War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  ‘I do not believe you are Quetzalcoatl,’ she now said to Cortés, ‘and I do not believe you are a god, but it is very strange that you look the way you do and that you have come from the east in the year One-Reed. I think you can now see that Aguilar was wrong to imagine it was coincidence that brought me to Potonchan at exactly the time you arrived there.’

  When he had heard all this, a strange light came into Cortés’s eye. The rolling, lilting tone was back in his voice and – as he often did – he required Aguilar to translate into Mayan a verse from the sacred texts of his religion. This one stated: ‘Thou art the God that doest wonders; thou hast declared thy strength among the nations.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Malinal asked.

  ‘It means,’ explained Aguilar, ‘that God works in mysterious ways to perform his wonders. The caudillo is of the opinion, which I do not share, that the lord of all created things has chosen to work through you and through this prophecy about Quetzalcoatl to strengthen our hand here and put us on the path to victory.’

  Cortés spoke again, his eyes seeming to burn into Malinal.

  ‘The caudillo asks,’ Aguilar translated, ‘how you think he might best take advantage of the prophecy. Should he perhaps pretend to be this Quetzalcoatl? He says he finds such an idea repugnant and contrary to his Christian faith.’

  ‘There is no need to pretend anything,’ Malinal replied. She returned Cortés’s gaze as she spoke. ‘It will not serve your interests to make a claim that will later be proved false. I advise you always to tell the truth about who you are, as you have told it to me. So when you are asked, say you are just a man, a Spaniard, from a land across the seas and you serve a great emperor who rules that land and many other lands. But know while you say these things that the Mexica believe their gods to be tricksters, very deceitful and dishonest, great lovers of masks and disguises, who like to pretend to be other than what they are. Regardless of what you say, their own imaginations will convince many of them, especially that fool and coward Moctezuma, that you really are a god. You have ships, guns, steel, horses, war dogs – and these things will seem like wonders to them. So say you are a man, but act like a god, that is my advice to you.’

  ‘You see,’ Cortés said triumphantly to Aguilar, ‘I told you she was clever!’

  They had been aware for some minutes of a clamour of shouts in the camp, but now it suddenly increased in intensity. As Cortés sprang from his chair to investigate, Alvarado appeared at the door. ‘We’ve got visitors,’ he said with a grin. ‘There’s a whole delegation of Mexica notables in robes and feathers down by the main gate. What shall we do with them?’

  Malinal understood and turned to Aguilar. ‘They must wait,’ she said in Mayan. ‘Tell the caudillo! Let me see who they are first, then I will advise.’

  * * *

  With Malinal at his right hand, Aguilar at his left, and his senior captains behind him, many decked out in full armour, Cortés sat overlooking the beach on the highest point of the dunes, under a much larger and grander awning than the one he had used a few days before to meet Pichatzin. The fine white cloth out of which this new awning was woven had been supplied by the obliging governor of Cuetlaxtlan, along with many other useful gifts that he had delivered to the Spanish camp since that meeting, and was supported on a framework of sturdy pine posts erected at great speed especially for this occasion by a gang of Totonac labourers. The two hundred fittest and strongest soldiers in Cortés’s army were arrayed round about, bristling with swords, spears and battle-axes and carrying their shields, crossbows and muskets.

  Other preparations, every one of them orchestrated on Malinal’s advice, were under way all around the camp. She predicted that the Mexica delegates would already have heard from Pichatzin about the horses, would ask to see them, and could easily be frightened by them. To this end a mare in heat had been tethered close to the awning for the past hour and only just now led away. After the meeting had started, the plan was to bring up Alvarado’s randy stallion Bucephalus and tether it in the same place; the mare’s scent, lingering on the ground, could be relied upon to make it boisterous. Meanwhile the rest of the cavalry were being prepared to stage a grand demonstration down on the firm sand of the beach, Telmo Vendabal’s assistants were armouring fifty of the most ferocious dogs, and Francisco de Mesa’s Taino slaves were hauling all three of the lombards to positions close to the awning, where they would be loaded with seventy-pound cannonballs and very large charges of gunpowder.

