‘Tenochtitlan,’ she lied.
‘Tenoch-it-lan?’ he repeated, pronouncing the name incorrectly.
She suppressed a laugh. He could not even say the name of the Mexica capital, the largest and most powerful city in the entire world. She knew that he had come from far away, but surely he had at least a basic knowledge of the world?
‘Tenoch-tit-lan,’ she said again slowly, emphasising the middle of the word.
‘Tenoch-it-lan,’ he said, incorrectly, and Tula flashed him a smile full of pity.
Returning her attention to the map, she became more certain of what she saw. Her own father had drawn this map for her as part of a history lesson long ago. But if there was gold to be had in the place represented on the cloth, it belonged to the Totonacs, not the bearded ones.
‘Tenoch-it-lan?’ he repeated. He pointed in all different directions and then made a confused expression, and she understood that he was asking her where Tenochtitlan was.
Tula pointed west. She had never visited the Mexica capital herself, but her father had journeyed there once as a boy. He had explained that the clever Mexica had built their city on an island in the middle of a great freshwater lake high in the western mountains.
Each year the Mexica made their island bigger by bringing in earth on three long wooden bridges that connected the island to the shore. They piled the earth to create islands, which were separated by canals that led to the heart of the city, a central plaza with so many palaces and temples that one could walk among them, Tula’s father had told her, and easily become lost.
At the head of Tenochtitlan’s plaza were its most important structures, which had been arranged to correspond with the four sacred directions. To the east was the tzompantli, the haunting skull rack. To the north was a set of pyramids dedicated to the gods of agriculture and flowers. To the south, another set of pyramids rose to revere the earth gods and gods of vanquished cities. To the west lay the largest, most imposing temple of them all—the double pyramid dedicated to the Rain God, Tlaloc, and to the Sun God, Huitzilopochtli.
All Totonacs knew of the great double temple, for at its apex was the altar stone where so many of their loved ones had met their deaths. Tula shook her head. It was uncanny how well the map seemed to represent the sacred centre of Tenochtitlan, though she was certain it did not.
‘Tenoch-it-lan?’ the man repeated and there was so much hope in his voice.
‘Tenochtitlan,’ she said with certainty, trying to mask her deception. If she could make him believe that the map depicted the sacred centre of Tenochtitlan, then she could keep him from where the gold was really hidden.
She glanced at the man’s legs. Their thick contoured muscles suggested a deep well of physical strength. With those mighty legs, he could easily hoist her on his shoulders where she could stand and reach the roots. All he seemed to lack was the will to do it. She needed to motivate him somehow and to make him trust her.
She pointed at his nose. ‘I know someone who can help you,’ she said in her language, then pointed up at the jungle. But you have to get me out of this cenote.
He shook his head sternly and pointed at the map. Do not tell anyone, he seemed to be saying. His eyes narrowed and he watched her for a sign of understanding. She knew he would not help her reach the roots without it.
She nodded. Yes, she would keep his secret—that his treasure map depicted the sacred centre of Tenochtitlan—for his secret was a lie.
What she would not do was explain how her family had suffered, how they continued to suffer beneath the heel of the Mexica and how she would do anything for them. And it was not simply her family. With enough treasure, the Totonacs could free themselves of their tribute obligations for a long time—perhaps for ever.
‘I will keep your secret,’ she said in her language and he seemed satisfied. He removed his codex from beneath his leather vest and placed the folded map between its damp pages. Returning the codex to its place beneath his vest, he pulled his legs beneath him in a squatting position, his palms upon the ground.
He pointed to her legs, then to the back of his neck, then stared downwards, waiting.
She had no reason to trust him, but she did not have a choice. She moved behind him, placing each of her legs upon his shoulders and crouching over his head for balance.
As he stood, she squeezed her legs around his neck and her fingers clung to the hard line of his jaw as he bore her upwards. He gripped her lower legs, steadying her, and she gripped his head without thinking. His hair was surprisingly soft.
He moved closer towards the wall of the cenote, then paused. He asked her a question in his language. Though she did not understand his words, she could guess what he was asking. Would she come back for him?
Yes, yes, of course she would return for him, she said in her language, trying to sound certain. Tomorrow morning. She would bring a rope.
She felt his body stiffen. In an instant, he had pulled her from her perch and was holding her in his arms like a small child. She stared up at him, her back supported by his massive arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around his neck. Terror shot through her as she realised that in any moment, he could simply drop her upon the ground and snuff out her life.
He repeated his question, staring into her eyes with cold intensity.
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘I will return. I promise.’
He caught her glancing up at the roots just beyond his head. He narrowed his eyes once again. He did not believe her. And why should he? She had betrayed him twice already. Besides, she had no reason to return for him and he knew it.
How could she reassure him that helping her escape was the right thing to do? Another kiss? No, a kiss would merely remind him of her treachery.
She needed to give him something real—something to convince him that she would return. She pulled the silver spear from beneath her cloth belt and offered it to him with both hands, like a gift. He looked at it closely, then laughed.
