the conquest of Granada.
The eyes of Cordoba had been rejoiced and its heart thrilled by that majestic parade. To the flourishes of trumpeters richly tabarded and under waving banners, their Highnesses had ridden forth at the head of a long line of glittering knights. The King made a brave show in his gilded armour, and even Queen Isabel rode in a warrior’s back-and-breast of black damascened steel inlaid with arabesques in gold.
The knightly phalanx was followed by a cavalcade of the Queen’s ladies, on mules that were richly housed and tasselled, and after these came the Court functionaries, civil and ecclesiastic, and other members of the royal household, with grooms and falconers at their tail. Next rode a troop of men-at-arms, with bannerols fluttering from their lance-heads, succeeded by a long column of pikemen in light body armour, who marched four by four, trailing their ten-foot pikes, and these again by a regiment of arbalesters, Swiss mercenaries in short leather jackets shouldering their crossbows and armoured only on their breasts, so as to advertise their boast that they never turned their backs upon the foe. The rear was brought up by ox-wains, the foremost bearing the clumsy siege lombards, the remainder laden with the baggage, urged along by the lance-like goads of the lads who marched beside them.
In dust and heat this army, cheered by the townsfolk, wound its way from the Alcazar to the Moorish Bridge, and over this set out on its journey to the camp in the pleasant fertile Vega of Granada.
It would be an hour or so later, by when the way was clear again, that Rocca and Gallina left Cordoba by that same Moorish Bridge over the wide river, winding like glowing amber in the morning sunlight about the golden sandbanks of its course. The muleteer from whom they had hired their beasts went a little ahead of them. They rode sedately on well-groomed mules, the harness bedecked with coloured tassels and hung with bells that tinkled gaily as they moved.
Under a spreading fig-tree before a wine-shop in the street that intersected the huddle of low white houses forming the bridge-head on the Campina bank, a half-dozen men, with a deal of noisy chatter and laughter, were drinking a morning cup. Their mules were tethered to the rings in the wall beside the wine-shop. They were of a rude aspect, men of the sierras with something in their lean activity of the wolves that haunted the mountains. They were in fustian jackets, their legs untidily cross-gartered. Gipsies, the muleteer contemptuously pronounced them.
Our Venetians trotted on, reaching the end of the suburb and the edge of the open country, where a crowd of beggars, attracted thither by the morning’s cavalcade, whined for alms and sought to move compassion by exhibiting their sores. A mile or so farther in the open lands of the Campina, there was a clatter of overtaking hooves behind them, and the muleteer ranged his travellers aside, to give passage to a little troop that moved at speed in a cloud of dust. He recognized them for the gipsies who had been drinking at the venta by the bridge, and said so, cursing them for the dust they raised, as they swept on, ever vociferous, to breast the next slope of that undulating country.
“May the devil break their dirty necks,” was the muleteer’s prayer when he set his mule going again.
They came at a gentle pace up the acclivity over the crest of which these wild riders had vanished. How completely they had vanished the Venetians did not realize until in their turn they reached the crest, and paused there to breathe their mounts.
In the depths of the shallow valley before them the yellow waters of the Guadajoz wound their sparkling way through smiling lands of a richer fertility. On their right a dark forest of beech and oak and chestnut trees in flower made a tall rampart for the grey road. On their left terraced vineyards broke the southern slope, falling away to rich green pastures, where herds of active Andalusian kine were browsing.
They ambled down the slope, splashed through the ford at the foot of it, and breasted the rise beyond. The trilling of a lark, high in the blue dome overhead, was the only sound in the silence of that countryside. But when they were midway up the hill a sudden shout rang out, three mounted men broke from the cover of the trees to range themselves across the path of the travellers. They were three of the gipsies, and their leader, a long, lean scarecrow in a wide-brimmed hat with a greasy black smear across his face that had much the effect of a mask, stood a half-mule’s length ahead of his fellows.
Harshly he ordered the travellers to halt, which was, anyway, unnecessary, for they had halted already.
“Lord Jesus defend us!” gasped the muleteer.
But Gallina and Rocca, men who were not easily moved to fear, demanded truculently to know what was wanted of them.
The leading ruffian laughed. “Just what you happen to have about you, noble sirs. Dismount, and lively.”
