"Willingly," replied Cristoval, and desirous of ending the interview, he spoke a few words of assurance and returned to his post.
CHAPTER VIII
An Arm of the Inquisition
The day following was one of activity. The first task was to clear the square. The hundreds of prisoners herded in one of the buildings were set at the work, noble toiling beside common without distinction or favor. Not even Indian stoicism was proof against the calamity, and old men, scarred from a hundred battles, worked with streaming eyes, dragging forth the bodies of their friends to be stripped of their ornaments by the Spaniards and borne away for indiscriminate burial.
Hernando Pizarro was sent with his troop to the Peruvian camp to break up whatever force might be lingering there, and to plunder the Inca's residence. Toward midday his return was announced by a sentinel, and Cristoval formed his guard. The troop entered the town with a flourish of trumpets. Its leading platoon was followed by a long procession of captives laden with spoils, of hamacas bearing the women of the court, of disarmed warriors, and of townspeople who had been removed from Caxamalca at the approach of the Spaniards. The men, stupefied by what had befallen, marched in stolid indifference. But the women, dishevelled, wild-visaged, and dreading all things for themselves and the children in their arms or clinging to their robes, filled the air with their wailing and frantic lamentations, until securely housed in the buildings on the square.
Late in the afternoon an orderly summoned Cristoval to a council of the officers at Pizarro's headquarters. He picked up Candia on his way, and the two were the first to arrive. They found Pizarro watching the veedor at work appraising the plunder brought from the Inca's villa and taken from the bodies of the Indian nobles. The commander's face was haggard, and he looked years older. He greeted the two officers cordially and said, pointing to the table on which were heaped the spoils:—
"The first fruits, camaradas! We have come to the harvest season at last. Not a bad wage for one day's work! What say you?"
Cristoval looked with astonishment at the wealth stacked upon the stone table on which the veedor, or inspector, had set his scales. In the middle was the chair of the Inca, a fortune in itself, and heaped around it the royal table service of gold and silver. On one of the plates was a little mound of emeralds, some of them of unusual size and brilliancy, and near by, a disorderly heap of the personal ornaments taken from the slain. On the floor were piled rugs, furs, embroidered tapestries, and fabrics of finest weave and dye.
The veedor ceased his work as he arose and walked round the table. He was a fat, puffing, putty-colored individual of fifty years, with a peculiar falsetto voice and a habit of perpetually snuffling. Now his bulging eyes were more bulging than ever in their greedy leer. "Ah, look upon it, gentlemen!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands. "Behold it! Satiate your eyes! Let them revel, my friends! Is it not a feast? Delicious! Delicious! Look at these plates!—gold—solid gold! And these goblets—silver! And these precious stones—ah!" He dug his hands into the heap of emeralds and let them sift through his fat fingers, his head on one side, fairly drooling with delight, while he screwed his face into so gross and atrocious a smirk that Cristoval looked away with an oath under his breath. The veedor snuffled and went on: "And see these gewgaws—stripped from the heathen! Oh, my soul and body, what pickings! They are bloody yet, but how they'll shine when they are clean! They'll weigh too. Eh, Pizarro?—Treasure, treasure, compadres! The reward of our courage! A fitting reward of gallantry! We'll divide it by-and-by—we'll all have some! But stay, my friend Cristoval, thou didst not fight! What shall we do about Cristoval's share, General? We all know he did not fight. Of course, nobody would question his courage—but there are so many brave fellows to provide for, and after all there is not so very much to divide."
He turned to Pizarro, puffing out his cheeks and wiping from his forehead the perspiration started by his emotion over the treasure. Cristoval had listened with disgust, hardly able to restrain his hands from gripping the fat throat. The slurring reference to his inactivity in the massacre roused his ire, and the veedor encountered a scowl so black that he started back with a gasp and shuffled precipitately behind the table.