Feathered Serpent (3 page)

  ———————

They stood in the longboats, swords drawn, while the clerk Diego Godoy, dressed in elegant black suit and silver buckled shoes, read the people of the Tabasco River the Requeremiento in its original Latin, Aguilar translating. Benitez fidgeted, sweating in his armour; a mail shirt, breastplate and gorget. This would be his first battle. He prayed he would not show himself to be a coward. He was afraid of a painful death, he was afraid of a wound, he was afraid of showing fear; it made it difficult to concentrate on the words that the royal notary was reading from the scroll.

Aguilar could not make his translation heard above the drums and the war cries.

The Indians had now approached to within a few yards in their war canoes, brandishing spears and leather shields. Their bodies were smeared with black and white grease.

“They are painted for war,” Jaramillo said.

Cortés stood with one hand on his hip, the other resting on the hilt of his sword. He might have been listening to a recital on the lute. Benitez felt a surge of admiration for him. “You said the
naturales
on this river greeted you with friendship when you last came here?”

“They played flutes and danced for us on the beach. Something has apparently aggravated them since then.”

Godoy had stopped reading.

“Continue with it,” Cortés snapped.

“But they cannot hear me over this outcry.”

“Read it!”

Godoy did as he was commanded.

The Requeremiento was a document prepared by the Church and was required to be read in all new lands before their possession in the name of the Pope and the King of Spain. It began with a short history of Christendom up to the moment God gave Saint Peter the care of all mankind. It then stated that Peter’s designated successor was the Pope, and explained that he had donated the islands and continents of the ocean to the King of Spain. The inhabitants of these lands should therefore submit to Cortés, as the legal representative of Charles the Fifth. If they submitted, they would be treated well and reap the benefits of Christianity; if not, they would be considered to be in rebellion and would suffer the consequences.

“This is foolish,” Norte said.

A pulse swelled in Cortés’ temple. “Ah, so our renegade has re-discovered the language of civilised men. You think God’s law is foolish, Norte?”

“These people do not understand a word of what you are telling them. They have never heard of the Pope. It is ludicrous.”

“I rejoice that you have learned to speak like a Spanish gentleman once more. But it is also a pity that you use our great language only to spout heresy.”

“Is it heresy to argue for what is reasonable and just? This charade is just a sop to your conscience.”

“One day soon I will see you hanging from a tree, Norte, and my conscience will still be clear.”

Godoy finished the Requeremiento. The noise of the drums and the whooping of the Indians had risen to a crescendo. Two arrows were fired at their longboat from the bank, falling short in the water. Aguilar turned and looked to Cortés for further instructions.

He seemed only irritated, as if the Indians swarming around them were a cloud of bothersome mosquitoes. The plume that surmounted his steel helmet danced in the breeze.

Benitez tried to imitate his stance. Keep still, he told himself. Do not let your companions see you are afraid.

“Tell them we come as friends,” Cortés said to Aguilar, “and that we are only interested in obtaining food and water and establishing cordial relations with them once more"

Aguilar tried to shout his translation over the din.

“Tell them we have no wish to cause them harm and that as Castilians we are here to do only good,” Cortés said.

Another volley of arrows sang from the bank and landed in the river. “By my conscience, if they persist with this violence, the fault for what follows is theirs! Tell them, Aguilar, that they must become peaceable or commend their souls to God!”

“We cannot battle so many,” Norte said.

“What does a sailor and a renegade know about military matters?”

“There are thousands of them and just a handful of us.”

“If the handful of men are Spaniards, then the odds are always in their favour.”

A hissing in the air, and now a barrage of stones rained down, launched with slingshots from the bank. Some splashed harmlessly into the water, others clattered onto raised shields and steel armour. But a few found their mark. Benitez heard a man screaming in one of the other longboats.

“Enough!” Cortés said. He unsheathed his sword and raised it towards the brigantine, his signal to fire the cannon.

The
falconet
s were discharged together, the heavy shot hissing across the river to explode with a crack among the mangroves. Leaves and tree limbs rained onto the banks. The effect was dramatic. The Indians turned and ran.

Cortés leaped into the muddy water. “¡Santiago y cierre España! For Saint James and for Spain!”

The soldiers jumped from the longboats and splashed into the water after him. Benitez joined them, carried along in the moment.

But the Indians, recovered from their initial fright, were already swarming back to the shallows. It seemed to him that there were just too many of them. It was impossible to think they could overcome such a horde.

I’m going to die here in this muddy brown river.

Terror made him light-headed; he was scarcely aware of what he was doing. He rushed towards a clutch of brown and painted bodies and slashed wildly with his sword. To his astonishment, an Indian screamed and fell at his feet. Other soldiers rushed to join him. In moments there were bleeding and dying men everywhere and the river was stained the colour of rust.

