War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  Near the summit of the dune, sensing something, Shikotenka suddenly stopped, reaching back his hand to touch Acolmiztli right behind him, bringing the whole group to a soundless halt.

  There was someone there, not ten paces above them.

  One of the white-skins sitting alone looking out over the ocean.

  Shiotenka held a finger to his lips. Silence! Silence! He signed to Acolmiztli – go that way, circle round – and to Ilhuicamina – go that way, the other side, circle round. To Chipahua and Tree he signalled simply: Follow me.

  There was no hesitation. Acolmiztli and Ilhuicamina vanished left and right into the darkness. Shikotenka counted one … two … three … four … five … and then charged the last few paces up the dune, smashed into the unsuspecting white-skin who sat at the top, bowled him onto his back, and left it to Tree to clamp a huge hand over his mouth to stop him from crying out. It was all done in seconds leaving nothing for Chipahua, Acolmiztli and Ilhuicamina to do but keep watch.

  Silence … just silence. In his head, Shikotenka counted slowly to a hundred. No other white-skins appeared, but out of long practice no one said a word in the interval. Still holding his hand clamped over the struggling captive’s mouth, Tree was the first to speak. ‘Definitely not gods then!’ he whispered. ‘Let’s take this bastard off a mile or two and see if he can fight.’

  Chapter Nine

  Monday 26 April 1519, night

  Before their departure from Tenochtitlan, Tozi and Huicton had sought out every one of their ragged band of beggars, malcontents, thieves, lookouts and spies, and crisscrossed the city to whisper in the ears of certain more respectable members of Mexica society – people Huicton had cultivated who also covertly supported the insurrection. They had informed them all of the spectacular victory of the white-skinned bearded strangers over the Chontal Maya at Potonchan and of the strangers’ arrival at Cuetlaxtlan, and had charged them to spread the rumour that Quetzalcoatl had returned to overthrow Moctezuma and usher in a new age. Only then had they set off on the journey of two nights and the greater part of three days that had brought them to the camp of Huicton’s patron Ishtlil, leader of the rebel faction in the Mexica vassal state of Texcoco. Reaching the camp, they had been obliged to negotiate an obstacle course of officials and bodyguards, before finally being ushered into Ishtlil’s command tent, a towering structure of white maguey fibre stretched over a framework of great poles, furnished with mats, stools and map-strewn tables, and lit within by guttering torches.

  The previous year, following the death of King Neza of Texcoco, Moctezuma had intervened in the succession and placed Neza’s compliant and sycophantic younger son Cacama on the Texcocan throne rather than the independent and free-thinking elder son Ishtlil. Used to getting his own way in all things, Moctezuma had assumed that Ishtlil would simply accept this arrangement, but instead he had seized control of Texcoco’s mountain provinces and declared a rebellion, leaving only the lakeside city of Texcoco itself, and its valley provinces, in Cacama’s hands.

  Huicton had previously worked as a spy for wily old Neza, who’d had a mind of his own; after Neza’s death, seeing the weakness of Cacama, Huicton had given his allegiance to Ishtlil. Since then Ishtlil had waged a bloody war against the forces of Cacama and Moctezuma, and had made increasing use of Huicton, not only as his spymaster in Tenochtitlan, but also as his ambassador in secret negotiations with the Tlascalans and others who suffered under Mexica tyranny. Now, with Tozi seated on a mat by his side, Huicton first praised her as the best of his spies, and the only one able to infiltrate Moctezuma’s household, then slowly and carefully outlined to his master the intelligence she’d gathered about the strangers with the aspect of tueles – gods.

  Ishtlil was a big man, with broad, swarthy uncouth features, beetling eyebrows, a large, misshapen nose broken in some battle years before, and a mane of thick, black, greasy hair tied back in a pigtail. Aged about forty, he had the looks and the huge calloused hands of a peasant farmer, but his voice and haughty manner were those of an aristocrat and his shrewd, deep-set eyes seemed to miss nothing. He turned those eyes on Tozi now: ‘This is interesting information, girl, but what makes you so sure these white strangers are tueles?’

