Feathered Serpent (28 page)

——————— 

They reached the Fortress of Chaloc, a twin-towered castle guarding a fork in the causeway. The iron shoes of the horses clattered on the wooden bridge.

Snake Woman came out to meet them, wearing a cape of elaborately worked flamingo feathers. He had with him perhaps a thousand of the city’s most prominent noblemen, a shuffling sea of copper skins, feathered capes, elaborately worked cloaks and waving plumed head-dresses.

Do not look in the least impressed, Cortés told himself. They must not suspect that you find anything in the least wonderful here.

It took almost an hour for this first ceremony of welcome to be completed. Finally they passed through the gates of the fort and headed north towards the capital.

——————— 

An hour later they halted in front of the Gate of the Eagle, at a spot known as Malcuitlapilco, the Tail End of the File of Prisoners. Cortés knew of this gate; Malinali had told him of it the night before. At the inauguration of the Great Temple so many prisoners had been offered up as sacrifice to the gods that the line of prisoners had finished here, with the main gate of the capital still half a league distant. Malinali said that twenty thousand men, women and children had had their hearts torn out on the altars during that festival week.

The shriek of conch shells and the thunder of
teponaztli
drums echoed across the lake. A great procession appeared from the gates, another carnival of plumes, jaguar skins, and the feathered beaks of eagles. Dwarves hurried ahead, spreading cacao blossoms on the ground.

And Cortés had his first glimpse of Motecuhzoma.

His litter was carried by four of the most senior princes of his empire, including Cuitlahuac and Lord Maize Cobs. A further four nobles supported an elaborate canopy of shimmering quetzal plumes, bossed with gold and silver, with pearls and green chalcolite stones suspended from the fringe. Other
cacique
s walked ahead of the procession, sweeping the ground and unfolding golden carpets.

The procession halted and Motecuhzoma stepped down.

The tlatoani - Revered Speaker - of the Mexica was younger than Cortés had expected. He was between forty and fifty years old, Cortés guessed, tall for an Indian, and slim. His skin was the colour of cinnamon and his black hair was cut to the nape of his neck. He did not have a beard but a few long hairs on his chin had been allowed to grow in imitation of one.

He wore a blue and white mantle, richly adorned with pearls, turquoise and opals, the ends of his cloak gathered in a knot at his right shoulder. On his lower lip was a turquoise
labret
in the likeness of a hummingbird; his ears and nose were also studded with precious stones. Most stunning of all was his head-dress; feathers of green quetzal and blue cotinga, perhaps four feet high, a breath-taking sight.

He was ceremonially supported by his brother and his nephew and all eyes except those of the most senior princes were turned to the ground.

———————

A gentle breeze stirred the pennons on the lances and the plumes in the helms of the Spanish captains. Save for the jangling of brass trappings on the Spanish horses, there was utter silence as the two men regarded each other.

Cortés dismounted and approached, Malinali at his right shoulder. He thought to embrace him, but the two princes who accompanied the emperor stepped forward to block him, alarmed. Cortés took a step back.

Instead he offered Motecuhzoma a collar of cheap glass margajitas, strung on gold filament and scented with musk. Lord Maize Cobs accepted them on Motecuhzoma’s behalf. In return he placed over Cortés head a necklace of sea snails, carved from pure gold.

“My lord,” Malinali whispered at his shoulder. “These are the emblems of Feathered Serpent.”

He noticed that the emperor’s hands were trembling. Here he stands at the gates of his capital city, Cortés thought, surrounded by tens of thousands of his own vassals and warriors, and he quakes! At this moment I hold him and his entire nation in my thrall. The Virgin is with me. God has made me invincible.

Motecuhzoma spoke his greeting. “He says he kisses your feet, my lord,” Malinali said.

“What?”

“It is a traditional greeting of the Mexica, my lord. It means nothing.”

Motecuhzoma spoke again, a longer soliloquy this time. Cortés waited impatiently. When he had finished he looked at Malinali. “Well?”

“It is difficult, my lord.”

“Difficult?”

“I do not know whether his meaning is literal .... or poetic.”

“Just tell me what he says.”

“He says you have suffered great fatigue on your journey and he calls on you to rest here a while. That part is a formal greeting. But then he says ... he says he has been troubled for a long time and that whenever he gazed into the east he knew one day you would come to instruct your servants further. Now the prophecy has been fulfilled and he is glad. He says he has guarded your noble seat for you and now offers you the throne.”

Cortés heard Alvarado swear under his breath. “By Satan’s black and spotted arse, is he offering you to make you king, my lord?”

“Mind what Mali says,” Cortés reminded him. “He may only be gracious.” But his own mind raced ahead, calculating.

He considered before he spoke again. “Tell him that I, too, have long wished to gaze on him in person. Tell him to fear nothing from us, for we love him greatly and think on him as a friend.”

