She touched her skirt and was surprised to discover the small bulge of the tamale she had purchased, still inside her pocket. She placed it atop the log, a meagre offering to the beautiful bird that had saved her life.
She thought of the bearded man who had distracted the Taker and frightened the warriors. If he had not emerged from the cenote when he did, one of the warriors might still have spied her. She touched her shaking fingers on the ground and then placed them on her lips. ‘I am humble,’ she murmured in gratitude, and she noticed that even her voice was trembling.
* * *
It was already dark when she arrived home. A small fire burned in the brazier on the floor of her house. Its low light cast grim shadows on the walls and for the first time in her three and twenty years, Tula found herself wishing there were more light.
‘Thank the gods!’ Tula’s father shouted as she collapsed upon her mat. ‘What delayed you?’
‘A Tribute Taker.’
Her father gasped. ‘What?’
‘He was travelling with a Mexica priest and many warriors. They visited a cenote not far from the largest maize field.’
‘To make a sacrifice?’
‘Yes,’ Tula said. Almost.
Her father shook his head in anger. ‘They took two Totonac children only a moon ago.’ Pulhko stopped her weaving and stared blankly at her strings. ‘How many warriors did you count?’ her father asked.
‘Two dozen or more. I hid from them behind a log. Where is Xanca?’
‘In which direction did they travel?’ urged her father.
‘They marched north-west, towards the maize and cotton fields,’ Tula answered. ‘Where is Xanca?’
‘What lies between Cempoala and the cotton fields heading north-west?’ asked her father, ignoring her question.
‘I do not know. The aqueduct. The practice tlachtli court.’ The words caught in Tula’s mouth. Tlachtli court. She felt the world begin to spin. ‘Where is Xanca?’
‘She is not yet returned,’ said her father. ‘I thought she was with you.’
‘No, no, no,’ said Tula, feeling sick.
For the first time in many years, Pulhko turned to face her family. Her eyes were swimming in a sea of tears.
‘What is it, Pulkho?’ asked her father, his voice rising in panic. ‘What is the matter?’
Pulkho was shaking her head. She buried her face in her hands. ‘What is it, Tula? What is wrong?’
Tula could hardly speak. ‘Xanca is there tonight, Father,’ she whispered. ‘Xanca is at the tlachtli court!’
Chapter Eleven
Poisoned darts. Tula slipped into the garden and dug up her stash of them, which she had reserved for an emergency such as this. She placed them in a basket along with her spitting straw, wishing she had not abandoned her atlatl and arrows at the beach.
No matter. She could use her father’s atlatl and arrows. Even better, she could fashion new weapons on the road, but she needed to get going. She pushed back the deer-hide drape and peered out the front window.
She and her father had rushed to the tlachtli court in the darkness of the previous night. It had taken them a very long time, for there had been no moon to light their way, and by the time they had reached the oblong stone ring there was not a soul within it. Tula noticed a long pathway of dirt loosened by footprints—evidence of the Taker’s line of captives.
As the news spread of the mass abduction that morning, many people had gathered in the plaza, including mothers and fathers of the taken. The grieving parents had prostrated themselves before the Great Temple, praying to the God of Destiny for aid. Praying for justice.
Tula did not have time to pray. She knew now that the Taker, the priest, and the troupe of warriors she had witnessed at the cenote had continued on to the tlachtli court. They had barred the exits of the wall-encircled field and enslaved all the young men and women present within it, including Xanca. Their quarry in hand, the evil company had simply lit their torches and slipped away into the night.
Tula did not have to ask her father the direction in which they travelled. She already knew. They journeyed west, towards Tenochtitlan.
Towards their deaths.
In only five cycles of the moon, Xanca and the dozens of other young souls who had been taken would be standing in a line atop the sacred double temple of Tenochtitlan, while thousands upon thousands of Mexica citizens watched from the plaza below. Soon, Xanca’s turn would come and her fattened body would be stretched out across the sacred table and held in place by priests wearing golden masks. A priest would step forward and lift the black-stone blade high above her sister’s heart.