  Huicton was proud to see that Tozi didn’t flinch under the Texcocan’s scrutiny. ‘Pichatzin’s messenger,’ she replied, ‘brought Moctezuma a written report of his meeting with these “strangers”.’ My goodness, thought Huicton, is the girl risking a note of sarcasm? ‘The paintings were done by Pichatzin’s own artist,’ Tozi said, ‘who was present to record his meeting with the “strangers”.’ That note of sarcasm again. ‘I was able to observe the paintings over Moctezuma’s shoulder,’ she continued, thrusting out her lower lip, a sign of stubbornness that Huicton had come to know all too well, ‘and I have no doubt that the “strangers” depicted by the artist are tueles. Their leader has the appearance of a man but he is white-skinned and bearded, as the lord Quetzalcoatl is described in all our legends. He wears a jacket of shining metal. He and his companions are armed with fire-serpents and other weapons of the gods.’

  ‘And Moctezuma?’ prompted Ishtlil. ‘How did he react to this news?’

  ‘With fear, Lord Ishtlil. When he looked upon the painting of the leader, he acknowledged the truth. “This must be the god Quetzalcoatl himself,” he said. “He has come to seize his kingdom from my hands.”’

  Suddenly Ishtlil bounded to his feet, crossed to Tozi in a single stride and towered over her. ‘If you’re telling me the truth,’ he said, ‘then Quetzalcoatl’s cause and mine are one and the same and I should seek to unite my forces with his. But how do I know you’re telling the truth? How do I know you’re not just inventing all this simply to impress me? Or perhaps even to mislead me? Perhaps you’re working for Moctezuma? How do I know? Ha? How do I know?’

  ‘My Tozi always tells the truth,’ Huicton said, ‘and no one hates Moctezuma more than she does. She’s not inventing anything.’

  ‘If I’m to make policy based on her word, I need to be sure,’ Ishtlil growled. ‘But how can I be sure this slip of a girl spied on Moctezuma as she claims?’ His eyes bored into Tozi: ‘Ha, child? How can I know? You tell a far-fetched story. Do you really expect me to believe you were able to get so close to the Great Speaker that you could study the paintings over his shoulder and he didn’t even notice your presence?’

  Huicton shifted uncomfortably: ‘I have explained to you before, lord, that this girl has special powers.’

  ‘Ha! Special powers! Anyone can claim special powers. I’ll need proof.’

  Huicton looked at Tozi and raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Would you be willing to show Lord Ishtlil what you’re capable of, my dear?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tozi whispered.

  ‘Make yourself invisible. Then he’ll believe you.’

  ‘I’m not some circus tumbler putting on a show,’ Tozi hissed. ‘I’m a witch.’

  ‘A witch?’ Ishtlil exclaimed, his voice rising. ‘The girl is a witch?’

  ‘She has special powers,’ Huicton repeated. The encounter was moving in a dangerous direction. Ishtlil was a good man – in his way, a far better man than his brother Cacama – but he was deeply superstitious and shared the common prejudice against witches that had led Tozi to the fattening pen in Tenochtitlan and almost to sacrifice at the hands of Moctezuma. Indeed, suspected witches were as frequently offered for sacrifice by the Texcocans as they were by the Mexica.

  ‘Don’t heed the foolish child,’ Huicton said. ‘She imagines herself a witch but the truth is she has been given a gift from the gods, a gift meant to help us in our war against Moctezuma.’

  Ishtlil was pacing up and down inside his command tent now, the flat planes of his big face shadowed into hollows in the flickering torchlight. ‘Then show me this gift!’ he stormed. ‘Show it to me! I would decide for myself whether she is indeed a foolish child, in which case I’d be a fool to trust her, or whether she’s a witch, or a liar,
or a gift from the gods as you claim.’

  Huicton nudged Tozi. ‘Now would be a good time for you to vanish, Tozi.’

  ‘Suppose I don’t want to.’

  ‘Then you may get us both in a great deal of trouble.’

  Tozi shrugged and began to chant softly – under her breath at first, but rising in pitch and tone until her voice became almost a snarl, furious and wild. A look of mild surprise came over Ishtlil’s coarse features, then of fear, and finally – to Huicton’s astonishment – of terror. He had known the Texcocan since he was a boy and never once had he seen him afraid. Now, with a gasp, Ishtlil slumped to his knees, his eyes wide and rolling.

  ‘Tozi!’ Huicton snapped, ‘what in the name of all the gods are you doing?’