A noise behind made Gallina look over his shoulder. He found the other three in their rear, cutting off their retreat.
Rocca was profane. But Gallina wasted no breath. He lugged out his sword. “Forward, Rocca! Cut the brigands down.”
The rowels of their spurs drew blood, and the maddened mules charged forward at the gallop, the Venetians standing in their stirrups with swords raised to strike.
The leading bandit took the cut of Gallina’s blade on his staff, and on a whirling counter brought the length of quince-wood, that was as tough as steel, across the Venetian’s head. Protected only by a flat velvet cap, the blow rolled him senseless from the saddle, and it was mere good fortune that his feet left the stirrups.
Rocca fared no better. The fellow he charged swerved aside to avoid him, and swung his staff with terrific force at the forelegs of the Venetian’s mule. The beast came down on its knees, and the abrupt check in full career catapulted Rocca into the road, to lie there as senseless as his companion.
He recovered consciousness in the cool gloom of the forest, on the mossy bank of a brook. The first thing his reopening eyes beheld was the muleteer roped to a tree; the next was Gallina, lying inert alongside of him. Then both were eclipsed by a brown, leering, lantern-jawed face at close quarters, and Rocca was aware of hands working upon his body. An attempt to rise informed him that he was tied at wrists and ankles, and he now made the further discovery that his doublet was gone. A voice was bidding the rogue that handled him make sure that he had no money-belt.
“There’s naught else,” the bandit answered. “I’ve searched him to his mangy skin.”
“Go through the other pigeon, then.”
The ruffian moved away from Rocca, and the Venetian, to that extent liberated, turned on his side, glaring mute, impotent ferocity. Thus he was able to watch the leader who held and was searching his doublet. The fellow had emptied the pockets, and was now feeling the material between finger and thumb. To Rocca’s increasing rage the man discovered the stiffness of the package that the Venetian had sewn between the velvet and the lining. He brought out a knife, and ripping the one from the other, drew forth a slim oilskin wallet. He dropped the doublet, opened the wallet and from it extracted what Rocca knew to be the Toscanelli chart and letter. He scanned them closely in turn, and replaced them in their wallet. This he pocketed, then kicking the doublet across towards Rocca, he called off the man who was rifling Gallina.
“Leave that. It’s no matter for him.” He swung on his heel, briskly. “Now, my lads, we’ll be moving.”
Rocca found his voice. “Wait!” he cried. “Wait! Our money you may have. But the papers in that wallet are worthless to you. Leave me those.”
The bandit grinned. “Worthless, eh? That’ll be why you hid them. It’ll need a scholar to tell me their worth. I’ll be keeping them until I find one.”
Rocca struggled into a sitting posture, unconscious even of the ache in his bruised head. “They’re worthless, I tell you, to anyone but me.”
“And what may they be worth to you?”
“Ten thousand maravedis,” was the impatient, reckless answer.
“That means a hundred thousand at the least,” the fellow laughed. “I thank you for telling me. I’ll find me a buyer.”
“You’ll run your neck into a halter in searching. Look now. You shall have your hundred thousand maravedis.”
The rogue stared at him, and again loosed his odious guffaw.
“Where shall you find them?”
“In Cordoba. Come to me there to-morrow, and——”
“And run my neck into the halter you mentioned. St. James! I’m a simpleton, to be sure.”
“Listen . . .”
“You’ve told me enough. What I have I’ll keep.”
But here Gallina, who, disregarded by Rocca, had not only recovered consciousness, but had taken a quick clear grasp of the situation, came into the discussion. “A moment, my friend. A moment!” He paused to utter a groan of pain; then mastered himself, and went on: “No good ever came of refusing to listen. Give my friend the wallet, and let him go back to Cordoba for the money. Hold me as a hostage until it’s paid.”
Still the bandit merely laughed. “I’ve known men caught like that.” He shook his head. “I am content with what I’ve got.”
He began to move away, when Rocca’s voice, raised almost to a scream, arrested him again. “Hi! You scoundrel thief! You’ll be hanged for this. Give me back the wallet, and we’ll lodge no complaint. But if you don’t, I swear to——”
“Quiet! You’ld bear plaint, would you? There’s a saying that dead men tell no tales. You’d best remember it before you provoke me into cracking your necks for you.”
