War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  It was eerie, Guatemoc thought, uncanny really, how the one who called herself Temaz had foreseen all this. He called to mind her words again: ‘The time will come, Prince, when you will have to choose. I can only hope you choose wisely.’

  There was no doubt in Guatemoc, no hesitation at all. If Quetzalcoatl was really coming, then the only choice for him was to confront the interloper, fight him tooth and nail. Clearly this was not what the Lady Temaz wanted, but he could not concern himself with the whims of a fickle and elusive goddess when the fate of the nation hung in the balance.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Saturday 1 May 1519

  By age-old custom, the meetings of the Supreme Council were held in the assembly room of the House of the Eagle Knights, an imposing rectangular structure of dressed ashlars that dominated the south side of the great plaza adjacent to the pyramid of Hummingbird. Moctezuma sat upright on a stone plinth at the centre of the room, arrayed in his purple robes of state with golden sandals on his feet. The walls around him were painted with richly coloured scenes of ritual warfare, and jutting out from their base were low stone benches decorated with panels in bas-relief, showing intertwined serpents above processions of warriors holding blood-letting instruments and giving homage to Mictlantechutli, the god of death. On these benches sat the councillors, numbering only twenty-eight today since Teudile was still on his way back from the coast, and since Tototl, one of Moctezuma’s staunchest supporters, had fallen to his death from his roof garden the night before. Moctezuma was quite certain poor Tototl had been murdered, and his suspicions grew all the darker as he listened first to one councillor then another proposing that Guatemoc – that swollen-headed upstart! – should be appointed to fill the vacant place.

  Amongst Guatemoc’s principal sponsors, Moctezuma noted, were Chancellor Maxtla, Chief Judge Yayau, Apanec, the Keeper of the House of Darkness, Zolton, the Keeper of the House of Arrows, Tzoncu, the Keeper of the Chalk and, last but by no means least, Cuitláhuac, the royal younger brother, who he’d recently appointed to the role of Serpent Woman, the second office in the land, following Coaxoch’s unfortunate demise in battle. It was surely no accident that Cuitláhuac was Guatemoc’s father, while the other five were the fathers of Guatemoc’s closest associates. Moreover, they’d somehow managed to get the support of Aztaxoch, the Chief of the Refugees from the South. Totoqui, the poet-king of Tacuba, was also with them. Even that snivelling, ungrateful worm Cacama, Lord of Texcoco, who Moctezuma had recently elevated over Ishtlil, the rightful heir, was now enthusiastically praising Guatemoc’s qualities. Many others, like a mindless flock of little birds, were swinging the same way.

  A discordant note was struck by Chimalli, titular head of the Pochteca guilds, who proposed Xipil, one of Tenochtitlan’s richest merchants, as his candidate. When he had finished speaking, Cuitláhuac again took the floor. ‘With respect, revered Chimalli,’ he said, ‘your own presence on our noble council, in itself unthinkable even a generation ago, is more than adequate recognition of the importance of the merchant class. No doubt the day will come when even street traders and stallholders will claim a right to sit amongst The Thirty, but now is not that day. We do not face an auction or a property deal. We face war with a powerful enemy. My son Guatemoc is the pre-eminent warrior of the land and a hero whose miraculous survival of horrific battle injuries leaves no doubt he is beloved of our gods.’ Cuitláhuac turned to face Moctezuma: ‘The decision is of yours alone, sire,’ he said, but I urge you to reflect deeply and appoint Guatemoc not only to your council, but also as commander in chief of our armies. No man could be better suited to the task or to the responsibility.’

  As a sigh of approval echoed around the room, Moctezuma kept his face grave and expressionless, aware – as others were not – of the subtle undertone in Cuitláhuac’s words and in his manner. A few months ago, his younger brother would never have dared to speak out in this way, but then, crucially, had come the failed poisoning plot, instigated by Moctezuma himself in the hope of doing away with Guatemoc once and for all while he lay gravely wounded and already close to death in the royal hospital. Unfortunately – and, rumour had it, through supernatural intervention – Guatemoc had discovered the plot, Cuitláhuac had intervened and the poisoner Mecatl had been caught red handed. Of course Mecatl had claimed he was acting under Moctezuma’s orders and had failed to recant while being flayed alive. Moctezuma, for his part, had absolutely denied any involvement, but it was obvious that Cuitláhuac suspected the truth.

