Indeed they had. There was Luisa’s driver waiting beside her carriage. The baker had sold his loaves, the fishmonger his fish and even the nearby butcher’s stall was almost empty of its offerings. ‘Look at that adorable little dog,’ Luisa said, pointing unknowingly at her failed understudy, who was lingering at the butcher’s stall. ‘She appears to be trying to choose between sausages.’
Benicio gave an ironic chuckle, though his brothers did not appear to understand the joke. Suddenly, the chimes of the noonday bells commenced. Benicio bowed his head, though he could not remember a word of the Sext hour prayer.
As he pretended to pray, he told himself not to be a fool. Women were capricious and nothing could be relied upon but the stars in the sky. Still no matter how many pretty young ladies batted their eyes at him, Benicio could think only of Luisa.
He was so consumed with thoughts of her that he did not even notice the conclusion of the bells. Nor did he perceive the quickening of Carlos’s breaths, or how his younger brother fumbled in the pocket of his jerkin. Before Benicio could do anything to stop him, Carlos had dropped to his knees before Luisa, removed his hat to the ground and was holding up a tiny silver ring.
‘Dear Luisa,’ he began, ‘my aromatic rose, every day you grow more...fragrant. The rain, the mist, the abundant dew...’
Overcome by nerves, Carlos shouted his professions, drawing a small crowd. ‘The light of dawn, the rosy glow of morning, your eyes, your lips, your beautiful...teeth. My dear...aromatic Luisa... Can I be your husband?’
There were a few giggles among the crowd. Then a terrible silence descended.
A lonely breeze blew past, tousling Luisa’s curls. ‘Oh, Carlos, do stand,’ she cried at last. She reached out her arms and lifted him to his feet.
‘I am honoured that you would ask me to be your wife,’ continued Luisa, ‘but I cannot accept your proposal.’
‘You...what?’
‘You are a fine young man, but I cannot become your wife.’
‘But our engagement can last as long as necessary,’ argued Carlos. ‘I am well into my apprenticeship at the Casa de Contratación. My knighthood shall be granted in only four short years.’
Carlos looked around desperately, as if searching for something to cushion the fall of his breaking heart. ‘Is it my physical form that does not appeal? I know that I am not handsome like Benicio, nor am I strong like Armando, but I—’
‘My dear friend, it is nothing to do with your physical form. I must consider the interests of my family. I am my father’s only daughter and you are...’
‘A second son,’ Carlos finished.
And there it was.
Carlos, like Benicio, had been born into that particular class of Castilian nobles whose names were respected, whose education was complete, but whose wealth, in the end, would have to be earned—the second sons.
Luisa placed a single kiss upon Carlos’s cheek. ‘I shall treasure your friendship always.’
Carlos dusted off his hat and placed it back on his head. ‘And I yours, my lady,’ he managed. ‘But this is not the end.’ He turned towards the cathedral.
Luisa sighed. ‘I think it is time to go,’ she said.
‘I shall accompany you to your carriage,’ said Benicio. ‘I believe you have something for me in it?’
‘Ah, yes—the gift!’
‘I believe I will join you,’ said Armando.
When they arrived at the carriage, Luisa retrieved a thin leather-covered tome and presented it to Benicio. ‘I have been meaning to give this to you for some time.’
Benicio’s eyes slid down her creamy neck, catapulted off her glorious bosom and finally settled upon the small book lying in her hands. ‘Amadís de Gaula?’
‘Did you not say that you were especially fond of it?’
‘I will savour the insights that lie upon each page of this magnificent work,’ Benicio said, bowing low.
‘Indeed he will,’ added Armando, ‘for he spends his days amassing knowledge, not glory or fortune.’
Luisa turned to Armando. ‘I shall await your swift return from service.’ Then she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Godspeed, noble warrior of Spain.’
‘I shall not return unless I have acquired wealth worthy of a marquesa,’ Armando proclaimed.
