War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  ‘Sire,’ said Guatemoc. ‘May I be permitted to speak?’

  Moctezuma glared at him: ‘Speak, nephew, but be brief. My mind is made up.’

  ‘Sire, I beg your forbearance but I believe we are about to make a terrible mistake. The reasons it has been suggested we give to the strangers to persuade them they cannot make the journey to Tenochtitlan are foolish and obviously untrue. They know already from Teudile’s visit to them that our own emissaries can make the journey in less than six days, and this will be proved to them again when the caravan reaches them so soon. If we can travel the roads in so short a time, and suffer no harm, then the strangers will realise that they can do so also. They will rightly take our excuses as signs of our vulnerability and fear. At the same time, the golden treasure you propose sending them will not satisfy but whet their appetites, convincing them if we can be so generous that we must have much more in reserve – and I have no doubt they will want that too. In short, we will show them our weakness while at the same time igniting their greed and inducing them to attack us. Nothing could be more dangerous, sire. I urge you to consider another plan.’

  ‘Which would be what, exactly?’ Moctezuma asked.

  ‘Give them death, not gold. Allow me to assemble ten of our most seasoned regiments, eighty thousand fierce warriors, and lead them at once on a forced march to the coast. While the strangers wait unsuspecting for the rich presents they believe they have bullied us into giving them, we will approach their camp by stealth and fall on them without mercy. Permit me to do this, lord, and I promise you not a man of them will be left alive to carry news of their fate back to their native land.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  Thursday 6 May 1519

  ‘I couldn’t help noticing you keep a diary, Senor Díaz,’ Pepillo said, ‘and how often you make entries in it.’

  ‘I’ve noticed you do the same, lad.’

  ‘I keep mine for the caudillo so events can be fresh before him when he comes to write his memoirs. And you, sir – do you plan some such thing? By the end of this campaign I warrant you’ll have an incredible story to tell. I’m sure there’s many who would want to read it.’

  ‘What? A story by an illiterate idiot like me?’ Bernal Díaz always felt enormously uncomfortable when other soldiers made jokes about his constant scribbling. Along with his good friend Gonzalo de Sandoval, he’d been promoted to the rank of ensign by Cortés before they’d sailed from Cuba. But, unlike Sandoval, who was of noble stock, though fallen on hard times, Díaz had never become used to officer status, and always felt himself to be one of the men, indeed one of the lowliest amongst them. As such it was somehow unfitting – almost unseemly – to reveal that he could not only read but also write fluently.

  Díaz was doing his rounds of the camp perimeter, accompanied this early evening by Pepillo and the dog Melchior, which he himself had given to the boy after the battle against the Maya at Potonchan. The dog, though still very young, had proved its worth ten days before when it had played its part in saving Pepillo from abduction, and probably murder, at the hands of a group of Indians. Since then security had been strengthened and a fence of thorn bushes now ringed the camp, incorporating the cannon emplacements that artillery chief Francisco de Mesa had set up when the Spanish first arrived. Previously the main gate on the south side of the camp, through which flowed the constant stream of supplies from Cuetlaxtlan, had been more symbolic than functional, but now it was one of only four openings in the fence – the others lying to the north, east and west. All were kept under permanent guard.

  ‘With respect, sir, you’re neither illiterate nor an idiot,’ Pepillo responded. ‘You’re a brave soldier with a gift for words who was in the thick of it at Potonchan and will likely be in the thick of it again.’ A grin: ‘Turn your memoirs into a romance and you might sell thousands of copies, as did García Rodríguez de Montalvo with Amadis de Gaula. You could make yourself a rich man.’

  ‘Ha!’ Díaz laughed. ‘That’ll be the day. Money’s never stuck to me, unfortunately.’

  ‘Still, sir, if you’ll permit me to say so, you shouldn’t dismiss the idea. This adventure we find ourselves launched upon is in many ways more strange and fabulous than anything in Amadis. The people of this land – so savage and yet so fine. Their practice of human sacrifice, their beautiful and wondrous clothes of feathers, their pyramids, sir, their way of battle. Someone has to write all this down, or in later times it will never be believed.’

