Fire of Unknown Origin

Chapter 1

Chapter 1“Hurry now, hurry." murmured the tall man into his beard, fixing his sleeves and hastening his stride while the descending twilight slowly devoured the houses on the outskirts of Ciudad de Mexico. As he approached the grandiose residence of the Viceroy of New Spain, the man’s slender figure was racing against its own elongated shadow in the middle of the dirt road. Raising a dust cloud around himself and barely refraining from breaking into a dash, this visage in a modest linen beige blouse, breeches and stockings resembled a miniature sandstorm, unleashed on that evening in the center of Spain’s colonial might. The only thing to disturb that unintentional camouflage was the man’s sharp black beard, reinforced by equally strong and dense eyebrows. Frowned and pensive, gazing straight ahead at the residence one second and then looking at his own long feet the next, the slender man would occasionally utter a silent word or two into his beard and knead his hands as if he were washing them, while somewhat uneasily rubbing and stretching his bony fingers.

He had no time to waste, not with everything that needed to be done that evening. He quickened his pace and passed by one of several small bonfires which had been burning every night to illuminate the city streets, just as two stokers were lighting a bundle of oil-covered firewood. They were snickering and obviously enjoying their work. The slender man pondered how happy those two gentlemen appeared to be earning a wage just for lighting a fire every night, as he glanced hastily at them and made a grimace which could have been considered an indication of a courteous smile. Two swarthy stokers cheerfully saluted him and one of them took off his hat with a slightly mocking, yet disciplined, bow. They shouted something a few seconds later but the slender man’s focus had already shifted back toward the palace, causing him to hear just a loud “mister!” at the end of the stokers’ clamor. They had addressed him as “mister” and that was quite important, the man reflected. He contentedly concluded that his reputation still mattered in that city, at least to a degree – nothing was lost as long as he was able to command the respect of others, even if that respect came out as forced. He had spent too many years in the service to the Spanish crown for him to walk the streets as an ordinary peasant, crestfallen and unnoticed. He had seen too many incredible sights and experienced amazing events alongside one of the greatest men of that age – an adventurer and a visionary, a brave seeker of mythic treasures and faraway cities of gold. Based on those feats alone, the slender man believed he should have been enjoying nothing less than absolute affluence and arrogant luxury. However, his washed-out stockings and his friable short cloak painted a very different picture. The last few years hadn’t brought him the favor of the Almighty.

About fifty paces away from the Viceroy's residence, the man clearly recognized six burly guards protecting the main gate, thus constituting the first line of defense for the ruler of Ciudad de Mexico, the Viceroy of New Spain, the enlightened Luis de Velasco. After approaching the first armored man close enough to have felt the full fury of the guard’s halberd, the slender man said half-ceremoniously: “I wish you good evening, gentlemen.”, swiftly waved his hand and remained still in his tracks.

The closest cuirassier craned his long weapon in front of him and paused for a few moments. His muscle-bound arms seemed a natural extension of his massive shoulders, while his strong legs were firmly planted in an assault-ready stance. However, all of the guards were well aware that the slender gentleman was a regularly seen guest in the Viceroy's residence and that this whole charade was nothing more than a friendly game.

“My vision must be getting worse. Only now do I see that it is but our reputable Castaneda. How are you, good sir?” the big guard responded, smiling and thundering from beneath his steel helmet.

The light from the torches on the gate bounced across the guard’s armor, which Castaneda found very pleasant to watch. Taking a step forward, Castaneda stretched his bony, rake-like hand to meet the guard’s and the two men greeted each other warmly.

“Same as I have been every single morning over the past thirteen years, Pasqual. Tired. Tired…” Castaneda replied in a slightly quavering voice as he attempted to slow his breathing after his strenuous walk. Castaneda’s gaze quickly skimmed over the high walls surrounding the estate and noticed more guards patrolling casually. The humongous Pasqual let go of Castaneda’s hand and shouted to his colleagues:

“Fellows, let our guest through the gates. I am sure he has important business to attend to and we shall not be keeping him any further.”

