Return to Paradise (Torres Family Saga) (30 page)

      
“You ship hides and tallow to Seville. Benjamin told me your trade prospers. I take this to mean you have not written him of these troubles?”

      
“No. He could do nothing while in Marseilles. I chose not to worry him. Our trade has suffered from the attacks of French corsairs, but they prey on all shipping between the Indies and Spain. The frustrating thing is that they seem to know when our most valuable cargos leave port—gold and amber. These ships are always attacked while the less valuable cargoes pass unmolested.”

      
Rigo's eyes narrowed as he considered this new development. “It would seem there is a spy either on your
hato
or in Santo Domingo.” Seeming to shift the subject he asked, “What do you know of a fellow planter named Esteban Elzoro?”

      
Aaron studied Rigo's expression before replying. “He is a neighbor on the Vega, which is a vast, high valley in the central eastern interior. On rare occasions when we hold celebrations and harvest parties he has been known to attend...on condition he leave his guards and their hounds behind.”

      
“He does not like Indians,” Rigo said flatly.

      
“You have met Esteban?”

      
Rigo smiled that chilly, harsh smile that Aaron remembered so well from his own youth. “Let us just say he has one less hound with which to trouble you.”

      
“Explain what happened,” Aaron demanded harshly.

      
Rigo responded with a terse version of his encounter, all the while studying his father, trying to read his reactions. When he finished, Aaron swore. “That dog could have killed you!”

      
“I am used to warhounds, although being caught afoot was a considerable disadvantage.”

      
“If Elzoro deliberately attacked you, he might also be behind the attacks on us.” Aaron rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

      
Rigo shrugged. “Mayhap he is the one...mayhap not.”

* * * *

      
Miriam was exhausted from the bouncing journey in the litter. She rubbed her aching back and walked briskly about the camp, observing the simple pallets Aaron's men had scattered about the area. Were she and Rigo to sleep out in the open thus? Or, worse yet, would he opt to leave her alone and sleep elsewhere?

      
She felt increasingly lonely and vulnerable with every mile they journeyed from Santo Domingo, the last vestige of civilization in this wilderness. Aaron had been warm and kind, delighted at the prospect of another grandchild. He accepted her and asked no embarrassing or accusing questions about her severed relationship with Benjamin. But what of Magdalena, his Christian wife? Benjamin was her firstborn and Miriam was responsible for his exile. If Magdalena chose to castigate her and Rigo chose to desert her, what would she do?

      
Rigo watched Miriam sit near the flickering fire, holding a crude gourd bowl filled with the spicy Taino concoction the men called pepper pot. She looked bereft and alone. A strange mixture of desire and tenderness welled up inside him as he made his way to her. “I am certain it does not meet your dietary laws, but you must eat, Miriam,” he said quietly. “This is a new world and you must abandon the past.”

      
“Abandon the past,” she echoed. “My heritage was left behind the day I first laid eyes on you. Fate, Rigo?” Her expression was as shuttered and guarded as his. Thick brown lashes lowered over her gray eyes as she dipped a crude spoon into the stew and began to eat methodically.

      
Rigo had two of the men unpack their blankets and spread a pallet on a mossy bed beyond the trunk of a huge mahogany tree, giving them a small bit of privacy.

      
Although they lay side by side that night, Rigo and Miriam did not touch. Both lay awake for many hours, listening to the screech of nocturnal birds and rustling of small animals. Each was lost in a painful coil of memory and fear.

* * * *

      
The valley was awe-inspiring, deep, wide and lushly fertile, stretching into the hazy distance from the mountain pass through which they had just traveled. Rushing streams irrigated lush black soil and fed towering stands of timber. Huge herds of wild cattle, called
cimarrones
, fattened on rich deep grasslands along with pigs and even a smattering of goats.

      
“Beside the wild livestock, we pen and fatten chickens for meat and eggs and most particularly, we breed and sell fine horses to gentlemen bound for Mexico,” Aaron said proudly, patting his chestnut's neck.

