All in all, Pepillo reasoned, Cortés had handled the mutiny with great skill. He’d had no choice but to execute Cermeno; even in peacetime men were hanged for far lesser crimes than stealing a ship! A mortal example had also had to be made of the detestable Escudero, who’d anyway had this coming. Umbria might have expected to lose something more important than his toes. The sailors had got off lightly with fifty lashes. And the exceptional mercy shown to everyone else had established Cortés’s reputation as a generous and forgiving leader who was nevertheless, as the corpses swinging from the gallows confirmed, capable of extreme, uncompromising firmness when necessary.
Carrying an urgent message from Cortés for Father Olmedo, the expedition’s chaplain, Pepillo looked back at the hanged men, at the blood still darkening the sand from the whippings, and shuddered. It would be his own blood, soon, that would be spilled, since only three days remained until he must fight Santisteban. Since Monday Escalante had switched their practice sessions entirely to staves, but there was so much to learn! Deeply preoccupied with how little he still knew, he took a shortcut through an alleyway between two rows of newly built barracks as dusk settled over Villa Rica, and ran full tilt into Santisteban himself.
‘Where you goin’ in such a hurry?’ the older boy smirked.
‘I’m carrying a message from the Caudillo,’ Pepillo said. ‘Father Olmedo’s waiting for it. Get out of my way.’ He turned to run but found his exit from the alley blocked by Hemes and Julian.
‘Not so fast, young’un,’ said Santisteban, grabbing a handful of Pepillo’s hair. ‘We’re going to teach you a lesson while you don’t have captains and the like standing by to protect you.’
Pepillo flung a punch at Santisteban, but was held at arm’s length and couldn’t reach him. He did manage to land a blow on Julian, who was edging closer to wrap him in a bear hug, but then Hemes was on him as well and the three dog handlers piled in with fists and boots flailing.
They rushed the beating, no doubt afraid of being caught in the act. Pepillo’s hard new muscles stood him in good stead and he was beginning to think he might escape with nothing more than a few bad bruises and some broken teeth, when Santisteban dropped to his knees beside him where he lay curled up on the floor of the alley, grabbed his right hand and bent back his index finger. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed you practising swords and staves with your friend Escalante,’ he said. ‘No doubt you’re hoping that’ll give you the edge when it comes to our battle.’ He bent Pepillo’s finger back further; the pain was dreadful now. ‘Not that it would, mind you,’ Santisteban continued, ‘but I thought I’d fuck you up anyway.’ A sudden violent increase of the pressure, a twist outward and Pepillo’s finger snapped like a twig, snatching a high-pitched animal screech from his throat.
Santisteban leaned closer: ‘One word of this to anyone,’ he hissed, ‘and I’ll poison your precious dog. Got that?’
Pepillo clenched his teeth, said nothing.
‘Got that?’ Santisteban repeated, applying another twist to the broken finger. Hemes and Julian giggled as Pepillo screamed again, tears of agony misting his eyes, and replied, ‘Yes. I’ve got it. I won’t talk.’
‘Of course you won’t,’ said Santisteban, releasing him and standing over him. ‘See you on Monday then. Staves at dawn, eh? I’m looking forward to it.’
Chapter Thirty
Saturday 10 July 1519 to Monday 12 July 1519
When Pepillo delivered the caudillo’s message, Father Olmedo made a great fuss about his freshly battered and bruised appearance, the two teeth he’d lost from his lower jaw, his hand clutched against his chest with its limp, twisted finger, his pallor, and the fury in his eyes. ‘What happened to you, lad?’ the beefy friar asked. ‘Did a house fall on you?’
‘Something like that, Father,’ Pepillo replied, forcing a smile.
‘But seriously, you’ve been in a fight, haven’t you?’
‘No, Father, a fall. It was an accident. No one’s fault but my own.’
Olmedo was plainly sceptical, but refrained from asking further questions. Instead he made him sit down and sip a beaker of harsh red wine, while he called in Doctor La Peña who checked Pepillo’s mouth – ‘both teeth came out clean; you’re lucky’ – and splinted and bound his finger.
