Feathered Serpent (37 page)

“Let me deal with him,” Salvatierra hissed in his ear. “Let us see how proud he is when I have dragged him round the yard for a while behind my horse.”

Fray Guevarra rushed forward. “My lord,” he whispered, “when my comrades and I were taken prisoner by that dog Sandoval, Cortés proved himself to be a reasonable man. Surely he would not have released us if he wanted to make war? Let us talk with Señor León and see what he has to say.”

Parlaying with a man like Cortés went against all Nárvaez' instincts. But Guevarra was a priest and his opinion should not be discounted. And León’s popularity must be taken into account; it will not sit well with my officers if I throw him in chains, he thought. Better see if I can win León over, then I will have a friend and a spy in the enemy camp.

“Cousin, now is not the time to talk about such matters,” he said to León. “You must be fatigued from your journey. We can discuss this later, after a good dinner and some Cuban wine.”

It pained him to be pleasant. Smiling savagely, he turned and went back to his tent.

 ——————— 

Tenochtitlán

“Give him a taste,” Alvarado said.

The man writhed and twisted on the table, his ribs heaving as he screamed. The smell of burning fat hung in the air. Alvarado wrinkled his nose in distaste as if the taint was the fault of his victim.

The priest had been tied, spreadeagled, to the table. His long and matted hair spilled over the edge, almost to the floor. The smell of him, even without those complications provided by Alvarado, made them all choke. Even Jaramillo looked pained.

But there was little sympathy for their victim here. Being godless an Indian was anyway undeserving of compassion, but the fact that he was a priest made their duty a pleasure. His tattered ears and blood-caked hair made him appear a demon come to life. Alvarado wondered how many living hearts this particular devil had excised in the name of his religion.

They waited while Fray Diaz went outside to vomit. They could not proceed without a clerical witness. Alvarado was disgusted. He thought a churchman, of all people, would have a stronger stomach.

When Fray Diaz returned to the room he was pale and sweating.

“You are unwell?” Alvarado asked.

“I find the odours unpleasant.”

“You have our sympathies. May we continue now?”

He nodded.

Alvarado turned to Aguilar, who was acting as interpreter for the interrogation. “Would you ask this creature if it is true that the Mexica plan to attack us and when this assault will take place?”

Aguilar put the question to Laughs at Women, who relayed the words in
Nahuatl
to the man on the table. The priest groaned an answer.

Aguilar turned to Alvarado. “He claims to know nothing of this.”

“He’s lying,” Alvarado said. He looked at Jaramillo. “Persuade him to search deeper for the truth.”

Jaramillo removed a smouldering green oak log from the brazier with a pair of metal pincers and placed it on the priest’s stomach. The man’s eyes started from his head and he bucked and rolled on the table. After a while his shrieking gave Alvarado a headache.

He signalled for the log to be removed. The priest was making a curious whooping noise. The devils coming out of him, Alvarado suspected. He examined the man’s torso. It was black and blistered and weeping a straw-coloured fluid.

“Brother Aguilar, will you please ask the prisoner again when the Mexica plan to attack us?”

Another long exchange.

“He asks what it is you want him to say.”

“All we want is the truth.”

Laughs at Women conferred once more with the unfortunate priest.

Finally Aguilar nodded, satisfied, and turned to his fellow Spaniards. “Laughs at Women has told him that we know the Mexica were planning to attack us. He has confessed our suspicions are correct. He does not know when it will take place but it will be soon. Probably before the end of the festival.”

“You are witness to his answer,” Alvarado said to Fray Díaz. “This is our proof.”

He turned towards the door.

“What shall we do with this one?” Jaramillo asked, nodding towards the groaning man on the table.

“Kill him,” Alvarado said. 

Cempoallan

Gordo’s servants had prepared a feast for them; Cuban porters had brought chairs and tables from the ships on the coast so Nárvaez could dine in his tent in the same splendour he enjoyed in his house in Santiago de Cuba. They even brought the silver service.

He was master and host but it was León who held court; as he ate he regaled the younger officers with his adventures over the last fifteen months. Nárvaez felt a prickle of irritation at how they hung on his words, lapping them up like kittens with warm milk.

“When we first arrived in New Spain, I was one of Cortés’ loudest critics. It seemed to me we had left ourselves exposed to military disaster and had possibly contravened the governor’s orders. Even when I was persuaded that my brother officers were acting quite legally in establishing a colony...”

An eruption of coughing. Salvatierra almost choked on his wine. But Nárvaez said nothing. I shall leave him enough rope to hang himself.

“... even when I was persuaded that my fellow officers were acting properly, I was still of the opinion that we courted disaster. We were so few, in a hostile land, against so many. But Cortés did not waver. And as our victories and our fortunes grew, day by day, I was persuaded that here was a man who could win us all untold fame and wealth.”