Tula’s stomach twisted into a knot. She would not allow that to happen. If she had to sacrifice her own life to do it, she would spare her sister that terrible fate. She did not care how hungry the gods were, or how soon the Fifth World would end. She would not allow the Mexica to take another drop of her family’s blood.
Flint arrows. Tula would need many of those as well. They were better than obsidian arrows—less likely to break and quicker to penetrate the flesh. She plunged her hand into the dishful that her father kept on the table beside the door.
Tula tucked her warmest wool wrap into her basket. Even the priests had to rest some time, and she knew, if she ran fast, she would overtake the caravan of captives soon enough. But she had to leave now. She rushed towards the door. Her father caught her by the arm.
‘Stop, Tula, you know not what you do.’
‘I have never in my life known it better, Father,’ Tula said. She would not sit idly by while her father and the other Council members allowed this to happen. And she would not end up like Pulkho, lifeless and ruined by loss.
No, Tula would fight.
‘The Takers travel with Montezuma’s Guard,’ her father said, taking her arm. ‘They would kill you before you could even get close. To attempt to rescue Xanca alone is beyond foolish.’
‘It is the only thing I can do,’ Tula said, feeling tears of helplessness gather in her eyes. ‘Please Father, let me go.’
‘I will not lose another daughter!’ he shouted. He unhanded Tula’s arm and calmed himself. ‘We shall save Xanca,’ he explained, ‘but with thoughtful action, not suicide.’
‘But how?’ asked Tula.
Her father took a deep breath. ‘Five hundred bearded gods have arrived on the coast. They have already received emissaries of Montezuma.’
Tula did her best to seem surprised. ‘Bearded gods?’
Her father nodded gravely. ‘Montezuma wishes to win their alliance, I fear.’
‘Does he succeed? Have the bearded ones allied with Montezuma?’
‘Not yet and I believe we can prevent it,’ explained her father. ‘One of our Totonac spies avowed that they do not love the Mexica. Nor do they love the Maya. They defeated a force of over ten thousand Maya at Potonchan.’
Tula nodded, trying to appear surprised. She had been right. The bearded men she had discovered on the beach had indeed come from Maya territory to the south. The two men were not random explorers, but part of a much larger foreign army.
‘The Totonac Council of Elders seek to win the bearded ones’ alliance,’ her father continued. ‘Early this morning, Cempoala and the other Totonac cities sent representatives to greet them and deliver turkeys and maize cakes.’
Tula felt the needle of guilt prick at her mind. ‘Father, I have to tell you something, I—’
‘It is our only chance, Tula. We must ally with the bearded ones if we have any hope of saving Cempoala’s sons and daughters from the Mexica. I shall not argue with you further.’
‘I do not wish to argue, Father. I wish to tell you that I—’
Before Tula could finish, a rumbling sound split the air, like the sound of thunder preceding
a downpour of rain. Her father jumped to his feet. ‘Stay here, both of you,’ he commanded, grabbing his dagger and shield. ‘Tula, ready your arrows,’ he added. He disappeared out the door.
‘But I do not have my arrows, Father,’ Tula murmured to the closed door. ‘I left them at the beach...where I kissed the bearded god and stole his golden ring.’
Slowly, Pulhko turned to Tula, her eyes as big as plates. It was the first time Pulhko had looked at Tula directly in over seven years. ‘Pulhko?’ Tula whispered, her heart filling with hope. Then—boom!
Tula rushed outside to behold an army of warriors marching into the central plaza of Cempoala. They were like no warriors Tula had ever seen. They were covered from head to toe in clanking iron shells and carried long, shining swords and metal sticks that spit fire.
At the head of the army, the men did not walk. They rode atop giant, hoofed beasts that resembled deer. ‘Look at the centaurs!’ cried one of Tula’s neighbours, believing man and beast to be one. ‘They have come from the Underworld!’
The terrifying animals bucked and reared, emitting high-pitched squeals that echoed across the plaza and into the minds of the awestruck Totonacs, many of whom cowered before them in fright.