  ‘Showing the lord Ishtlil what I’m capable of, as you asked.’

  ‘I asked you to make yourself invisible.’

  ‘But I’m capable of more than that,’ Tozi smiled, and it was the smile of skull, the smile of a death’s head. ‘Ishtlil made you afraid with his threats. He tried to make me afraid ... So I’m feeding him fear.’

  ‘He made no threats … ’

  ‘Yes he did. He said he wanted to decide if I was a witch. You were afraid of what would happen if he decided I was—’

  Ishtlil was clutching at his throat now, making horrible gasping and gurgling sounds.

  ‘Stop!’ Huicton demanded. ‘Stop right now, Tozi. Any more of this and his guards will be in here and we’ll be slaughtered.’

  ‘Not me,’ said Tozi. There was a glint of malice in her eyes. ‘They won’t catch me. I can make myself invisible, remember?’

  Huicton looked at her long and hard, his little protégée, the girl he’d rescued from the mob all those years before. What had become of her? He hardly recognised her now. ‘Let Ishtlil go, Tozi! Free him now before it’s too late. I command you.’

  ‘You command me?’

  ‘I request you. I beg you! Let him go.’

  ‘Very well then,’ said Tozi, ‘I will.’ She whispered a string of words in some strange tongue that Huicton had never heard before, closed her hands into fists and opened them again, extending her fingers towards Ishtlil, and suddenly the Texcocan rebel leader was released. He slumped forward, his face resting on the richly embroidered carpet that covered the floor of his command tent, spittle dribbling from his slack lips, his chest heaving as though he had run some great race, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Finally, still on his knees, he raised his upper body again and stared fixedly at Tozi. ‘You … ’ he said. ‘You … ’

  Huicton knew what was coming next.

  With just the faintest shimmer of the air, Tozi vanished.

  Chapter Ten

  Monday 26 April 1519, night

  Pedro de Alvarado had walked out into the dunes, a few bowshots away from the camp, for a clandestine meeting with two of the ringleaders of the Velazquistas, the nickname that he and Cortés had given to the large and powerful faction amongst the conquistadors who remained loyal to Diego de Velázquez, the governor of Cuba.

  ‘Surely you can see, Don Pedro, that your so-called caudillo has taken leave of his senses?’

  The speaker was lantern-jawed Juan Escudero, a man who had long hated and envied Cortés, and whom Cortés loathed and despised in equal measure. Some years before, Alvarado recalled, Escudero had taken immense pleasure in arresting Cortés and throwing him into jail on Velázquez’s orders. The charge of treason – which carried an automatic death penalty – had been trumped up by Velázquez because Cortés had got the governor’s favourite niece, Catalina, pregnant, and had refused to marry her.

  After eight months rotting in prison, with the thought of being hanged, drawn and quartered to focus his mind, Cortés had finally agreed to marry the hell-bitch and recognise the child as his own. In return he had been readmitted to the governor’s inner circle and in due course given command of the expedition to the New Lands. But before the fleet left Cuba, Velázquez had grown suspicious of Cortés – rightly fearing he intended to declare the expedition his own once the New Lands were reached – and had once again given orders for his arrest.

  Alvarado himself had brought the news of the governor’s plan and, on the stormy night of 18 February 1519, only a few hours ahead of the arrest warrant, Cortés had persuaded the other captains of the fleet to sail, winning the support of even the most ardent Velazquistas with phoney intelligence about a rival expedition being mounted from Jamaica to seize control of the New Lands. ‘If we don’t beat them to it,’ Cortés had argued, ‘there’ll be no prize left for us to win.’ Greed had persuaded most of the captains to agree with him, so that in the end Escudero was the only Velazquista who still felt the matter should be referred to the governor. Again Alvarado had come to the rescue, goading Escudero to draw his sword, and giving Cortés the excuse he needed to throw his old enemy into the brig that night. By the time Escudero was released the next day, the fleet had sailed far beyond Velázquez’s reach.