“Thank you, Pasqual, but you know that it is nothing overly important.” he said with a slight nod of his head and fidgeted almost unnoticeably. Actually, this time his business was important, but he decided to stay silent about it. “I trust somebody will soon be bringing you food? It wouldn’t be good to have you starve.”

“They’re cooking some pigwash for us. Lukewarm water and yesterday's bread. Everything a man needs to be able to spend eight hours under heavy armor and the eye-straining glow of weak torchlights." the guard said as he leaned in toward Castaneda adding, “Honestly, I sometimes wonder would I have been better off had I been a locksmith, like my father.” Pasqual then waved his hands to the other guards and they moved aside, creating a narrow corridor to the gate which now stood ajar just enough for one slim person to pass.

“Every now and then it appears to me we would all have been better had we chosen something else.” Castaneda responded sympathetically after pausing for a moment before scurrying through the opening.

As he passed the main gate and heard the sound of heavy doors closing behind him, Castaneda found himself in the inner courtyard and stopped to savor the sight of the garden, outbuildings and the Viceroy's palace once again, with the concentration of a man who was seeing it all for the first time. The palace was indubitably imposing, but within Castaneda it always stirred a feeling of awe mixed with restlessness. From afar it could appear warm and welcoming, the beautiful overgrown, summer house of Spanish nobility – the kind where wine flows, cheerful songs are sung and days go by in bliss. However, come dusk it could become frightening, faceless and dark, despite the braziers which would burn throughout the night. It was recounted in taverns during wee hours that the stone Gargantua craved blood within its walls and slowly devoured the spirits of those who would rule within it.

Even though the Viceroy's palace had never left Castaneda with that impression of eerie dread, the slender man was intimately familiar with the violent and bloody history of both the residence and estate. After the famed conquistador Hernan Cortes had defeated the Aztec king Cuauhtémoc nearly three and a half decades before, he had ordered the Aztec capital, the incredible and exotic Tenochtitlan, completely razed and in its place and on its blood would rise the vibrant Ciudad de Mexico. While Castaneda had never personally met Cortes, he knew well his reputation from stories as one of the gods of the New World, a man fiercely faithful and devoted to the Spanish crown. With his spirit partially replenished by these memories of past feats, Castaneda turned toward the east wing of the courtyard and rushed to the big kitchen – the only auxiliary building besides the military barracks where bright lights burned throughout the night.

“Give me some veal and that wine that was sent from Monterey last year. A full decanter and two glasses. Fresh loaf and corn, peppers and some oranges. If his day is to come soon, I would like for him to go as a well-fed man.” recited the skinny Castaneda in a single breath, while the kitchen servants were scurrying to fulfill his orders. Castaneda did not really believe that his master would taste any of that food, but he himself was hungry enough to devour the entire plate and there was no reason for Castaneda not to satisfy his own soul from time to time. Though commanding kitchen staff was well below Castaneda's reputation, there were moments when issuing orders would give him a sense of importance and reminded him of the times when he would handle accurate tallies of entire expeditions, issue orders in the name of his master and ensure perfect execution of his most minute requests. It took him back to the days when he was known to everyone as 'Castaneda the chronicler and adjutant', dressed in only the most exquisite leather wests, fine linen pants and silken cloaks; his face not hollow-cheeked, but content and stalwart, although always visibly concentrated on the tasks entrusted to him. Yet, now it was only the protection of the Viceroy which was granted to Castaneda’s master that made the difference between Castaneda giving out orders to cooks and servants and Castaneda being given orders by cooks and servants.

As soon the big tray was filled with everything Castaneda had demanded, he thanked the servants and took the food to the smallest house within the Viceroy's palace walls, the current abode of the once great Francisco Vasquez de Coronado, a former champion of the Spanish crown, now reduced to a haggard figure receiving his bed and bread solely at the mercy of Viceroy de Velasco Coronado’s friend from a bygone age of wealth and privilege.

