Read Online Aztec Rage by Gary Jennings - Free Book Online Page A

I asked the taller of the two constables, “All this over a plate of frijoles and tortillas?”
    He shook his head. “You’ll hang for the murder of Bruto de Zavala.”
    â€œMurder? You’re mad.”
    â€œHe poisons a man and says you’re crazy!” his partner howled.
    A trustee arrived. They unshackled my hands, unfastened the ankle-rope to my ankles, and opened the iron-barred gates.
    â€œLighten him up for the hangman,” the constable wearing my boots said, shoving me through the gate. “He prefers them thin so their necks don’t break with the fall.”
    The trustee led me down a dark, dank, stone-walled corridor. He stopped before opening a second gate. He was a mestizo with an unkempt beard and a dead eye.
    â€œHave any dinero?”
    I stared at him, mute, expressionless.
    â€œCoppers, anything?” he asked.
    â€œYour thieving friends took it.”
    â€œThen give me your pants.”
    I swelled with rage. “Touch my pants and I’ll kill you.”
    He just stared at me for a moment, no real expression on his face. Then he nodded.
    â€œFirst time in jail. You’ll learn . . . You’ll learn.”
    He let me pass peacefully, then banged me on the back of my head with his fist. I staggered forward and turned to defend myself but he had closed the gate with him on the other side.
    â€œI know who you are,” he said. “I saw you prancing down the street on your great white horse, proud like a king. I stepped into the gutter to beg the price of a cup of pulque.” His voice became a hoarse whisper. “Without even glancing at me, you lashed out with your whip.” He touched his face. A scar ran down his brow and onto his cheek. The whip had struck his eye, blinding him. “You’ll learn,” he said.
    As he turned away, I gripped the bars and shouted at his back. “I don’t have a white horse!”
    He spoke without turning, and I barely caught his words.
    â€œYou’re all the same.”
    I stood for a moment, gripping the bars, hanging on for support, my knees weak, my stomach volcanic with fear. Behind me was another dark stone-walled room. I pushed away from the bars and took steps down to a chamber ill lit by a single candle. I made out men, perhaps twenty of them—indios, mestizos, all poor trash and stinking léperos—some sleeping on the bare stone floor, others standing up. The place stank of sweat, piss, feces, and vomit. Some were half-naked; others wore foul and dirty rags.
    A group of five or six gathered before me, vultures looking for carrion. One stepped forward, a husky indio, short but broad. I remained two steps up, the commanding heights.
    â€œGive me your pants,” he said.
    I stared at him for a moment, then looked beyond him. As he glanced over his shoulder, I lashed out with my foot, my heel hammering his chin. I heard the crack of his jaw and teeth. He staggered backward and went down, banging his head on the stone floor.
    I stepped down, into that pit of hell. The flocking vultures broke up and backed off. Finding a space against a wall, I sat on the floor, my back against the wall. I leaned back and watched the man I had hit. He had gotten into a sitting position, holding his face, the fight gone out of him. Another man eyed him . . . for what? A piece of food he had hidden? For his filthy, ragged pants? Or just the notion that he
might
have something?
    Animals,
I thought.
They’re animals.
I knew I must never show fear or weakness around them.
    I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I was exhausted and aching, stunned by hunger and fatigue. My eyes burned, my head throbbed.
    He poisoned a man
. . .
    How did such an insane accusation come about? How could they accuse me of poisoning Bruto? What possible—
    Â¡Dios mío!
I realized what must have happened. Bruto had sent me brandy, which I had returned, saying it was a gift from my own stock. There was poison