City of Silver Read online

  CITY OF SILVER

  ANNAMARIA ALFIERI

  Minotaur Books New York

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictiously.

  A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

  An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

  CITY OF SILVER. Copyright © 2009 by Annamaria Alfieri. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

  [http://www.thomasdunnebooks.com] www.thomasdunnebooks.com

  [http://www.minotaurbooks.com] www.minotaurbooks.com

  Book design by Rich Arnold

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Alfieri, Annamaria.

  City of silver / Annamaria Alfieri.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-312-38386-2

  ISBN-10: 0-312-38386-X

  1. Nuns—Peru—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—

  Fiction. 3. Silver mines and mining—Peru

  (Viceroyalty)—History—17th century—Fiction.

  4. Potosí (Bolivia)—History—17th century—Fiction.

  5. Peru (Viceroyalty)—History—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3601. L3597C57 2009

  813'. 6—dc22

  2009010489

  First Edition: August 2009

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For David

  Acknowledgments

  THANK YOU TO:

  Toni Plummer, my editor, and Nancy Love, my agent, for making this happen; Robert Knightly, the best writing buddy ever; Katherine Hogan Probst, Ph.D., life-long friend, and Latin scholar; and especially Steve Strobach and Naty Reyes, who took me to Potosí.

  Historical Note

  THOUGH THE CHARACTERS and plot of this story are fictional, the background history and the city of Potosí are real. In 1650, as part of the Spanish Viceroyalty of Peru, it was the largest city in the Western Hemi sphere, with a population equal to that of London. In 1987, UNESCO declared Potosí a Patrimonio de la Humanidad (Patrimony of Humanity). Its glorious architectural masterpieces, which are the scenes of this novel, still exist. Many of them have been lovingly restored and can be visited in this, the world’s highest city, at an altitude of more than 4,000 meters (more than 13,000 feet), in what is now Bolivia.

  Potosí

  Alto Perú

  1650

  Dramatis Personae

  THE CITY OFFICIALS OF POTOSÍ

  Francisco Rojas de la Morada, Alcalde Municipal, head of the Cabildo (City Council)

  Ana, his wife

  Inez, his daughter

  Gemita, his daughter

  Felipe Ramirez, Tester of the Currency

  Jerónimo Antonio Taboada, member of the Cabildo, ally of Morada

  Juan Téllez, member of the Cabildo, ally of Morada

  THE FAMILY TOVAR

  Antonio de Bermeo y de Novarra Tovar, Captain of the Corpus Christi Mine

  Pilar, his wife

  Beatriz, his daughter

  Domingo Barco, Mayordomo of the Ingenio Tovar (mine and smelting works)

  Santiago Yana, miner in Tovar’s employ

  Rosa, his wife, cook in the Tovar household

  IN THE CONVENT OF SANTA ISABELLA DE LOS SANTOS MILAGROS

  Mother Maria Santa Hilda, Abbess

  Sor Olga, Mistress of Novices

  Sor Monica, Sister Herbalist

  Sor Eustacia, Sister of the Order

  Hippolyta de Escobedo, postulant

  Juana, a maid

  THE MEN OF THE CHURCH

  Padre Junipero Pimentel, Jesuit Priest

  Don Fray Faustino Piñelo de Ondegardo de Léon, Bishop of Potosí

  Fray Ubaldo DaTriesta, local Commissioner of the Holy Tribunal of the Inquisition

  Fray Pedro de la Gasca, Grand Inquisitor for New Spain

  THE KING’S EMISSARY

  Doctor Francisco de Nestares, President of the Charcas, Visitador General

  Those who think it is not easy for a woman to succeed in whatever she attempts are mistaken, for many women have surpassed men in valor, in use of arms, and in knowledge.

  A man who has acquired great wealth through excessive greed, taking advantage of the sweat of the poor, might better have met his obligations.

  Peace is the offspring of Justice, and one cannot obtain where the other is not meted out.

  —Bartolomé Arzáns de Orsúa y Vela

  Potosí, 1676–1736

  CITY OF SILVER

  One

  SANTIAGO YANA APPROACHED the mine by night. He had climbed the steep, winding path worn smooth over a hundred years by the hooves of llamas and mules and the barely shod feet of thousands of Indians like himself. Up the Cerro Rico in the weak gray light of the waning moon. His barrel chest heaved. He gulped the icy, rarefied air. Below, the great stone-and-stucco city of Potosí sprawled out at the base of this silver mountain, like the train on a Spanish woman’s gown. On the near side of the river, an occasional torch flickered in the yards of the refineries. Across, in the grid of streets surrounding the central plaza, dull candlelight glowed in the windows of the many rich houses. Spaniards burned wax as if it were cheap as stones.

  Santiago paused at the mouth of the mine. Always before, he had gone down in daylight, with his comrades. Standing shoulder to shoulder among them, he sensed himself as part of one large animal, a beast courageous enough to descend the deep main shaft. At the bottom, he became a digit on that powerful creature’s hand, making it possible for him to thread himself through the tight, dusty tunnels and, in the gloom and the din of iron banging on stone, to tear away chunks of silver to be refined and sent to the King of Spain.