  It was this, more than anything else, that distorted today’s discussions. If Moctezuma had not in fact tried to have Guatemoc poisoned, he would have found it much easier to exclude him from the council. As it was, however, any attempt on his part to keep the upstart at bay was bound to be seen by Cuitláhuac as further evidence that he had after all been behind the plot. Besides, there might be a virtue to be made of necessity here. ‘Keep your friends close,’ in the words of the famed strategist Tlacaelel, who had formalised the rituals of human sacrifice a century before, ‘but keep your enemies closer.’

  ‘Very well,’ Moctezuma announced abruptly, noting with satisfaction how the chattering, whispering voices that had filled the assembly room at once fell silent and twenty-eight pairs of eyes swivelled in his direction.

  He paused for effect. Twenty-eight heads tilted and twenty-eight pairs of ears quivered with anticipation.

  ‘I have decided,’ Moctezuma continued, ‘that the loyal and worthy Guatemoc, hero of our nation, is appointed a member of The Thirty with immediate effect.’

  A further collective sigh of approbation.

  ‘He is young, true, but he is skilled in war and we will value his counsel.’

  ‘I am grateful to the revered Speaker,’ Cuitláhuac said, ‘but as to the other matter raised—’

  ‘What other matter would that be?’

  Cuitláhuac’s posture slumped. Clearly, and this was as it should be, he had not yet forgotten his habit of deference to his older brother. Nonetheless, Moctezuma noted with displeasure, he was determined to speak.

  ‘It is the matter of our armed forces,’ Cuitláhuac continued. ‘We cannot leave them long without a commander in chief.’

  ‘And you wish me to consider Guatemoc for this role also?’ Moctezuma’s tone conveyed deep disapproval, even disgust.

  ‘I do, sire, if it pleases you.’

  ‘I do not know yet whether it pleases me or not. Let us first see how your son – my royal nephew – performs in his new position as councillor. If he does well, who knows, we may even decide to appoint him to the high office you seek for him. But if he fails, then that will be another matter.’

  Some minutes later, after a number of routine points of order had been dealt with, Moctezuma adjourned the meeting. Though they coloured everything that had been said, he had pointedly refused to discuss the rumours of the return of Quetzalcoatl. In a very few days, his loyal steward Teudile would arrive from the coast with his own first-hand impressions of the god.

  Until then, the only appropriate course for the royal dignity was to remain silent.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Saturday 1 May 1519

  During Huicton’s previous visit to Tlascala, he had been permitted to call upon Shikotenka in his home, and even to meet his clever and beautiful wife Xilonen, but there was no such informality about today’s encounter, which took place on the floor of the Senate with almost every high notable of the fiercely independent mountain republic attending.

  ‘Ambassador Huicton,’ said Shikotenka, ‘I am told you are here to persuade us to join forces not only with your master Ishtlil, but also to throw in our lot with the white-skinned strangers who presently infest the dunes outside the Mexica vassal city of Cuetlaxtlan.’

  Infest the dunes?

  Shikotenka’s tone was that of a man describing an outbreak of head lice, not the miraculous arrival of strange and powerful gods. And whereas at their last meeting it had been his roguish
charm that had shone through, today what Huicton noticed more were the flat, impassive planes of his face, the determined set of his wide, sensual mouth, and the calculating cruelty of his eyes. In his home the young Tlascalan battle-king had worn only a colourful length of cloth wrapped around his waist that covered his legs to just below his knees, not hiding the combat scars that crisscrossed his shins, abdomen, chest and arms, and Huicton remembered thinking – this is a man who stands and fights; this is a man who does not run away. Now the same steadfast solidity and warrior pride that he had sensed in Shikotenka was even more apparent, and it was clear that for some reason he had taken an intense dislike to the white men on the coast.

  ‘You speak,’ said Huicton, following an instinct, ‘as though you have direct experience of these strangers.’

