War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  ‘Ahhh, yes … yes … ’ Malinal closed her eyes, relaxed, arched her back luxuriously, sighed deeply and at last committed herself body and soul to this unexpected act of love with her master. It wasn’t difficult because she did love him after all, but there’d been no harm in transacting a little business along the way. Men were easier to manipulate when they were aroused.

  She stayed with Cortés through the night, made love thrice more, and returned to her quarters at dawn reeking of sex. Strangely Puertocarrero was not there, and it crossed her mind, as she fetched a bucket to wash, that he might have been out all night too, lurking by the pavilion, spying on her, listening to the unmistakable sounds of coupling.

  If so, it was hard to say what the outcome would be. Malinal yawned and stretched and found she was too tired, and too happy, to care.

  * * *

  As morning came the Santa Theresa scudded northwards, her sails billowing in a fine following wind, her keel slicing through the water and sending up a powerful bow wave.

  Excited at the prospect of a lesson in swordsmanship, Pepillo had slept only fitfully, and dawn found him already at the spot where Escalante had told him to wait. He caught glimpses of the captain moving around the ship, in conversation with the boatswain, even climbing a mast and peering northwards, but more than an hour passed before he disappeared into his stateroom and then reappeared with not one but two scabbarded broadswords tucked under his arm.

  He passed the smaller of the weapons to Pepillo. ‘I was going to give this to my son,’ he said, ‘when he reached your age.’

  Pepillo noticed the past tense and an undertone of sadness in the captain’s voice and felt awkward. ‘You have a son, sir?’

  A rueful smile from the captain. ‘Call me Don Juan as I told you last night. All these “sirs” make me uncomfortable. And to answer your question, I had a wife and son both, but they were carried away last year by the smallpox.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Nothing to say, lad. Let’s get to it, eh? Draw your sword.’

  The hilt of Pepillo’s weapon was wrapped in criss-crossed leather and copper wire. He closed his fingers around it and drew … and drew … and drew. The blade, bright, double-edged, with a deep wide groove running from the guard almost to the tip was somehow much longer than he had expected.

  ‘It’s heavy,’ he said.

  ‘Has to be heavy to do its job. That’s why the first thing you’ll need if you want to be a swordsman is strength.’

  Pepillo felt anxious and bit his lower lip. ‘I’m not strong, Don Juan.’

  Escalante leaned forward, inspected him from head to foot, pinched his biceps between a calloused thumb and forefinger and said: ‘Tut tut … Too much time in Brother Rodriguez’s library, eh; not enough time out in the fields?’

  ‘I suppose so, sir … I mean Don Juan. And since we left Cuba, my work has mostly been done sitting down.’

  ‘Well, don’t worry. You’re not on the battlefield yet. There’s plenty of time for you to make yourself strong. From now on, if you’re serious about this, I expect you to do every bit of manual labour you can volunteer for, as well as physical exercises for an hour or two a day. I’ll teach you some basic routines that’ll build muscle, and you need to exercise for flexibility as well … How do you like the feel of the sword?’

  Pepillo looked in awe at the beautiful, deadly thing in his hands, admiring the reflections of ocean and cloud in the polished steel of its blade. He tested its edge – sharp! – and made a few experimental slices, revelling in the swishing sound the weapon made as it passed through the air. He was entranced. ‘I love it,’ he said.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to love it and leave it for now. Put it back in its scabbard and give it here.’

  ‘Why?’ Pepillo asked, crestfallen.

  ‘Because swordsmanship’s all about footwork, balance and speed, and until you grasp at least the basic principles, there’s little point in playing with the blade.’

  Pepillo returned the weapon and Don Juan placed it on the deck with his own. ‘Take a stance,’ he said.

  ‘A stance?’

  ‘Yes, stand as strong and as firm as you can. I’m going to try to push you over. You try to stop me.’

  Pepillo stood with his feet parallel and slightly apart.

  ‘Ready?’ asked Don Juan.

  ‘Yes, ready.’

  Suddenly the captain’s hand shot out, fingers closed into a fist. The blow felt like being kicked by a horse and Pepillo went tumbling head over heels. Some members of the crew who were passing by sniggered. As Pepillo picked himself up, Don Juan asked: ‘What did you learn from that?’