  Alone here in the night, he was riveted, bound by terror to the entrance. Dank air rose from the main shaft and froze his back and legs.

  He blessed himself thirteen times and whispered a prayer to the Virgin of Candelaria. He drew from his pocket a wad of coca leaves and lime and chewed them reverently as he prayed.

  He stepped out of the wind onto the top barbacoa, the wooden platform at the mine’s entrance. As he struck his flint to light a candle, his callused hands trembled, and it took four tries to get the flame. How the other miners would tease him if they could see him frightened like a child, like a white woman. When the candle was finally lit, it cast grotesque shadows against the rocks. He placed it in its holder on his black felt hat and grasped the ladder’s heavy ropes of twisted hide. With his foot, he felt for the first wooden rung and immediately slipped. “Madre de Dios!” He had forgotten to take off his sandals. He scrambled back up and left them. He repeated his prayers and began again the descent.

  When the captain first gave Santiago the package for safekeeping, he promised that if Santiago would hide it where no one would find it and return it when asked, he would give Santiago ten pesos, equal to a month’s wages. The mine was the only place Santiago Yana knew where surely no one would find the package.

  He reached the bottom of the first ladder—ten estados down—the height of eleven men. There were seventeen more. He prayed again and descended.

  Ten days ago, when he had hidden the canvas-covered package in the mine, he had expected—when it was called for—to bring it up at the end of his next shift. But tonight the captain had demanded to have it before dawn.

  As Santiago descended, the air grew even colder and sudden currents made the candle flicker. He felt in his pocket to make sure he had his flint. “Dios mío.” He had left it at the entrance. Too far to go back. He moved more cautiously, trying to keep his head still so the candle attached to his hat would stay steady. If it we
nt out, blackness would envelop him.

  This mine was cursed. Every Indian knew the story. Their ancestors had found silver here before the Spanish came, but when the Indian people tried to take the silver from the mountain, a great god voice had boomed out from within, “Stop. This silver is not for you. It is for someone else.” Some miners believed the gods had been keeping the silver for the Spanish, but some said it belonged to the gods themselves and that it was sacrilege for any mortal—even a Spaniard—to take it.

  Santiago shuddered as he descended from the twelfth barbacoa. It was no darker in the mine at night than during the day, yet he felt the blackness more. Water dripped. Strange rumbling noises echoed in the stones. “Pachamama.” He spoke the name of the old Indian goddess. Her image and the image of the Virgin converged in his mind. Both protectors. But Pachamama could also be cruel. He concentrated on the Virgin. The priest said she was more powerful than Pachamama and never cruel.

  At the bottom of the last ladder, his lone candle gave him only a small circle of light. Traces of silver glinted in the reddish brown walls of the tunnel. Santiago longed for his comrades, even for the brusque orders of his Spanish masters, anything not to face this darkness alone.

  Rubble left by the mining slid beneath his feet. He crashed into a pile of hammers and picks that awaited the next shift. “Mierda!” They clattered, and the noise echoed off the stones. He held his breath for a moment. The sound died.

  He limped to the back of the tunnel, past the filthy place where the men relieved themselves, and held his breath until his chest ached. He inhaled and wanted to retch. At the end of the tunnel, where the stench was worst, the sloping ceiling forced him to stoop more and more until he was snaking along on his belly. There, under rocks he had carefully arranged to look as if they had fallen, he groped and grasped the packet.

  He scampered back to the ladder and bound the packet to his leg with a leather thong, as he would have bound heavy sacks of ore if this had been a work shift. In his daily climbs with the ore tied to his legs, he paced himself to be able to bear the weight to the top. Without the burden, he was as light as smoke.

  Tonight, climbing was like dancing. What worries the ten pesos would remove. Debts weighed on him as heavily as twenty bags of ore. With the money from hiding the packet, he would pay them all and still have enough to buy maize, potatoes, charqui, chilies, maybe even a bit of fresh meat for the feast of Easter, if Rosa would allow such an extravagance.

  Rosa did not believe in the religion of the Conquistadores. She said no one should believe in a religion that required people to fast during the harvest. Santiago had asked the priest about this strange rule. The priest had explained that in his country it was the end of winter now, not the end of summer. What a magical place that must be, that it could exchange the seasons. But the priest also said the fast was not about making sure there was enough food, but to prepare the soul to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ. Rosa did not believe a man could come back from the dead.

  By the fifth barbacoa, Santiago’s chest constricted. Every breath hurt. He had climbed much too fast. A pain in his side doubled him over. He lay back on the wooden platform to rest. Then it happened. His hat! His candle! He felt them go, grabbed for them. He yelled as he watched the light stream away until the candle went out and the glow of the wick died completely. He groaned. The darkness was total.

  He lay trembling so violently that he thought the spasms would throw him off the platform to his death. In the thunder of his thudding heart and the creaking of the mountain, he heard Pachamama laugh.

  “Madre de Dios,” he whispered over and over. “Help me.”

  He groped for the ladder leading up. “Oh, Virgin Maria, please. My children. My wife. Please.”

