The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden

by Greta Gilbert

  Their behaviour sickened Benicio. He bundled his sleeping mat and found a path that led to an uninhabited hill just outside the city. When he reached its top, a sublime view spread before him. The innumerable white temples that rose up around the city had not been placed haphazardly, as Benicio had thought. Instead, they were arranged in a configuration that perfectly mirrored the surrounding mountains.

  There was only one mountain that did not appear to have a pyramid counterpart: the volcano Popocatepetl. It rose majestically in the distance, a plume of smoke bubbling from its mouth. The only local feature that came close to mirroring the great volcano was another mountain. It rose up from the heart of Cempoala in a remarkably symmetrical, stepped shape.

  Then Benicio realised that he was not looking at a mountain. He was looking at an ancient pyramid—the largest he had ever seen.

  What had seemed thoughtless and accidental at ground level was organised and beautiful from above—part of a much larger plan that the Spanish strangers did not see. Benicio sat down on a long flat rock, removed his book from beneath his jerkin and took a deep breath.

  Dear Benicio,

  I write with terrible news. Your brother Armando has died. He was dispatched to protect the chancellor, who was bringing news to Toledo of higher taxes on behalf of our new King. His regiment was met by an enraged mob. Armando’s throat was slit by a man who likely helped shape the sword you carry.

  I remain, as ever, unmarried.

  Carlos pays me a visit every Sunday. He has grown rich as an official in Seville’s Casa de Contratación, where he has already risen to the position of third in command.

  Every day he receives ships from the Indies, but you are not upon them. Your father says that as his second son, you will remain the inheritor of your family’s estate until official word is received of your passing. Meanwhile, he anxiously awaits your return.

  God help me, I do, too.

  Your Luisa

  April 28th, 1519

  Benicio let the letter drop. He felt the tears blurring his vision, but he could not bring himself to wipe them. Armando had died. His strong, righteous older brother had finally perished in his quest to bring glory to his family and to Spain.

  Benicio felt sick. What madness had struck Armando that he would lay his life down so eagerly? He was a man who had been reared gently, who had been taught to think and to love, yet had been reduced to a life of violence, then died as a result.

  Now Benicio followed in his brother’s footsteps. The continents they laboured upon were far apart, but the end was the same: destruction, conquest, death. Armando killed to bring lands and wealth to the King of Spain and Benicio did the same. The paths of their lives had seemed haphazard, but, like the locations of the temples of Cholula, they were part of a much larger plan—one they had both failed to see.

  He camped on the hilltop that night, lost in mourning.

  * * *

  He awoke to discover the sun high in the sky and his belly loud with hunger. He stood and gazed out over Cholula, imagining Luisa waiting for him across the distant sea.

  The thought should have buoyed him. Instead, he felt nothing but confusion. How could she do this to him again? She had set him against his only remaining brother, in some contest over who could provide her the most comfortable life. It sickened him, yet he knew that a promise was a promise.

  Though, as he thought about it, he had never actually promised Luisa anything. In his heart, he had resolved to return to her, but he had never actually said, ‘I promise to return.’ Nor had she promised she would wait for him, or said a word about how much treasure she expected him to produce. She had said only that she would wait as long as she could, however long that was. Indeed, they had made no promises to each other at all.

  If he had promised anyone anything it was Tula. That promise was clear and specific: Benicio had promised to rescue Tula’s sister. If there was any promise that needed fulfilling, it was that one.

  He opened his eyes and looked around camp. It was as if he were seeing the world clearly for the very first time. He spied a pile of small packages on a nearby rock.

  They were tamales—clearly placed there for his consumption. He had apparently had a visitor. He looked around him, but there was not a single movement in the quiet forest. Had some kindly stranger visited him in the night? The only person with any idea of Benicio’s location was Rogelio. But why on earth would Rogelio bring Benicio tamales?