  Cortés nodded towards the crowd of Mexica delegates. ‘Shall we let them come up?’ he asked Malinal. It had been her idea, but a good one he thought, to keep them waiting, clustered in the sun in a hollow of the dunes close to the camp’s latrines, where swarms of pestilent flies and biting insects were always encountered.

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said through Aguilar, ‘let them come.’

  She had already pointed out the tall thin figure of a man of mature years, dressed like some wizard of old in a conical cap and a long black robe embroidered with silver stars. He was the leader of the delegation. She recognised him from court occasions in Tenochtitlan, she said, but she had never met him personally. His name was Teudile and he was Moctezuma’s own steward, the seventh most important official in the land after the Great Speaker himself.

  Pichatzin walked by Teudile’s side, and a group of five other Mexica nobles wearing colourful carmine robes clustered round them. ‘They’re not important,’ Malinal said. ‘Not even Pichatzin. Only Teudile matters.’

  The delegation included five artists equipped with their sheaves of paper, paints and brushes, several dozen bearers carrying an assortment of baskets and boxes, and an honour-guard of twenty fearsome-looking soldiers from the class called the Cuahchic. These, Malinal explained, were the most formidable and skilled of all Mexica warriors. Except for a scalp lock tied with a red ribbon above their left ears, they were shaved bald, with their heads completely covered in glistening paint, red on the left side and blue on the right. Dressed only in loincloths and sandals, they showed off superb, heavily muscled physiques, and were armed with the long, two-handed wooden swords, edged with blades of obsidian, that the Spaniards had already confronted amongst the Maya.

  In addition there were four men in lusciously colourful shimmering cloaks woven out of feathers. Three of them were elderly with lined faces and long grey hair, while the fourth was young and wore his hair in a curious crest across the middle of his otherwise shaved head. All had exceptionally long, twisted, dirty fingernails, and all clutched rattles that they shook from time to time as they walked. They muttered rhythmic phrases in lowered voices and looked around from under glowering brows with suspicious, hostile glances. These curious creatures, Malinal said, were Moctezuma’s court sorcerers, and had been sent to cast evil spells and generally work harm on the Spaniards. She seemed to believe they might really be able to do this, but Cortés told her firmly that the idea was laughable: ‘We are protected,’ he said, ‘by the Lord God himself.’

  The final element of the delegation now winding its way up the slope towards them was equally strange. There were two male captives amongst them, heads bowed, hands bound behind their backs. One was a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old, about Pepillo’s age. He was scrawny and hollow-chested, with coarse black straight hair cut in a fringe over his acne-covered forehead. He sobbed continually as he walked, tears running down his cheeks and snot dripping from his nose. The other, who spoke sharply to him from time to time, as though admonishing him, was older, broad shouldered and powerfully built, with long braided hair and coppery-red skin marked by many scars – some old, some still livid and fresh – on his chest and arms. His face was heavily tattooed with blue zigzags and curlicues, and his earlobes and lower lip were stretched and greatly extended by large bone plugs. Both captives had been daubed with some sort of white paint, were barefoot and wore flimsy loincloths that seemed to be made of paper. Leading them by ropes looped around their
necks were five fierce-looking men with wild, matted hair wearing filthy black robes.

  ‘Who are they?’ Cortés asked.

  ‘Priests of the war god Hummingbird,’ replied Malinal.

  ‘And their prisoners?’

  ‘Totonacs. They’ve prepared them for sacrifice. Looks as if they intend to offer them to you.’

  ‘By God,’ Cortés exclaimed. ‘Nobody will be sacrificed here.’

  * * *

  Teudile was a sallow, hollow-cheeked bag of bones whose sunken eyes glittered with a curious mixture of intelligence, malice and fear as he sat cross-legged on a mat on the ground in front of Cortés, flanked by Pichatzin and the other Mexica officials. He spoke, giving his name, and held forth a gold ring in which was set an engraved gemstone. This, it seemed, was the seal of Moctezuma himself. Malinal translated Teudile’s words into Mayan while Aguilar put them into Castilian: ‘Pray that the god will hear us. Your lieutenant Moctezuma, who has in his charge Tenochtitlan, the city of Mexico, sends us to give homage to you … ’

  ‘So he’s already addressing me as a god?’ Cortés asked.