  ‘But if I write it as a romance, Pepillo, it will never be believed anyway.’

  ‘Well, that’s true, sir, no doubt, but still I and many others would like to read it.’

  Díaz chuckled. Since the strange events on Cozumel soon after the fleet had first reached the new lands, he’d felt a special responsibility for this boy who seemed always to be getting himself into scrapes and difficulties. The death of Pepillo’s close friend Melchior at Potonchan had all but destroyed the lad, which was why Díaz had gifted him the lurcher pup Melchior, which now bounded around happily at their feet.

  Pepillo threw a stick and the lurcher went after it, barking madly, tearing through the long grass of the dunes.

  ‘Your dog’s doing well,’ said Díaz, ‘despite that whipping Telmo Vendabal gave him and the fight he got into with those Indians.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Pepillo proudly. ‘He’s quite a hero … ’ A worried look crossed his face and the energy went out of his voice, ‘But I’m afraid, sir, very much afraid, that Don Telmo will take him away from me and put him with the other hounds to be trained for war.’

  ‘Surely the caudillo wouldn’t allow that,’ exclaimed Díaz. ‘His own page’s pet dog!’

  ‘But that’s just it, sir. Since the fight with the Indians, my master keeps saying that Melchior’s no pet – that his rightful place is with the pack. He says we need all the fighting dogs we can get, sir.’

  ‘He’s jesting with you, lad.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Vendabal’s always whispering in my master’s ear, trying to convince him I should give Melchior up.’ A sudden frown: ‘I’ll never give him up, sir! If they try to take him from me, I’ll run away!’

  ‘Run, lad? Where would you run to in these unknown lands?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir, but run I would! I won’t see Melchior put to war.’

  What the boy was too plucky to mention, yet must be connected to his obviously serious resolve to flee the camp if things got too bad, was the way he was repeatedly harassed and bullied by a gang of Vendabal’s assistants. Three of them in particular, youths of about Pepillo’s own age but much harder and nastier characters, seemed to regard it as their duty to their own master to make the page’s life a misery. Díaz had witnessed several of their acts of spiteful cruelty and bullying, but had refrained from intervening until now, for fear it would simply make things worse. After all, no young lad, growing into manhood, would wish to be accused of being a snitch or of hiding behind others. On the other hand, Díaz thought, he’d never forgive himself if Pepillo did go through with his foolhardy escape plan.

  ‘I’ll try to convince Vendabal to lay off,’ he now said. ‘I’ll talk to the caudillo if I have to. I’m sure this can easily be resolved.’

  Even as Díaz spoke, however, the thought occurred to him that there might be no easy solution. Vendabal was enormously stubborn; he had leverage because his dog pack gave the conquistadors a unique edge over the enemy. Cortés was a practical man, not at all sentimental in leadership matters, and most likely wouldn’t want to invite trouble to keep a mere page happy. As to the bullying – well, Cortés would probably approve of it rather than disapprove, on the grounds that it would toughen Pepillo up.

  By now they had walked almost the full circuit of the perimeter fence and were nearing the main gate when an altercation broke out. An elderly Indian, stooped and grizzled, was speaking urgently to Allonso Gellega, a known brawler and troublemaker who happened to be on duty.

  ‘Look, bugger
off will you!’ shouted Gallega. He had big hands and thick forearms covered in a dense mat of black hair, and he now made an aggressive shooing gesture.

  The Indian continued to address him in a peculiarly resonant, droning, nasal voice. Very curiously one of the words he was saying over and over again sounded like ‘Malinal’, the name of the beautiful Mayan woman who was now serving Cortés as his interpreter.

  ‘I don’t understand your heathen gibberish,’ Gallega yelled, spraying spittle in the Indian’s face, ‘but if you don’t clear off now you’re going to feel the toe of my boot in your arse.’

  ‘Did I just hear him say Malinal’s name?’ Díaz asked Pepillo.

  ‘I think so sir, yes. I heard it too.’

