‘Your honour is not at issue here,’ De Grado insisted. He was a tubular, stooping, bulbous-nosed man, whose fair skin and thinning blond hair, combed over his crown in a vain attempt to hide a bald patch, gave him more the look of a tax collector or an office clerk than a bold conquistador. ‘The caudillo did not say you were shy,’ he now told Escudero. ‘His exact words were that he should not like to think you shy, and that, you must agree, is a very different matter.’
Cortés had been watching the whole scene unfold with wry amusement. All the Velazquistas knew that he was a far better and more experienced swordsman than Escudero and that barring some mischance there was only one plausible outcome to a duel. Part of him was eager to get on with it, run the pride-addled fool through and end their feud then and there, but another part of him – the stealthy, more calculating side of his character – preferred to wait and find a legal pretext to hang Escudero. It should not be too difficult; indeed an idea was already beginning to form in his mind as to the manoeuvres needed to bring it about when there came the sound of footsteps and raised voices and Bernal Díaz poked his head through the door of the pavilion.
The young ensign pointedly ignored the Velazquistas. ‘Caudillo,’ he said. ‘My apologies for disturbing you, send me away if I am wrong, but there’s an urgent development I think you should know about … ’
* * *
Tozi lurked invisibly amongst the nobles, warriors and royal attendants crowded into the courtyard, trying to make sense of what was happening there. Open to the sky, it was an immense rectangular space perhaps a hundred paces in length and eighty wide, and encompassed by a paved and covered walkway bordered on its inner side by a colonnade. The courtyard itself was floored with polished flagstones, but at its centre these had been removed and a pit dug in the earth beneath them – a pit five paces square filled with blazing logs that sent up billows of pungent smoke to the heavens. On the north side of the pit, set back from it some fifteen paces, an imposing throne, presently unoccupied, had been positioned with benches arrayed next to it, on which sat some thirty of the leading notables of the land. Opposite them, on the south side of the pit, but much closer to the fire, four male captives dressed in the paper loincloths of sacrifice, their hands tied behind their backs, their bodies smeared with chalk, their shaved heads decorated with raven feathers attached with a glue of molten rubber, stood in line. A row of guards behind them were armed with long, obsidian-bladed spears. Held back by more guards, the crowd nevertheless pressed in impatiently, faces lurid in the flickering flames and alight with bloodlust. Never let it be said that the Mexica were not eager to witness death!
Who were these captives to merit such a public display? Tozi drifted closer, much closer, but it was not until she was right beside them on the south side of the pit that she recognised their twisted, tortured faces. These were none other than the royal sorcerers Tlilpo, Cuappi, Aztatzin, and Hecateu, who until recently had been accorded high status, even though their spells had failed utterly to keep her out of the palace or detect her presence when she was there. It seemed that Moctezuma had at last discovered how useless they were and decided to rid himself of them.
She felt a thrill of excitement. Had he learned about her? Or was it some other failure on their part that merited this spectacular execution?
Even as the thought crossed her mind there came a disturbance at the east side of the courtyard; a procession entered with a splendid palanquin borne aloft by royal bodyguards. With hatred in her heart, Tozi watched the members of the crowd, young and old, aristocrat and commoner, cringe back as one and throw themselves to the ground as the Great Speaker passed, as the palanquin was brought forward, and as Moctezuma, dressed in robes of the finest purple, was helped down and took his place on the waiting throne, finally lifting his hand to wave the spectators again to their feet.
There was such pomp, such pride, such a sense of entitlement about him! Casually Tozi sent a dart of fear his way and watched with satisfaction as he jerked upright, his eyes casting about, now left, now right.
Oh my, she thought, oh my! This is going to be such fun!
But she wouldn’t rush, she decided.
Better to draw out the humiliation, better to let the evening unfold to its climax, before she showed the monster the real meaning of terror.
When Moctezuma had regained his composure, he leaned to whisper in the ear of the high priest Namacuix who stood by his side. Namacuix in turn barked an order and attendants rushed to surround the fire, raking the burning logs, subduing the last of the flames until the pit was filled only with fiercely glowing red embers. On another command, the guards levelled their spears and pushed the four captives forward until they stood squirming and begging for mercy at the very edge of the pit, so close that their paper clothing shrivelled, blackened and burned away entirely, leaving them naked and weeping with pain.