      
At the mention of Mexico, Miriam's heart constricted with dread, but Rigo seemed more interested in his father's horses than the distant goldfields.

      
“The chestnut is magnificent. Have you any mares by him?”

      
Aaron eyed Peligro and said, “To breed with this black devil? Aye. That would be a splendid mating indeed.”

      
As they rode down into the valley, Miriam and Rigo both observed the irrigated fields of maize, beans, sweet potatoes and the bitter manioc from which
cassava
cakes were made. Aaron identified the various crops and explained how they were cultivated and harvested in two growing seasons a year.

      
“Those are lemon and orange orchards,” Rigo said as they rounded a curve and rode past a stand of silk cotton trees. “Andalusia is filled with them.”

      
“They have transplanted well in the Indies. So have rice and sugar cane in the southwestern part of the island, but growing them and more particularly milling the cane requires brutal labor. The planters involved in it use black slaves. Tis an ugly business and I want none of it,” Aaron replied with obvious distaste. “We grow foods for local trade and our own uses and ship horses, hides and tallow, amber and even a bit of gold. A few good veins have been found, but we cannot long hope to survive on their returns. Luis and Rudolfo are in charge of the mining in the northern mountains.

      
“Luis and Rudolfo?” Rigo's head swam with all the names of people who were part of the vast Torres
hato
.

      
“Luis Torres was on the Admiral's first voyage with me. We are not kin in spite of our common surname and Jewish heritage. He married a Taino woman and their son Rudolfo is married to Serafìna, our eldest daughter. They have three children.” Aaron watched Rigo's expression of covert amazement and suppressed the urge to chuckle.
I will win you over yet, Navaro.

      
Lovely citrus orchards surrounded the main compound of the
hato
, which was built of limestone, laboriously carried from mountain quarries. A thick wall approximately ten feet high surrounded the immense cluster of buildings, ornamental gardens and towering shade trees. As they approached the compound a pair of hard-looking half-caste guards saluted Aaron and opened two wide wooden gates. Rigo estimated it would take several direct hits from Pescara's best siege cannon to take out the foot-thick oak.

      
Neat rows of small cottages, produce stalls, a forge, a dairy and sundry other shops lined the streets where children of every hue from fair Castilian to darkest Taino played together. Near the center of the miniature city stood the Torres palace, two stories of stone with graciously arched porticos and wide, low windows. The dense leafy branches of oak and mahogany trees shaded it like lovers' caresses.

      
As they rode down the streets Aaron greeted men and women busy at work and children squealing with delight at his return. Then one small girl, dressed in a loose cotton undertunic, came flying down the street with her fire-red hair streaming behind her like a banner. He scooped her up onto the big chestnut and then gave her a mighty squeeze. Large jade-green eyes in a small, pointy face gazed adoringly at him as she cried, “Oh, Papa, we missed you!” At once she looked past him and her eyes fixed in round wonder on the dark, elegantly clad stranger riding beside him. “Is this my brother Navaro?”

      
“Yes, dear heart, but you must call him Rigo, for that is the name he was raised with.” Aaron turned to Rigo and said, “This urchin is your youngest sister, Violante, or Lani as she has always been called.”

      
At Rigo's smiling nod, the elfin child gave him a broad smile, revealing several missing baby teeth. “Is the pretty lady Miriam?” she asked Rigo, peering into the litter. “Benjamin always wrote that she was very beautiful. Why did he not come back with you? Can I ride on your horse?”

      
Not certain of how or whether to answer the barrage of questions, Rigo looked to Aaron.

      
His father gave Lani an affectionate swat and said, “Do not ask so much and I will let you ride with your brother.” With that he passed the giggling child to a most startled Rigo.

      
Lani put her small, chubby arms about his neck and gave his face a thorough inspection. “You look just like Benjamin, but your hair is like the Tainos,” she said as she touched a lock of raven hair at his shoulder. “I think tis a very pretty combination.”

