War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  As the discussion continued, Huicton washed and dressed Shikotenka’s wound. The battle-king seemed to have a great oppression hanging over him, and Huicton learned with careful probing that it was to do with the new Mexica practice of seizing virgin females for sacrifice. Shikotenka’s loathing for this abomination, Huicton discovered, was what had sparked his change of mind on an allegiance with Ishtlil, and by the time the meeting was drawing to a close, they’d agreed not only on mutual Tlascalan and Texcocan support against Mexica hot pursuit, but also, in the longer term, on the need to create a unified army of both peoples – something that had been inconceivable to the independent-minded Tlascalans even a month before.

  Only when all this had been talked through and settled did Huicton bring up the matter of the white-skinned strangers again. ‘I have visited their camp,’ he said. ‘I have met their leader.’

  Shikotenka’s face darkened. ‘And … ’

  ‘He told me frankly he’s here to conquer Moctezuma.’

  The battle-king frowned. ‘How did you communicate with him?’

  ‘He has a woman as his tongue, Lord Shikotenka, a Mayan woman called Malinal who was a slave in Tenochtitlan for many years. She is as fluent in our Nahuatl language as she is in her native Maya, and there is a man, one of the white-skins, who also speaks Maya. When words are to be interpreted from Nahuatl she puts them into Maya and this man in turn puts them into the language of the white-skins. When the white-skins wish to put words into Nahuatl they first speak to the man who puts them into Maya for Malinal, and she in turn renders them into our language. Between them they are able to provide effective interpretation.’

  Shikotenka fell silent for a moment. ‘Gods do not need interpreters,’ he said eventually, ‘let alone an arrangement as complicated as the one you describe.’

  ‘Quite so! Whatever they are, these white men are not gods.’

  ‘What are they, then, do you think?’

  ‘Men like us, Lord Shikotenka. But peculiarly powerful and dangerous men … ’

  ‘On that we are agreed!’

  ‘Yet I believe they are heaven-sent to aid us in our fight against Moctezuma.’

  ‘On that we are not agreed.’

  Huicton reached into a satchel lying at his feet and pulled out the small bag containing the handful of shining, brightly coloured beads of a most curious design that he had brought for Shikotenka from the coast. ‘The leader of the white men is called Cortés,’ he said. ‘For what it’s worth, I believe he does mean to destroy Moctezuma as he told me.’ He poured the beads into his hand and passed them to Shikotenka, who took them and looked at them with puzzlement. ‘Cortés asked me to deliver these to you,’ Huicton continued, ‘and gave me a message for you.’

  ‘Then discharge yourself of your message, Ambassador.’

  ‘I am to say, Lord Shikotenka, that you and Cortés share a common enemy in Moctezuma and that the lord Cortés will be pleased to work together with you to bring the tyrant to his knees. I am to say that the lord Cortés promises you his help and the help of his men and of all the great weapons at his disposal to achieve this worthy end.’

  Shikotenka poured the beads thoughtfully from hand to hand. They tinkled like little bells and caught the light, sparkling in a way that seemed to fascinate him. Then abruptly he dashed them down onto the hard flagstones at his feet, where they shattered into a thousand pieces. On impulse Huicton bent to gather them up, but the shards were as sharp as obsidian razors and he jumped back, cursing, with blood dripping from the many small wounds opened in his fingers.

  Shikotenka looked on gravely. ‘The white men’s promises are as pretty as their beads,’ he said. ‘I fear they will break just as easily and make us all bleed before the year is out.’

  * * *

  By late afternoon Puertocarrero was very drunk, and singing sentimental songs. Cortés, who was not so drunk, chose this moment to strike. ‘I have a plan, Alonso,’ he said. ‘One that will solve all our problems at a stroke and make you a very wealthy man into the bargain.’

  Although Puertocarrero was from a respected aristocratic family, he was the second son and they’d settled no fortune on him. He looked up sharply, his eyes glittering at the prospect of riches. ‘Tell me more,’ he said.

  ‘Should it not wait until the morrow?’ Cortés asked. ‘When you’re sober?’

  ‘Bugger the morrow, Hernán. Tell me now.’

  Cortés leaned closer. ‘How would you like to go home?’ he asked.