  Benicio selected a tamale and opened its maize husk wrap. The corn cake inside was still warm and Benicio probed it for signs of poison. Instead he was greeted with a warm bean filling that, when he tasted it with his finger, seem perfectly healthful. He sat down and took a small bite. The tamale’s flavour burst on to his tongue.

  Tula. It was her—surely it was her. He could almost sense her near him. She was his guardian angel, his only friend. She had come and laid tamales by his side as he slept.

  He imagined her sitting beside him, her legs pulled up to her chest, watching him with her eyes the colour of rich earth. It was not Rogelio, but Tula who would do something this kind. He wished he could be near her again, if only for a moment. He wished to see her beautiful face and beg her to forgive him. He stuffed Luisa’s letter into his book and took his first bite.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  She was close enough to feel his breath. It tickled the side of her arm, making it itch wildly. But she could not move to scratch it. She could not do anything but remain still and try to disappear behind the small boulder that separated her from the man she had somehow grown to care for.

  He was not supposed to sit down in the dirt to eat the tamales. He was supposed to take them to the long flat rock where he had made camp during the past day and night. Instead, he had collapsed beside the boulder where she now crouched.

  She closed her eyes, hoping to make herself invisible somehow. He was unwrapping the tamales with urgency and when she opened her eyes again she saw crumbs tumbling to the ground like snowflakes.

  He had been so troubled over the past day and night that she suspected he had forgotten to eat. She wondered why he seemed so listless and broken. What demon had invaded his mind?

  When she had followed him up the mountainside the day before, he had stumbled many times upon the trail, as if his mind were travelling somewhere else. After arriving at the summit, he had paced and mumbled for some time, unable to become settled.

  When he finally sat down upon the flat rock, he had removed a piece of paper with something written upon it. He had stared at the piece of paper for a long while and tears had washed down his cheeks. He had let the paper drop, but did not move. It was as if he had been bitten by a deadly snake. His tears dried, he had remained motionless until long after the Sun God had descended to the Underworld.

  She wanted to reach out to him now, for she knew he was hurting inside, just as he had been hurting that day by the river. But he rejected you, she reminded herself. He does not wish for your company any more.

  Still, she had no choice but to continue the journey to Tenochtitlan. Even Malinali agreed that Tula had no choice but to rejoin him. Benicio was one of the largest, strongest men in the entire Spanish–Totonac–Tlaxcalan army and the only one willing to use that strength to free her sister and the other captives.

  Besides, they had an agreement to uphold. An alliance.

  Still she feared approaching him. He was not the kind of man who liked surprises. That was how it had seemed when he had scorned her that day by the river, over a moon ago now. Today he appeared even more troubled than he had been that day and Tula wondered if it was the right time to reveal herself to him.

  He let two of the corn husks drop to the ground, then two more. Soon the maize casings of all six tamales came into Tula’s view.

  ‘Gracias,’ he uttered, as if he knew
she was there. Tula’s heart leapt, then fell as she absorbed the meaning of the words, remembering Malinali’s lesson.

  ‘Gracias is how the Spanish say that they are humble,’ Malinali had explained. It had been Tula’s first lesson in the Spanish tongue. ‘But it is more limited than “I am humble”,’ she noted. ‘It does not evoke the world or the speaker’s place in it. It is about acknowledging a debt only. It is...narrower.’

  ‘Does that mean that the Spanish are...narrower than the people of this land?’ Tula had asked.

  Malinali had sat in silence for a long while before responding. ‘They are only different.’

  Tula was certain that Benicio had just acknowledged his debt to the one who left the tamales, though he did not know who that person was. Tula gave a tiny nod. De nada, she thought to herself.

  She wished she had known the word gracias the night of the snowstorm, or the day he had stopped her from marching into danger, or the day that he had shaved his beard and relinquished his own god to help her feel safe. His actions alone showed her that he cared for her, whatever his reasons. And, despite everything, she cared for him, too. Very much.

  She listened closely. He had finished eating the tamales, but he made no motion to rise. Had he detected her? She held her breath. Suddenly, he let out a sob.