  ‘I do,’ said Shikotenka, his voice filled with malice, ‘and you are a fool to imagine they will aid Ishtlil against the Mexica. Quite the opposite is true. They are hand in glove with the Mexica. I saw the evidence of this myself, for I was there at Cuetlaxtlan just days ago and observed a close alliance in the making. The Mexica have given these white-skins every hospitality, lavished sustenance upon them, built shelters for them to make them comfortable, and are showering them with honour and respect. The white-skins return the favour! Their arrival, in my view, is a deadly threat to all of us, for they are doughty warriors and with their support the Mexica may prove impossible to defeat. We should drive them back into the sea now, before it is too late, not seek to ally ourselves with them.’

  ‘Doughty warriors, you say? May I take it then, Shikotenka, that you have had direct experience of their battle skills also?’

  An expression that Huicton could not read momentarily crossed the Tlascalan’s face and then was gone. ‘I fought one of them,’ he said.

  ‘And … ?’

  ‘I have never met his like in combat. We were five but he killed Acolmiztli – you know who I speak of?’

  ‘The great captain Acolmiztli? Yes of course.’

  ‘He’s dead now, slaughtered by the white-skin, and three more of my men lie in the infirmary recovering from their injuries.’

  ‘But how? How is this possible?’ Knowing the martial qualities of the Tlascalans, Huicton was genuinely stunned that five of them could have been vanquished by a single foe.

  ‘The white-skin was unafraid of us. He wore metal armour that turned our knives. His weapons were of metal too, of a kind never seen before in the One World. I came face to face with him, dagger to dagger, but other white-skins appeared with a pack of their war wolves and we had no choice but to flee the field—’

  ‘War wolves?’

  ‘They have animals, somewhat like wolves, that they have trained for war.’ Shikotenka lifted the hem of the full-length tunic he wore today, showing bloody lacerations at his ankle. ‘Their wolves pursued us but we outran them.’

  That expression was back on the battle-king’s face, and this time Huicton knew it for what it was – anguish at the loss of his comrade in arms, shame at having been forced to turn his back on an enemy, and a cold-blooded thirst for revenge.

  ‘What of the notion that they are gods?’ Huicton asked. ‘I have it on good authority that Moctezuma believes their leader to be Quetzalcoatl returned.’

  ‘As ever, Moctezuma is a fool. What we face here is not the return of the Plumed Serpent but the arrival on the shores of the One World of a new and terrible kind of men.’

  ‘Nonetheless, Moctezuma believes they are Quetzalcoatl and his divine companions and that they have come to overthrow him. He has sent a mission to them.’

  ‘We saw no mission from Tenochtitlan while we were there. Only Pichatzin and his lackeys from Cuetlaxtlan, licking the white-skins’ arses.’

  ‘Moctezuma’s delegation was led by his steward Teudile. Perchance it reached the white-skins after your own, er … departure.’

  ‘After we had fled you mean? Perchance. But what of it?’

  ‘I am of the opinion, lord, that there is something in this situation that we enemies of Moctezuma may exploit. True you have seen these white-skins enjoying Mexica hospitality, but we do not know yet what their real motives are—’

  ‘That is my view also,’ interjected a quiet, somewhat unsteady voice. Huicton looked up to see that the speaker was Shikotenka the Elder, civil king of Tlascala and father of Shikotenka the battle-king. Neither the aged, wizened father nor the vigorous and virile son held their positions through blood, but had been elected on merit by the Senate and could be removed from power by the same body at any time.

  ‘Just because you’ve taken a thrashing from a white-skin warrior,’ Shikotenka the Elder addressed his son, ‘just because your pride is hurt … ’

  ‘Just because I mourn the loss of a dear friend … ’

  ‘Even so, it does not mean we should rush to judgement. You were, if I understand correctly, in the process of carrying off one of these strangers – a mere boy, you conceded in your report to the Senate – when the man who bested you intervened?’

  ‘It is so,’ Shikotenka admitted.

  ‘Well then this man, whoever he was, can hardly be blamed for putting up a fight to protect one of his own people. That he did so tells us nothing whatsoever about the plans of the white-skins. I agree with Ambassador Huicton. We should find out more about them before we commit ourselves to opposing them.’

  ‘I second that view,’ said Maxixcatzin, a venerable chief of some sixty years of age, still very strong and active, who served as deputy to both Shikotenkas. ‘If an alliance with the white-skins can make the Mexica impossible to defeat, then we should do everything possible to displace the Mexica and secure such an alliance for ourselves.’