  ‘To Cuba? Not very much. I’d rather stay here and get rich with you. You’ll have to find me another woman, though, to replace that fucking whore.’

  ‘I’m not speaking of Cuba, Alonso. I’m speaking of Spain. How would you like to go home to Spain and take with you all the treasure the Mexica have given us?’

  ‘The treasure?’ Puertocarrero asked. Cortés had his attention now and the man was sobering up fast.

  ‘Yes, the treasure. All of it.’

  ‘All of it! I don’t understand, Hernán. What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s very simple really. Our expedition is illegal. It has always been illegal since we sailed contrary to the wishes of Diego de Velázquez … ’

  ‘That prick!’

  ‘Indeed. But unfortunately that prick is the governor of Cuba, and his powers in this region are godlike. He can, and will, have every one of us hanged if he gets the chance.’

  Puertocarrero rolled his eyes. ‘So we make sure he doesn’t get the chance.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cortés. ‘Nonetheless, Velázquez’s arrest warrants will cast a shadow over us for the rest of our lives unless we can find a way to neutralise him completely.’

  ‘And you’ve thought of a way?’ Puertocarrero held out his empty glass for more wine.

  As he poured, Cortés asked quite casually, ‘Who has more power than the governor?’

  ‘The king?’ Puertocarrero hazarded after a moment lost in frowning thought.

  ‘The king! Exactly! If we can win the king to our cause, then Velázquez will be lost.’

  The light of comprehension was beginning to dawn on Puertocarrero’s face. ‘You’re going to bribe the king to intervene against Velázquez by making him a gift of the treasure we’ve already won!’

  ‘That’s right, my friend, and with your family connections you’re just the man to take it to him. You may keep a tenth portion for yourself – ’ at this Puertocarrero’s eyes widened – ‘but I expect you’ll return here. Once we’re rid of Velázquez, we’ll be free to do as we wish in these New Lands and to take what we want. We’ll be richer than kings!’

  * * *

  Tozi had left Tenochtitlan immediately after fleeing the palace. She’d been so shocked and afraid – yes, afraid! – that she’d run the full two-mile length of the Tacuba causeway. Cloaked in invisibility, she’d passed unnoticed, but the undeniable fact was she’d been seen by Moctezuma’s new Chichemec sorcerer.

  ‘Of course I can see you, girl. You cannot hide from me.’

  The words echoed in her head even now, almost three full days later, where she’d gone to ground in the lakeside city of Tacuba. Huicton kept a safe house there, owned by Yolya, a burly middle-aged woman with a sweet, gentle nature. Tozi had stayed with Yolya before when Huicton had first sent her to ‘charm’ Guatemoc, then lying convalescing in his father’s mansion in nearby Chapultepec, and it had seemed the obvious place of refuge in her present pass.

  Moctezuma’s sorcerer was a man of power, a nagual, a shape shifter, and Tozi was convinced he would find her and kill her if she came within range of his senses again. No more venturing into the palace on her nightly missions! Indeed, she was not sure she was completely safe here in Tacuba, even in this unobtrusive single-roomed shack, halfway along a narrow, rubbish-strewn alley and surrounded on either side by other identical dwellings.

  ‘I might be putting you in danger, Yolya,’ she said to her host. But the older woman, who made her living as a laundr
ess, and who was even now at work in her yard folding baskets full of sheets and blouses in the late afternoon sunshine, merely laughed. ‘Nonsense, Tozi. No one will think to look for you here. We’re safe enough … ’

  ‘Maybe I should go,’ Tozi continued, as though Yolya hadn’t spoken. ‘The god Quetzalcoatl is at the coast – that’s where Huicton’s gone. That’s where my friend Malinal is. I should join them.’

  ‘Hush, child. Huicton will return soon. Wait here until he does and then decide your next move.’

  Tozi sighed. All her pride, all her strength, all her courage had evaporated, revealed to her as no more than a foolish girl’s bravado. For the first time since Huicton had rescued her from the mob that had killed her mother eight years before, she didn’t know what to do.

  * * *

  It was the late afternoon of Saturday 15 May, and after a smooth and uneventful voyage with a fair wind from the south, the Santa Theresa hove in sight of a fair-sized native town, perched on a headland overlooking a crescent-shaped bay, sheltered by high cliffs. The Totonac warrior Meco hurried to Pepillo’s side, pointed excitedly, and said ‘Huitztlan.’