An expectant hush fell. The guards stood poised ready. The captives teetered on the edge of the pit and then, quite suddenly, Tozi felt a chill enter her heart. Moctezuma raised his hand again and the crowd on the west side of the courtyard parted as though divided by a knife.
Through the lane that opened up in the midst of the throng someone – some thing – was approaching.
Some terrible, unspeakable thing.
* * *
‘Well, speak up, man,’ Cortés said to Díaz. ‘What’s this urgent development?’
‘Indians, Caudillo. Twenty Totonac Indians. I’ve taken the liberty of having Malinal talk to them, sir – one of them speaks her lingo – and it seems they want to help us fight Moctezuma.’
‘Twenty,’ scoffed Escudero. ‘Fat lot of good twenty will do us.’ His hand was back on the hilt of his sword, Olid having released his hold on him the moment Díaz had entered.
‘No, you misunderstand me, Don Juan,’ Díaz said. ‘These twenty are just a delegation, but they claim they have tens of thousands of warriors ready to fight at our side if we’ll take Moctezuma on.’
It was plain from the look on the young ensign’s face that he’d not failed to sense the explosive antagonism between Cortés and Escudero, and he stood by uncertainly, waiting for an answer.
‘Well, well,’ Cortés said, to put him out of his misery. ‘Interesting, eh … ’ He rubbed his hands together and gave Escudero a hard stare. ‘Don Juan, what say you and I settle our differences later, and meanwhile let’s hear these Indians out. What they tell us may have bearing on your plans to return to Cuba.’
‘Not a chance,’ Escudero sneered.
‘Still, we should hear them,’ Ordaz said firmly.
‘I agree,’ said De Grado. ‘An excellent idea.’
‘No harm in it that I can see,’ said Montejo, after which Olid, Velázquez de Léon and the priest also quickly fell into line, leaving Escudero no choice but to concede also.
Cortés turned to Díaz. ‘Very well, Bernal, you can bring in their spokesman – but leave the other nineteen outside, eh!’ He laughed: ‘You say Malinal is with you to interpret?’
‘Yes, Caudillo.’
‘What about Aguilar?’
‘Indisposed, sir.’
* * *
Pepillo recognised the Totonac spokesman the moment he entered the pavilion, and it was immediately clear the caudillo did also. ‘Isn’t he one of the pair the Mexica wanted to offer us for human sacrifice?’ he asked Malinal.
When she didn’t immediately understand his question, Pepillo was able to clarify for her in a mixture of Castilian and his own halting Nahuatl.
‘Ah, I see, I see,’ she said, getting the gist quickly as she always did. She turned to Cortés. ‘Yes, lord, same. He owe you life he say. He want pay debt.’
‘Has he told you his name?’
‘His name Meco.’
Cortés stepped forward to greet the tall, broad-shouldered, heavily tattooed Indian, while Pepillo gazed at the numerous scars on the man’s body – some old, some fresh – and at his long, braided hair and the bone
plugs in his lips and ears, which together gave him a wild, savage demeanour. His eyes, however, were intelligent and forthright, and Pepillo noticed that he didn’t look away, or even blink, under scrutiny.
‘You are welcome here,’ Cortés said finally, holding out his hand.
Malinal put the words into Nahuatl and the Indian seized Cortés’s hand in his own, shaking it up and down vigorously.
When the formalities were over, the negotiation began – and it was, Pepillo recognised as he made notes, a negotiation from the very beginning. The Totonacs obviously thought they had something to offer and equally obviously believed the Spaniards had something to give in return.
‘Do you belong to the same Totonac tribe as the labourers who were sent to us from Cuetlaxtlan?’ Cortés asked, ‘the labourers who have now fled?’
Meco replied that he did belong to the same tribe.
‘But your dress and appearance are very different. You look like a free man. They seemed like slaves.’