The next morning, Sunday 11 July, the pain in Pepillo’s hand was almost unbearable, and his leg had stiffened around a huge bruise on his thigh where Santisteban’s knee had slammed repeatedly into him. Missing church, he limped out to the headland at dawn for his morning sparring session with Escalante, who exploded with rage when he saw him.
‘Those dog handlers did this to you,’ he said immediately. ‘I’ll have their guts.’
‘No, Don Juan. No! It wasn’t them. I had a fall.’
‘Fall my arse. You’ve been punched and kicked – it’s as plain as the nose on my face. And your hand! Bloody hell, let me take a look. How’re you going to fight Santisteban with that?’
‘I don’t know, Don Juan, but I’ll have to try. They’ll call me coward if I withdraw.’
‘Which is exactly why they did this to you!’
‘They didn’t, Don Juan! Please believe me. I fell.’
‘What? Did they threaten your dog? That’s it, isn’t it?’
Escalante would not relent; eventually Pepillo admitted the truth, but only after swearing the angry captain to silence. ‘You won’t help me by getting involved,’ he explained. ‘I have to deal with this myself.’
Escalante pursed his lips. ‘Very well then.’ He examined Pepillo’s hand. ‘The good news is it was your index finger Santisteban broke. Your little finger plays the more important part in controlling your weapon, but the ignorant bastard wouldn’t have known that. Here,’ he passed Pepillo his stave. ‘Let’s see what can be done.’
* * *
Since leaving Teotihuacan, Tozi had walked north for twenty days, stopping only to beg shelter and food for the night. At first there had been many towns and villages, but the further north her feet carried her, the smaller and more widely separated the settlements became. On two occasions where the villagers were hostile, she used her powers of invisibility to steal maize flatbreads and meat, but otherwise she chose not to fade, preferring to take and deal with life as it came.
About six days ago she’d noticed the nature of the landscapes through which she was passing beginning to change, as she left behind the dense vegetation, well-watered trees and green fields of the fertile valley of Mexico, and entered increasingly sere and inhospitable terrain – first savannah and scrub, but later desolate flatlands, where only rough grasses and cacti grew. Now, as she picked her way along the floor of an ancient river channel in the blistering heat of midday, concerned that her water-skin was empty – indeed it had been empty since the night before – she heard a distant roaring and felt a shaking of the earth beneath her feet and, suddenly, ahead of her, like a dream come true that was intent on transforming itself into a nightmare, a wall of foaming water appeared, filling the dried-out channel to its rim. Tozi scrambled up the crumbling bank and over its top onto the higher land above, just as the rushing torrent came through and passed her by, a great fast-flowing river where there had been no river before – a terrifying river, churning with mud and carrying along tumbling, broken branches and even a whole tree, torn out of the ground by its roots, when there were no other trees to be seen for miles around.
Tozi looked up in astonishment at the clear blue sky and the sun burning in it like a furnace – not a cloud from horizon to horizon – and wondered where all this water had come from. Was it a sign that she was at last entering Aztlán, the home of the gods? Was this impossible river evidence of their handiwork? A much-needed gift sent especially for her? For even as she found herself seriously entertaining the thought, the flow of the river began to reduce, steadily falling as the sun tracked an hour overhead, until finally there was almost nothing left.
Seeing that it was safe to do so, yet wary lest
another such outburst should manifest itself, Tozi hopped down into the now rapidly draining channel, drank until her stomach swelled, and filled up her empty water-skin in one of the last remaining pools, then continued on her way, following her feet north, ever north across the flatlands.
That evening, as the velvet darkness of the desert fell and the stars shone bright in the vault of the sky, she made camp near a huge saguaro cactus. She ate the last of her cold maize cakes, and took a sparing drink from her water-skin, for she had already used up half of it in her long, hot afternoon trek. If she failed to find water again tomorrow, she realised, she would be in serious trouble.
But she felt no fear, confident the gods would send another miracle.