He strode away, barking out orders. His manner, almost military, procured him a prompt obedience. Some of the gipsies untethered the mules, and led them away through the trees; others unbound the muleteer.
“You’ll untie your patrons after we have left,” the leader told him. “You may tramp back to Cordoba. It’s not above three leagues. We’ll take your mules. But you’ll find them again at Lamego’s venta by the Moorish Bridge.” He bowed to the Venetians with a flourish of his broad-brimmed hat. “Remain with God, my masters.”
“The devil go with you,” was Rocca’s answering civility, spoken through his teeth.
In evil case, sore in body and sick in soul, the agents of the Three presently came out of the forest with the muleteer, to make their way to back Cordoba on foot.
By the time they reached the Moorish Bridge the sun was already low. At the venta the muleteer called a halt, so that he might, inquire for his beasts. The Venetians, weary, dusty and footsore, were glad of the chance to quench their raging thirst. They entered the noisome common-room, and Rocca, sinking limp to a greasy stool, called for wine in a voice that was hoarse from weariness and peremptory from irritation.
The vintner looked askance at their bedraggled condition and at the bloody bandage about Gallina’s head. But because Gavilan, the muleteer, was known to him he was ready to serve them without questions.
Avidly they drank the sour wine, and Gavilan drank with them. He filled and drank again before he found the use of his tongue to ask for his mules.
“They came back three hours ago,” Lamego told him. “I knew them for yours, and I’ve turned them into the field at the back.” Then at last he ventured the question: “What has happened to you?”
“The devil has happened,” Rocca told him, in a raging voice. “We’ve been robbed and flayed, as you can see. A cursed country this in which such things can happen. Who brought back the mules?”
“What do I know? A lad from the hills.”
“Would it be one of those merry gipsy lads that were drinking here this morning?”
The vintner thoughtfully scratched a cautious head. “Nay, now. There were a many drinking here this morning after their Highnesses rode out. I wouldn’t remember.”
“I thought you wouldn’t,” was Gallina’s sour comment. “And what way did he go, this lad, after he left the mules?”
“Nay, now, I never mark such things. I serve my patrons, and trouble no more about them when they’ve gone with God.”
“A model host, in fact.”
But Rocca, in his evil mood, was not content to leave it there. “Just the host for a country of thieves and cut-throats.”
“You’ve no call to say that of me, Master Foreigner. No, nor of Castile, which as everyone knows is the best ordered land in the world. We’ve a hermandad to watch over the roads and keep them safe for travellers.”
“A hermandad! A brotherhood! Ay, a brotherhood of bandits. The only plaguey brotherhood we’ve seen on your Castilian roads.”
The vintner withdrew in a scowling silence, and the muleteer went off, through the house, to find his beasts.
Rocca brimmed himself another can. “I wonder,” he said, “if hemlock tastes as vilely as this poison. Only thirst can . . .” He checked there, staring ahead, jug in hand. Then he smashed the vessel down so violently upon the board that it broke, and the wine flooded table and floor. That and the oath with which he came to his feet, made Gallina look round.
A man had just entered the wine-shop, a tall, loose-limbed fellow in a fustian jacket, with cross-gartered legs, at sight of whom Gallina’s beady eyes became beadier. It was the leader of the gipsy bandits who had that day assailed them.
“God avail us!” he ejaculated, and came to his feet in his turn, whilst Rocca, with the fierce, silent purposefulness of a hound, was already leaping at the newcomer.
The gipsy, thus assailed, flung him off with violence. “Holà, drunkard! Devil take your embraces.”
“Brigand!” roared Rocca, and returned to the assault, reinforced by Gallina.
Together they fell upon the gipsy.
“You shall sweat blood, you rascal, for to-day’s work,” Gallina promised him. “We’ll have your dirty neck in a halter.”
The man struggled wildly in their grasp. “The devil break your bones! Hi, landlord!” he panted. “Hold off these murderers.”
They swayed in a writhing, fighting, gasping mass, across the earthen floor of the inn, raising the dust and knocking over a table at which a couple of peasants had been quietly drinking.
