War God

by Graham Hancock

  So perhaps Spaniards had been responsible? This could by no means be ruled out. The Inquisitor had many enemies amongst the conquistadors after his part in the disaster of the Córdoba expedition. The page Pepillo also had a legitimate grudge, and for a while Cortés had even suspected him and his friend Melchior – the boys were behaving strangely and both had bruises and cuts on the morning of 28 February which they claimed, unconvincingly, were the result of a fight between themselves. But again proof was lacking and, on reflection, the notion they would have been capable of murdering a grown man like the Inquisitor seemed absurd.

  It was an unsolved enigma, and when the repaired and revictualled fleet sailed out of Cozumel on 6 March, a week after Muñoz’s disappearance, Cortés had already concluded it was for the best if it remained unsolved. Two weeks later, anchored in the bay at the mouth of the Tabasco river, he felt Saint Peter by his side as he prepared to lay his vengeance on the Mayan town of Potonchan, and conjured in his mind’s eye an image of that infinitely greater city whose name he did not yet know, that jewelled and shining city with its golden pyramid, built upon the waters of a far-off lake, surrounded by lofty mountains wreathed in snow, that beckoned to him from his dreams.

  ‘All these things God will give you,’ Saint Peter had told him, ‘when you have done the thing I require you to do.’

  And what the saint required, right here, right now, was the humbling, the punishment and the utter destruction, until their dead lay thick upon the ground, of the Chontal Maya of Potonchan.

  It was on the day of the great spring festival, when the hours of light and darkness are equal and the sun rises due east on the horizon, that Malinal at last came within sight of Potonchan. Approaching from the south on the broad white road running through fields of young maize, she hardly recognised the town of her birth from which she had been expelled five years previously, betrayed by her own mother, cast down from her noble lineage, and sold as a slave to a passing Mexica merchant. Compared to the massive scale, elegance and complexity of the Mexica capital where she’d spent the intervening years, it was, she saw at once, nothing special. But compared to the Potonchan of her memory – just a few dusty streets, a market and her father’s palace – this town that now loomed before her had grown very large, and sprawled for a great distance along the bank of the Tabasco river. She might have thought she had lost her way and arrived at some other place entirely, had it not been for the nine sheer terraces of the ancient pyramid that soared up out of the central plaza and towered unchangeable over the warren of streets and houses. The pyramid had been built by King Ahau Chamahez in the long ago, so long ago that no one could possibly remember; yet his archaic prestige still shone down on Potonchan like the rays of the sun and made it a place of sacred pilgrimage to all the Chontal Maya, eclipsing even the greatest towns of the region, for the special celebrations of spring.

  The sight of the monument reminded Malinal of that other infinitely greater pyramid, dedicated to the Mexica war god Hummingbird, where she had come so close to losing her life and yet been reprieved at the last moment, through the mysterious intervention of the war god himself. She did not know exactly how long she had been walking – at least thirty days, she thought, perhaps a little longer – since she had left Tenochtitlan behind on that night of horror. But her bruised and aching feet bore witness that there had not been a single day since then when she had stopped moving, not a single day when she had allowed herself rest, as she put ever greater distance between herself and the cruelty and madness of the Mexica.

  Dusty, battered and travel-stained though they were, she still wore the embroidered blue cotton blouse and skirt and sturdy sandals she had been given on leaving Tenochtitlan. The heavy, fur-lined travelling cloak she’d also been given – of little use to her after she’d come down out of the mountains into the tropical lowlands – had been exchanged for food twelve days before and her backpack was gone too, its contents bartered and consumed. The journey had burnt her courtesan’s skin brown and taken such a toll on her expensive clothes and general appearance that she’d long since ceased to stand out from the countryfolk and other travellers she met along the way. And now she was almost home and found herself amidst pilgrims flocking into Potonchan for the spring festival, which must already have been under way since the previous night and would continue for another three days. As she had many times on her long and hazardous journey, when she’d avoided bandits, or Mexica patrols, or found unexpected shelter in the midst of a storm, or been given a bed for the night by a kindly family, or found a willing guide when she was lost, Malinal remembered Tozi’s claim that some divine plan was unfolding in which she had been chosen to play a part. Her return here exposed her to great danger from her own family, a risk she had decided she was prepared to run, but the joyous crowds seemed like yet another gift from the gods, making it so much easier for her to blend in, anonymous and undetected, while she sought tidings of the god Quetzalcoatl.