When she awoke at dawn, however, she discovered that the gods had sent a serpent instead, a baby of the deadly tribe whose tails rattled. It was too young to have yet grown a rattle of its own but, like all of its kind, it had been armed with fangs and lethal venom from the moment of its birth, and as she stretched and yawned, her hand touched it and it bit her. In an instant, without thinking, she drew her knife and sliced off its head. She could already feel its poison coursing in her blood as she remembered that rattlesnakes were the creatures of Quetzalcoatl, especially loved and protected by him.
Had she just killed his messenger?
* * *
At dawn on Monday 12 July, Pepillo made his way out of the gates of Villa Rica holding his stave under his arm, his bruised leg – exercised and rubbed down with balm – no longer troubling him greatly. Escalante, who had rebound and fashioned a new splint for his broken finger, walked with him. They spoke in lowered tones as the captain gave final advice, reminding Pepillo that footwork, speed and deception were everything.
When they passed through the stand of trees that hid the headland from the town, they found Santisteban already waiting, swinging a thick pole as long as a pikestaff, an ugly grin on his face. Vendabal was there to support him, together with Hemes and Julian. Catching sight of Pepillo’s stave, cut to the same length as the broadswords he and Escalante used in practice, they all sniggered, since Santisteban obviously had the far bigger weapon.
‘Hola, Pepillo,’ said Vendabal with a sneer, ‘I always knew you’d have a tiny tool.’ At this, Hemes, Julian and Santisteban made predictably lewd gestures.
Pepillo was framing a response about the tiny size of Santisteban’s brain, but Escalante gave him a warning look and said quietly: ‘Waste no energy on banter. Calm your mind. All that matters is the fight.’ He stepped forward into the middle of the flat, grassy patch where they’d sparred so often before, and beckoned Santisteban and Pepillo forward to stand on either side of him. ‘This is a grudge match, lads,’ he said. ‘The only rule is no edged weapons to be used. Other than that we’ll let you go at each other, fair and square, to settle your differences. Pepillo’s at a disadvantage, his right hand having suffered an injury, supposedly from a fall – ’ a hard look at Santisteban – ‘although I have my doubts.’
‘Whatever do you mean by that, sir?’ asked Santisteban, twirling his staff.
‘You can take it to mean what you like, boy, but I’m warning you I want to see no one killed here. You may fight until one of you is knocked out or yields, but that’s when it stops.’
As he spoke there was a sound of footsteps and everyone turned towards the trees, where Cortés, Alvarado, Bernal Díaz and Gonzalo de Sandoval had appeared. Malinal was with them, but hung back while the rest milled around the combatants.
‘We heard rumours of a fight,’ said the caudillo cheerfully.
Vendabal hurried to explain. ‘It’s your soft, spoilt page – sir, begging your pardon, sir – who has been causing trouble for our dogs. It’s past time he was taught a lesson, sir, and Santisteban’s the lad to do it.’
‘Hmm … what’s happened to your hand, Pepillo?’
After delivering his message to Olmedo, Pepillo had contrived to avoid his master. ‘Hurt it in a fall, sir. Broke my finger.’
‘And you think you’ll be able to fight?’
‘I shall have to, sir. This is a matter of honour … ’
‘Ah, honour … I see. Well in that case I’ll not stand in your way.’ He nudged Alvarado: ‘What say you, Pedro? Shall we have a wager? I’ll put a thousand pesos on my page to win.’
‘I’ll take that bet!’ said Alvarado. ‘Always happy to pocket your money, Hernán.’
* * *
Amongst the beggars of Tenochtitlan it was generally believed that one must immediately cut and suck a snake bite to get as much of the venom out as possible, but Huicton, who was learned in poisons, had once told Tozi this was an old wives’ tale and that a hasty incision was more likely to make things worse than better. Still, to do nothing seemed wrong, so she took up her flint dagger, made a crisscross cut over the bite site, already swelling and hot, in the webbing between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, sucked vigorously (her blood seemed strangely bitter and thin), spat, and sucked and spat again.