The gipsy went down with the Venetians on top of him, whilst the vintner danced about the group with angry remonstrance.
“Sirs! Sirs! For the love of Heaven! What’s the meaning of it?”
Rocca, with a knee on the gipsy’s stomach, gave him answer. “This is one of the brigands who waylaid us. Call the watch whilst we hold him. Call the watch.”
“But you’re mad, sirs,” the vintner protested. “This is Master Ribera. He’s no bandit.” He strove to pull them off their victim.
The gipsy renewed his struggles. “Let me go, you crazy louts.” He raised his voice. “Hi, there! Help! Help!” Then louder still, he emitted the call that summoned the watch. “Acuda el rey! Acuda el rey!”
The answer was prompt—miraculously prompt—and it came in strength. No fewer than four alguaziles surged, amazingly opportune, upon the threshold and clattered into the inn.
“What’s here? What’s happening?” the leader demanded, but waited for no answer before falling upon the Venetians. He beat them with the butt of his short halbert. “Up, you rogues! Up! Do you want to kill the man?”
“A pair of crazy, drunken, foreign scoundrels,” whined the gipsy, “manhandling a poor devil.”
Rocca, vainly trying to shake himself free of the grip of two watchmen who had hauled him to his feet, delivered himself in breathless fury. “We’ve been robbed on the highroad, and this is one of the brigands who robbed us.”
The gipsy sat up painfully, feeling himself, with a great show of concern for his limbs. “They’re drunk,” he cried. “I haven’t been out of Cordoba all day. I can bring a dozen to swear it. These rascals were killing me. They’ve broken some of my bones, I think. Ai! Ai!” With gasps of pain he gathered himself carefully up.
“Leave them to us, Master Ribera,” cried the leading alguazil. “They can give an account of themselves to the Corregidor. Come on, you scoundrels.”
“Keep a civil tongue,” fumed Rocca, “or you’ll repent it. Let us to the Corregidor, by all means. But bring that rascal along, too.”
“Do you give me orders now? The devil burn you. Answer for yourself, Master Foreigner. That’ll be enough for you. Setting about honest Castilian folk, and miscalling them. Get along there. Get along. March!”
“You fools . . .” Rocca was beginning, when a prod in the small of his back from the butt of one of the pikes, cut short his utterance and thrust him yelping forward. “Get along, curse your garboil. You can talk to the Corregidor.”
Thus in ignominy and fury they were haled from the inn and away through the streets of Cordoba, with a tail of jeering urchins and idlers that increased steadily all the way to the market-place where the Corregidoria and the gaol were situated.
Into that gloomy building of heavily-barred, unglazed windows the agents of the Three were conducted, and after their names had been taken and entered in a register, with a note of the plaint against them, they were locked in a stone cell that seemed to them no bigger than a dog-kennel. It was entirely unfurnished, save for a heap of unclean straw that was to serve them for a bed. There, hungry, weary and savage, they began by cursing Spain and all Spaniards, and ended by cursing each other.
The Corregidor who, they had been told, would see them in the morning, was at that moment with Don Luis de Santangel in the lodging over Bensabat’s shop in the Calle Atayud.
They had discovered there a melancholy Colon in the act of packing his effects, preparatory to departure.
Santangel with a laugh commended these activities. “That is wise. You will be journeying to the Vega to-morrow, as I shall. We will go together, Cristobal.”
Colon found the laughter out of season. “I am for France, Don Luis.”
“And what should you do in France?”
“Hope that King Charles will be able to form a judgment without the help of a junta.”
“You’ve no faith, then, in our Corregidor. He has a word to say to you. That is why I have brought him.”
“I am grateful for his interest. But I perceive nothing that he can do.”
“Nothing more, perhaps,” said Don Xavier, advancing to the table. He slapped down two folded parchments. “Here, I think, is your lost property, sir.”
Colon held his breath as he pounced upon them. When next he looked up the weariness had been swept from his face. His eyes were full of light.
“You work miracles, then, in Cordoba?”
Don Xavier laughed. “In a modest way. My alguaziles are brisk lads. The thief was a Venetian of your acquaintance, a certain Rocca. He has been so handled that there will be no ambassadorial complications. Don’t ask me how. That must remain our secret.”