  Pepillo ran at once to Captain Escalante: ‘It’s the town we’ve been looking for, sir, Meco confirms it.’

  Escalante smiled. ‘That’s good news, boy, for it seems to offer a sheltered anchorage just as the caudillo hoped. Now let’s find out if the natives are friendly.’

  The Santa Theresa dropped anchor close to the town, from whence hundreds of Indians poured. They came leaping down the steep steps cut into the cliff and spread out twenty-deep on the little pebble beach skirting the bay. There were men – for the most part unarmed – and colourfully dressed women and children, all laughing and crying out excitedly. But when the longboat was launched and Meco was recognised, their excitement grew wilder and they burst out into a cacophony of shouts, whoops and ululations. He called back to them – some words that Pepillo couldn’t understand.

  ‘Ask him what’s going on,’ said Escalante. He was seated at the front of the longboat, armed with sword and dagger and wearing his steel cuirass. Five other swordsmen, five pikemen and two musketeers were also in the landing party – ‘just in case of trouble,’ Escalante had said.

  Meco was grinning from ear to ear and Pepillo found it hard to get sense out of him as the longboat approached the shore, but eventually understood that the Totonac had sent word ahead after his meeting with Cortés on 12 May, that they were expected, and that all was well. They were to be the honoured guests of the chief of the town and a banquet awaited them.

  ‘He says there’s nothing to fear,’ Pepillo reported. ‘We’re their honoured guests. They’ve prepared a feast for us.’

  ‘I hope they don’t mean to feast on us,’ Escalante laughed. ‘I don’t intend to be any savage’s dinner!’

  The cannibalism so much relished by the natives of Mexico was something all the Spaniards held in mortal disgust, and nervous glances were exchanged by the soldiers as the boat ran ashore. The crowd rushed in upon them, a jabbering cacophony of voices and outreached hands. The pikemen raised their weapons, the musketeers levelled their arquebuses, and Indians would certainly have been killed but for Escalante, who called out: ‘Hold fire, belay those pikes, I’ll hang the first man who strikes a blow,’ and strode into the midst of the throng with the greatest confidence.

  At once he was lifted shoulder high by a group of smiling, laughing youths, who placed a garland of bright flowers around his neck and carried him towards the steps. ‘Come on, you laggards,’ he yelled, looking back at his men still clustered around the boat. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  * * *

  Guatemoc had waited all day with a hundred of his Cuahchics to ambush a white-skin patrol, but although pairs of scouts mounted on their odd-looking deer had approached several times, they had never come close enough to be snatched. The deer were too fast to be chased far on foot and Guatemoc didn’t want to risk revealing his position until he was sure he could spring the trap he’d prepared.

  ‘Complete waste of time,’ he said to Mud Head in disgust. ‘Yesterday, when we weren’t ready, they came within a bowshot of the town three times; today, when we are, they keep their distance.’

  ‘Perhaps they suspect we’re here?’ ventured Big Dart.

  But the others disagreed. ‘Patience!’ said Starving Coyote. ‘They’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll have better luck then.’

  Night was falling and lanterns were being lit on the outskirts of Cuetlaxtlan. Reluctantly Guatemoc gave the order to return to the town.

  The remainder of his force, four hundred men, had spent the day in the walled compound provided for them by Pichatzin, the governor of Cuetlaxtlan. The compound, which contained dormitories, an extensive kitchen and an eating hall, had been built to house visiting Mexica nobles and their entourages, and was luxuriously appointed with its own staff of cooks, servants and cleaners.

  Pichatzin was waiting when Guatemoc returned. The governor seemed anxious, nervous, somehow out of sorts, sweating profusely and asking many questions about the white-skins, and about Guatemoc’s strategy for the morrow, as the two of them sat down to enjoy an excellent dinner.

  ‘I fear,’ said Pichatzin, ‘if you bring captives into my town, that the white-skins will attack us in full force.’

  ‘That’s precisely what I want them to do,’ said Guatemoc, ‘and if you fear their attack, I suggest you leave.’