  ‘Pah!’ Shikotenka was actually shaking with rage and looked furiously from his father to Maxixcatzin and then to Huicton. ‘I am tired of the counsel of old men! I have faced these white-skins, which none of you has done, and I tell you that they are not our friends. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps their seeming alliance with the Mexica is only a ruse. Perhaps in time they will eat Moctezuma up; it would not surprise me. In fact, I believe they will eat us all up! Our only hope is to confront them while they are newly arrived, while they have still not gained a proper foothold in these lands, and to destroy them utterly.’

  * * *

  The deliberations of the Senate went on all morning and the upshot was that Shikotenka the Younger was forbidden to mount an attack on the mysterious strangers he called the ‘white-skins’. Only if they marched in force against Tlascala itself was such a move to be contemplated. Meanwhile no state of war with them was deemed to exist. They were to be watched, and watched closely, in an effort to learn what it was they really wanted, but that was all.

  As he made his way out of the Senate, Huicton was approached by Shikotenka the Elder and Maxixcatzin. ‘We will be pleased,’ the aged civil king said, ‘to hear the result of your mission to the white-skins.’

  ‘It will be my honour, and it is my master’s wish, that I should share it with you,’ Huicton replied. ‘I’ll make a point of passing through Tlascala on my way back to Ishtlil.’

  ‘My son opposes all alliances,’ mused Shikotenka the Elder. ‘Whether with the white-skins, or with Ishtlil and his rebels, he’s loath to compromise our independence.’

  ‘That is understandable,’ said Huicton, ever the diplomat.

  ‘Even so, these are times of miracles and wonders,’ Shikotenka the Elder said. ‘We cannot stop the river of history when it flows in spate.’

  ‘Better to flow with it than be swept away and destroyed,’ Maxixcatzin added.

  ‘Indeed so,’ Huicton agreed. ‘Indeed so.’

  Later that day, as he began the long trek down from the mountains to the coast, he thought long and hard on that brief conversation. The only possible interpretation was that Shikotenka the Elder and Maxixcatzin were after all in favour of an alliance with the white-skins, if one could be made. Despite its elected kings, Tlascala was a
democratic place, and if they could get enough votes in the Senate they could strike a peace, even if Shikotenka the Younger opposed it.

  But what if the battle-king was right? What if these white men’s presence spelled the doom not just of Moctezuma, as Tozi fondly imagined, but of Texcoco and Tlascala and indeed of all the myriad peoples and all the vibrant cultures of the One World?

  Despite the heat of the afternoon sun, Huicton shivered as the chill of a great responsibility settled like snow upon his aching shoulders.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tuesday 4 May 1519

  Watching Moctezuma’s reactions as the four leading sorcerers of the court delivered their report to him, the word that came into Guatemoc’s mind was coward. But he kept silent. Even his father Cuitláhuac, who stood second only to the Great Speaker, would not yet dare to voice such an insult. Still, there was no doubt. Now that he had been put severely to the test, Moctezuma was proving himself to be not only a treacherous deceiver and poisoner, but also a weakling and a fool.

  The four sorcerers, none of whom Guatemoc had the least respect for, were squatting in a semicircle on mats on the floor of the House of the Eagle Knights, at the feet of Moctezuma, who sat on his plinth, gasping with fear and actually weeping as they recounted their dismal failure to drive the strangers away with magic. Guatemoc suppressed a yawn as ancient Cuappi tried to excuse his own utter uselessness by claiming the strangers were not human beings but gods who were so powerful that all sorcery was ineffectual against them. ‘We are not their equals,’ he bleated. ‘We are as nothing compared with them.’ Young Hecateu, with his ridiculous crested hairstyle, then claimed that the strangers were constantly on guard and this was why it had been impossible to send poisonous animals against them or cast a deep sleep upon them. Tlilpo said he had conjured up many fearsome visions but the strangers had paid no attention to them. Aztatzin supported Cuappi’s view that the strangers were indeed gods, adding, ‘Their flesh was so tough that even our magical needles couldn’t penetrate it, their entrails were dark and their hearts were impossible to locate. Try as we might, we couldn’t harm them at all.’