I went home that night struggling with the idea of putting on a play that would provide great profit yet not run us afoul of the Inquisition. Restless, I grabbed a copy of Montebanca's Historia of the Roma Empire and read it by candlelight as I breathed the sweet fumes of the stable below. As the empire became more and more decadent, decomposing as its social and moral fabric rotted under one bad leader after another, the emperors had gotten more and more extreme in the entertainment they provided the people in the arena; no longer did it entertain people to see gladiators killing each other, soon small armies fought and men were pitted against wild beasts. I found among the more interesting gladiatorial contests the sea battles in which the arena was flooded and warships with gladiators aboard fought.
Dozing off, I wondered how one would flood a comedia de corral, which was often little more than the space between houses, to put on a battle of gladiators.
I awoke in the middle of the night with the realization that I already had the flooded arena.
Mateo returned from Acapulco after two weeks. He was in bad temper and had no scar to which he had ascribed a woman's name.
"Pirates sank the Manila galleon; I made the trip for nothing."
"Mateo, Mateo, my friend, my companion in arms, I have had a revelation."
"Did you walk on water, amigo?"
"Exactly! You have guessed it. We are going to put on a comedia—on water."
Mateo rolled his eyes and pounded the side of his head. "Bastardo, you've been inhaling some of that yoyotli that steals the mind."
"No, I've been reading history. The Romans sometimes flooded the arena and put on gladiatorial sea battles with warships."
"Did you plan to put this comedia on in Rome? Has the pope given you San Pedro's to flood?"
"You are such a doubter of genius. Have you looked around and seen that Ciudad Mexico is surrounded by water?—not to mention a dozen lagoons in and around the city."
"Explain this madness to me."
"We take great risk for small profit printing deshonesto plays and books and selling them. It occurred to me that we could put on our own comedia and make our fortune."
Mateo's eye lit up. "I will write the play! An English pirate rapes—"
"No! No! No! Everyone from Madrid to Acapulco has seen that story. I have an idea for a play—"
His hand brushed his dagger. "You don't want me to write the play?"
"Yes, of course, but based on a different story." That fortunately needed very little dialogue, I added silently to myself. "What is the greatest moment in the history of New Spain?"
"The conquest, of course."
"Besides those famous horses whose blood you invest in, Cortes had a fleet of warships. Because Mexico, Tenochtitlan, was an island with a causeway that could be easily defended by the Aztecs, Cortes had to attack the city over water. He had timber felled and beams cut and built a fleet of thirteen boats; installed them with masts, rigging, and sail. While the boats were being prepared, he employed eight thousand indios to dig a canal by which the boats could be launched on the lake."
Mateo, of course, knew the story better than me. Cortes put twelve rowers aboard each vessel, along with twelve crossbowmen and musketeers, a total of about half of the conquistadors in his army. None of the conquistadors wanted to be rowers, and he'd had to coerce men with sea experience to man the oars.
He equipped each boat with cannon taken from the ships that had carried him to New Spain and put the boats under the command of captains. He invested himself as admiral of the fleet and led an attack on the city as the rest of his force and indio allies attacked the causeway.
The fleet of little warships was countered by an Aztec armada, over five hundred war canoes, hosting thousands of warriors. As the two fleets closed the distance between them, Cortes knew all would be lost if the good Lord did not give them a fresh breeze to propel their ships into battle with such speed that they would not be overwhelmed by the enormous number of Aztec war canoes.
The Hand of God did enter the battle. A breeze came up that sent Cortes's ships crashing through the Aztec armada with a ferocity only matched by the fierceness of the conquistadors themselves.
"How did you plan to pay for the thirteen ships and five hundred canoes, not to mention several hundred conquistadors and five thousand Aztec warriors?"
"We need but one warship and two or three canoes. A lake barge can be turned into a warship by adding some false lines of timber and wooden cannon. Indios with canoes can be had for a few pesos each night."
Mateo had the nervous intensity of a jaguar on the prowl. He paced, seeing himself as the man who won an empire.
"Cortes would be the main player," he said, "fighting with the strength of ten demons, killing a dozen—no!—a hundred of the enemy, exhorting his men not to waiver, in his most desperate moment, on his knees, calling upon God to deliver wind."
"Naturally only a fine actor like yourself could pay the conqueror."
"There is a company of players in the city, stranded, their bellies getting thinner each day," he said. "They could be had for a place to sleep and a little wine and food until our boat is prepared."
"I leave matters requiring artistic judgment to one who has performed before royalty in Madrid. I will occupy myself with mundane matters of getting the warship built, printing announcements, and the selling of tickets."
And, praise God, collecting enough money to become the gentleman I had always wanted to be.
Preparations for the play proved to be easier than I had imagined. The viceroy's office and the Holy Office were more than willing to license a play that extolled God and the glory of Spanish conquerors. All of the negotiations were done in my persona of a print shop assistant commissioned by the fictitious autor of the play. Because of our connection to the don, we decided not to use our real names.
Late at night, while I was printing up handbills advertising the play, I heard the telltale drop of a package through the back door slot and I again rushed to the alley.
The poet was nearly to end of the alley when a dark figure jumped out in front of him. The poet screamed and ran back toward me.
A woman's scream.
Terrified, looking back where an attack was expected, the poet ran nearly into my arms. I grabbed the mask from the person's face.
"Eléna!"
She stared at me wide-eyed. "You!"
She spun around and ran back down the alley, flying around Juan the lépero whom I had posted in the alley.
No wonder the words of the poet had so inflamed my heart—they flowed from the heart and hand of the woman I loved! That Eléna was the author of the poetry was a shock. That she was capable of writing poetry in no way surprised me. As a young girl she had talked of disguising herself as a man to write poetry.
The drudgery of typesetting the poems had been rewarded by a moment in which we stood only inches apart.
What did she mean when she had exclaimed, You! Shock that she had seen the lépero again who had accosted her on the street? Or did she recognize me as the youth from Veracruz? I toyed with the word, "you," listening in my mind to her speaking it, sometimes in a tone of familiarity, other times a tone of derision creeping in.
Finally, sighing, realizing my thoughts of someday courting Eléna were more fanciful than Mateo's battles with dragons, I sat down with the papers she had delivered.
The material she left were not in fact poems but a play. Called Beatriz de Navarre, it was the tale of a woman with a jealous husband. He suspects her of infidelity after finding what appears to be a love note.