Feathered Serpent (20 page)

——————— 

The Indians come on one squadron at a time, perfect fodder for the thunder serpents. Their bodies are shredded in smoke and flame. As they try to drag themselves and their comrades from the field, the
jinetas
gallop among them and scythe them down.

But still they come, rank after rank. Death on the Field of Flowers is glorious and they know they will be transported to the paradise of butterflies and waterfalls.

As my lord had warned, fatigue is our greatest enemy, and as the day wears on the weight of numbers wears us down. A squadron of Texcálan warriors, their bodies and faces streaked with the white and yellow paint of the Heron clan, break through our lines. I see Guzman fall, an arrow in his thigh. He lies there helpless as a Texcálan warrior stands over him, a broad two-handed club raised above his head.

“No!” Guzman screams, as shrill as a girl.

The naturale brings his war club down on the mouth of the iron serpent, hoping to kill it. Guzman crawls away, clutching at his bleeding leg. I snatch his pike from the ground and run towards the warrior, the weapon aimed at his chest.

It is like driving into wood. The point of the blade sticks fast and I cannot remove it. I look into the warrior’s face, and I realise he is younger than I. He still wears a piochtli, a lock of hair at the nape of his neck to show he has not yet taken his first captive. He falls back against the iron serpent, gasping like a beached fish.

Flores helps me wrench the spike from the warrior’s chest, then pushes me out of the way. Other soldiers rush past me to protect the precious serpents.

I see Aguilar staring at me. Why does he look so horrified? All these men here are fighting for their lives and their histories, why can I not fight for mine?

The
naturales
retreated towards the gorge.

“¡Santiago y cierre España!” Cortés shouted and ordered the cavalry in pursuit of the stragglers. Benítez’s horse was still lame from her wound and could not keep pace with the rest. He fell further and further behind, and from his position at the rear he saw what was about to happen but was powerless to stop it.

The Texcálans had drawn them into a trap. Thousands of Otomí had been kept in reserve, hidden on either side of the ravine. As they entered the defile after the retreating Texcaltéca they swept down in an avalanche of red and white. Cortés shouted to retreat but his voice was lost in the bedlam of drums and whistles and screams.

Benítez soon found himself surrounded. Hands clawed at his legs, as the
naturales
tried to drag him from his horse. He slashed wildly with his sword, trying to force the Indians back, but then one of them leaped into the air swinging a great club tipped with razor sharp obsidian, a two-handed blow aimed not at him, but at his horse. It almost severed the mare’s head and she dropped to the ground, instantly dead.

Let me die now, Benítez thought as he hit the ground. Let them kill me, but do not let them take me captive!

His sword was jarred from his hand as he fell and the breath went out of him. They were on him straight away, dragging him away. He kicked out and bit like a wild animal.

He heard shouts and the sound of steel crunching through a flimsy wooden shield. A Spanish pikeman had driven into his attackers, forcing them back. The soldier used the butt end of his weapon to knock one of them to the ground, then turned and slashed again at the encircling Indians.

Norte.

Clumsy and inexpert with his weapon, he used his agility and the ferocity of his charge to unsettle the Indians. It won Benítez a moment’s grace, time enough to struggle back to his feet and find his sword. But now they were surrounded once again by a sea of red and white. Benítez retreated until he was back to back with Norte.

Two of the Otomí stepped forward.

———————

And so it went, the Indians came at them one at a time, until five of them lay at their feet, either dead or wounded so badly they could not continue. Benítez wondered how much longer he and Norte could survive this. He could not see any of his comrades. Perhaps the rest of the cavalry had already been slaughtered or taken captive. If Cortés was dead they were lost anyway.

Then he heard Norte scream, felt him fall.

Benítez finished his own opponent and swung around. An Otomí was dragging Norte away by the hair. He was unprepared for another attack, thought his part of the battle was done. Benítez drove his sword deep into his chest and stepped back, his feet planted either side of Norte’s body to defend him.

The Otomís snarled and another left the group to face him.

———————

It was Sandoval who reached him first, driving his mare among the Indians, a running wedge of pikemen following him in. He reached from the saddle and held out his hand.

Benítez pushed the hand away, stood his ground over Norte’s body. This renegade had saved his life and honour demanded he must die rather than leave the field without him, alive or dead.

As any good Indian would do, he found himself thinking, and the thought made him laugh aloud.

As the sun sinks, the valley is filtered in shades of grey. My lord’s soldiers limp from the field of flowers, supported on the shoulders of their comrades; others sit on the ground, their heads on their knees, spent. Bodies, two or three deep, litter the ground in front of Mesa’s artillery, a twitching, moaning mass. The acrid reek of the iron serpents' breath hangs heavy in the air.