  What ghosts haunted him? She sensed that he was hurting not because he had been harmed, but because others had been harmed. His sadness was like a flood. It seemed to pour out of his heart and into hers.

  ‘Lo siento,’ Malinali had instructed. ‘That is how you say that you are sorry in the Spanish tongue.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Tula asked.

  ‘It means, “I feel it”,’ said Malinali. ‘The meaning is perhaps...wider than the Totonac meaning.’

  Their studies had continued, week after week. By day Tula laboured among Malinali’s servants, cleaning and preparing meals, keeping to the shadows so she would not be recognised by the Spanish men who lingered in Cortés’s entourage. But every evening, after Malinali’s translation duties were done, the two went to work. Soon they were communicating in Spanish alone.

  Malinali had insisted that Tula stay with her in Tlaxcala, and now in Cholula, in the rich lodgings that were provided to Cortés and his closest advisors. She told Tula that she only regretted that she could not help Tula rescue her sister directly. But any action against Montezuma had been forbidden by Cortés unless he commanded it. Malinali gave Tula everything she had to give, as she laboured to repay the debt she owed Tula in the only way she knew how: language.

  ‘Gracias,’ Tula had repeated earlier that morning in Spanish, ‘for helping me.’

  ‘De nada,’ Malinali had responded with a broad smile. ‘Now go find him and get your sister back.’

  Now Benicio gave one more sob, then sucked in a breath. She wished she could comfort him. She wished she could hold his hand and tell him about the short distance between joy and sorrow. He had become...her friend. He was her dear, tender-hearted friend and he needed her, just as she needed him. She took a deep breath and prepared to reveal herself.

  Then she heard the screams.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  At first, he thought the screams were an illusion—some trick of his grieving heart. But as he stood to determine their source, they only grew louder and more distinct. He opened his eyes and saw a funnel of smoke rising up out of the centre of Cholula.

  He felt a new dread envelop him. What madness was breaking out in the city below? He had noticed that many of the Cholulan men were not happy with their strange visitors. They had wandered the city all week, whispering to each other and spoiling for a fight. The Tlaxcalans had warned of the Cholulans’ loyalty to the Mexica, but Cortés would not listen.

  Now Benicio determined that the screams he had heard were emanating from the enclosed courtyard adjacent to the Temple of Queztalcoatl. As Benicio approached the courtyard, he paused to observe dozens of Spanish and Tlaxcalan soldiers exiting, their swords and clubs in hand, their clothes stained with blood.

  Benicio recognised some of the men. They were Cortés’s front line soldiers—the most brutal and cruel of the Spanish regiment. He tried to speak to them, but they were not interested in talk. Their eyes were glazed over and they walked with the lurching, frenzied movements of recently accomplished violence.

  Something terrible had happened inside the courtyard.

  More bloodied Spaniards passed him as he made his way inside, including Cortés himself, surrounded by a dozen fearsome men. ‘Nice of you to join us, Benicio,’ he commented as he passed, flashing Benicio the evil eye. It was all Benicio could do not to smack the arrogant captain directly in the jaw.

  Benicio stepped inside the courtyard to behold the most gruesome spectacle he had ever seen. A hundred Cholulan noblemen lay slain upon the ground. There were even some women, their fine gold-embossed skirts stained with blood. They appeared to have been dressed for some sort of celebration. Not a single one of them stirred.

  Benicio spied Rogelio among several men overlooking the carnage. ‘Did you take part in this?’ he asked Rogelio, his voice trembling.

  ‘I did not,’ said Rogelio. ‘As evil as you believe me to be, Benicio, I do not condone the slaughter of innocents.’ He limped forward.

  ‘Nor I,’ whispered Benicio. He had witnessed many terrible things during his time in the Indies, but never such a slaughter.

  ‘I know what you are thinking,’ said Rogelio. ‘You are thinking that you would leave this army now if you could. If it were not for...what was her name?’

