7. The Riches of Santiago Chapter 6-The Scholar and the Terrorist

7/30/2019 7. The Riches of Santiago Chapter 6-The Scholar and the Terrorist

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THE RICHES OF SANTIAGO

BOOK ONE

*********

Chapter Five:

The Scholar and the Terrorist

Diego Ortiz signed his name, with love, to the letter he had just completed to his

son, written on the flyleaf of his beloved copy ofCandide. Perhaps Voltaire, with his

incisive wit and infamous cynicism, could make sense of his recent discovery, but not he.

All he could sense is that something mysterious was afoot and that his new knowledge

might be dangerous. The Jesuit had hinted as much.

He blew gently on the page to help the ink dry and then closed the bookreverently, admiring its cover. He sat at the small mahogany desk in the office and

library he kept in his home, or more accurately, his father-in-laws home, a matter of no

great moment to Ortiz, even though Gabriel Maragall regularly reminded him that he

suffered Ortiz presence only for the sake of Ortiz son, and Maragalls grandson,

Ramon. Surrounded by his books, Ortiz felt safe and warm, in the lap, as it were, of

learning and erudition. If only Platos philosopher kings ran the world, he would need

never leave his books. If only life were that simple.

He carried the book to the far wall, near the end of the alphabet. He would have

preferred to keep Candide close to his desk, within easy reach, but Arouets choice of

nom de plume forced his hand. His sense of organization required the As to start by his

desk, the Vs way over here at the end of the room. Still, his eyes never failed to pick it


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out from across the room, almost as if they were magnetically attracted by the words

within. The library included volumes by Rousseau, dAlembert, Hobbes, Locke, and

Hume, as well as Voltaire, all smuggled over the Pyrenees. Being caught with any one of

them would condemn him to the ministrations of the Inquisition, but he really didnt care.

Absent the cultivation of reason, life would be torture anyway.

He replaced the book to its accustomed location, certain that, if anything should

happen to him, Ramon would remember his fathers treasured book. He smiled at the

thought of his beloved son, occasionally headstrong, but bright, honest, and loyal;

attributes of a leader, and attributes that Ortiz admired. On more than one occasion

Ramon had defended his fathers unpopular opinions, not because they were his fathers,

but because Ramon too adhered to them. Ortiz could not have wished for finer son, and

knew Ramon felt similarly for him. His only regret was that his beloved Alicia had not

lived to admire their child as he did.

A sound elsewhere in the home startled him. He stood motionless, listening, his

weak heart pounding audibly. It must be nothing, he thought, only his nerves, on edge

since he finished translating the writing in the bible. The work, outwardly tedious, had

become immensely exciting after he discovered the secondwriting. Hidden in plain

view. Marvelous. The man had been a genius.

The request had sounded innocent enough, although his patrons identity should

have roused his curiosity. Luis Antonio Jaime, nominally the Count of Chincon, but of

greater import, the Infant Luis, youngest brother of Charles III, King of Spain. In his

native Toledo, Ortiz had developed a small reputation for translation and authentication

of aged documents, a skill Luis, the erstwhile archbishop of Toledo, found he required.

A family bible, he claimed, bequeathed him by an aged retainer, a M. Daubenton, his

fathers Jesuit confessor in fact. Would Doctor Ortiz be so kind as to review the notes

found within the bible, apparently written in French, the confessors native tongue and

one Luis, despite his Bourbon heritage, had failed to acquire. A simple translation, he


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had said, and if possible, authentication of the notes; a task for which Luis would pay

handsomely.

Ortiz returned to his desk and once more scanned the notes he had made of the

translations. Luis would receive more, he was sure, than he had bargained for. The

writing scribbled on aged parchment stuffed within the bibles pages were indeed French,

and they were volatile. But the Latin words carefully inscribed between lines of the

Psalms were even more revealing. The writing was tiny and faint, illegible, not words at

all upon first glance, nor even upon serious inspection. Ortiz had discovered their sense

only by accident when the polished metal frame of his magnifying glass had acted as a

mirror to reverse the letters.

Ortiz committed his notes to memory, as if he could forget their import, and

carried them to the fireplace. He lit each page, one at a time, and made certain they were

consumed in the crackling fire. Using the andiron, he stirred the ashes in amongst the

charred wood. No one would read those words again, and the original, he hoped, was

safely hidden. Only Ramon could follow his directions to the bible.

Another sound, this one closer, startled him again. Swinging around, he raised

the andiron menacingly. There, leaning against the desk from which he had only just

risen, stood an ugly, unkempt rogue, barely five feet tall. His face was uncommonly

dirty, caked in mud, and framed by long black hair hanging in tangled oily strands. His

seamans clothing hung loosely on his body, and dripped rainwater onto the desk and

floor. His upper arms, visible beneath his soggy tunic, were thickly muscled. His ugly,

dark face conveyed calm and his deep, black eyes stared through Ortiz as though he did

not exist.

