“Yes, well, it’s my natural charisma. Anyway, dear Henrique, you want to watch you don’t end up like Friar Cristovão de Lisboa.” Cristovão had preached a sermon against settlers who abused the Indians, and later someone had shot at him.
“I assure you that I am extremely careful.” Henrique’s own men had in the meantime flanked Bento’s party. Bento affected not to notice, but several of his men were shifting their eyes back and forth, trying to keep track of Henrique’s allies.
“So I thought I’d have a palaver with the big chief here. Mebbe he’s got some enemies he’d like to ransom.” If a Portuguese bought a prisoner condemned to ritual execution, he was entitled to the former captive’s life; that is, he had acquired a slave. An “Indian of the cord.”
“You know the Tapajós don’t ransom. How many times have you tried this?”
“Aw, can’t hurt to ask. And look at this bee-yoo-tiful cross I brought the chief, as a present. Hey chief, you want this? It would look real sweet right in the center of your village.”
The chief gave Henrique a questioning look. Henrique shook his head, fractionally.
“Sorry, no,” said the chief. “It is too beautiful for our poor village, it would make everything else look drab.”
Henrique thought, Good for you. The cross was a scam. If the cross fell, or was allowed to fall into disrepair, then it was evidence that the tribe opposed the Catholic Church, and war upon it would be just. Leading, of course, to the enslavement of the survivors. The Tapajós were a strong tribe, and the slavers so far had been leery of attacking them, but that could change.
“Well, I can see I’m not welcome here today,” said Bento. “I’ll go make my own camp. But remember, Henrique, there’s always tomorrow.”
* * *
Whump! Henrique ducked, just in time, and took cover. He looked around, trying to spot the shooter. As he did so, one part of his mind wondered what had been shot at him. The sound hadn’t been quite that of a bullet, or an arrow, or even a slingshot. More like a grenade exploding, although that made no sense at all.
It happened again. Whump! Suddenly, he realized that the Indian tappers were completely ignoring the sound. With the exception of one, who was laughing his head off.
Henrique rose cautiously. “What’s making that sound?” Laughing Boy pointed upward at the fruits hanging from the rubber tree, and then down at the ground. It was thus that Henrique discovered just how the rubber tree spreads its seeds.
His superiors in Lisbon would be very pleased. Henrique had received precise instructions to collect seeds, if he found them. Henrique set the Indians to work.
Belém do Pará, Early 1634 (In Rainy Season)
Henrique fumbled with the door, and stepped into his home. He stumbled. Looking down, he saw that he had tripped over a cracked vase.
It was no ordinary vase. It was Henrique’s magnificent flower pot. When it wasn’t gracing his dining room, it reposed in a case in his foyer. His housekeeper, apparently, had taken it out to clean it, dropped it, and then fled the house.
Henrique blanched. His reaction had nothing to do with the cost of the piece, or even its sentimental value.
Did she see the secret compartment? he wondered.
He was hopeful that she hadn’t. He studied it carefully. What he found wasn’t good. The vase wasn’t merely cracked; a piece had broken off and been reset. Lifting it off again, he could see into the compartment. Unless the woman were completely devoid of curiosity, she would have looked inside. And what she would have seen would have been far too revealing. A b’samin spice box. A small goblet. And, most damning of all, a miniature hanukkiya. The housekeeper was a caboclo, a half-Indian, and had certainly received enough religious instruction at an aldeia to know what that signified.
It was the hanukkiya, a silver candelabra, that was missing. And that led to some fevered speculations. Had she taken it as evidence, to show to the authorities? If so, his hours were numbered.
Henrique thrust his facão into his belt sheath, and barred the door. He loaded a musket, and set it close by.
The soldiers would be sent to arrest him. There was no inquisitor in Belém, but an inspector would be sent from Lisbon. Henrique would be questioned, tortured. He would be called upon to repent his heresy, and he would refuse. Eventually they would classify him as a recalcitrant, and the Inquisition would recommend his execution. He would don the black sanbenito, tastefully decorated with pictures of flames and devils, and be paraded to the place of execution. He would be tied to the stake and—
Wait a moment. Perhaps she was planning to melt it down, knowing that he wouldn’t dare report a theft?