  But Escudero’s resentment had remained a problem ever since. From the moment the expedition reached the New Lands, he’d worked tirelessly against the caudillo’s interests, lobbying and inflaming the other Velázquez loyalists and urging them to imprison Cortés and return to Cuba. Such incitements to mutiny – and it was plain they were nothing less than that – won ever more support as the weeks passed and it became clear there was no rival fleet. Then there had been the gigantic battle with the Maya at Potonchan. True, only four Spaniards died in the fighting itself, but close to a dozen had subsequently expired from infected wounds, and more than eighty, some in great pain, were still suffering from the injuries they’d received. Despite all Cortés’s efforts, the mood of the expedition was turning sour.

  Standing with Escudero and Alvarado – out of the breeze and out of sight of the camp in a hollow of the dunes – was Juan Velázquez de León, Diego de Velázquez’s own cousin, a bull of a man with a bushy black beard, an aggressive chin and angry green eyes that glinted in the moonlight. Bound as he was by blood to the governor of Cuba, he was a natural Velazquista; still his greed was such that he might easily have been bought off if there had been gold to be had. In its absence, however – the Chontal Maya of Potonchan had turned out to possess almost none – Velázquez de León was siding more and more openly with Escudero, and had several times joined him in calling for the expedition to return to Cuba.

  ‘We fought that damned battle against the Maya,’ he complained to Alvarado, ‘and what did we get in return? Gold? No. Jewels? No. Honour? No. Trade advantage? No. Now we’re here, camped on these noisome dunes, and still we see no gold – nor any prospect of it. The plain truth is we’ve campaigned for more than two months, expended treasure, expended lives, incurred the governor’s disfavour and all for—’

  ‘All for nothing,’ Escudero completed the sentence. His jaw shut like a trap and then opened again as he added, ‘Or rather: all to satisfy Cortés’s pride. I say enough is enough. Join us, Pedro – I know we’ve had our differences, but I’ve always recognised your qualities, and with you on our side no one will dare stand in our way.’

  Despite the well-known fact that he and Cortés were friends, Escudero and the other Velazquistas never relented in their attempts to win Alvarado to their cause. He understood very well why! First and foremost, they’d witnessed Cortés publicly rebuke and shame him on the island of Cozumel, the expedition’s first port of call; secondly, because Alvarado’s love of gold was legendary, they naturally assumed that the lack of it would make him as restless as it was making them.

  On both points they were at least partly correct. Alvarado was still smarting from the dressing down that Cortés had given him on Cozumel – even forcing him to return the few miserable trophies he’d managed to extract from the filthy Indians there. And Potonchan, where Cortés had raised such high expectations, had proved to be a huge disappointment. Fifteen thousand pesos’ worth of gold was all the Chontal Maya had delivered in the aftermath of
the battle, and the next month spent ransacking the region had produced little more.

  So, yes, of course Alvarado was dissatisfied!

  This did not mean, however, that he was about to betray his friend. He still had confidence in Cortés and believed that he would, sooner or later, deliver on his promises of riches beyond their wildest dreams. Indeed Cortés had confided in Alvarado that this was precisely what he expected of the Mexica, overlords of the town of Cuetlaxtlan, outside which they were now camped. It seemed his new interpreter, the woman Malinal, had lived amongst the Mexica for five years and according to her they were rich as Croesus. So, it was just a matter of patience. Meanwhile Alvarado saw no harm, and much to his advantage, in playing the Velazquistas along. Should Cortés continue to fail, he could easily switch sides. And if Cortés succeeded, then intelligence on the plans of the mutineers would surely have a value.

  ‘Who’s with us and who’s against us?’ Alvarado asked Escudero, as though he had already joined the mutiny.

  ‘A hundred good men for sure,’ the ringleader replied confidently, ‘and a hundred more tending our way.’

  Two hundred! Alvarado thought. If this was true it was bad news indeed for Cortés. But he kept his face expressionless. ‘Pah!’ he said. ‘I’m not interested in the riffraff, only the captains and the officers – men of my own class. How many of them?’

  Escudero and Velázquez de León eyed one another shiftily, looked back at Alvarado, but said nothing.

  ‘Francisco de Montejo?’ Alvarado guessed. ‘I know he’s always been loyal to the governor, despite taking a hefty loan from Cortés …’ He paused, turned towards Velázquez de León: ‘I seem to remember that you, too, are in Hernán’s debt, Juan? What was it again? Two thousand gold pesos or thereabouts to refit that worm-eaten caravel of yours … ’