  As she drew closer, however, she began to realise that something was amiss. Although multitudes were indeed still making for the town, equally large numbers had begun to pour out of it, heading south in the direction from which she had come. Judging from their style of dress, most were visitors who, for some reason, were hurrying away before the festivities could even have got into full swing, but it was also obvious there were some residents amongst them. As more and more of the travellers in both directions crossed paths and exchanged words, she saw that increasing numbers of those heading for Potonchan were turning back.

  Puzzled, she stopped a family on the road – mother, father, grandparents, five children – and asked them what was happening. The grandfather, grey haired, lean, bent, supporting himself on a walking stick, made her heart leap when he told her: ‘The white strangers have returned.’

  ‘White strangers?’ she asked, masking the excitement she felt. ‘Who are they?’

  The old man gave her a hard look. ‘The same strangers we fought with before, of course! Where have you been, girl?’

  ‘I’ve been … away. I’ve been five years in the lands of the Mexica.’

  His expression softened. ‘Then you won’t have heard because it was just last year the strangers came to Potonchan. They came in huge boats that move by themselves without paddles. They demanded our food, our gold and tried to make us worship their god. They even burnt some of us on great fires! So in the end we went into battle against them. They were few but they possess fearsome weapons and they killed many before we drove them off. Now Muluc urges us to resist them again but anyone with any sense is leaving.’

  Malinal hid the instant surge of anger that the name Muluc evoked in her. ‘You say the strangers tried to make you worship their god but the way you describe them makes them sound more like gods than humans themselves. Do you not think they are gods?’

  The elder kept silent as he appeared to consider her question. ‘Some believe that,’ he answered finally, ‘but they eat like men, they shit like men and they smell like men, so I would say they are men, even though they seem very different from us.’

  As he plodded off with the rest of his family, Malinal called after him. ‘These strangers – are they in the town already?’

  ‘They’re in the bay in their great boats,’ the old man answered. ‘But they will come. You can be sure they will come. Take my advice and leave while you still can.’

  Malinal pressed on, hardly registering now how many other large parties of pilgrims all around her had begun to turn back. She was so completely absorbed in the news she had been given that she was trembling – although whether it was with joy or with fear, she couldn’t say.

  Through all these days of hard walking, it had been the hope planted in her by Tozi that Quetzalcoatl and his retinue of gods were about to return that had kept her going. Even so, part of her – perhaps the larger part – had continued to doubt the whole story. But after what she had just heard, how could she doubt it any longer?

  And how
could she doubt Tozi’s other assertion that she, Malinal, must in some special way be part of the gods’ plan? For not only had they made their first appearance in Potonchan, the town of her birth, but now they had returned here on the very day that she too had returned after five long years of absence.

  Such a conjunction, she thought, could hardly have come about by accident. It must have been fated. It must have been written in the stars – and by the hands of the gods themselves, long ages before.

  She was so deep in these reflections that she failed to notice how close to the town she had approached and that she was no longer one amongst many now that almost all the other pilgrims had turned back. But suddenly her flesh crawled and she looked up with a start to discover two soldiers from Muluc’s palace guard drawing a temporary barrier of thorns across the road less than a dozen paces in front of her.

  ‘Hey you,’ said one of them, the younger of the two, a gangling youth with bad acne. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  Malinal stared him down. ‘Into town for the spring festival, of course.’

  ‘Well you’re wasting your time. Haven’t you heard? The festival’s been cancelled.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Since now. Muluc’s orders. There’s an emergency.’