  ‘He’s assuming you are Quetzalcoatl,’ Malinal replied through Aguilar. ‘That’s the safest course of action for him at the moment, but remember what I told you. Don’t make such a claim yourself. Say you’re a man but overawe him – fuel his superstitions, keep him guessing.’

  ‘Tell him we accept his homage and ask him if there is any particular thing he wants with us,’ Cortés said.

  ‘I wish to know from this god,’ Teudile replied, ‘why he has come here, where he is going and what he seeks?’

  ‘Tell him I have come to greet his master Moctezuma and that I intend to go to the city of Tenochtitlan to salute him.’

  ‘The lord Moctezuma will be much pleased to hear this,’ Teudile replied. ‘However, he asks that you delay your journey and leave him in peace until the time of his death. After that you will be welcome to journey to Tenochtitlan, where you will recover your kingdom just as you left it long ago. Meanwhile he wishes you joy after your long journey. He has sent you foods and fruits of this your homeland, so that you may be restored.’

  Teudile then waved forward several of the bearers, who unslung large, wood-framed baskets from their backs and set them down on the carpets that had been rolled out over the sand under the awning. The baskets were filled with cloth-wrapped packages, from which the rich scent of cooked meats arose; as the packages were carefully opened, a sumptuous feast was revealed.

  Looking on, with Alvarado and the other captains peering over his shoulders, Cortés had two thoughts uppermost in his mind. First: was this food poisoned? Second: although the local breads, eggs, vegetables, guavas, avocados and prickly pears were obviously harmless, might there not be human flesh amongst the many different cooked meats – none obviously recognisable – being offered here? The rich sauces could disguise a multitude of sins.

  ‘Ask him to describe the meat dishes,’ Cortés told Malinal.

  With some pride and apparent relish, taking time to explain how they had been cooked and the sauces that accompanied them, Teudile pointed out dishes of quail, turkey, duck and other fowl, several types of fish, and also wild peccary, deer, monkeys, hares and dogs.

  ‘They have dogs here?’ asked Cortés with surprise, and some concern, because the Maya – to the advantage of the Spaniards – had been terrified by the war hounds and had not seemed to understand what sort of creatures they were. Malinal explained this was because the dogs of the conquistadors were much larger and very different in appearance from the animals the Mexica called itzcuintli, also known to the Maya, which were small, hairless, did not bark and were bred almost exclusively for the kitchen, though some were kept as pets. Nonetheless she had taken the opportunity to study the Spanish dogs over the past weeks and confirmed they did indeed belong to the same tribe as the itzcuintli. ‘Their meat is good,’ she said. ‘Try it. You will enjoy.’

  Cortés nodded. He had no objection to eating dogs. ‘Ask if there is any human flesh or blood amongst these dishes,’ he said. ‘Question him closely. Make sure I get a truthful answer.’

  But no sooner was the question put than Teudile was on his feet with a worried expression on his face. ‘I regret not tuele,’ he replied – Cortés now recognised the Mexica word for ‘god’ – ‘but we are ready to serve.’ While speaking he had produced a small flint knife from some pocket of his robes with which he now slit the lobe of his own left ear.

  ‘What in God’s name is the man doing?’ Cortés exclaimed.

  ‘He thinks you’re angry that they didn’t provide human blood,’ said Malinal, ‘so he’s offering you some of his own.’

  One of the black-robed priests bounded forward, clutching a small silver cup that he held under Teudile’s ear, collecting the stream of blood flowing from it. He then approached Cortés and attempted to press the brimming cup to his lips, but Cortés dashed it angrily aside, and dealt the priest several blows about the buttocks with the flat of his sword, making the man jump and screech in pain. Driven out from under the awning into the sun, the priest took shelter behind the escort of Cuahchic warriors, who were lined up in two ranks of ten, frowning and grimacing mightily at the Spaniards.

  An idea occurred to Cortés and he turned ferociously on Teudile. ‘Tell him this,’ he said to Malinal through Aguilar. ‘Tell him I don’t like and will not permit blood sacrifices.’ He pointed to the two Totonac captives who were standing surrounded by the other four priests near the edge of the awning. ‘Tell him to release those men. That is my wish. That is my order. Tell him it must be done now.’