Malinali relayed his message. Motecuhzoma’s face underwent a dramatic change. The transformation was unmistakeable. What Cortés saw on the king’s face was relief.

——————— 

They entered the capital down a broad avenue lined with white adobe houses. The city was eerily quiet. Cortés felt eyes watching them from behind the windows and from the roofs but apart from the official welcoming delegation the streets were empty.

It seemed to him that they were being received as conquerors and not as guests. He was tantalisingly close to doing as he had promised his officers, he might win this great city without firing one shot from the cannon or having one man draw his sword. Here was the kingdom he had always dreamed that one day he would possess. All he had to do now was close his fist around his prize.

They entered the great plaza of Tenochtitlán. On one side stood the rose-coloured walls of Motecuhzoma’s own palace, on the other the Great Temple itself. Directly ahead of them, beyond Motecuhzoma’s private zoo, was the palace of Face of the Water Lord, Motecuhzoma’s father. This was to be their new quarters.

Cuitlahuac himself escorted them there.

It was a paradise; a great court, heavy with the scent of flowers, surrounded a man-made pool seeded with large fish and adorned with painted statues. The palace itself was vast and brilliant with light, the stone walls dressed with lime and polished till they glittered like silver. They looked upwards; the ceilings were buttressed with cedar. They looked down at their feet; the floors were covered with huge tapestries of feather work and cotton.

Fragrant sandalwood burned in the braziers and pallets of woven straw had been laid out for sleeping. The room set aside for Cortés himself contained a throne of beaten gold, inlaid with precious stones.

Cortés was stunned. The palace was so vast a man might easily get lost in its corridors; private rooms opened onto vast audience halls which in turn opened onto patios with steam baths and fountains and gardens. It was beyond imagining. Even the palaces of Toledo and Santiago paled by comparison.

But he must not allow the splendour of these surroundings to blind him to the reality. Despite Motecuhzoma’s fine words, nothing had yet been decided.

As soon as they were settled in their new quarters he followed his soldier’s instincts and posted sentries around the walls, and ordered everyone to remain inside the palace. For good measure he had the
falconet
s carried to the roof where his gunners fired a salvo of blank rounds that thundered over the city, acclamation of their arrival and warning to their hosts.

——————— 

Cortés was barely settled in his room when Cáceres announced that Fray Olmedo and Brother Aguilar were outside, wishing to speak urgently with him.

Cortés rubbed a weary hand across his face. “Very well. Bring them in.”

Olmedo looked abashed, as he often did when coming to Cortés with petitions, while Aguilar assumed his usual expression of painful forbearance. Cortés felt a stab of irritation. No doubt they were here to remind him of his religious duty.

“Well?” Cortés said.

The two men looked at each other. It was Fray Olmedo who spoke first. “Brother Aguilar has raised a matter of great concern,” he said.

Cortés kept his silence and glared at them.

Olmedo was intimidated by this tactic; not Aguilar. “I fear that Doña Marina has led the natives of this land to believe that you are a god,” Aguilar said.

Cortés felt a vein pulse at his temple. You and your hair shirt morality! I should have left you on the beach in Yucatan! You have been more trouble to me than that renegade Norte. “You both hear for yourselves what I command her to say. What proof do you have that she has falsified my position?”

“From where else could the belief that you are a god have sprung, my lord?”

“I do not know, Brother Aguilar. We are dealing with a people of many superstitions. That is why we are here. To rid them of their devils and bring them the good news of the one true faith.”

“And she confounds our good works at every turn! She has told the people you are this Feathered Serpent!”

“You have no evidence of that.”

Aguilar clutched his Book of Hours to his breast. “You must let me act as your interpreter once more,” he said. “It is the only way you can be sure that your message is not corrupted.”

“You do not speak their language.”

“But some of the Mexica speak Chontal Maya. We can ...”

“We can what? Spend all day listening to you chattering away like a bird? It takes long enough to communicate with these people as it is! You fear that our message becomes corrupted? How much worse will it be when it is conveyed through the minds and tongues of four different people!”

“We only fear that you put yourself in jeopardy, my lord,” Fray Olmedo said, trying to pacify him.

Cortés slammed his fist on the table. “By my conscience! How do I place myself in jeopardy? What would you accuse me of? Treason? Heresy? Or is it blasphemy?”

Father Olmedo withered in the face of his anger. “It is only that mischievous minds could perhaps say of you ...”

“Say what of me? Well? What more would a reasonable man have me do? Wherever I could in this land I have destroyed their diabolical idols and impressed their shrines as houses of God. And I would have done more, much more, and yet it was you ... you! ... who stayed my hand. And now you accuse me of blasphemy ...”

“That was not my thought, my lord ...”

Cortés rounded on Aguilar. “And you! You try my patience too far, Brother Jeronimo.”