But not all of the people cowered. Some Totonacs appeared delighted to see the soldiers. They jumped and cheered, welcoming the strange army, which came to a unified stop at the base of the Great Temple. Tula burst out of her back door and climbed up the stone foothold to the cement roof of her house. Standing before the giant deer, at the base of the Great Temple, was the Chief of Cempoala, along with all the members of the Council of Elders, including her own father.
The crowd of Cempoalans that had gathered around the plaza went quiet. The cicadas sang their ancient song and deep in the jungle Tula heard the agitated squawk of parrots. She searched the throng of warriors for an especially tall, muscular man with a crooked nose and eyes the colour of the sea. But the men’s iron masks covered them completely and they all appeared alike.
One of them—whom Tula assumed to be their chief—jumped down from atop his beast and bowed before the group of Elders. The Totonac Chief was brought forward. He lay atop a giant litter, his body too abundant for him to walk on his own. His assistants lowered his litter and helped him stand and one of his servants placed a flower in his hand to indicate his noble status.
The strange iron-clad chief stepped forward to address the Totonac Chief. The stranger took off his helmet to reveal his cocoa-amber hair and matching beard. He made a very loud, grand statement in his language and held his hand out to the Chief.
Tula did not know what to make of the gesture. Did the bearded man wish for the Chief to place something inside his hand? Or was the Chief expected to hold out his own open hand in return?
The Chief did neither. He stared down at the iron chief’s open hand for a long while, confused. Appearing to strike upon some clever idea, the Totonac Chief lifted his massive arm and held out his flower to the iron chief. Tula waited on the rooftop, watching closely.
‘Please,’ she murmured. ‘Take it.’
Chapter Twelve
Benicio took a tamale from the platter, then helped himself to another. He was ravenously hungry and the Totonac Chief and his advisors had encouraged the Spanish sailors to eat their fill. They were allies of the Totonacs now and had been for many weeks. Captain Cortés and the great, fat Totonac Chief had made it so.
Benicio peered down the length of the wooden table at the other Spaniards who had been invited to the banquet—eight work-weary men spearing the guava and zapote fruits, reaching hungrily for the roasted turkey and tortoise meat, and swilling the exotic cacao beverage as if it were the finest wine.
At least he was not alone in his hunger. He reached for a papaya spear and let its sweetness fill his senses, remembering the day he had watched Luisa do the same. Since then, he could not seem to get enough of the delicious fruit. And after a long day labouring to construct the first building of their new colonial settlement, Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, the papaya tasted especially sweet.
‘Soon we will have a proper church,’ Cortés was saying from the head of the table. ‘A place to start converting these pagan heathens.’ The Captain smiled politely across the table at the fat Chief, as if he had just paid him some gentle compliment.
If only the Chief knew the extent of Cortés’s treachery. Just a few days before, Cortés had convinced the Totonacs to take five Mexica Tribute Takers prisoner. The Totonacs had protested at first, knowing that such an abduction would be perceived by Montezuma and the Mexica as an act of war. ‘We shall triumph against the Mexica together,’ Cortés had argued and finally persuaded them to do his bidding. The Totonacs had seized the Takers and imprisoned them.
The next night, under cover of darkness, Cortés freed the captured Takers and gave them a message for Emperor Montezuma: Captain Cortés has freed us from the Totonac traitors. Cortés is still our friend.
It was a brilliant ploy, for Cortés had demonstrated his commitment to the Totonac rebellion while remaining in the good graces of Montezuma. Benicio could only hope that Cortés had engineered such a betrayal in order to avoid sending the Spanish sailors to war.
He bit into another papaya spear, but it had lost its sweetness. What on earth was he doing here? He had his diamond prize. Why did he not simply abandon this company of devils?
Benicio watched several young women walk up and down the length of the banquet table, refilling the men’s water goblets, replenishing foods, and clearing plates. Unlike many of his compatriots, Benicio took care not to leer at the comely young Totonac maidens. Still, he found himself searching their faces, hoping to find his thief among them.