Benitez slashed again, leaving his guard open. He gasped as he saw a spear thrust towards his chest. But the obsidian blade shattered on his steel breastplate.

He thrust his sword towards his attacker, stumbled on a body floating in the shallows and fell. He scrambled desperately in the mud, choking on the river-water as he tried to regain his feet. He looked up and saw one of the Tabascans standing over him, holding a stone axe. His steel helmet was gone, lost in the water, and there was nothing he could do to protect himself.

But instead of delivering the coup, the warrior grabbed him by his hair and dragged him towards the bank. But then Cortés was there, and he buried his sword into his captor’s body, to the hilt. The man screamed and released him. He staggered and fell to his knees, clutching at the split in his belly. His innards spilled into the mud.

Cortés dragged Benitez to his feet.

“¡Santiago!” he shouted.

Indeed. Saint James must be with me today, Benitez thought. I should be dead by now. Why did the naturale not kill me when he had his chance?

Benitez leaned on his sword, dragging breath into fiery lungs, sweat and watery blood from a head wound stinging his eyes. He had survived his first battle. He took comfort in his own performance; he had shown no particular valour, he was sure, but he had proved himself a man. Yet he took no satisfaction in the slaughter, there was no great pleasure to be had from killing another man, even a heathen. If this was soldiering, then he was happy to leave it to others.

He sank to his knees and said a whispered prayer of thanks to the Virgin. When he closed his eyes he could still see the big Indian standing over him in the river, the stone axe raised above his head. He swallowed back the vomit in his throat.

  ———————

Cortés strode towards the ceiba tree that stood in the centre of the village. He held his helmet under his left arm, so that his long, dark hair fell loose around his shoulders. His eyes glittered with excitement. He sensed the same enthusiasm in the men around him; this rabble like nothing better than a scrap, he thought, as long as losses are light.

He made three broad slashes in the bark of the tree with his sword and shouted: “I take possession of this town in the name of His Majesty King Charles of Spain.”

Diego Godoy recorded the moment.

A handful of captured Indians were prodded forward by their guards, their hands roped behind their backs. The rest had fled.

During the battle Benitez had glimpsed only a blur of feathered head dresses, half naked bodies and painted faces. Now he had the opportunity to study his enemy a little more closely; they were mostly bow-legged and all sported neat loin and hip cloths. Several others had richly embroidered cloaks, knotted at the shoulder. Almost all had red tattoos on their faces and bodies and the flesh of their ear lobes had been mutilated.

Like Norte.

“Tell them they have nothing to fear,” Cortés said to Aguilar, who relayed this to the Indians. They received this information stoically and, it seemed to Benitez, with little enthusiasm.

“Inform them that we have been sent by a great king from across the ocean and we have many interesting things to tell their chiefs. Assure them also that we mean them no harm and want only to take on fresh water and provisions for our journey.”

The captives exchanged puzzled looks among themselves but said nothing. Alvarado led them away and Cortés turned to Benitez.

“Post guards around the town. We will camp here tonight and wait for the
naturales
to return. Now we have given them a taste of our steel they may be in a mood to parlay with us.”

There was an uneasy silence. It was Leon who finally spoke up. “My uncle gave strict orders that we were not to sleep ashore.”

Cortés glared at him. “Who is the commander here?”

Leon, a large man with a great black beard and thundering voice, would not be intimidated. “We are under the governor’s instruction.”

“And under my command!” Cortés shouted. He thrust his sword into the dirt where it trembled. “If any man wants to challenge my authority we shall see to it now!”

By Satan’s ass,
Benitez thought. He means it.

No one spoke. They had left Cuba under the governor’s orders. But they were a long way from Cuba now. Cortés looked around, daring them to challenge him. Not this time, apparently.

“It is settled then,” he said. “We camp here.” He sheathed his sword and strode away.

  ———————

“There’s nothing here,” Jaramillo said. He spat in the dirt. “No gold, no silver. Not even a woman.”

As they walked through the dusty streets a few hairless dogs yapped at their heels. Jaramillo and several others amused themselves by skewering them on their swords.

The village was deserted. Benitez wandered into several of the houses. They were simple affairs; the walls were made of adobe, the roofs of thatch were built low against the sun and rain. There were no doors in the entranceways, and none of the houses had furniture, the beds just bundles of dry sticks and grass covered with cotton mats. Each dwelling boasted a small shrine in one of the dark corners housing a crude statuette surrounded by small offerings of food.

He looked closer. Demons, shaped out of pieces of red clay. He shuddered.

But they were nothing compared to what they found on top of the pyramid.

  ———————

The pyramid was immense, perhaps as high as the courthouse in Seville, by Benitez' estimation. It had been constructed of massive stone blocks and towered over the mud-brick houses of the village. Stone dragons and serpents stood sentinel in the courtyard and strange glyphs had been carved in the stones. This was strange. These people were supposed to be little more than savages.