While de Velasco was celebrated by the people as a righteous man, a prominent patron and a capable leader, Coronado had forfeited the titles of conquistador, renowned explorer and the governor of Nueva Galicia due to allegations of war crimes. With his spirit and body broken, Coronado had been ill and lain bedridden for years, still refusing to die despite the expectations and wishes of many. None of the King’s physicians were able to provide an accurate diagnosis or explain the cause of his condition. The conquistador ate barely enough to survive and was almost always unable to speak. With assistance he could manage to sit and generally looked as if his frail, cold flame could become extinguished at any moment. Nevertheless, this did not prevent Castaneda from serving his master with the same loyalty, respect and friendship which Coronado himself had displayed long ago.

It was a peculiar truth that at the height of his fame, Coronado had viewed Castaneda as a friend which was exceptionally unorthodox amongst the new Spanish nobility in the Americas. The slender adjutant had been brutally honest from the very beginning of his service – he had always held his ground and often brought opinions which directly contradicted those of his master, but he would always present them in a civilized manner, with facts and clarity of thought. All of this made Coronado and Castaneda engage in numerous polemics throughout the early years, but Castaneda’s methodicalness and end results were irrefutable indicators of the adjutant’s many talents, so the conquistador had regularly sought out and welcomed Castaneda’s advice.

In the cramped two-story house leaning on the kitchen building’s back wall loomed a pale light coming from a single small candle, thus creating a makeshift guidepost for servants and the occasional visitor. The chambers had barely enough visibility for those who would find themselves inside for the first time, but Castaneda's senses had been strengthened by years of experience and he could orient himself in that confined space even without using his eyes. He noticed that the chair in the lower room had been moved since he previously visited seven days earlier indicating someone had obviously been frequenting the room, perhaps multiple times. Slightly surprised, but also encouraged, he swiftly climbed the short staircase and used his shoulder to fully open the bedroom’s ajar door.

At the bed's head loomed a hunched figure resting against several pillows. Partially hidden despite the candlelight which had been placed near the door in order to illuminate the stairwell and the lower room, the hunched figure did not move, nor did react in any way to Castaneda’s presence.

“Hello, Francisco. How are you, my friend?” The slender adjutant said loudly, pausing a few steps from the bed and holding the tray in front of him.

In that instant, the hunched character jolted, leaned forth and gradually turned his head toward the tall man. Having taken a look around, the figure then moved his head forward and the light revealed a part of his face. Castaneda became momentarily paralyzed, overwhelmed by a wave of disbelief and unsure what to do, as he witnessed something he had never expected to see again in this life – the face of Francisco Vasquez de Coronado filled by a warm smile, unable to hide the joy of seeing his only friend. For the first time in many years, Coronado appeared as if he was honestly smiling. Castaneda was caught completely off guard, being further astounded by what seemed to resemble his master’s intense physical recovery. It appeared as if the conquistador’s natural color was returning, his cheeks looked less withered and the purple bags under his eyes had started to slowly disappear. Alongside all this, the conquistador replied with an almost singing voice:

“I haven’t felt this good in years, my dear Pedro de Castaneda. In years! I realize now that I haven’t asked you that same thing in ages, and I should have.” Coronado laughed to himself, looked around as if absorbing information about the new state in which he found himself and then unconcernedly added, “I sincerely hope that some of the goods on that tray are for me.”

Still recovering from the shock, Castaneda moved several steps toward the bed, settled the large tray onto the bed and sat next to the cheerful recovering man.

“All of this is intended for you. Although, I cannot say I haven’t secretly hoped to enjoy at least a small portion of this modest feast. I’ve gotten used to your almost non-existent appetite, and run-down adjutants don’t eat as well nowadays as they used to." said the slender chronicler amicably, grabbing a decanter of the Monterey red wine and pouring two cups without spilling a drop.

The slender man then offered a cup of wine to the conquistador, patiently waiting for Coronado to accept it. Presented with the situation where he was seeing his friend in good health after he had been certain that this very same friend would soon be meeting the local undertaker, Castaneda’s face abruptly became beset by a mild grimace and he somewhat timidly spoke, pulling the cup slightly back to himself.

“I look at you now and I find this hard to believe. How is it possible that you’ve recovered so suddenly? Are you confident that you are indeed well? I’m afraid you might be falling into a new delirium. Did you lift yourself up in bed on your own?”