Anger surged through Ortiz at the violation of his sanctuary. Who are you,

Ortiz demanded, continuing to hold the andiron protectively above his waist. How dare

you invade my home?


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The ugly little man stood silently, giving no indication that he heard Ortiz, much

less that he understood him.

Hes here with me.

Ortiz jumped, noticing for the first time the large man sitting in his own chair, his

feet propped on the desk. In spite of his fear, Ortiz bristled at the muddy shoes marring

his perfectly oiled desk. Ortiz raised the andiron once more. Get off my desk! How

dare you break into my home?

The man laughed mirthlessly. My dear Doctor Ortiz, they told me you were

perhaps the brightest in all of Barcelona, an excellent academic. But I had no idea you

had such spunk. But, lets be honest, you know why Im here. The man lounged

casually in Ortiz chair, but he appeared to be nearly six feet tall. He was dressed

fashionably, a large, broad-brimmed hat shading his dark eyes and neatly trimmed beard,

a billowy cloak and pants concealing any weapons. Ortiz could not see much of the man

in the dim firelight, but he thought he was handsome and intelligent looking.

No, I dont, nor do I want to know. Ortiz heart was pounding frantically.

There could be but one reason the man was here. He raised the andiron above his head.

Get out of my house, he commanded, or I will split your head. Both of you!

The man chuckled good-naturedly. Come now, Doctor Ortiz, lets not pretend

you could actually use that on us. He nodded to his accomplice who, moving with

surprising quickness, leapt toward Ortiz. Ortiz braced for the attack and swung the

andiron in a savage two-handed blow at his assailants head. The smaller man ducked

agilely beneath the stroke and used his shoulder to catch Ortiz solidly in the abdomen. As

Ortiz doubled over, an elbow slammed into the back of Ortiz neck, crumpling him

brutally to his knees, the heavy andiron making a massive dent in the hardwood floor

before sliding away out of his grasp.


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Allow me to introduce Miguel. Hes surprisingly quick and strong for such a

small man. But I should not say small. Short, maybe, but hardly small. He never makes

a sound, so we think hes dumb, and hes probably stupid as well, but as youve seen, he

has his uses. Miguels small, dark face remained calm, passionless, uncomprehending,

although his black eyes flickered at the term stupid.

Ortiz moaned, unable to catch his breath. His knees ached unbearably from

landing on the floor, and the back of his head felt like a tree had fallen on it. The intruder

continued talking as if he and Ortiz were conversing over tea.

And as for me, you may call me Benito, Benito Aguilar, at your service. We

shall become very good friends, you and I, just as soon as you give me the bible youve

translated. You have translated the bible, yes?

Ortiz sat up on the floor, breathing heavily, his heart pounding violently. The

intruder, this Aguilar, continued to loll in Ortiz chair while he talked. His words,

although spoken amiably, carried implied threat and were frightening, but Ortiz knew he

held the trump card; he knew where the bible was, and Aguilar did not. Who are you,

he demanded again. Why are you doing this?

Im sorry, Doctor, Aguilar smiled. I forgot. You dont know the rules. The

rules are simple; I ask the questions, you answer them, yes? So, it is a simple question.

Have you finished translating the bible?

Ortiz considered denying he knew anything about a bible, but this man seemed to

know all about it. Denial might induce more of the violence he had just suffered.

Besides, Ortiz couldnt think of any advantage in denial. Aguilar obviously knew about

the bible and his translation. Ortiz could assume he knew of the French note. But did he

know of the Latin?

Ive read it, he admitted.


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Very good, Doctor, they told me you were intelligent and reasonable. And what

can you tell me about it? For the first time Aguilar moved, lowering his feet to the floor

and leaning forward with his elbows on the desk.

Ortiz considered his answer. The ugly little man, having rendered Ortiz harmless,

stood motionless, but threateningly at his side. Ortiz wondered again who Aguilar was,

and how much he knew. He was here to frighten Ortiz, but under whose orders? The

Jesuit? The Jesuit had already paid Ortiz one visit, and Ortiz had not found it pleasant.

If Aguilar worked for the Jesuit, he would know only what the Jesuit thought he should

know. Perhaps he knows nothing of the contents of the notes, and is asking not to learn

what Ortiz knows, but to inform himself. Ortiz decided to test that hypothesis.