“Have we found China?” Benitez murmured.

Jaramillo shrugged his shoulders, as bewildered as he.

They followed Cortés up to the summit. It was a steep ascent and they rested for a moment at the top to catch their breath before stepping into the shrine. Like the houses in the village, it too had been constructed of adobe and thatch.

It was dank inside, and smelled of the jungle and of death. For a moment they were blind as they waited for their eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness.

Then Benitez heard Jaramillo’s voice. “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

A snake was draped across the altar, its length coiled around a marble jaguar. Behind it a stone monster with great goggle eyes and fangs watched them from its nest. The
naturales
had painted it blue.

“It is Tlaloc, the Rain Maker,” Norte whispered. He sounded almost reverent.

“It is the Devil,” Cortés said. He slashed with his sword, deftly removing the snake’s head with one blow and then flicking the body into the musty darkness. He stepped closer to examine the stone jaguar. A bowl has been carved onto its back and there was a viscous liquid pooled at the bottom. He dipped his fingers into the bowl, sniffed them. Suddenly he hurled the idol onto the floor as if it was ordure. He rounded on Norte.

“What is this?” He was trembling with rage.

Norte was silent.

Jaramillo discovered fresh offerings on the stone flags below Tlaloc’s grinning mask; a small fig tree, some embroidered cloth, and the skulls and bones of four dead
naturales
.

“It is human sacrifice,” Aguilar said, his voice hoarse. “They believe it will make the rains come and nourish the fields.”

Cortés kept his eyes on Norte. He held up his fingers, still wet with blood from the stone receptacle. “The Devil’s works,” he said and dried his fingers on Norte’s shirt.

“Thanks be to God we are here to lead them to the True Faith,” Aguilar said.

“How are these infernal sacrifices made?” Cortés asked him.

Aguilar hesitated. “They cut out their victim’s heart while they are yet alive and offer the blood to their gods. Then they feast on the limbs. It is the fate of all prisoners of war. It should have been our fate, if we had not prevailed.”

Some other soldiers had followed them inside. They stood by the entrance, staring at the pile of rotting bones. The euphoria of their victory had vanished.

An officer called Alvarado broke the moment, bursting in from outside. He was panting hard from his ascent of the temple steps. “There is nothing in this whole town worth my spit! They have taken everything!” He stopped, looked around. “What in God’s name is this?”

“We have stumbled on a nest of cannibals,” Cortés said.

“God’s blood.” Alvarado turned to Norte. “These savages are your former comrades?”

Benitez wondered what was going on inside the Norte’s head. Had he participated in any of these rites? Had he eaten human flesh with his adopted tribe? Jaramillo was right, they should have finished him on the beach. Let him die unshriven. It would have been a just fate.

“Let us pray we can lead these people to the one and true faith,” Aguilar said and he fell to his knees. Cortés did the same.

Benitez, Alvarado, Jaramillo could not do otherwise. The soldiers followed suit and Aguilar led them all in prayer.

The moment they had finished Benitez rushed back out to the sunlight and scampered back down the steps of that infernal temple, his gorge rising in his throat.

  ———————

Acalan

Sister Moon is dismembered, dark in her grave. Witches prowl the night, searching for lonely travellers. The night is clamorous with the ululations of the women, the pulsing of the drums and whistles, a keening hymn for the dead.

I sit, cross-legged, staring at my dead husband. He has been prepared for cremation in the traditional way, sitting upright, bound in a broad cloak of embroidered cloth. His brothers have replaced his entrails as best they could and I myself have placed a piece of jade in his mouth to pay his fare across the Narrow Passage to the Yellow Beast.

I lean closer to my dead lord, Tiger Lip Plug, so that my lips are just inches from his face. “When you are a butterfly in the Rainbringer’s Heaven, I hope you give more pleasure to the flowers than you ever gave to me.”

They have told me my lord died well. He had almost claimed one of the white gods as his prisoner, dragging him by the hair through the shallows of the river, but then another of the Lords of Thunder had incomprehensibly interfered in the duel and struck him with his sword. Two of Tiger Lip Plug’s own brothers had carried him back here to Acalan where he has waited two days and nights in silent agony to kiss the earth. It was the sort of death Tiger Lip Plug would have chosen for himself, I believe. The gods had squeezed every drop of the divine liquor from him before accepting him into the ranks of dead warriors. Even now he resides in the green heaven of Tlaloc, the butterfly paradise where fountains bubble eternally and emerald birds skim the surface of the lakes.

I will not miss him.

The doorway to the street is closed off by a tapestry sewn with tiny gold bells. The bells murmur now as Rain Flower appears and kneels down on the mat beside me.

“What is happening, little sister?” I ask her.