That was when Benicio saw it. There, beneath her practised expression—the flame of her life’s ambition: marquesa.
Benicio helped her into the carriage. ‘Enjoy the book, Benicio. Every page of it.’
She measured her nods equally between the two brothers as the small painted chariot moved away. Benicio and Armando were left staring into each other’s eyes.
The world seemed to press at Benicio’s sides. ‘I think I shall walk on my own for a while,’ Benicio told Armando and, without waiting for an answer, he turned and made long strides back across the plaza.
While he walked, he opened the book, flipped through its pages, and spotted a piece of paper wedged therein. He caught his breath as he beheld the image it contained—a charcoal sketch of a woman so beautiful she could not have been real. Her face was turned away from the artist, revealing her rounded profile, her long, beautiful neck, and a cascade of curls. A lump came into Benicio’s throat. It was a sketch of Luisa. He flipped the sketch over to discover a note written in her elegant, looping script:
My Dear Benicio,
I love you, but I must take care to marry well. Seek a fortune. I will wait for you as long as I can.
Your Luisa
Benicio’s heart overflowed. There it was, written in her own hand: her answer to his proposal. She loved him as he loved her. She would wait for him and become his wife. All she required was a bit of wealth, to keep her in the lifestyle she wanted. The lifestyle she deserved.
Benicio looked up and saw the old captain, still there, still waiting at the other end of the plaza. He might have been the Devil himself, considering whether or not to take Benicio’s soul.
Benicio began to walk towards him, letting his book of formulas drop upon the ground. Benicio was a man, after all, and the purpose of a man was not to sit at a desk, but to seek a fortune. To make himself worthy of the woman he loved.
Luisa, I promise, he murmured.
He caught the captain’s eye. The old man flashed Benicio a knowing grin.
Chapter One
Cempoala City, Totonac Territory,
Mexican Empire—March 1519
Tula was not afraid of the dark. She was not afraid of the spirits that lurked in the shadows, whispering their complaints. The darkness was good; it concealed her. It wrapped around her like a magic cloak, letting her pass unseen to the places where she kept her secrets.
Even now, as she walked softly between the mats of her sleeping family members, she felt no need for the aid of light. The warmth of their breath told her where to place her feet and she could feel the fresh air that seeped through the front doorway, beckoning her.
She pushed open the thin wooden door and closed it gently behind her, stepping out into Cempoala’s central plaza. She scanned the sprawling space for movement. Not a single living thing stirred beneath the moonless sky and the darkness of night greeted her like a trusted friend. No, Tula did not fear the dark.
What Tula feared was the colour black. Black was the colour of the Tribute Takers’ hair. They wore it pulled back, tight to their skulls, and trapped it in buns at the bases of their necks. They lived in a great floating city high in the mountains, where their leader, Montezuma, whispered to the gods.
Black was the colour of the ink on the scrolls the Takers carried—long lists noting the tribute the Totonac people were required to provide every eighty days: four pots of vanilla, twenty-eight bins of maize, twenty-one bins of smoked fish, two thousand feathers, four thousand cotton cloaks.
Black was the colour of the mushrooms the Takers ate—mushrooms that gave them visions of the end of the world. A menace from the heavens was coming, they told the Totonacs, and it could only be prevented with the blood of sacrifice.
Totonac blood.
Tula walked around her stone house and into the garden behind it. She dug beneath the tomato plants and found her stash of spears and arrows. Digging deeper, she seized her atlatl, which would send those arrows to their marks. She had killed so many creatures in her lifetime—far too many than was good or right. But the Takers demanded meat, more and more of it, and the Takers had to be fed. She ran her finger softly across the sharp, obsidian blades.
They, too, were black.
‘Daughter?’ whispered her father’s voice.
‘Father?’
The shadowy figure of her father appeared in the back doorway. ‘Why do you rise in the useless hours? Where do you go?’
‘I go to catch the fish, Father, and the birds. Coalingas and macaws. Perhaps even a quetzal.’