She was why he stayed—or rather, the knowledge she carried. She was one of two other people in the world—himself and Rogelio—who had seen the treasure map. But she was more fortunate than both Rogelio and Benicio combined, because she recognised the configuration that had been depicted on that thin swatch of cloth. ‘Tenochtitlan,’ she had said.
She knew where the treasure was hidden.
Demonios. She was probably already camped outside the Mexica capital city with her husband or lover, making some daring plan to extract the treasure. He might have believed any other woman incapable of such boldness, but this woman was different. She was the kind of woman who would steal the gold right out of a man’s mouth.
He had been a fool to show her the map. Why, then, had he done it? Perhaps he sensed in her some deep curiosity—the kind required to solve puzzles. It had certainly taken her little time to solve his.
Tenochtitlan. Her big eyes had flashed as the difficult name flitted off her tongue. She had slanted him a knowing grin, as if she also knew exactly which parts of the Mexica capital city were being depicted. He had managed to take back his ring from her, yes, but he had given her something infinitely more valuable: his secret.
‘Would you pass the octli, friend?’ asked Rogelio, his voice syrupy sweet. He had taken the seat beside Benicio and little wonder. After Benicio had rejoined Cortés’s company, Rogelio had become like a fly Benicio could not manage to swat away. He hovered near Benicio always, studying him, as if any moment Benicio might reveal where he had hidden the priest’s precious ring. Benicio placed the pitcher of octli squarely before Rogelio, but did not offer to pour. Rogelio made a scolding sound, then poured most of the alcoholic liquid into his cup. He swilled it down in a single draught and let out a long, satisfied belch. A young Totonac woman ambled over to refill the pitcher, but before she could complete her task, Rogelio had pulled her on to his lap.
The woman smiled tightly, trying to appear friendly, while he groped clumsily at her breasts. Encouraged by several of the other men, Rogelio held the pitcher to the young woman’s mouth and forced her to swallow a long draught of the milky beverage.
Benicio cringe
d. The men knew that the ceremonial drink was reserved for Totonac elders, priests and honoured guests. Women were only allowed to consume octli on feast days and on special occasions like weddings. The young woman’s forced draught was followed by a fit of coughs. Before she could catch her breath, Rogelio kissed her violently.
‘Stop it, idiota!’ snarled Benicio. ‘You harm her.’
Rogelio grinned crookedly, continuing to grope, then released her to a cacophony of cheers.
The Totonac Chief had asked Cortés to invite his eight ‘most deserving’ men to this banquet. Instead of his highest-ranking officers, however, Cortés had chosen this motley crew, which included Rogelio and several other ruffians who tended to cause chaos in the ranks. Cortés had also invited a few men like Benicio, who were well respected but known to disagree with Cortés’s methods.
That was Cortés’s genius, thought Benicio. He had invited the biggest troublemakers and the likeliest mutineers to be placated by the hospitality of others.
Now Cortés stood to address his host. ‘I would like to thank Chief Tlacochcalcatl of the mighty nation of the Totonacs for his generous hospitality,’ began Cortés.
On his left, a Spanish priest by the name of Aguilar jumped to his feet. Aguilar and a man named Guerrero had been shipwrecked in Maya territory long ago. When he had heard of Cortés’s arrival on the coast, Aguilar had sought him. Guerrero, however, would not come. Amazingly, he had found a Maya wife and an adoptive tribe and was making a family somewhere deep in the jungle.
Now Aguilar translated Cortés’s words into Maya, then nodded to a beautiful native woman called Malinali, who translated his Maya words into Nahuatl.
The chain of translation complete, the Totonac Chief nodded in understanding.
It was a slow tedious process, and the Totonac councilmen seated near Cortés passed a tobacco pipe between them. A small dog hovered in the doorway, its eager tail thumping the ground. Outside, Benicio heard the shrieks of monkeys accompanied by a symphony of birds. He smelled flowers on the warm breeze. For a suspended moment, he entertained an unfamiliar feeling of contentment. He imagined that he was Guerrero and that this rich, colourful new world had everything he needed.
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