  ‘I placed my feet wrongly?’

  It was a wild guess, but the captain nodded his approval. ‘You’re weak with your feet close together and parallel like that … Here.’ He reached down and guided Pepillo’s leg. ‘Slide your left foot forward … Good. Now slide your right foot back a little and turn the toes out to the side. Good! Yes. You’ve got it. That’s a strong stance.’ He placed his hand against Pepillo’s chest and shoved, making him stagger back a step but not fall. ‘See how you’re able to resist me?’

  ‘I … I think so.’

  ‘But there’s still something not quite right. Your centre was turned to the side then, and it needs to be turned to the front.’

  ‘My centre?’

  ‘Yes. Imagine a point about the width of two fingers beneath your belly button. That’s your centre. When you took the stance your centre was turned to the right, in the direction of your right foot. It should have been aligned forward in the direction of your left foot. To fight with swords, Pepillo, is to dance with life and death. You are more likely to live, less likely to die, if you take care that your centre always faces your opponent as you dance and that every move you make originates from your centre. See this?’ He pulled back the long hair that hung down almost to his shoulders. ‘I got it in the Italian wars because I forgot my centre in the heat of battle.’

  The old wound that Don Juan showed was an ugly one. Usually hidden by his hair, the top two thirds of his right ear was missing and a deep, puckered groove – long since healed into a pink mass of scar tissue – ran along the side of his skull.

  ‘The blow reached me when I was off balance, hit me fast as a bolt of lightning. I lost my senses, fell like a poleaxed ox, and my attacker followed through with this.’ The captain pulled up his shirt and revealed a second jagged scar crossing his belly. ‘I was rescued by a good comrade. He killed the man just before he delivered the coup de grâce, dragged me out of there – though the fight raged all around us – and got me to a surgeon in time. He saved my life but I wouldn’t have needed saving if I’d just watched my centre. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Pepillo nodded his head vigorously. ‘Strong stance,’ he said, ‘good balance, centre always facing the enemy.’

  ‘And that way you stay alive.’ The captain smiled. ‘Had enough?’

  ‘No, Don Juan.’ Indeed Pepillo had never felt more invigorated or wide awake.

  ‘Good! Then it’s time to teach you the basic steps. No point in a nice strong stance if you don’t know how to move.’

  * * *

  Moments after Malinal had slipped out of the pavilion, Cortés fell into an exhausted, satiated sleep, amongst the rugs they’d used on the floor when the hard surface of the desk had lost its charms. He slept and, as was often the case, he dreamed.

  Dreamed of the golden city of Tenochtitlan that lured him on.

  Dreamed of conquest and of honour.

  Dreamed of Saint Peter, his patron, his guide, who held the keys to heaven and whose intercession, after so many sins, was his one sure route to salvation.

  This time the setting was the place – he had travelled there in dreams more than once before – that Cortés took to be heaven itself, filled with beautiful, ethereal figures, male and female angels, he thought, all dressed in white, going placid
ly about their business. There was a great wall of mother-of-pearl around heaven, entered through high gates, but they always swung open to admit him when he arrived and he was wafted now, on the wings of a warm, soft wind, into the throne room, vaster than any cathedral, all made of scintillating amethyst and radiant sapphire, and thence forward until he stood in the mighty presence of Saint Peter himself.

  Dressed in a simple hemp tunic, its sleeves rolled up revealing forearms knotted with muscle and huge hands made more for gripping a sword then bestowing blessings, the holy saint was a tall, robust man, as massive as Hercules, powerful in the chest and thighs, rugged featured, clean-shaven with thick fair hair, in which the blond of vigour was shot through with the grey of wisdom. He seemed in the prime of life, perhaps forty years of age; a nimbus of brilliant light shone from his body, particularly dazzling around his head, and there was an animal magnetism, a dangerous allure, a raw, overwhelming charisma and the unmistakable demeanour about him of a soldier used to command.

  But it was his eyes, above all else, that demanded, required, indeed compelled attention, and that drew Cortés in towards him, helpless as a lamb to slaughter – eyes pitiless and remote, hard as diamonds, black as coals, yet paradoxically brilliant as the sun.