Aguilar blanched. “My lord, I do not fear what is, only how it may seem to be.”

“How it seems to be is how it is! I have brought God to this land under the banner of Christ and furthered the interests of my king to the very throne of a great empire! I may soon be in a position to give this great kingdom intact, not only to the King of Spain but to God himself! When others wished to turn back, I alone furthered the cause of our crusade. Do you dispute that?”

“No, my lord,” Fray Olmedo said, quickly.

“You have no cause to distrust me or Doña Marina! What must I do to prove to you that I am committed to our cause?”

Fray Olmedo did not speak. It was Aguilar who, with typical bullishness, tried to have the last word. “You must convince them that you are not a god,” he said.

“I will mind my duty, Brother Jeronimo. Be sure to mind yours. And do not fear on my account, I shall prove to both of you that I am Christ’s champion. I shall prove it to you in such a way that you need never doubt it again.”

When Benítez woke it was still dark. He dressed quickly and went out to the terraced roof. Dawn was yet a dirty lemon stain behind the mountains. Light seeped slowly into a world of alient terror and breath-taking beauty.

Canoes drifted unseen through the mists, the tap-tap of the steersmen’s wooden clappers echoed across the still water. In the street below shadows moved silently towards the temple, carrying burning coals for the braziers, cakes of corn for the priests' breakfasts.

He started at the blast of a conch shell. The first sacrifice had been made in the temple. The first blinding shot of gold appeared dramatically from behind the sierra, greeted by the hollow boom of the snakeskin drum on the Templo Mayor.

He was struck by how utterly strange place was; there were none of the sights and smells that were familiar to him from any other city he had ever visited. Even in the Indies, Santiago de Cuba was just another Spanish town supplanted in a hot land. But this place was completely new to him; there was no creaking of cart wheels on cobbled streets, no snorting or stamping of horses, all the goods these people needed were carried on foot or by canoe. There were no raised voices or cussing or crying of beggars; the streets were completely ordered and silent. Instead of the smells of ordure and rotting garbage, he detected only the sharper aromas of pimentos and herbs, the warmer scents of flowers and lilies, and the drift of incense from the temples.

Already street cleaners were at work, brushing away loose dust, damping down the beaten earth with water. He had never imagined a city like this, the roads laid out in grid pattern, all the major thoroughfares broad enough for a dozen horses to ride abreast. Many of the streets had canals running down their centre. He saw a Mexica in a broad cloak walking slowly past him, chatting with a neighbour who kept pace with him in a canoe.

Ordaz, who had fought many campaigns in Italy, had compared the city to Venice, which, he said, also had canals instead of streets. “But,” he added, “this place does not stink like Venice.”

A blood-chilling growl echoed across the rooftops. He had been told that Motecuhzoma’s private zoo was close by, and now he could hear the emperor’s menagerie of jaguars and ocelots and coyotes fighting over raw carcasses. Rain Flower had told Norte that they were fed on the remains of the human sacrifices from the temples.

In one sense it was Paradise; in another, it was hell. Looking up at the Templo Mayor he could see something leaking down the sluices carved down the steps of the pyramid. That would be blood, he supposed.

 ———————

My lord wears a suit of black velvet. On his head is a velvet cloth cap with a medal, engraved with a Thunder Lord slaying a beast. Around his neck is a chain of gold with another medallion bearing an image of the goddess Virgin. On his finger was a diamond.

Satisfied with his reflection in the mirror that Rangel, his mole, holds for him, he turns to me. “This morning we have an audience with the Emperor. I commend you to be diligent in your duties.”

“As I am always, my lord.”

“Mali ...” he began. His voice trails off. For once, I see him lost for the right words.

“My lord?”

“This morning, whatever I say, you must translate those words exactly. Exactly.”

That fool Aguilar has been whispering in his ear again.

“I think that in the past you have claimed more for me than I have for myself.”

“I have only put your words into language my brothers and sisters can understand.”

“You told them I was a god.”

I try to appear contrite but I am furious. You are a god. You have let your moles persuade you otherwise, but you are.

“Do you know what would happen to me if my king should discover that I claimed to be a wizard of some sort?”

“The blame is mine, not yours, my lord.”

“If it is a lie, and I allow you to tell it, then the calumny might as well come from my own lips.” He continues, his voice softer. “I know you mean well but this must stop. Today when you translate for me, you must do so precisely, without any embellishments of your own.” He crosses the room, gently strokes my hair. “Will you promise me?”

Such a promise will destroy us all. I understand what has happened for Smoking Mirror has taken on many guises in the past to destroy Feathered Serpent. This time I fear he has returned as Brother Aguilar.

“I will do as you command,” I say.

He smiles, thinking he has tamed me. “Good. Then let us be on our way. We have an appointment with the Emperor.”