The man I speared lies on his back beside one of these iron monsters, still living. I can hear the noise of his breathing. I wish one of these moles will finish him but they are concerned with their own wounds and with those of their comrades and do not worry about the suffering of a single Indian.

“You must confess,” I turn around. It is Aguilar, clutching his tattered book to his chest, his greasy hair plastered to his skull with sweat. “You have committed the mortal sin of murder.”

This madness echoes in my head. How can it be wrong to kill your enemy on the battlefield?

“We must pray for your soul.”

“Look around you, Aguilar. There are a hundred times a hundred murders everywhere you look.”

“Cortés’ soldiers have a special dispensation from the Pope. What they do is in Christ’s name.”

I turn away. This Aguilar is a madman, and talks in riddles.

“You must ask forgiveness from God!” he shouts at me.

Flores, tiring of the noises from the dying Indian, slashes quickly with his sword and there is silence. Brother Aguilar makes the sign of the cross and moves on.

The hut stank of blood. Men lay on floor in their own ordure crying for their mothers. Fray Olmedo and Fray Diaz could be heard murmuring in the candlelight, taking confessions, administering the rites of extreme unction. Mendez and Malinali were busy with more practical needs, binding the soldiers' wounds as best they could.

Norte was sobbing with pain. Rain Flower knelt beside him, holding his hand. She had bound a poultice of vinegar-soaked herbs to the wound in his side. She was weeping.

Benítez had come, as a brother in arms, to whisper words of thanks and say a prayer for his recovery. When he saw Rain Flower he felt as if he had walked into a wooden post. He stood at the foot of Norte’s litter, stunned.

What a fool I am! This Norte was my intermediary with this girl. How did I not see that he had become so much more? How they must have laughed at him behind his back.

Rain Flower looked up, startled. She wiped away the wetness on her cheeks with her sleeve. Too late.

Benítez knelt down beside the wounded man’s pallet. “Norte,” he whispered.

His eyes flickered open. He blinked, trying to focus.

Benítez leaned closer. “There is something I must tell you. First, I have to thank you for saving my life.”

Norte tried to speak but no words came.

“The second thing I want to tell you - I hope you die. I hope you die in the Devil’s own searing agony.”

He walked out.

The rain beat a steady rhythm on the woven roof, rivulets of water ran down the ridge pole into the churned and blood-stained mud at the entrance. He took a lungful of air, sickened by the sweat and the stink and the crying in there.

Forget about it, he told himself. She is just a naturale and a puta. What does it matter? Still, he was glad that Norte was suffering. Damn him.

And damn her, too.

We are camped at a place called the Hill of the Tower. The moles have found some supplies of maize and spiced our meal with meat from the village dogs. My lord suspects that the Totonacs are supplementing their own diet with Texcálan prisoners, but Fray Olmedo has dissuaded him from confronting them on this vexed question. He rightly pointed out that we cannot afford to antagonise our only ally in our present dire straits.

We have fought two pitched battles with the Texcálans in the last three days. My lord’s soldiers are exhausted, their fragile morale shattered. He has withdrawn his forces from the plain and decided to wait.

The finer dwellings in this abandoned village have been requisitioned by the thunder lords for their personal use. Feathered Serpent himself has laid claim to one of the few houses built from adobe. His oaken table and favourite studded chair are set up in a corner of the room and he sits there now, writing on a piece of parchment with quill and ink.

His face looks haggard in the light of the candle.

We have lost forty five soldiers from a force of four hundred. Another dozen are ill with disease and of the rest almost all have at least two wounds. Another battle like the last will probably finish us.

There is sweat soaking his linen shirt despite the bitter wind that moans through the cracks in the walls. His hand trembles violently with fever. It is as much as he can do to hold the quill to the paper, but he is determined to finish the missive before he surrenders to the black exhaustion that envelops him. He wishes to demand of his god, Olintecle, the right to be king of the Mexica when he captures Tenochtitlán. I do not see how the gods can do otherwise. These lands, after all, have always been his.

The funeral chant of the drums from the Texcaltéca camp carry to us on the night wind. They are sacrificing the Totonáca they captured today.

The letter is done, my lord seals it carefully with blood-red wax and then his shoulders seem to collapse under the weight of a great burden. “What am I to do?” he whispers.