  Just then the little Indian, showing remarkable agility for one so ancient, dodged round Gallega and darted through the gate. Gallega bellowed and gave chase, drawing a dagger, but the old man was swift and kept ahead of him.

  ‘Come on,’ said Díaz to Pepillo, ‘let’s find out what’s happening here,’ and with a few loping strides he blocked the elder’s path, grasped his shoulder and dragged him to a halt. Up close he was amazed to discover that the Indian’s eyes were clouded with cataracts. Not only old, then, but blind!

  As Gallega came pounding up, already out of breath and brandishing his dagger, Díaz raised a warning hand. ‘No need for violence! This old man is blind. Can’t you see that, you idiot!’ He turned to Pepillo: ‘You speak some of the local lingo, don’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘A few words, sir. Malinal’s been teaching me.’

  ‘A few words should be enough. Let’s find out what this is all about.’

  Chapter Twenty

  Thursday 6 May 1519

  ‘You are more beautiful by far than Tozi described you,’ the old man called Huicton said. ‘I was anticipating wonders, but in every respect you excel my expectations.’

  It had taken Malinal some time to get used to the idea that this ancient could see at all through his clouded eyes, but somehow he could – and clearly!

  What was harder to accept was the claim that he knew her friend, and furthermore had known her for many years.

  ‘Tozi never spoke to me about you,’ Malinal said suspiciously. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Ah yes, perhaps … but how long were you and she together?’

  ‘A day only, in the fattening pen at the foot of the great pyramid of Tenochtitlan where we awaited death together. At the end it was as though we had known each other all our lives.’

  ‘As no doubt in every meaningful sense you had, since you both believed that was your last day on earth. Even so, you would not learn all there was to know about each other in such a short time. Certain pieces of information would inevitably have been missed.’

  Malinal allowed that this must be so; still she was doubtful, and it took more than an hour of close questioning to allay her fears. At the end of it she left Huicton in front of the kitchens enjoying a bowl of soup and went to Cortés in his pavilion. Aguilar was there waiting to play his part.

  ‘I believe the old man is genuine,’ Malinal said. ‘He has knowledge of my friend that only someone close to her could possess.’ She listened attentively as Aguilar translated and was reasonably sure he had represented her correctly. ‘I think you should see this Huicton,’ she continued, now speaking directly to Cortés in Castilian. She switched back into Mayan: ‘He claims to have information, and an offer, that will be of value to you.’

  When Aguilar had interpreted her words, Cortés nodded. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Bring him in. I’ll hear what he has to say.’

  Malinal went to fetch Huicton, who was finishing up the last of the soup, smacking his lips with satisfaction, and led him to the pavilion where Cortés greeted him graciously, introduced himself, embraced him in the Spanish fashion, and indicated a stool on which he should sit down.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ said the old man. ‘I have been on the road for many days and my bones ache.’ In affirmation of this there came a mighty creaking and cracking of his joints as he lowered himself onto the stool.

  * * *

  Huicton was trying very hard not to seem impressed, but even with years of experience of bluff and counter-bluff it was difficult to keep the astonishment he felt from showing on his face. These ‘white-skins’, as Shikotenka had called them, were indeed a new and terrible kind of men, and certainly not gods. Yet it was their very humanness, exemplified by the reek of their latrines, by the ripe, unwashed stink of their bodies, and by the lice that crawled in their beards, that made them so remarkable. Their discipline and coordination, their exotic metal armour and weapons, their huge and monstrous war animals, one of which had grazed Huicton’s leg with its fangs as he was first brought into the heart of the camp while another, tall as a house, had nearly trampled him down – all these things radiated an alien and remorseless power, the like of which he had never known before, but which was yet plainly the product of human ingenuity and skill, not of supernatural forces.

  At least this one called Cortés, the leader, he whom Tozi in her childlike purity had assumed to be Quetzalcoatl, did not smell as bad as some of the others. Apparently he washed and there were no lice seething in his beard. Moreover, it was obvious the woman Malinal was infatuated with him. How, Huicton wondered, would Tozi react to that?