It was written in French. Much of the ink was smeared, illegible. It was signed

Marcel Daubenton, a French Jesuit who for many years acted as confessor to His

Majesty, King Philip V, may he rest in peace. Philip suffered from severe melancholy.

The notes simply dealt with some of Philips fears.

Fears? Aguilar asked. What sort of fears?

They were nothing, Ortiz lied. Philip was haunted by many fears. Daubenton

tired of dealing daily with Philips fears.

A smile crept across Aguilars face. Not good enough, Doctor Ortiz. Not nearly

good enough. Now you are trying to be too clever. Aguilar placed his hand, palm

down, fingers spread on the desk and nodded to Miguel, who bent quickly and grabbed

Ortiz right wrist, twisted his arm behind his back and pulled Ortiz into a standing

position, and then pushed him, stumbling, forward to the desk. Ortiz screamed in pain as

the small man twisted his arm harder, bending him over the desk. Ortiz caught himself

with his left hand placed flat on the desk, mirroring Aguilars.


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You see, Doctor, I really must know the answers to my questions. So once

again, what did the notes say? As he asked the question, Aguilar removed a knife from

the inside of his boot. The knife was small, but thick and looked exceedingly sharp. As

he waited, Aguilar stroked the blade gently across the mahogany desk causing a deep

gash in its wake.

Sweat poured from Ortiz brow, his heart beat ominously, and his right elbow

ached from being twisted. Aguilar reached across the desk and lifted Ortiz chin so that

they were looking each other eye to eye.

You must listen very carefully, now, Doctor. Rules. You will answer my

questions. You will answer them truthfully. And you will not hesitate. Each time you

hesitate, each time you lie, I shall remove a finger. Do you understand me, Doctor?

For the first time, Ortiz fear overwhelmed his bravado. Yes, yes, Ortiz

wheezed. Ill tell you what you want to know!

Excellent. Now that we have an understanding, tell me what you translated.

Ortiz, his heart pounding, continued to sweat profusely. The King believed that

his Queen, Elizabeth Farnese was adulterous. Daubenton investigated his charges. And

and No, please! Dont do that!

At Ortiz hesitation, Aguilar had begun playing with the knife across Ortiz little

finger, easily opening a wound, with blood spilling out. And what did his investigation

determine?

It was true! The Queen, Julio Alberoni, Philips prime minister!

Aguilar smiled cruelly. You see, Doctor, you see what you make me do? With

a quick swipe of the blade, he severed Ortiz little finger at the second knuckle. Ortiz


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screamed, gasping for air, less in pain than shock. The stub of Ortiz little finger turned

white, and then filled with blood that began spurting across the desk. Ortiz face turned

ashen.

Everyone is aware of that old rumor, Doctor. What else did Daubenton say?

Quickly now.

Ortiz could no longer think. Panic took control. His breathing came in short,

rapid gasps. Little oxygen was reaching his brain, shutting down his ability to think. His

eyes glazed over, staring, unbelieving, at his severed finger. Aguilar lifted the knife

again, causing Ortiz to start spouting words.

Proof! Proof! Daubenton had proof. It was more. More. They had affair.

Long, long. They had a child! Charles, the King! Hes Alberonis!

Aguilar settled back into the chair, contemplating. The King is Alberonis

bastard? Not Philips son? How interesting. Suddenly Aguilars face lit up with a new

thought. And if hes not Philips son, then hes not in line to be King. No wonder the

bastards so interested in this damned bible. Aguilar considered the implications for

several more moments while Miguel continued to hold Ortiz. Finally, Aguilar continued,

Lets not waste more time, Doctor. I need your translation. But first, where is the

bible?

Ortiz eyes bulged. Now his trump card felt more like a trap, one of his own

making. It it the French its a lie!

Aguilar raised the knife again. Really, Doctor, you must not overly value your

fingers. I asked, where is the bible?

Ortiz eyes bulged. I dont have it anymore! he cried.


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Aguilar shook his head slowly, back and forth. Really not good enough, Doctor.

Really not. He reached over and took Ortiz thumb. Shall we raise the stakes some,

Doctor? As he started to sever the thumb, Ortiz screamed shrilly, and then slumped

over in mid-scream. Miguel released his arm and Ortiz slid to the floor. Aguilar came

around to the front of the desk and knelt beside the prostrate body. Ortiz clothing was

soaked with sweat, his mouth open from his scream, drool sliding out the edges. Aguilar

moved his chin. His face was peculiarly ashen, as blood leaked from his hand, no longer

spurting. Aguilar placed two fingers on Ortiz jugular, and held them there for several

seconds before looking up at his ugly accomplice.

You stupid bastard.

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7. The Riches of Santiago Chapter 6-The Scholar and the Terrorist