I place my hands on his shoulders, willing strength back into his tired muscles. It is obvious to me what he must do but he is too tired to see it. “Free the prisoners your soldiers took today,” I tell him. “Send them back to Lord Ring of the Wasp. Tell him you will pardon everything if he will embrace you and join you in your fight against Motecuhzoma.”

He stares at the candle flame for a long time. He appears not to have heard me. But then he calls for his major-domo, Caceres, and tells him to send in two of the Texcaltéca his men have captured today.

Sandoval leads them in. They are hog-tied, their wrists are bound behind their backs and the rope is looped and knotted around their necks. They have been stripped of everything except loin cloths. They glance around the room from under black fringes of hair, eyes hooded, expecting death.

My lord composes his thoughts.

“Tell them,” he says to me, “tell them I do not wish to make war on them.”

“May your wives all grow fangs in their caves of joy,” I begin, using the elegant speech, “you have made my lord very angry. He came here in peace and instead you have attacked him and vexed his patience.”

The Texcaltéca do not raise their eyes from the ground.

“They must tell their chief,” my lord continues, “that I am on my way to Tenochtitlán for my reckoning with Motecuhzoma. If the Texcálans continue to make war on me I will come and burn all their houses and kill all the people.”

His audacity takes my breath away. Our soldiers are barely able to stand they are so exhausted. Yet what else shall a god say to his enemies when he is vexed? “Tell the blind white bird who sees wisdom in the darkness that Feathered Serpent is returned to claim the Lands of Bread. Let him pass quickly on his way to hasten Motecuhzoma’s destiny, or the Mexica’s fate may be your own.”

These warrior’s eyes go wide. Finally they raise their heads to stare at the shivering, bearded figure at the table, and I see them wonder if this might indeed be Quetzalcóatl.

My lord nods to Sandoval, who steps forward and cuts their bonds with a knife. He hands each of them a string of glass beads that the thunder gods have brought with them from the paradise world of water and boats they call Venice. My lord’s prisoners stare at this treasure in bewilderment.

“This is a gift from Feathered Serpent himself,” I tell them. “In the Cloud Lands they are more valuable than the most precious jade. Now go and tell your chief what Feathered Serpent has said.”

Sandoval bundles the Texcaltéca from the room. My lord dismisses Cáceres also, with a nod.

When we are alone once more, he allows his head to drop to the table. His hands ball into fists. The fever has all but broken him.

I help him undress and put him to bed. His body shakes with chills, his eyes are shining, unfocused. I take off my own clothes and warm his body with my own, cradle his head against the softness of my breast. His limbs curl around me and he sucks at my nipple like a baby.

I continue to hold him through the night and now I see not the god, but the man who clothes the god’s essence, with all his imperfections. It confuses me for I am no longer sure who I love the most; the god, or the man in whose skin he shelters.

The candle flickered in the draught, threw deep shadows on the cracked adobe plaster. The men gathered around the table looked furtively towards the door as Benítez walked in. Leon’s beard was matted with blood from a slash on his cheek; Alvarado had a blood-soaked rag wrapped tightly around his lower arm; Benítez himself had a deep wound in the muscle of his shoulder.

“Where is Doña Isabel?” Alvarado asked him.

Benítez wondered if he was worried about spies, or did he know about Norte and his treacherous Mayan bride? “She is helping Mendez in the hospital.”

“The hospital,” Leon repeated. “Where Cortés should be.”

Sandoval nodded. “He has the fever.”

“What he has is love fever,” Alvarado snapped. “He spends too much time alone with Doña Marina. She exerts too much control over him.”

“They say she has been his mistress since Jalapa,” Sandoval said.

Leon laughed, a noise like a bark. “He covered her the moment Alonso got on the boat back to Spain. By Satan’s great spotted ass, he treats her as if she were a Spanish doñetta! He has assigned her her own page and even a litter for when we travel on hard terrain.”

“Aguilar says that she has told the Indians he is a god,” Alvarado said.

There was an embarrassed silence. “We cannot know the truth of that,” Benítez said. “But I have never heard those words pass his own lips. Never.”

“What are we to do?” Sandoval asked.

“What can we do?” Benítez said. “As Cortés says, there is no way back. We must be victorious here, or die.”

“It is the girl’s fault,” Alvarado said. “She led us to this. She has bewitched him.”

“Bewitched or no, let us pray he is better tomorrow,” Leon said. “Without Cortés we are lost.”

Alvarado bristled at that. “I can lead you in battle as well as Cortés.”

The men stared at the table.

“I can!” he hissed. “You will see!” He turned on his heel and went out.

“As you say,” Sandoval murmured, “without Cortés we are lost.”