  ‘Welcome, Captain-general,’ said the saint. ‘Your army is the army of God, and heaven blesses your venture.’ He reached forward and placed his heavy hand on Cortés’s head, seeming to press him down with the weight of the world.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ Cortés replied, his voice choked with emotion.

  ‘But you must not tarry long at the coast,’ Saint Peter continued. ‘Your enemy Moctezuma has summoned the help of the devil. Make haste to Tenochtitlan, my son, or you will face defeat.’

  ‘My plans are already in motion, Father.’

  ‘Good! Excellent! Yet hear me, my son. You must go by way of a city called Cholula, a vassal city to the Mexica. I am preparing a great victory for you there.’

  ‘Cholula … Yes, Father. I will remember. I will be sure to place it on our route of march. But—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There is something I must settle first. A problem. A difficulty … ’

  ‘Tell me, my son.’

  ‘Certain of my captains conspire against me. I must flush out their plot and destroy them utterly before we begin our march. If I fail to do so, I run the risk of mutiny at some vital moment.’

  ‘I know of this plot,’ said the saint. ‘I have already inspired you with the strategy to defeat it.’

  Cortés looked up at him, surprised.

  ‘Do you really think all your ideas are your own, my son?’ Saint Peter laughed, a great rumbling bellow that began low in his gut and worked its way up through his chest to burst forth from his throat. No sooner had it died away, however, than there was a sudden change of subject: ‘The native woman I arranged to have the Maya give you. You like her?’

  ‘She’s proving to be a gifted interpreter, Father.’

  A sly smile. ‘And gifted in other ways as well?’

  Cortés hung his head, knowing nothing could be hidden. ‘She is my lover, Father.’

  ‘A tasty morsel, eh?’

  It seemed a strange choice of phrase for a saint. ‘Yes, Father,’ Cortés replied.

  That huge hand clapped down on his head again. ‘Do not worry. Every good soldier deserves his bed slave and I am glad to provide her for you. Yet take care! She is a cunning serpent. You must treat her firmly. You must not let her lead you astray.’

  ‘Astray, Father?’

  ‘As she led you astray tonight…’ The saint’s fingers tightened in Cortés’s hair, taking a powerful grip. His voice suddenly boomed: ‘Teach her a lesson, my son!’

  ‘A lesson, Father, how?’

  ‘Show her you are a man by denying her demands. Punish your page severely when he returns from his voyage. Take his dog from him and throw it in with the pack.’

  ‘Your wish is my command, Father,’ Cortés said as his dream dissolved into mist and he awoke in his pavilion, hot and covered with sweat.

  He stood, staggered to the door, poked his head out and looked up. The sun was high, past midday, and waiting outside, chatting amiably with the guards, was Puertocarrero.

  * * *

  Huicton had been in Tlascala for three days waiting for Shikotenka to return from a renewed campaign against the Mexica. Now he was in conference with his father, Shikotenka the Elder, and with Maxixcatzin, who served as deputy to both leaders, when the battle-king strode in to the audience chamber, his tunic covered in blood, and a fresh knife wound, as yet unbound, livid on his left bicep.

  ‘Did we prevail?’ asked Shikotenka the Elder in his dry, somewhat tremulous, ancient voice.

  ‘We prevailed, father.’ The younger Shikotenka seemed to see Huicton for the first time. ‘You!’ he said. ‘Strange to find you here, now! You’ve been very much on my mind.’

  Huicton studied the younger man. ‘That’s a nasty injury you’ve taken,’ he said. ‘Will you let me attend to it? I have some knowledge of medicines.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Just a flesh wound.’

  ‘Nonetheless, it should be salved and bound. Flesh wounds can fester. I have an ointment in my quarters that’s just the thing. Can I send for it?’

  Shikotenka looked distracted. ‘If you wish,’ he said – immediately Maxixcatzin signalled to an attendant and sent him off to collect the salve – ‘and since you’re here, let’s review again the offer you renewed a few days ago, of an alliance with your master Ishtlil.’

  ‘An offer you turned down then, as you did once before.’