“The
cacique
s cannot decide if these Thunder Men are Persons or are gods. Our warriors claim that they must be gods, for their skin shines like the sun and is so hard it makes their swords shatter in their hands. They say their canoes can conjure thunder from a clear sky.”

“Of course they are gods. They come from the east, and capture the wind in the giant cloaks they hold above their canoes. They are the harbingers of Feathered Serpent returning to us.”

“You cannot believe that foolish tale! These Thunder Men came here last year. At Champotón the people killed twenty of them. There they say they are men just like our warriors are men.”

“Feathered Serpent is served by moles and dwarfs, as mortal as you or I. Any number of them may die, but Feathered Serpent himself is indestructible. This is his year, the year of his legend.”

A pine torch burning on the wall throws my friend’s face in shadow. She cannot accept what is so plain to me. I fear for her.

“They are just a few hundred ordinary men against thousands,” she whispers, “and tomorrow their hearts will roast in the temple.”

Let Rain Flower believe what she wishes. In my heart I know the truth. I have dreamed of this day since I was a child. I still remember my father’s promise, that Quetzalcoàtl, Feathered Serpent, would return on a raft from the east and rescue us from the Mexica. He had whispered another, even more vital secret; he saw through future mist, and divined that I, Ce Malinali Tenepal, would be harbinger of these golden days.

My destiny is camped at Potonchan tonight.

   ———————

Painali: 1506

I remember when my father first told me the legend of Feathered Serpent.

Painali is silent, deserted except for a few slaves sweeping the courts. The plaza only comes alive on market days or holy days, no one lives in the sacred heart of our town. The noblemen, even priests like my father, use their townhouses only when there is a need.

My father drops a lump of copal incense into a burner and starts to pray, facing the east god, god of the wind, Feathered Serpent. His temple is rounded, unlike our pyramids, so that sharp angles cannot impede his progress, simply flows around them.

After he finishes his prayers, he sets to work divining the future, the very reason we have come here today.

Some think that prophecy can only be found in the visions conjured by
peyotl
juice. But with his almanacs and bright-coloured calendar wheels my father can predict the movement of the stars and sun; he says the secrets of time itself can be unlocked by mathematical calculation. The future and the past exist on a circle, a wheel; all that has happened before will happen again.

As he makes his calculations, using long columns of dots and markings in a codex that I find incomprehensible, he starts to tell me the story of Feathered Serpent.

“Quetzalcóatl is not the greatest or most powerful of the gods but he is the most beautiful and is said to be almost human. He is tall with fair skin and he has a beard. In his last incarnation he was the priest-king of a city called Tollan, the capital of an ancient race called the
Toltecs
. They were a people of great learning and culture and Feathered Serpent was their greatest lord. He was very wise and so gentle he would not kill any living creature or even pick a flower from the ground. He taught his people the art of healing and how to watch the stars move around the sky. Raw cotton grew in all colours in their fields and they harvested ears of corn so fat a man could not fit his arms around them. The people spent all their time playing music and listening to birds.

“But Feathered Serpent had a rival, Tetzcatlipoca, the god they call Smoking Mirror. He was jealous of Feathered Serpent’s popularity. So one night he tricked him into getting drunk and fornicating with his own sister. The next morning Feathered Serpent was filled with remorse. He went to the shores of the eastern sea and threw himself on a fire. The ashes rose like a flock of white birds, carrying his heart to Serpent Skirt, mother of all the gods. Then he stepped whole from the fire, wove a raft from a thousand snakes, and sailed into the dawn. He promised that one day he would return to bring back the paradise that vanished with his departure.

“These Mexica who call themselves our lords sit on the throne of the
Toltecs
, they have taken their land and their temples for themselves. They want us to believe the
Toltecs
are their ancestors, but they are impostors.”

“Feathered Serpent’s capital, this Tollan. Where is it now?”

“It lies to the north of Tenochtitlán. But it is just a ruin. Cholula is Feathered Serpent’s city now.”

“Cholula?”

“It is a holy city, consecrated to Feathered Serpent. Tens of thousands make pilgrimage there every year. I myself have been there many times.”

“I would like to see Feathered Serpent when he returns,” I say and I see from the look on his face that he finds my child’s excitement neither ridiculous nor blasphemous.

“You will see him,” Malinali, he says. “You will be right there at his side. That is your destiny.”

Potonchan, 1519

Cortés had the bodies of the dead Indians burned and the stone image of Rain Bringer removed from the temple. It took a dozen men to drag it to the edge of the pyramid. Using their pikes and lances as levers, they toppled it over the side of the platform and down the steps. It crashed into the courtyard below, shattering into pieces. In its place Fray Olmedo erected a wooden cross and nailed a picture of Cortés’ own icon, Nuestra Señora de los Remedios, to the adobe walls.

Cortés set up his headquarters inside the shrine and waited for an answer from the
naturales
to his offers of peace.