  ‘You are an ambassador?’ Cortés asked. The meaning of his words reached Huicton through the other white-skin – the little, pungent, hairy one who spoke the Mayan tongue – and thence through Malinal. ‘Ambassador for whom? Whom do you represent? Why are you here?’

  ‘I am the ambassador of Ishtlil, rightful ruler of the kingdom of Texcoco,’ Huicton replied. ‘And I am here to bring you his salutations and his offer of friendship.’

  ‘And why would I seek the friendship of this Ishtlil?’ Cortés asked carefully.

  ‘Because the great power in this land is Moctezuma, emperor of the Mexica,’ Huicton replied immediately. ‘If you wish to remain here and prosper, then it is certain that sooner or later you will either have to become his vassal or you will have to fight him. If it turns out that you must fight him, then I believe you will need allies. I am here to smooth that path for you.’

  When his answer had been translated into the language of the white-skins, Cortés sat forward and studied him with an expression of keen interest. Huicton was fascinated by the other man’s eyes: the left was large, round and grey, while the right was smaller, oval and black. These surface features, however, did not disguise the deeper message of character to be read there – a message of cunning, of resolve, and of a cold, ferocious concentration that would have been formidable in any leader, but was somehow doubly impressive when encountered in one so foreign as this.

  ‘May I take it, then,’ Cortés said finally, ‘that your master Ishtlil is at war with Moctezuma?’

  ‘He is, lord.’

  ‘But how can that be? I am led to believe by Moctezuma’s own envoys, who have visited me here, that all his enemies lie crushed at his feet.’

  ‘With respect, lord, the Mexica are notorious deceivers and Moctezuma’s envoys are the most practised amongst them.’

  Cortés laughed. ‘But you yourself, of course, tell only the truth?’

  ‘I tell the truth when it serves my master’s interests to do so, lord, as it does now.’

  Another laugh: ‘Well and good then. So tell me about your master and his enmity towards Moctezuma.’

  Speaking through the two interpreters, Huicton gave an account of the Texcocan rebellion. He did not exaggerate or fabricate anything, being convinced that the truth would indeed serve him best here. When he had finished, Cortés and the other white-skin, whose name it seemed was Aguilar, talked animatedly to one another for a few moments. ‘What are they saying?’ Huicton asked Malinal quietly.

  ‘I do not follow everything in their language yet,’ she replied, ‘but if I understand correctly, my master makes the observation that in all lands the concerns of ru
lers are very much the same. I think he says that for a younger son to be placed on the throne ahead of his elder brother would lead to trouble in Spain, just as it has in the case of Texcoco. In other words, he believes your story.’

  ‘Which is right and proper, since my story is true.’

  Cortés then asked questions about the size and disposition of Mexica and rebel forces, which Huicton answered with the same honesty as before. The numbers of those supporting Ishtlil were growing every day, but he could not yet put more than twenty thousand men into the field. Despite a recent catastrophic defeat at the hands of the Tlascalans, on the other hand, Moctezuma still had one hundred and sixty thousand regular soldiers at his command, divided into five separate armies, each thirty-two thousand men strong. In addition a hundred thousand auxiliaries from vassal peoples such as the Tacubans, the Cholulans, the Mixtecs and the Totonacs stood ready for immediate call-up at a snap of his fingers, and in the past year he had also hired fifty thousand unruly Otomi and Chichemec mercenaries.

  Cortés raised his eyebrows. ‘Impressive numbers,’ he said, although he did not look very impressed. ‘But you mentioned a defeat inflicted on Moctezuma by a people called the Tlascalans. I have heard something of these Tlascalans already – for a small band of them came here some days ago and attempted to kidnap my own servant, a mere boy. Pray tell me more about them and their famous victory over Moctezuma’s huge armies.’

  Cortés listened with careful attention as Huicton told him the story of the independent mountain kingdom of Tlascala, its fierce resistance against Mexica tyranny and the incredible coup orchestrated less than three months before by the battle-king Shikotenka, in which almost an entire Mexica army of thirty-two thousand men had been annihilated.