With some difficulties in interpretation, which Pepillo was again able to help untangle, Meco explained that his people were from the great city of Cempoala, the Totonac capital, two days’ march to the north, and that unlike their kin on this part of the coast, they had preserved a degree of independence from the Mexica. Even so, they were vassals, and as the tortuous conversation continued, with many stops and starts for clarification, their intent gradually emerged.
Along with everyone else in the region, they had heard of the spectacular defeat of the Maya at Potonchan, which had greatly impressed them. Moreover, said Meco, placing his hand over his heart, he could never forget the events of two weeks before when the Spaniards had stood up to the feared Mexica and Cortés had forced Teudile to release him and his son – for that was who the other intended victim had been. They had fled to Cempoala and reported the matter to their paramount chief, a man called Tlacoch, who had conceived the hope that Cortés might liberate the Totonacs from their hated overlords and sent Meco back to watch for an opportunity to approach him. He had been unable to do so while the labourers and their Mexica overseers were present, but now they were gone and Teudile’s delegation had been sent ‘running off home to Tenochtitlan’, as Meco put it, he had seized his opportunity. The burden of his message was this: would Cortés consider a visit to Cempoala to meet with Tlacoch for discussions that might prove to be of mutual advantage?
Cortés replied with flattery and friendly words and told Meco that the answer was yes; there were some matters he needed to attend to first, but very soon he would come to meet the great chief. ‘By the way,’ he asked casually, ‘can Cempoala be reached by boat?’
No, Meco replied, that would not be possible, since the Totonac capital stood somewhat inland.
‘Is there another city on the coast that is close?’
Meco replied that there was. Its name was Huitztlan, and it lay within a sheltered bay a few hours’ march north of Cempoala.
When Cortés had satisfied himself as to all this, he ushered Meco from the pavilion, beckoning to Malinal to accompany them. Muffled words were exchanged outside. When Cortés returned, Malinal was no longer with him.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, beaming at the Velazquistas. ‘What did you make of our visitor?’
‘Filthy savage,’ said Escudero, scratching a livid mosquito bite on his brow.
‘Filthy he may be, but what he came to say changes things, does it not?’
‘It changes nothing.’
‘Really?’ said Cortés, sounding amazed. ‘I feel quite differently. The noble Meco revealed dissensions amongst the Indians. I believe we can exploit such dissensions to set them one against the other, and go on to win the great prize of Tenochtitlan and the mountains of gold we know the Mexica possess. To be sure they have given us a king’s ransom in treasure already, but think how much more we stand to gain if only we persevere – all the more so now we have a real prospect of winning allies who can provide us with auxiliaries, reserves, supplies – even a sheltered port, for God’s sake; everything we need to mount a sustained campaign.’
‘Savages with bones through their noses,’ scoffed Escudero.
‘But savages who hate the Mexica and will fight for us if we give them encouragement,’ Cortés continued reasonably. ‘Come, Don Juan, don’t be so quick to dismiss this sign that God has given us of his blessings for our enterprise.’
‘I’m with the caudillo,’ announced De Grado. He laid a hand on Escudero’s shoulder: ‘I was all for your plan to return to Cuba,’ he explained. ‘It seemed wise. But this proffered alliance with the Totonacs changes the calculation. With respect, Don Juan, I wish to see how it develops before I agree to sail.’
‘There’s nothing to lose,’ added Montejo, ‘and everything to gain. I say we go to Cempoala.’
‘We should go to Cempoala,’ agreed Olid. ‘Two days’ march! What’s that when there’s so much at stake?’
Continuing to take notes, Pepillo wondered at the inconstancy of the Velazquistas, so easily swayed first one way then the other. It was a stroke of luck for Cortés – luck was often on his side! – that the Totonacs had turned up when they did; even so, most of these men, with the single exception of Escudero, were like clay in his hands, easily bent to his will. Indeed even Escudero could be manipulated, Pepillo saw, as Cortés now skilfully turned the conversation back to the matter of the ringleader’s honour the moment it was clear the majority opinion amongst the Velazquistas had swung firmly against an immediate return to Cuba.