      
A wry smile touched his lips. “Do you, indeed?”
This is my sister.
Suddenly he felt an odd sense of buoyant happiness fill him. Perhaps Española would not be so bad after all.

      
Miriam was enchanted with the little girl's open friendliness, but uncertain about how they would handle the glaring problem of a daughter-in-law arriving wed to the wrong son. Before she could dwell on that dilemma further two youths, one russet-haired and fully grown, the other yet an adolescent with Aaron's golden coloring, joined the reunion.

      
As Bartolome and Cristobal, the Colon brothers namesakes, were introduced to their new brother, they stopped beneath the cooling shade of a splendid oak tree and dismounted. Rigo helped Miriam from the litter. She smiled at the welcoming, eager and curious faces, feeling dusty, wilted and decidedly bewildered by her newly acquired family.

      
Then a small beautiful woman, dressed simply in a gown of pale green gauze stepped from the shadows. Her long russet hair and cat green eyes quickly explained the coloring of the younger Torres children. Magdalena Torres embraced Aaron and then turned to face Rigo and his bride.

Chapter Sixteen

Asti on the Plains of Lombardy, April 1525

      
Flamineo Battaglia walked through the crowds gathered at the fair, busily stuffing a greasy meat pastry into his mouth. “Why do you not eat, Benjamin? Tis delicious,” the corpulent little Neapolitan said.

      
“You would eat anything that did not eat you first, Mineo. That pork is scarce cooked and the crust burned,” Benjamin said with a grimace of distaste. Then a pair of young jugglers came into view and he paused to admire their skills. “At home we had such. My Taino friend Gaonu could juggle marvelous little balls made of a gum of some sort. When dropped, they bounced.”

      
Battaglia gave a snort of disgust. “Your Indian must not have been much of a juggler if he dropped his balls.” He gave a guffaw at his own crude humor and then gestured across the crowded plaza. “Women, look, Physician, at all the women—young, old, thin, fat. Think you any of them might require a healer's care—some magical elixir?” He rubbed his hands in glee, then pinched a plump woman bent over a stall filled with fresh wild flowers. She grabbed her ample buttocks and squeaked, only half in indignation.

      
“We are here to choose a horse for you, remember, Mineo? Forget wenching. Where are these fabulous horse traders with the magnificent bargains?”

      
“Do not sound so skeptical of my judgment,” Batagglia said defensively as Benjamin's grin broadened.

      
“My father breeds fine horses and yours sells fish. I think, my friend, that you might do well to heed my advice.” A winsome young whore wrapped her arms around his waist. With a laugh and a swat on her rump he refused her blatant invitation.

      
“I have never seen the like of it, the way women flock to you,” Mineo said in awe.

      
“That kind of woman will pox you good and she flocks only where the jingle of coin summons her.”

      
“Mayhap I shall borrow your
magister
cloak one day and see if that is the lure,” Mineo pondered aloud.
      
Benjamin only laughed.

      
“There, beyond the bear pit—see the wagons? The horse traders were showing the black there yesterday. Twas the equal of your brother's stallion. I have always wanted a high-stepping black.”

      
Benjamin had grown used to hearing Pescara's men speak of Rigo's exploits over the months, but still the ache of betrayal gave his mouth a bitter taste, like stale wine drunk from a base metal flagon. They walked past the arena dug in the ground where a big brown bear, chained to a post, lashed viciously at its tormentors, sending one large hound flying with a swipe of an enormous paw. Half a dozen more dogs, bloody and crazed as the bear, lunged and tore at the great shaggy beast. “By the Almighty, I hate such barbarism,” he muttered, tugging at Mineo's leather jerkin when his companion paused to watch in fascination.

      
“How can a surgeon have such a weak stomach?” Mineo asked crossly as they approached the large pen that held over a dozen horses of various colors.

      
Benjamin inspected the sorry lot and sighed, then looked at the man who sat at the gate, haggling with a customer over a spavined old nag. He swore several oaths in a remarkable variety of languages. “These horse traders of yours are
caraque
, ” he said in Tuscan.