  ‘But Lord,’ objected Teudile, ‘your lieutenant Moctezuma commanded they be sacrificed for you and that we prepare their flesh for you while it is fresh and offer it to you to eat.’

  ‘What you are proposing is abominable to me!’ Cortés yelled. ‘Do you hear? Abominable. Release those men at once.’ He strode over to Alvarado who was watching with amusement. ‘Time to bring up Bucephalus,’ he said with a wink. ‘You’ll send for him?’

  Moments later, while Malinal was still embroiled in what appeared to be a heated argument with Teudile, there came a great neighing and whinnying as Alvarado’s groom walked Bucephalus up the slope and tethered the huge creature close to the awning where the mare had earlier stood. The stallion, which was fully barded in its gleaming steel armour, at once began to paw the ground and snort menacingly, and twice reared up, lashing the air with its hooves, causing consternation amongst the Mexica. The formidable Cuahchics, who stood closest to it, drew back in horror while Teudile gazed at it from under the awning, his face grey and his eyes bulging. Only the artists, to their credit, did not break off from sketching and painting even when, in the midst of all this, Telmo Vendabal appeared with five of his largest wolfhounds, also decked out in armour. When they scented the Mexica delegates, they began to snarl and bark and strain on their leashes towards them.

  ‘As you can see,’ said Cortés to Teudile, ‘our war animals are angry with you because of your sacrifices. Will you obey me and release your two captives now?’

  ‘It is not what my lord the Great Speaker wishes,’ said Teudile stubbornly.

  ‘But it is what I wish,’ said Cortés, ‘and has not my lieutenant Moctezuma ordered you to please me?’

  Teudile barked a command to the priests, the bonds of the captives were cut and they at once ran off through the camp.

  ‘Good,’ said Cortés. ‘Now we’re making progress.’

  ‘Will you eat the other dishes they have prepared for you?’ Malinal asked.

  ‘Do you think we should?’

  ‘Yes. I advise it. It’s probably some sort of test. If you are Quetzalcoatl returning, they’ll expect you to relish the food of your homeland.’

  ‘Very well, we will eat,’ said Cortés. ‘But I suspect poison. Tell them if we eat that they must eat also from the same dishes.’

  Malinal smiled. ‘The food will not be poisoned,�
� she said.

  ‘Still, they must eat with us.’

  * * *

  After a pause while they waited for Teudile and Pichatzin to sample all the dishes first, Cortés persuaded his captains to join in the meal; soon a positive atmosphere had been restored with some small talk exchanged between the two sides. The food proved to be excellent and the final course, gourds filled with the dark drink called chocolatl, elicited particular praise from the Spaniards.

  ‘The ambassador apologises,’ Malinal told Cortés as the dishes were cleared away. ‘He says he doubted the ancient traditions of Quetzalcoatl and his hatred of human sacrifice, but now he knows that every word was true.’

  While she spoke, Teudile had signalled bearers forward, who set down three large baskets in front of Cortés. ‘These are presents for you,’ Malinal explained after Teudile had spoken. ‘They’ve been sent by Moctezuma himself. He wishes you to choose the one that most pleases you and to give the others to the gods who are here with you.’

  The baskets were piled high with folded cloths and featherwork. On top of one was a cone-shaped helmet of gold, to which Cortés felt his eyes strongly drawn. On top of the second was an elaborate headdress adorned with green feathers. On top of the third was a mask in the form of a serpent’s head, a woven pectoral with a small gold disk in the centre and earrings with curved gold pendants.

  ‘Choose the basket with the serpent mask,’ Malinal advised through Aguilar.

  ‘I prefer the helmet,’ Cortés said. ‘There’s more gold in it.’

  ‘The impact will be greater if you choose the basket with the serpent mask. It’s the one that contains the finery of Quetzalcoatl.’

  Cortés chose accordingly and Teudile, seeming suitably impressed, insisted on dressing him up in the regalia from the basket. Cortés went along with this, examining the items as they were hung around his body. There was disappointingly little gold.