  He scrambled onto the next barbacoa on his belly and slithered across until his hands found the next ladder. Disoriented in the dark, he could hardly tell which way was up. Water rushed somewhere near, coming to wash him away. He panted and struggled to grasp the leather ropes with his sweaty palms. Air. He felt a current of air. Oh, gods, be merciful. The top! The entrance must be near. He scrambled up to the next platform. But there was another. And another.

  He had lost track of how many were left. When he worked, he always counted as he climbed, always knew exactly how far he was from the air.

  Now he began to weep. What shame he would feel if his comrades could see him.

  Before bringing the package to the mine, he had let Rosa convince him to look at the contents, even though the captain had warned him not to. He had scolded her for being too nosy, but he was curious, too. She carefully removed the thick blue thread that had bound it, keeping it in one piece and laying it across his knee. He had been disappointed. The parcel contained only papers, with writing they could not read. She had sewn it back up again with the blue thread, stitching the canvas in the same holes, pushing the needle in backward for the last stitch because the thread was so short. No one would ever know they had opened it.

  At the next level, a weak shaft of milky moonlight floated before his eyes. He blinked, bit down again on the wad of coca leaves in his mouth. Yes. Yes. He scrambled up the ladder now, panting, wheezing.

  He arrived, covered with sweat, at the mouth of the mine. A blast of frigid wind froze his skin but gladdened his heart. He untied the packet from his leg, slipped his feet into his sandals, and began to grope around for his flint.

  He smelled the horse before he heard the man approaching. The captain must have become impatient waiting at the inn.

  “Señor, I have the package here,” Santiago said to the figure in the black cape who approached him in the gloom. He held out the packet and his palm, waiting for the feel of the coins.

  The man snatched the package from him and stuffed it into a bag. He laughed. A familiar laugh. But this was not—

  The man grabbed him, lifted him as easily as a baby. The world spun. “No. No!” Santiago cried.

  With a grunt, the man flung him down the mine shaft.

  Santiago Yana did not even hear his own scream of terror as he fell to his death.

  AROUND MIDNIGHT THAT same night, Inez de la Morada prepared to go out to collect the packet of papers that would bring her heart’s desire. She had no fear of being discovered by her father, Francisco—the Alcalde, head of the City Council and the richest, most powerful man in Potosí. He had left the house at eleven, as he had done every night for many weeks, to oversee the departure of a mule train. Many believed that Francisco de la Morada was, little by little, sending his enormous fortune out of Potosí to hide it in the vast, desolate high plain that surrounded the city.

  Friends and enemies alike speculated on the reason for the removal of his wealth. Some said he expected another war—like the one fought between the Basques and the other Spaniards twenty–five years ago. Others said he foresaw that the dams, which held water in lagoons above the city, would break again and that the ruination would be even worse than the last time. The rational laughed at these fears. How could anyone, even one as powerful as the Alcalde, predict such events?

  His daughter Inez knew the reason and the false impressions behind the mule trains. But tonight she would take possession of her own fate, and what her father did or desired would mean nothing.

  The first time Inez stole out of her parents’ house at night, her heart had nearly stopped with fear. She wished she could slip out unnoticed as effortlessly as she would brush an errant dark curl from her forehead, but tonight her breathing fluttered once again. On this second Sunday in Lent, she was leaving this place forever.

  She dressed in heavy velvet clothes and light slippers that made not a sound as she walked through the darkness. She glided down the wide corridor and entered her father’s study. In the flickering orange light from the torches in the courtyard outside, she opened a secret drawer in the tall desk near the window. She withdrew a bag of silver and hefted it. More than enough. The papers she was about to reclaim would bring her all she longed f
or. Until then, these coins would pay for what she needed.

  Silver, she had learned from infancy, was the most powerful substance there was. Everything in Potosí depended on it. The city’s whole existence, the importance of its citizens individually and collectively, stemmed from silver and only silver.

  Her father had taught her this, as he had taught her so many things. She felt a small pang for him. She had loved him so when she was a little girl. But seeing him through her mother’s eyes, she had grown to scorn him. Briefly, when she was thirteen or so, she had openly mocked his pretentious manners, his vanity about his clothes, the lumbering way he walked. Rather than evoking his ire, her barbs wounded him. She learned then that she could get whatever she wanted by giving and withholding her love. His weakness for her only made her despise him more. By now, she had pretended to love him so often that sometimes she almost did.

  She made her way noiselessly back down the corridor, dragging her fingertips along the smooth plaster wall until she felt the jamb of her mother’s bedroom door.

  She hated her mother. Only for a few months—when she had been threatened by a fever—had she cared anything for her. But she was not worth a daughter’s notice. Even the servants mocked her. Not when they knew their mistress was listening, of course. In her presence, they feigned respect. Away from her, in their own language, they freely criticized their weak, self-indulgent padrona in front of the smiling little girl they thought did not understand. Everything they said was true. Her mother was a pig. She had been so drunk once that she had vomited in the central plaza, in front of half the nobility of the town. Inez could not walk in the Calle de los Mercaderes with her without seeing the other shoppers whispering behind their hands. Never again. tonight Inez would collect that packet of documents, her passport to freedom.