The candlelight flashed in the gold collar at his throat, emphasising his point to the younger men.

“Wwe have already won for ourselves and our king a fortune in gold and precious jewels. We are masters of Tenochtitlán, which is the most wondrous city I have ever seen, and where Cortés is esteemed as a great lord. He has claimed these lands for Spain and brought many of the
naturales
for conversion to the one and holy faith.”

“Perhaps he will he do Spain one further service,” Nárvaez said. “He can surrender peaceably to me, so he may answer the charges brought against him by the governor of Cuba.”

“The governor’s authority is not recognised here,” León answered. “We are directly responsible to the Crown. Indeed, you are now entering the realm of my lord’s friend, Motecuhzoma, who is a sworn vassal of the king and under his protection. By such an action you risk having your army destroyed and your lives held forfeit.”

Nárvaez stared at him, speechless with rage and astonishment.

“You dare to threaten us?” Salvatierra snarled.

“Gentlemen,” Fray Guevarra said quickly, “I am sure there is an amicable way to solve our differences. Is there not, Señor León?”

“My lord Cortés feels your arrival here is opportune. He is willing to allow you to explore the coast between Vera Cruz and the Grijalva River. In fact he would consider it a great service and so would His Majesty Charles, as it would consolidate this kingdom for the Crown.”

“I will see your Cortésillo in hell!” Salvatierra shouted.

“I am sure that is where you will one day find yourself. But I doubt you will see my lord Cortés there, though he may gaze down at you from above.”

Salvatierra jumped to his feet, hand on his sword. Nárvaez restrained him. If it came to a duel León would fillet him into thin strips.

Nárvaez looked around the room. Some of his officers seemed amused by León’s posturing. He decided it was time to play his ace. “I think you are wrong in saying that this Motecuhzoma is friend only to your lord. He has also sent tribute to us, much of it in gold. Oh. You seem surprised. Do you still believe Cortésillo has a mortgage on the Emperor’s friendship?”

For the first time León was off balance and Nárvaez pressed his advantage.

“I intend to make your Cortés answerable for what he has done. At the same time I shall free the emperor from his illegal imprisonment, in return for a great deal more gold.”

León stood up. “In that case I must tell you that my lord Cortés will not be answerable for your safety.”

“My safety! I have an army of fifteen hundred men and thirty cannon. Do you suppose for one moment your little band frightens me?”

“We have beaten greater armies than yours these last twelve months.”

“Your attitude disappoints me, León. I thought you had more sense. I was even about to offer you a senior position in my command.”

“I could not betray someone who has done so much to further the fortunes of his country and his church.”

Astounding, Nárvaez thought. When did little Cortésillo come to command so much loyalty?

“Tell him I will roast his ears and eat them,” Salvatierra said.

“A fine attitude for a cannibal, but not for a Spaniard.”

“I think you should leave us now,” Nárvaez said, “before you impose too far on my patience and generosity.”

“I should not dream of staying a moment longer in such company.”

He walked out. Nárvaez felt the eyes of his junior officers on him. This had not gone well.

Later, when they were alone, he told Salvatierra he did not want León to leave the camp. “Wait till everyone is asleep then put him in chains.”

Salvatierra beamed. He hurried away to issue the order.

But though his men conducted a thorough search of the camp they found no sign of León. Someone, Nárvaez realised, must have warned him.

———————

León rode slowly west, guided by a full moon. Cortés was right, the morale in Nárvaez’s camp was low, the officers suspicious of their commander and of each other. The twenty thousand castellanos he had offered to each captain who would join them had found plenty of takers, especially after Fray Guevarra had told everyone how Cortés’ troops stroilled around Tenochtitlán with their pockets bulging with gold.

Cortés would be less pleased to hear of Motecuhzoma’s perfidy. León worried what was happening in Tenochtitlán; he hoped Alvarado knew how to play the king as well as their
caudillo
.

 ——————— 

Tenochtitlán

As the sun dropped down the sky the drums beat faster, quickening the rhythm of ten thousand hearts. The statue of Smoking Mirror was dragged to the steps of the great pyramid for the Dance of the Young Men. There were six hundred dancers in the plaza, the cream of the noble families, their finest sons. The whole city crowded into Templo Mayor to watch.

Ta-tam, ta-tam, ta-tam...

The drummer stood, legs astride, at a snakeskin
huehuetl
drum, his hands a blur of movement, quickening the pace.

The men danced around him. They wore spectacular costumes; cloaks woven with brightly coloured feathers and greaves of ocelot skin on their legs, sewn with golden bells that jangled as they danced. Their shaven skulls were brilliant with paint and quetzal plumes. They all wore nose plugs and
labret
s of jade or shell.