‘Nahuatl. Speak to me in Nahuatl.’
Tula sighed. ‘I go to find the...the...swimming creatures...’ she faltered ‘...and the flying creatures.’ Of all the languages her father had taught her, Tula liked Nahuatl the least. It was the language of the Mexica, the language of their oppressors, yet her father would not speak to her in any other tongue.
‘Why do you not wait for the Sun God to be reborn?’ he asked her, pointing at the eastern horizon.
‘I do not wait because the swimmers do not wait,’ she lied.
‘You rush to find fish, but you delay finding a husband.’
‘Why seek a husband if he is doomed to die?’ She bit her tongue. She had spoken too quickly and too loudly. Her father bent his neck inside the house, listening for her elder sister, Pulhko, who slept lightly and without rest. Satisfied with the unbroken peace, he shook his head. ‘Your sister Pulhko will remarry as soon as she is well,’ said her father.
But she will never be well, thought Tula, saying nothing.
‘And your sister Xanca seeks a husband already.’
‘Xanca is young and her head is full of colours. She knows little of the cruelty of the world.’
Her father did not respond and she knew that it was because he agreed. Xanca was not old enough to remember when Pulhko’s husband and two boys were taken. Nor had Xanca been instructed in the history of the world, as Tula had been. As a result, Xanca’s spirit remained light. Too light, perhaps.
‘Your husband is your protection,’ her father said finally. ‘As long as you are unmarried, you are exposed.’
‘We are all exposed. Marriage matters little.’
Now he whispered, ‘The Takers have asked our Chief to provide women for the festival of the fifteenth month. They seek noble young women, Tula,’ he said significantly. ‘Women without carnal knowledge.’
Women like me, Tula thought. ‘If they come for me, Father, they will not find me.’
‘The Takers are everywhere. They will find you.’
‘I am slippery like a fish,’ she said in Totonac.
‘You must marry.’
‘Pulkho was married. Now look at all she has lost. I will not follow a path that leads only to blackness.’ A lump of anguish plugged Tula’s throat.
‘I cannot protect you always, Daughter. If you do not marry, you will be taken. Then, it will not matter that you speak their language, or that you know the history of the world, or that you are slippery like a fish. You will suffer the flowery—’
‘The place of fish is four hours’ journey,’ Tula interrupted.
Tula’s father sighed. ‘There are fishing grounds much closer to Cempoala. Why must you travel so far away?’
‘Where I go, there are so many fish that you can walk upon their backs!’ said Tula, hoping that exaggeration would help conceal the lie she told. ‘In a single day, I can obtain our family’s entire contribution.’
She knew he could not argue with her. Their family’s share of tribute was fixed—there was nothing to do but make and gather it each cycle and be done.
‘I will return late tonight with my basket overflowing,’ Tula assured him.
‘Be safe,’ he whispered.
‘I will, Father,’ she replied. She pointed to where her atlatl poked out of her basket. ‘You taught me how.’ She blew him a kiss and set off across the plaza.
Yes, Tula loved the dark, for lying to her father was much easier in it.
Chapter Two
Benicio lay on the scorched maize field, covered in blood. He stared up at the pale blue sky, trying to picture the stars. He had come to the Island of the Yucatan to take part in trade, not war. He had brought glass beads and fine mirrors and the hope that he might still fulfil the promise he had made to Luisa that day two long years ago: to find treasure.
Now a thousand Maya warriors lay all around him, slaughtered. They had not been his enemies. They had merely been defending their lands from men like him—strange, bearded thieves who had floated upriver on their temples of deceit.
That was what the Maya emissaries had called the Spanish brigantines—floating temples. They did not have a word for sailing ships in their language, nor did they have a word for the Spaniards themselves, so they called them bearded gods. If they had only known that Captain Cortés and his men were much more like bearded devils.