  ‘I’m open to reconsidering it now, so long as it’s not tied to any foolish plan to befriend the white men at Cuetlaxtlan.’

  Huicton chose his words with care: ‘For the moment the two matters can remain separate.’

  ‘Then let’s talk,’ said Shikotenka, drawing up a stool.

  * * *

  ‘You’ve been tupping my woman,’ Puertocarrero got straight to the point once they were sitting face to face within the pavilion. ‘Don’t deny it, Hernán. I followed her here last night, I saw her leave at dawn and I heard the pair of you hard at it.’

  Cortés raised his eyebrows and spread his hands. ‘What can I say, Alonso? You have caught me in the act … ’

  ‘You could start by saying you’re sorry.’

  ‘Look, let’s have a glass of wine, shall we?’ suggested Cortés. ‘My head’s pounding. A drop of the poison that caused it might cure it, as the saying goes.’

  Puertocarrero’s beady eyes brightened and his bushy red beard twitched. He was a man who liked a drink. ‘A bit early, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh to hell with that!’ Cortés skirted the broken glasses still lying on the floor, found two more on a shelf, reached for the wine jug and poured. ‘Here’s to Malinal,’ he said, ‘a fine woman.’

  ‘A whore!’ said Puertocarrero, emptying his glass at a single swallow and holding it out for more. ‘A damned scheming, conniving, libidinous whore. I’ve a mind to beat her to death.’

  ‘Do that and I’ll hang you for a traitor,’ said Cortés. ‘She’s a vital asset to the expedition. Without her interpreting skills, we’d be lost in this land.’

  ‘Traitor! It’s you who’s the traitor. You’ve betrayed our friendship by cuckolding me. I’ll be the laughing stock of the whole camp.’

  ‘The whole camp doesn’t need to know, Alonso. I’ll see to it the guards say nothing. This is just a matter between you and me.’ Cortés was struck by a sudden intuition. ‘Come on,’ he added, ‘admit it; you don’t even like her.’

  Puertocarrero had finished his second glass of Galician red and now helped himself to a third. ‘Can’t stand the stuck-up, whining bitch,’ he agreed. ‘Useless in bed – don’t know what you see in her frankly – a shrew and a nag, thinks too highly of herself.’ He looked defiantly at Cortés. ‘She’s been nothing but trouble since you gave her to me.’

 
; ‘And what I gave is mine to take back,’ Cortés reminded him, draining his own glass. ‘I am your captain-general after all.’ He pointed at the jug. ‘More?’

  ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ said Puertocarrero.

  As Cortés poured again for both of them, his mind was working fast. This might prove much easier than he’d feared. With enough enemies already amongst the Velazquistas, he didn’t want to alienate his old and hitherto reliable friend if he could possibly avoid it, and he now thought he saw the way out. He must nurse Puertocarrero’s pride, persuade him to view what had happened with Malinal not as a personal slight but as a kind of droit du seigneur of the captain-general, and he must make sure the whole matter was kept discreet. He fully intended to continue – indeed increase! – his liaisons with Malinal, but she would have to go on living with Puertocarrero if the proprieties were to be observed, and of course the word ‘cuckold’ must never cross anyone’s lips.

  But how? How was that to be achieved in the long term? Granted Puertocarrero really didn’t seem to like her, but the man was by no means a complete fool, and surely he would expect, and must get, some great reward in return for his complicity in the affair. A picture of the huge treasure that the Mexica ambassadors had brought took shape in Cortés’s mind and he thought: gold …

  Gold would do it, as it always did.

  He was considering which pieces would be sufficient to buy Puertocarrero off once and for all, and to keep his loyalty, when a new idea presented itself to him in a flash, a fully formed idea, immaculate and perfect, with which he could kill two, nay three, nay a whole flock of birds with one stone.

  * * *

  ‘The mountain provinces of Texcoco under your master’s control share a common border with Tlascala, across which our troops – and yours – can move back and forth with ease,’ said Shikotenka. ‘As a first step in our new alliance, how about we guarantee your men refuge and reinforcements when they’re under hot pursuit by Mexica forces? And how about you do the same for us?’