The hammer of drums, the pulse of blood.

Ta-tam, ta-tam, ta-tam...

They danced faster and faster.

At the Eagle Gate, the Gate of the Reed, and the Gate of the Obsidian Serpent, armed Spaniards slipped through the shadows, taking up position in the narrow doorways....

——————— 

As he danced Falling Eagle saw Spaniards moving among the crowd. They were wearing swords, steel armour and helmets. The thought occurred to him: here are thousands of our best warriors, trapped and unarmed in this court. Surely no enemy could be so treacherous, so cowardly, as to attack us when we have no means to defend ourselves?

Tonatiuh stood on the steps of the Great Pyramid, the setting sun reflected on his breastplate. Another of the thunder lords, the one they called Jaramillo, stood beside him, grinning as if he had drunk too much
pulque
.

The dancers leaped and spun.

Ta-tam, ta-tam, ta-tam...

More soldiers, holding firesticks, climbed the steps of the temple, crouched down to load.

Alvarado reached for his sword.

No.

No!

——————— 

“!Mueran!” Alvarado shouted. “Kill them!”

The arquebuses cracked. There were screams, panic; everyone rushed towards the gates. A Spaniard was hacking at the drummer with his sword. He struck of his arms, then his head.

Falling Eagle stood quite still, searching for escape. The acrid smell of cordite drifted across the plaza

Suddenly the Spaniards were everywhere, slashing with their swords. He turned around and ran towards the Gate of the Reed. A Spaniard loomed in front of him and he veered away, felt the breath of his sword as it arced down. He veered again, dodging and twisting, jumped over a Spaniard with a brown curly beard who was tearing the jewels from the body of the bloodied Mexica warrior at his feet.

Falling Eagle reached the gate but there was no way through. The Spaniards were gathered there shoulder to shoulder, slicing at anyone who came near with their swords. He found a madman’s strength in his terror, picked up one of the bodies at his feet, lifted it over his head and tossed it at one of the soldiers. The man lost his balance and fell. Falling Eagle vaulted over him and ran through the gate.

Cempoallan

Rain.

Grey sheets of it, flooding the river, throwing a pall over the flat horizon. Cortés small army, bolstered by Sandoval’s re-inforcements, struggled through the mud. The sound of their approach was muffled by the rain; then a scouting party surprised two of Nárvaez' sentries and took them prisoner. The battle had been joined.

———————

You upstart, Carrasco thought. I heard of you in Cuba, I remember the scandal when you refused to marry Catalina Suarez, whose father was so friendly with the governor. Escudero arrested you on charges of sedition and the governor had to force you to act honourably. I’ve even seen you carousing in Santiago de Cuba in your fine clothes, you and your
hidalgo
friends, always talking and laughing too loud, acting as if you were
grandee
s because you owned a little bit of dirt on some God-forsaken heathen island. Now look at you. Because a few
naturales
have run away from you, you think you are a king.

The torches crackled and smoked, the rain dripping down through the branches of the great ceiba tree. Carrasco struggled to his feet, his boots slipping in the slick mud. He was encumbered by the ropes that held his wrists behind his back.

“What is your name?” Cortés said.

“Juan Carrasco.”

Sandoval pushed him back into the mud and kicked him in the ribs. “Show some respect.”

“Juan Carrasco … my lord.”

“Do you know who I am, Juan Carrasco?”

“You are Hernan Cortés.” He grunted at the pain in his ribs. “You own a gold mine and an
encomienda
on Cuba.”

Cortés crouched down next to his prisoner. “No, I am not that Hernan Cortés. I am the Hernan Cortés who is the master of this whole kingdom. You would do well to remember that.”

Fool! Carrasco thought.

“I want to know,” Cortés went on, “how Nárvaez has deployed his forces.” He held out a purse, emptied its contents into his palm. A few jade and turquoise stones glittered in the dull light of the flambeaux. “These are yours if you tell me.”

The rain slapped on the leaves.

“I’m waiting,” Cortés said and Carrasco felt the first thrill of fear.

Suddenly Cortés was on top of him, his fingers clawing at his throat. Carrasco kicked his legs. He couldn’t breathe ...

“You are not going to get in the way of my
entrada
, you little peasant! Do you understand me? This is New Spain, my kingdom!”

Saliva spilled from Cortés’ mouth onto Carrasco’s cheek.

“I will make you talk, even if I have to cut off your toes and ears and force them down your throat!”

Couldn’t breathe.

“Talk to me!”

He tried to nod his head, desperate to surrender, but the other man’s fingers were clamped too tight around his throat. He lost control of his bowels. The other captains struggled with Cortés, dragging him away, and then black spots appeared in front of his eyes, and he passed out.