  The older of the two soldiers, who had wattles of wrinkled skin hanging loosely from beneath his chin like a turkey, was studying her closely, a calculating look in his hooded eyes. ‘Don’t I know you?’ he asked. He had a distinctive, croaky voice.

  Malinal’s heart was racing. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I’m from Cintla.’ She named the regional capital two hours’ walk to the south through which she had passed earlier. ‘I’ve never been to Potonchan before.’

  ‘Are you sure of that, my pretty? Because you look very familiar to me somehow.’

  ‘Yes, quite sure, and I suppose I’d better be getting back now since you say the festival’s been cancelled.’

  She turned and began to walk in the direction she had come, resisting the urge to break into a run, keeping her pace slow and measured as the soldiers talked urgently behind her. She knew exactly where turkey-neck remembered her from – had known the instant he spoke to her. His face had aged a lot in the five years but she couldn’t forget that voice.

  ‘Come back here, my pretty …’

  She ignored him, kept on walking.

  ‘Hey you! Halt!’

  There was a scramble of running feet and in a moment they were on her.

  ‘You’re Malinal!’ turkey-neck said as he grappled with her. The slyness in his eyes had turned to triumph.

  The soldiers brought Malinal straight to the palace and insisted on showing her to Muluc in person. ‘We’ll get a good reward for catching this one,’ said turkey-neck, whose name was Ahmakiq. ‘I was there five years ago when they put her into slavery – handed her over to the merchant myself. They sold her to the Mexica to be sure she’d never come back. Princess of the blood like this – she could have caused them a lot of trouble.’

  ‘Well she’s back now,’ said Ekahau, the younger soldier.

  ‘Exactly! And that’s why they’ll be grateful we caught her.’

  Waiting in the palace courtyard for Muluc to appear, Malinal found herself reliving the events of five years ago.

  Her beloved father, Kan-U-Ueyeyab, the late chief of Potonchan, had died suddenly and unexpectedly when she was fourteen years old. She was his only child and should have succeeded to his position when she was sixteen. Meanwhile her mother Raxca ruled as regent and swiftly took a lover, the lord Muluc, whom she equally swiftly married. Shortly after Malinal’s fifteenth birthday, the couple had a child, a boy they named Nacon, and from the moment of his birth Muluc doted on him and detested Malinal. His influence on Raxca was very great, for she was besotted and weak, and he conspired with her to get rid of Malinal so that in due course Nacon could inherit the chieftainship. Raxca had baulked at having her own daughter murdered, the solution Muluc preferred; instead Malinal was sold to a Mexica slave-trader and taken off to Tenochtitlan, that city of terrors from which none who were sent in bondage ever returned.

  Now no longer an innocent girl but a woman of the world herself, Malinal felt quite certain her mother must have been intimate with Muluc long before her father’s death. Worse, it was depressingly obvious that Kan-U-Ueyeyab had been murdered, most probably poisoned, by the pair – for he had been strong and radiant with health until the very moment a mysterious affliction struck him down, brought blood pouring from his nose and mouth, plunged him into unconsciousness and killed him within a day.

  And all this for what? Was absolute power in Potonchan, and putting Nacon in a position to inherit it, really worth such betrayal, such scheming, such wickedness?

  Malinal looked up. The palace was as she remembered it, with two storeys and a floor area of a dozen or so rooms. She had once thought it big and impressive – and it was, indeed, very much larger than all the surrounding buildings. Accustomed to the beautiful and luxurious dwellings of the Mexica nobility, however, she now saw her childhood home for what it really was – the rude and rustic seat of a minor tribal chief.

  A woman’s voice raised in anger could be heard within, a child crying, a man speaking in indistinct, urgent tones. Shuffling to attention, Ahmakiq and Ekahau tightened their grip on Malinal’s arms and she prepared herself for the first sight of her mother in five years. She supposed she had loved her once – doesn’t every child love her mother? – but all that had long ago been burnt away and she was surprised to discover she felt nothing for her, not even hatred any more, not even curiosity, just cold and disdainful contempt. All the rage she felt was focussed on her loathsome stepfather! He’d got the better of her five years ago and most unfortunately it appeared he was going to get the better of her again today.