‘Juan,’ he said magnanimously, ‘let us bury our differences. Francisco was right earlier when he said I did not mean to impugn your honour. We should not fight – a fight in which one of us must certainly die – over such a petty misunderstanding of words … ’
‘You will apologise to me then.’
‘Certainly I apologise for expressing myself clumsily. I have no doubt of your courage. I have never doubted it. Indeed, I hope to rely on it in the months ahead as we pit ourselves against the might of the Mexica.’
‘But it is not yet settled that we shall do so,’ objected Escudero. He looked around at his companions. ‘I accept that we should discover the value of an alliance with the Totonacs, but if it proves to be worthless, as I suspect, then I trust you will all agree on an immediate return to Cuba. Even you, Cortés – will you agree to that?’
‘It is my responsibility as captain-general to act in the best interests of all the expeditionaries,’ Cortés said smoothly. ‘And I make no secret of my view that our best interests will be served, with or without the Totonacs, by marching on Tenochtitlan and taking everything the Mexica have and making it our own. But I tell you what, Juan, let us put this to the test. We will learn more of this Totonac offer and then at some suitable time we will call for a vote of the whole army on whether to stay here in Mexico and take it by conquest or whether we return to Cuba as you wish. Will you abide by such a vote? What do you say?’
‘I say yes, of course.’ Escudero was visibly discomfited with the eyes of all his allies upon him. ‘We will take a vote and we will abide by it.’
He could, Pepillo realised, hardly say otherwise. But what game, exactly, was Cortés playing here?
Sometimes his master’s mind was as impenetrable to him as a thick fog.
* * *
At first what Tozi saw padding through the crowd was a huge jungle beast with burning yellow eyes, a black jaguar, massive and relentless, as tall as a fully grown man at the shoulder. As the creature drew closer to the pit, however, a transformation overcame it, shadows seemed to surround it, its form shimmered and faded, and finally – some sorcery was at work! – it resolved itself into the appearance of a lean and muscular Chichemec nomad. He was dressed only in a loincloth, but his entire body from his bare feet to his shaved head was covered in swirling black tattoos.
Tozi felt a prickle of fear – fear again! – but also of fascination. Who was this man? Only an immensely powerful sorcerer, a nagu
al of the highest order, could shift his shape so effortlessly.
Silent, invisible, undetected, fixed in her place on the other side of the sacrificial fire, Tozi watched as the bizarre tattooed figure advanced towards the royal throne on which the Great Speaker sat stock still, as though hypnotised. She saw that the nagual approached and did not prostrate himself – did not even bow his head. Who was he that Moctezuma should accord him such a high and unprecedented public honour? How could it be that he was allowed to come so near? Now he leaned forward. Now his face brushed the face of the Great Speaker. Now he whispered something in the royal ear.
Without consciously having willed it, Tozi realised she was no longer in the place where she had stood a moment ago, but was moving slowly, inexorably forward, as though drawn by some magnetism. She skirted the west side of the sacrificial pit and by slow increments came closer, and closer still, to the twined figures of the nagual and the ruler seemingly locked in some intimate exchange. Now she was ten paces from them and the nobles on their benches surrounding them, now five paces, now just an arm’s length, and then suddenly, shockingly, the nagual whirled around and looked straight at her, as though he could see her, his yellow eyes reflecting the red glow of the embers in the pit, burning like molten gold.
There was recognition and intelligence, ferocity and cunning also, and a malign hunger in those unblinking eyes. Yet it was less them that fixated her attention than the writhing, intricate tattoos covering the broad, flat, cruel face in which they were set – tattoos that twisted and intertwined, as though filled with a life of their own, revealing, in their dots and swirls and tendrils, a thousand transient, half-recognised shapes and forms.
Tozi gasped and staggered back, feeling the scorching heat of the pit behind her and in the same instant the nagual raised his face to the dark skies above and laughed – HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA, HA; a horrible, reverberating, mocking bray that seemed to go on for ever, while beneath its noise, not speaking aloud but somehow conveyed by thought, a hissing reptilian voice breached her sanctuary of invisibility and penetrated her skull and said: ‘Of course I see you, girl. You cannot hide from me.’
War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent Page 19