Completely ignoring his concerned friend’s barrage of queries, Francisco Vasquez de Coronado offered his own set of questions and steered the conversation back toward the trivial.

“Which wine did you ask for? I hope we didn’t get that Malaga sweet? I’d rather drink spoiled milk than taste that wine again.” Coronado jabbered as he promptly grabbed the full cup of blood-red liquid and brought it to his mouth, drinking it all at once without waiting for an answer.

“You know I wouldn’t do that to you, friend. Nothing but the Monterey red.” Castaneda responded with a smile and continued: “I’ve often wondered how the past few years would’ve looked like were you not in the Viceroy's mercy. Perhaps we wouldn’t have even had a place to sleep.” He looked worried and almost forgot to taste his wine. He expected Coronado to answer his questions, but he was also reluctant to pressure him. This approach clearly suited his friend well.

“Yes, Luis has been an incredible friend through all of this, even at times when he perhaps shouldn’t have been." Coronado said with a shred of remorse as he extended the arm holding his cup toward his friend, expecting to receive the next round of drinks. Castaneda put down his cup on the silver tray, fetched the decanter and topped up Coronado’s cup. After the adjutant had also refreshed his own throat, he replied, “I agree. He even did that which could not have been asked of him. When word comes out that you’ve begun to recover, I am certain that some people will fiercely insist on having you tried for all that has happened… The accounts of crimes have not stopped. I have witnessed this personally and I am afraid they will use you as an example. I fear not even the Viceroy will be able to stop that.”

Coronado gazed into the large glass cup and with a circular motion of his wrist caused the wine inside it to ripple, exhaled loudly and then leaned in toward his adjutant friend. It seemed as if he was hesitant to speak aloud, but Castaneda believed it to be something important and his subtle nod gave the renowned explorer some much needed encouragement to continue.

“Perhaps… perhaps Luis will not even have to influence anything. I hope he will have no further part in this and that he’ll be spared in this entire witch hunt, should everything go according to my design. Castaneda, you know I trust you unconditionally." said the hunched Coronado softly, then cleared his throat with a short growl and continued deliberately:

“I have a plan… a plan and an undying desire to leave this place. To leave the New World, this goddamn New World with all its tribulations, and to go back home to my Salamanca. I need your help, my friend. I will not ask you to do more for me than what I would do for you, you have my word.”

Slightly intimidated by the fire in the conquistador’s disclosure, his apparently premeditated scheme and everything that he had seen and heard within the past few minutes, Castaneda was unsure at first about what type of answer he should offer. All of it could’ve been a product of an antemortem delirium, a hybrid creation of nostalgia and desperation of a man who had already lost everything. On the other end of the bed, however, sat his best friend – the man who had appreciated him for decades and always treated him as a brother, in the good times and the bad. Believing the conquistador’s mind to be sound, although relying more on emotion and raw hope than on facts and analysis, Castaneda quickly made his choice. He feared a near future in which Francisco Vasquez de Coronado could be exposed to public ridicule and humiliation in a trial which the slender adjutant knew would be but a pre-orchestrated farce ending with a brutal punishment.

“I will do everything I can, Francisco. I’ve been here thus far, so I really wouldn’t want rumors circulating of how I had betrayed a friend when it mattered most." said Castaneda with a smile, “In any case, it has been much too long since we’ve ridden together toward the unknown and danger… Let’s hear that plan.”

Lit up by the energetic support from his adjutant, Coronado did something incredible – from his position at the top of the bed he slowly lowered his feet to the floor, propelled himself up and carefully rose, with his inactive bones softly cracking. A line of pain shooting across his face indicated the effort had cost Coronado. Nonetheless, it was undeniable that within the short time since Castaneda’s last visit the conquistador had really made a significant recovery. In contrast with the man who had been considered immobile and near death a mere day before, Coronado now appeared vital and alert. Taking a few steps, he shut the wooden windows and slowly made his way back, saying, “I knew you’d be with me on this, friend. None other. Before I explain everything, I shall ask of you one very important task.”

“Yes?”, replied Pedro de Castaneda, while trying to hide the hesitation in his voice.

“I need you to write the last entry in the chronicles of Francisco Vasquez de Coronado.”