Benicio pulled off his helmet and unbuckled his chest plate. It had been so very hot inside his shell of steel, even in the depths of the night. It was a relief to finally be free of it. Above, the first rays of sun stretched into the sky, illuminating the gory scene. Not a single body stirred.
The Maya of the city of Potonchan had politely asked Cortés to leave, but El Capitán would not listen. Instead, he had told the Maya emissaries the same thing he had told Benicio and his five hundred other conscripts as they set out from Cuba: that they were on a mission of trade and discovery.
Benicio should have known better than to believe the bellicose Captain Cortés, who had filled their ships with more gunpowder than goods. Even the small brigantine for which Benicio served as navigator had been fitted with deadly falconets, though Benicio had managed not to notice them.
Nor did he bother to translate the banner that flew atop Cortés’s flagship, though he had spent years studying Latin: Amici, sequamur crucem et, si nos fidem habemus, vere in hoc signo vincemus. Friends, let us follow the cross and, if we have faith, let us conquer under this banner.
Benicio had ignored all of it. He was willing to overlook anything, it seemed, for the hope of finding gold. ‘Gold is nothing to the naturales of Yucatan Island,’ Cortés had assured his conscripts. ‘They trade it for beads and trinkets. It will be no effort for each of us to obtain a treasure fit for a king.’
Or a marquesa, Benicio had thought.
Had hoped.
What Cortés had not mentioned was that when the beads and trinkets failed, the men would have to fight. And kill.
The flies were descending in droves, creating a black frenzy of movement above the once-verdant field of maize. Benicio knew that the remaining Maya soldiers would soon arrive to collect their dead. When they did, they would discover Benicio and kill him. If not, the desiccating heat of the sun eventually would.
It would be a fitting end. The sun, which Benicio had so ardently believed to be the centre of the universe, would finally snuff out his life. He had been so very proud of all his book-learned knowledge, yet so very naive. To think he could simply sail to this new world, extract his treasure, and return to wed the woman he loved. That it would be that easy. That there would be no cost.
He pictured Luisa’s face, as he always did when his heart filled with despair. Round cheeks. Dancing curls. Dimples. She remained in his memory exactly as she had been that
day in the Plaza del Triunfo, her sparkling green eyes gazing up at him in admiration, as if she beheld some errant knight.
Forgive me, Luisa. I have failed you. He closed his eyes and waited for his death to come.
But instead of death came the sound of rioting birds and a familiar voice tumbling across the field. ‘Stop, savage! Give it to me!’
Benicio sat up to behold a vision of feathers and light. The mid-morning sun was shining behind the figure of a giant bird. The bird flapped its massive wings, but it did not fly. Instead, it ran towards Benicio at great speed.
Benicio blinked, realising that he beheld not a bird, but a man covered in feathers. They wrapped around him like a heavy cloak, slowing him as he attempted to escape his pursuer.
‘Give me the ring!’ the voice shouted behind the man and Benicio lay back, playing dead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large Spaniard throw off his breastplates and overtake the feathered warrior, pinning him to the ground near Benicio.
The Spaniard cursed and spat, unsheathing his hand blade. ‘Give it to me!’ he commanded. ‘Or I will take another finger!’ The feathered warrior babbled helplessly in his language, covering his face with bloody hands. The Spaniard threw off his steel helmet in frustration, revealing a shock of red hair and a face so familiar that Benicio gasped.
It was none other than Rogelio—the young man Benicio had met that day in the Plaza del Triunfo. They had crossed the ocean together in the company of Captain Pinzón, but when they had reached the Island of Hispañola, they had parted ways. Benicio had not seen the lithe, handsome papaya pedlar since.
Now Rogelio was no longer lithe, nor in any way handsome. A ghastly red scar traversed his haggard face and Benicio could see that he had grown corpulent and soft beneath the Toledo steel that protected him.
Rogelio held the Maya man’s bloody hand upon the ground, threatening to sever another finger. Had Rogelio lost his mind? Benicio crawled closer.
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