  When the engagement that he sought to provoke with the white-skins came, Guatemoc had already resolved to commandeer Cuetlaxtlan’s garrison, a full regiment of eight thousand fighting troops whose normal purpose was to suppress dissent amongst the rebellious Totonac factions in the countryside to the north around Cempoala. It still might not be enough to deal with an army that had routed forty thousand Maya at Potonchan, but at least it would force Moctezuma to send reinforcements. This seemed as good a moment as any to share the plan with the governor.

  ‘You may take a personal escort,’ Guatemoc continued. ‘Fifty of your men should be sufficient to bring you to Tenochtitlan in safety; but I’ll require you to leave the rest of your garrison with me.’

  ‘My garrison,’ spluttered Pichatzin. ‘You want my garrison for this fight you’re picking with the white-skins?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘On whose authority?’

  ‘On my own authority. I am – or have you forgotten? – a prince of the blood.’

  Pichatzin’s eyes bulged. His position in the Mexica aristocracy was too low for him to even contemplate refusing the orders of a member of the royal family. At the same time, he knew from Teudile that Moctezuma did not want war with the white-skins.

  ‘It is not wise, Prince,’ he said carefully. ‘We must seek approval from Tenochtitlan before engaging—’

  Guatemoc cut him off. ‘There simply isn’t time,’ he said. ‘I would have taken command of your troops today if things had gone as I intended, and I put you on notice now that I’ll need them tomorrow; not for the ambush – my specialists will look after that – but for what comes after.’

  He beckoned a serving girl with a particularly delicious rump and ordered more pulque before turning back to Pichatzin. ‘Go to Tenochtitlan, Governor; you have my blessing. Take fifty men with you by all means, travel fast, and tell Moctezuma what’s happening here. I’ll be pleased to have his support. It’s a matter of vital importance that we stop the white-skins now, at the coast, before they consolidate their strength and march inland. The very survival of our nation is at stake.’

  * * *

  The chieftain of the Totonac town of Huitztlan was named Yaretzi, a small, wiry middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a pointed nose whose jerky head movements and watchful beady eyes reminded Pepillo strongly of a farmyard hen. The Spaniards had been brought directly to his palace – a sprawling, flat-roofed, two-storey stucco structure that overlooked the bay – and ushered into an inner courtyard, open to the starry sky, wher
e a sumptuous banquet was laid out on tables. There they were joined by the Council of Elders – twenty grave tribesmen dressed in ceremonial robes – and the heaped plates were inspected.

  ‘Tell them we don’t eat human flesh,’ said Escalante, sniffing a collation of strange meats.

  Pepillo communicated the thought to Meco, who laughed uproariously and said he already knew this since, after all, the white men had saved him from being offered up as a dish to them. ‘Don’t worry; only peccary.’ He pointed to other plates: ‘There turkey, there sea fish, there monkey – very nice! – there parrot, there dog.’ He looked down at Melchior who stood impatiently salivating at Pepillo’s side. ‘Not like your intelligent dog, though. Dogs we eat very small, very stupid. Anyway, no human meat here, I promise.’

  Pepillo was realising that the more he heard of Nahuatl, and the more he was forced to rely on quick understanding, as he had been in his conversations with Meco these past two days, the better he got at it. Very few of the other Totonacs spoke the Mexica tongue, however; even Yaretzi had only a smattering, so the whole evening would depend on what he and Meco were able to convey to both sides.

  The strong local drink called pulque was served and Escalante sent down to the ship for wine, which the Totonacs tried and at once declared their love for. Some heavy drinking followed, with much slurping and smacking of lips and, as the evening wore on, a great, mellow feeling of camaraderie descended over the whole group. A particular rallying point was mutual distaste for the Mexica. Escalante was forthright in expressing his loathing for these ‘bullyboys’, and informed the Totonacs that the Spaniards were here for one purpose only, which was to conquer Moctezuma and free all those who suffered under his unjust rule. The Totonacs for their part complained bitterly of the onerous annual demands for tribute in goods, crops and services that the Mexica levied on them, especially the ‘human tribute’ of sacrificial victims, which was growing increasingly impossible for them to bear. It seemed there had been some marked change in this aspect of the Mexica overlordship of the Totonacs in recent months – something about children – but Pepillo was not able to understand exactly what was being said to him.