The sun was rising fast, and the only shade for miles on these inhospitable flatlands was cast by the tall saguaro cactus Tozi had slept beside, so she decided to stay where she was. There was very little she could now do, far away as she was from any healer, except use her own magic to cure herself. She recalled the warmth that had radiated from her hands when she had worked on the terrible wounds Guatemoc had suffered months before in battle with the Tlascalans; there was no doubt in her mind that his swift recovery was her doing. No reason, therefore, why she shouldn’t be able to deal with a little snake bite – unless, as she feared, she had lost the favour of Quetzalcoatl by killing his messenger.
Pushing the thought aside, she worked fast to cut away the spines from the base of the giant cactus so she could lean comfortably against it if she needed to. Then she sat down in its shadow with her legs crossed and her back straight. She was aware of a great deal of pain from the wound, and her breathing seemed laboured, her heartbeat fast, but she ignored these symptoms, focused her mind inward, and began a slow, insistent chant.
* * *
Santisteban attacked at once, as Escalante had predicted he would, and Pepillo was ready for him. ‘Use what you’ve learned about footwork,’ the captain had advised. ‘Keep moving, make him strike at you again and again but make sure he misses. Soon enough you’ll tire him out.’
Santisteban was two spans taller than Pepillo, heavier and more muscled in the body, and the weapon in his hands was long and thick, blunt at both ends, as much a bludgeon or a club as it was a staff. He charged with a yell, swung the pole high and brought it crashing down in a blow that would have broken Pepillo’s head if it had connected, which it didn’t. Pepillo was in a strong stance, left foot forward as he had been taught, right foot behind, his toes turned out, his centre towards Santisteban, and as the pole came whistling down he simply pivoted on the ball of his left foot, swinging his right foot around through ninety degrees, leaned his torso back and allowed the strike to pass him harmlessly by, the pole moving so fast, with so much force behind it, that its tip clunked jarringly into the ground.
There was a second, just a second, before Santisteban regained his balance, when his whole upper body was exposed. The opportunity was too good to miss and Pepillo swung his stave two-handed in a rapid curving slice that brought its edge – crack! – into percussive contact with Santisteban’s long hooked nose, effortlessly breaking it, producing a spectacular flow of blood and a screech of pain and rage. Santisteban’s eyes flooded with tears, which seemed to blur his vision and disorient him. Seizing the advantage, Pepillo followed through at once with a downward cut that struck Santisteban’s right wrist with a satisfying crack of hard wood against bone. Pepillo then continued to pivot on the ball of his left foot, swinging his right foot back a further ninety degrees so he was now positioned beside his opponent and facing in the same direction. He did not want to grapple with him, too much danger of being overmatched, but again an opportunity presented i
tself and he took it, letting go his grip on the hilt of his stave with his left hand and bringing his left elbow sharply up to strike Santisteban in the jaw, sending him staggering. Finally, Pepillo took three sliding steps back, keeping good balance and contact with the ground, returned to a two-handed grip and raised the tip of his stave into the Plough Guard, the hilt held close to his centre, left leg leading, right leg back.
There came a burst of applause and, out of the corner of his eye, Pepillo saw that the source was Cortés. ‘Bravo!’ the caudillo exclaimed. ‘Very nicely done. Your thousand pesos are in jeopardy, Alvarado, don’t you think?’
The momentary distraction cost Pepillo the initiative. With a furious bellow Santisteban came charging in again.
* * *
Tozi had lost track of time and felt strangely separated from her own body, as if it and its sufferings belonged to someone else. Thus, although she was aware at some level of the immense pain in her grotesquely swollen right hand and arm, she was quite indifferent to it. And although she knew the sun was blazing down on her, drying her out, heating her up, indeed slowly killing her, she was oblivious to its effects. Her whole focus instead was upon the deep subterranean labyrinth through which she was wandering; it seemed as real to her, indeed more real by far, than any of those remote, detached, unimportant physical sensations that occasionally called for her attention.
War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent Page 35