  However, it was not Muluc who emerged from the door of the palace but the worried-looking steward who’d been sent to fetch him, closely followed by Raxca whose attention was focussed on a bawling babe swaddled in her arms. Trailing behind, and gripping a fold of Raxca’s skirt tightly in his chubby fist, was a fat and exceptionally ugly little boy – he took after his father! – with the sniffles and a smear of snot drying on his upper lip. He looked to be about five or six years of age and could be none other than the usurper Nacon.

  Despite the danger of her predicament, Malinal enjoyed that special pleasure that sometimes comes from another’s discomfiture as her mother looked up from the babe. Clearly the steward had summoned her without daring to mention who was at the door, but now she gave a startled shriek and stepped back sharply, standing on her son’s foot and eliciting a high-pitched yowl of protest. ‘Gods!’ she gasped.

  Once thought a great beauty, Raxca had grown plain and dumpy, with greedy eyes and the puffed-up cheeks of an agouti. Her jaw trembled and her complexion turned fish-belly pale as guilt, shame and fear fought a brief skirmish on her face. ‘Is it Malinal?’ she asked over the sniffles and incessant grizzling of Nacon.

  ‘Yes, mother,’ Malinal replied wearily, ‘I’ve come back to haunt you.’ She wasn’t sure why she said that, except that she did, somehow, feel like a vengeful ghost returned from the dead.

  It was a bizarre situation. Malinal had been sent into slavery by Raxca five years before, yet here she was, in her mother’s audience chamber on the first floor of the palace, drinking a bowl of chocolate with her in the late afternoon as though nothing had happened!

  Well, not quite nothing, perhaps, because there were guards at the door and Raxca was in the process of making it very clear that Malinal remained a prisoner. ‘We shall have to wait until Muluc returns, then we will decide.’

  ‘Mother, let me go!’ Malinal said urgently. ‘I have no interest in the chieftainship of Potonchan. Nacon may have it when he matures, for all I care. I’m no threat to him, or you, or your darling Muluc. My only interest is in these white men, or gods, or whatever they may be.’

  ‘Well Mulu
c is interested in them too,’ Raxca said severely. The colour had returned to her chubby face, which was set in its usual mode of fanatical devotion to her husband. ‘He’s making plans to attack them if they dare to come here. I don’t think he’d want you to contact them directly. No. I’m afraid you must stay, my dear.’

  She had been breastfeeding the baby, but now Nacon stamped possessively to her side and pawed at her teat, and to Malinal’s amazement she hugged the little boy close and allowed him to suckle too. Raxca smiled as she settled back on the couch, cradling her children. ‘Tell me about Tenochtitlan,’ she said, as though Malinal had returned from a sightseeing trip instead of five years of slavery and prostitution. ‘I’ve heard it’s a very beautiful city.’

  Little by little as the afternoon wore on, and Raxca steadfastly refused to be drawn into anything other than small talk, Malinal began to realise something she had never fully appreciated as a child – that her mother was a very stupid, small-minded, parochial woman. No wonder Muluc had found it so easy to manipulate her to his own ends!

  Shortly after nightfall he stormed into the audience chamber, as ugly as she remembered him, muscular and scarred, with beetle brows and bulging eyes, dressed in full war regalia of body paint and feathers. ‘You!’ he said pointing a finger at Malinal. ‘How dare you show your face in my palace!’

  ‘I wouldn’t have done so,’ she replied modestly, ‘if your guards hadn’t arrested me and brought me here by force. They seemed to think you’d reward them well for doing that. I can’t imagine why.’

  With a few harsh words, Muluc sent Raxca and the children from the room. ‘Tell me your purpose here,’ he said when they were gone. ‘Surely you can’t imagine you’ve any claim to the chieftainship after all this time.’

  ‘I have no claim,’ said Malinal, ‘and no interest.’