She felt the heat of anger rising in her cheeks. He found her offering funny? She stuffed the object back beneath her belt, fearing that now he would never let her go. She would spend her last breaths inside this bottomless pit with a man who had every reason to do her harm.
Now he was nodding at her and glancing at her waist. No. Not that. Please, not that. She began to sweat, though the air was cool. Mixcoatl, help me, she begged in silence. The man stopped nodding and fixed his gaze on the exact place beneath her belt where she had stuffed the shiny spear. Perhaps she had only misunderstood him, for it seemed he wished to see the spear again. She removed the silver spear and, following his brief nod towards the rocks, she dropped it among them.
Seemingly satisfied, he hoisted her back up over his shoulders and edged towards the wall of the cenote, just below the roots. Tula let out a long sigh of relief. She bent her legs and pressed her feet against his chest, scrambling to a standing position. For a moment, his hands rested atop her feet, holding them down. It was as if he wished to remind her of her promise.
Just as quickly, he released them and she clambered up the roots and stood at the cenote’s rim.
‘I promise,’ she repeated in Totonac, though she knew he doubted her. In truth, she doubted herself. To save this man would mean to take responsibility for him and she did not trust him.
She admitted that she was drawn to him—inexplicably so—and that she had enjoyed the feel of his lips upon hers. But she had always been drawn to unusual things—often to her disadvantage. This man was no history codice or quetzal bird or temple beneath the waves. He was a person, with his own needs and purposes.
Perhaps he had come with an army that meant to harm the Totonacs. Besides, if there was a treasure to be had, then it should be her people, not his, who should benefit from it.
Still, she knew she would return for him.
His map was poorly drawn. It was uncertain whether it really led to treasure. The only thing for certain was the ring he wore upon his finger, and she was determined to steal it back. Her heart squeezed, for she knew that she would betray him for a third time, this fascinating savage from across the sea.
Yes, she would return for him. It was a cruel, merciless world and treasure was treasure.
Chapter Seven
Benicio stared up at his sparkling mistress, amazed. Here he was, at the far ends of the earth, stuck in a hole so dark and deep that it might as well have been a grave. Yet the planet Venus had found him. Benicio gave a gentleman’s bow to her, flickering above him in her luminous splendour. Surely this was a good omen. It signalled that the beautiful woman he had just sent on her way would return for him.
She would return, would she not? He had her fork, after all—a silver fork that she valued highly enough to conceal beneath her belt. The fork itself was yet another good omen. If the natives of this island had silver forks, it meant that they had silver mines. If they had silver mines, then they had gold mines and if they had gold mines, then surely they had hordes of golden treasure, just waiting to be found.
Benicio studied the fork’s elegant surface, amazed that the people of this distant land should fashion cutlery so similar to the cutlery of Spain. He rubbed his hungry belly. If only he had a bit of chorizo to eat with it.
It would be the second day in a row he had gone without food, though at least he had the fresh water of the pool to drink. He crouched on the rock and lifted several handfuls to his lips. It tasted good. Sweet, even. What a strange, remarkable place this was. It was as if a giant had shoved his spade into earth and created a massive well from which to drink at his whim.
Benicio wished he was a giant now, for only a giant could scale the high, sheer walls. Instead he was merely a man relying on the goodness of a woman who had twice betrayed him.
Even now he could not say for sure why he had shown her the map. It had been a foolish decision, though in the moment it was all he could think of to do. When he had sat down beside her, a strange, lusty rage had scorched through his body and the distraction of words and puzzles was the only thing he could think of to extinguish it.
Incredibly, his strategy had worked. She had not only understood the word he spoke—taak’in—she had recognised the place depicted on the bloodstained cloth. Tenochtitlan, she had called it, but with a more elegant, staccato trill of tongue. He wondered where the place was, or what it was, and how much gold it might contain. He only prayed that she would return to rescue him, so that he might have the opportunity to seek it for himself.
But why should she return, really? Unless it was to rob him for a third time. Though surely he had earned some small bit of her goodwill. He had not once touched her, not even while she was kissing him with those lovely, soft lips. He had wanted very badly to kiss her back in that moment. Indeed, he had wanted to do more than that.
He was so very glad that he had managed to remain a gentleman. After the two long years he had spent crossing seas and plying through jungles, it was good to know that he retained at least some measure of self-control.
He could not say the same for his countrymen, many of whom ravished the island women at will. And they did not stop at that.
Indeed, when Benicio had arrived on the Island of Hispañola, he had been shocked to discover a land of misery, not prosperity. The Spanish settlers had cleared much of the island for plantations and had enslaved the native Taino people to work in hot fields and dangerous mines. On both Cuba and Hispañola, the Taino were dying in great numbers through hunger and overwork. And now, as the pustules of smallpox had begun to colonise the native people’s skins, the Spaniards were simply replacing them with slaves from distant lands.