  ‘Luisa,’ Benicio said, though in truth her name felt strange and bitter upon his tongue.

  The two surveyed the hellish scene for many long moments. ‘I cannot be a part of this army any more,’ stated Benicio, ‘for an army it is.’

  ‘Nor I,’ said Rogelio. ‘Though the penalty for mutiny is death.’

  ‘Death is better than this.’

  ‘If we could escape on a horse, we might not be caught before reaching Vera Cruz.’

  ‘With a bounty on our heads.’

  ‘And without means to purchase safety, or passage back to Spain,’ said Rogelio.

  ‘I cannot flee now. I must reach Tenochtitlan,’ said Benicio. ‘I am bound to fulfil a promise I made.’ To save Tula’s sister.

  ‘I must reach Tenochtitlan as well, for there is treasure there, and I know exactly where it lies,’ said Rogelio. ‘Remember, I spoke with the Maya priest.’

  ‘You tortured the Maya priest.’

  ‘I regret it. I wish to make amends.’

  ‘Ha! Was that the reason for the tamales?’ Benicio asked without thinking.

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Benicio, trying to brush the comment aside. ‘I know it was not you.’

  Rogelio shook his head in confusion. ‘Speak plainly, Benicio,’ he said.

  ‘This morning atop the hill,’ Benicio clarified. ‘Someone left me tamales.’

  Rogelio paused. ‘Ah, yes. It was I. You had been away from the Spanish quarters for so long. I knew that you required sustenance.’

  ‘Gracias,’ said Benicio joylessly.

  So it had not been Tula, as he had hoped, but Rogelio, as he had feared. Benicio let the sad truth wash over him. His only friend had probably found another man to help her rescue her sister—someone far nobler and worthier than Benicio. He doubted he would ever see her again.

  ‘It must be an equal partnership,’ Benicio said at last. ‘Whatever spoils we obtain we divide in half.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And after we are safely out of Tenochtitlan, we shall part ways and never speak to each other again.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Rogelio and held out his hand.

  But Benicio did not take it. H
e only shook his head and nodded, hoping the small gesture was enough to solidify the pact that he had just made with the Devil.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Tenochtitlan, Capital of the Empire of the

  Mexica—November 8th, 1519

  It is so close, Benicio thought, feeling the itch of mutiny beneath his skin. He saw the twin platforms of the Templo Mayor looming in the distance, towering over the great floating city of Tenochtitlan. He had finally arrived. Somewhere inside that holy building, the treasure awaited him.

  It had taken the Spanish–Totonac–Tlaxcalan company all morning to make its way down the long wooden bridge linking the capital of the Mexica Empire with the world beyond. Now they stood at the gates of the city they knew Cortés secretly meant to conquer, wondering whether they would be welcomed or slaughtered.

  Montezuma II, the Emperor of the Mexica, stepped from his bejewelled litter in sandals stitched with gold. A giant man wearing the head of a black jaguar came forward and draped a massive feather headdress about the monarch’s broad shoulders.

  With the splendid cloak in place, Montezuma seemed to rise above everyone in his company and when Cortés dismounted his horse and stepped forward, he was dwarfed by the strong, stoic priest–King.

  Cortés moved to embrace Montezuma, but he was stopped by the emperor’s attendants. Unfazed, Cortés held out his hand. The Emperor acknowledged the proffered hand, but did not take it. He whispered something to one of his advisors, who motioned to Cortés’s ring, then gently took Cortés’s hand and held it up for the monarch to study. Montezuma marvelled at the ring for several moments and Benicio had the profound sense that the fate of the world was being written, as well as something of his own.

  He wished Tula were here, by his side, witnessing the culmination of their difficult journey. Surely she would be placing some enchantress’s spell on Montezuma, the man who had ordered the sacrifice of so many Totonacs, and would be glaring at him with eyes full of scorn. Soon, however, her curiosity would take over and she would become fascinated with the history being written before her eyes.