Cortés’s expedition to this new island—the Island of Yucatan it was called—had been Benicio’s last hope. The short, exuberant young captain had solicited men for a mission of trade and exploration, or so he had claimed. To Benicio, Cortés had seemed harmless—a typical Spanish picaro who lived by his wits, not his blades. And that was well, for Benicio wished only to explore and trade and perhaps find a little gold to bring home to his lady love.
And now, despite everything, Benicio might actually have that chance.
He stared at the ring, remembering the evening he had kissed Luisa and asked for her hand in marriage. Their mothers, who were old friends, had been hosting the Feast of the Epiphany celebration at Luisa’s family’s estate. It had been just after sundown and their mothers had been busy welcoming their arriving guests. Sensing an opportunity, Benicio had whisked Luisa into his arms and carried her to an upstairs bedroom, where he had swept her out on to a balcony overlooking her family’s estate.
‘Benicio, you villain!’ she had exclaimed, breathless and overcome with laughter. ‘It is forbidden for us to be in a bedchamber together.’
‘Since when?’ asked Benicio playfully.
‘Since we were about fifteen,’ said Luisa, placing her hands upon her womanly hips.
‘But we are not inside a bedchamber, my bella dama. We are upon a balcony. We have merely come to admire the view.’ Benicio had gestured grandly at the darkening sky.
Luisa pursed her pink lips. ‘Have we, now? Well, let us admire it quickly then, for my mother will soon find me missing and she will not stop until she has discovered me.’
‘Do not worry,’ said Benicio, sliding his hand behind her neck. ‘This will not take long.’
He had kissed her then. He had placed his lips upon hers and let a lifetime of yearning pour out of him. All the teasing games they had played as children; all that poking and prodding and pulling; all that restless boyhood lust—he rolled it up into a giant ball and threw it her way.
And to his surprise, she had caught it. She had opened her irresistible lips and met his ardour with her own. They had kissed and caressed each other until the sky had filled with stars and they were breathless once again. Luisa stood to leave.
‘Do not go,’ Benicio whispered.
‘My mother is surely looking for me now.’
‘But we have not achieved our purpose.’
Luisa frowned.
‘To appreciate the view.’
Benicio had gestured skywards, then turned to marvel at the night sky himself. It was the only thing he loved as much as Luisa. Well, almost as much. When he returned his gaze to Luisa, he had found that she was watching him, not the stars. It was then he realised that he had done it. He had somehow captured the heart of the most beguiling maid in all Seville.
He had taken her hands in his. ‘Marry me,’ he had said on impulse, before the moment could pass. ‘Marry me, Luisa, and make me the happiest man in the universe.’
Luisa had stared at him with eyes as big as planets.
Then the chamber door had swung open. ‘Luisa, are you in here?’
She pulled her hands from his. ‘Here, Mother!’ she said and rushed into the chamber. ‘I was just on the balcony. Benicio was showing me the wonders of the night sky.’
And the rest, as the bards always said, was history.
Now Benicio wondered if she waited for him still. He tried to imagine her suitors—men of means and station who could offer Luisa the kind of life she expected and deserved. Benicio was nothing compared to such men and yet she had promised Benicio that she would wait for him as long as she could.
It had been over two years since they had parted and he had received only a single letter from her. He pulled it from the pages of his book now, though he had long ago committed it to memory.
Dear Benicio,
It has been a year since you departed and I think about you every day. Are you succeeding in your endeavour?
It is more important than ever that I marry well. The courts have ruled against my father and our latifu
ndia is greatly diminished. We have had to sell many of our horses and our servants are reduced to twenty. Needless to say, my dowry is a pittance and the wealthiest of my suitors are withdrawing their suits. All the while I have waited for you to return.
I cannot wait much longer. I lose my maid’s bloom. I must marry soon.
Benicio, make haste.
With all my love,
Luisa
March, 1518
Benicio’s pulse quickened, as it always did when he read those words of yearning. He had sent her several letters in response, assuring her that he would fulfil his promise, professing his undying love. But letters from the West Indies often perished on their journeys and he feared his words of love had long since sunk to the bottom of the sea.
He stared up at the sky once again, searching for Venus, as if that distant planet might provide him with some news, or, if not news, then solace for his restless heart.
But already the planet was out of view—disappeared below the horizon, much like his enchantress thief. Benicio smiled wryly. Where did she go, that tiny goddess of beauty and treachery? What did she do with herself in the small hours, when all the world slept?
According to the ancient astronomer Ptolemy, Venus spun in its own orbit, which, in turn, spun around the Earth. But a Polish man by the name of Copernicus had lately begun to question that notion. He had circulated secret papers suggesting that Venus spun not around the Earth, but around the Sun. Venus was not a child of Earth, Copernicus argued, but one of her sisters.
The idea was astounding, especially when considered from the depths of a cenote on the far side of the world. To think that the Earth was not the centre of the universe, but just another planet, small and forgettable in vastness of space.
He thought of the woman’s eyes and his stomach briefly clenched. They were so dark and deep—like two patches of night sky. Beautiful and impossible to know.
Would she return for him? He had only the hope inside his heart and the strange notion that their fates were intertwined, as two planets revolving around the same sun.
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