Feathered Serpent (38 page)

——————— 

He might have killed him, Benítez thought. If I had not intervened he might have killed him! My lord Cortés is terrifying when he is angered.

But a helmet of river water thrown in Carrasco’s face and he had recovered soon enough. Squatting shivering the mud, he told them all they wanted to know; Nárvaez had made his headquarters in the temple where a year ago Cortés held a knife to Gordo’s throat. The artillery had been drawn up in front, the cavalry divided, so that forty
jinetas
were now isolated on the road to the west. There were no patrols because Salvatierra did not believe Cortés would dare attack at night.

The
caudillo
’s brutal methods were justified with quick results, Benítez supposed. But he could not forget the look on Cortés’ face when he had his fingers around Carrasco’s throat.

The man was mad.

But then perhaps only a madman would have dared so much; only a madman would dare what he proposed now to do.

 ———————

Rain drips from helmets, soaks into quilted armour, leaks down tunics and marches down the spines of shivering men. My lord’s soldiers are cold and hungry, exhausted from the long march from Tenochtitlán.

My lord turns his horse to face them, resplendent even on this cold and black night in breastplate and plumed
burgonet
. One of his moles, Cáceres, stands beside his horse holding a pine torch. It sizzles in the rain.

And he starts to talk; no - to mesmerise: “Tonight, gentlemen, you carve your names in the histories. You can choose to die here, or go on to make your fortunes here in this land of New Spain.”

The steady patter of rain on the soft earth and ripe leaves.

“You will recall that it was the governor himself who made me commander of this expedition, with orders to explore and barter along this coast. This I attempted to do. But you will also remember that while we were at San Juan de Ulúa it was demanded of me that we establish our own colony there. I wished all that time to return to Cuba, but at your insistence we stayed on here, and time has proved you all wise in pressing that decision.

“You did me the honour of voting me captain-general of your colony until His Majesty’s pleasure was known to us. In that time I believe we have done glorious things for our King and won him much treasure and lands. How often in this past year did we succeed when all odds were against us, how much suffering and death have we known in carrying Christ’s banner into these heathen lands? We have endured snowstorms and fatigue and hunger and betrayal and never once did we think of turning back.

“Now the governor’s lackey, Nárvaez, lands on these shores and declares war on you, wishing to take away all you have so gloriously won. Shall we meekly stand aside and let him march in? Not if we are men, not if we are Spaniards! This usurper will not rob us of the riches and the glory that is rightfully ours!

“They are greater in number, yes, but when has that deterred us? We battled thousands on the Tabasco River, tens of thousands on the plains of Texcála. We are hardened in battle these many months and they are not. Furthermore, our comrade León tells me there is great discontent in their camp. Many are sick with the fevers of the coast and others recognise the justness of our cause and have no stomach for the fight.

“The storm has made them incautious. We will launch a surprise attack against their cannon while Sandoval takes a squadron of men to capture Nárvaez himself. When he is taken, the rest will put down their arms, for they will have no heart to continue the battle without him.

“So let us gird ourselves. Rather we die here today, if that is God’s will, than let these scoundrels take from us what is rightfully ours!”

His soldiers cheer. His eyes seem to glow in the dark, the only light in this black valley. How can we not believe, when he talks to us this way? Outnumbered, tired and hungry, his moles and soldiers are suddenly spoiling for a fight. He drags us all along in his wake. Feathered Serpent is returned and there is no standing against him.  

Shouts of alarm, men running for their weapons, the moon hidden by ink black clouds.

Nárvaez stared into the night. There were lighted matches all around as Cortés’ arquebusiers prepared to fire their muskets. They were surrounded. But it was impossible. How had Cortés mustered such a force?

The captain of the artillery shouted at his men to load the cannon. A panicked voice screamed back that the cannon had been spiked, the firing holes plugged with wax.

A volley of musket fire, the whine of arrows, men shrieking in pain from wounds.

Salvatierra tugged at his sleeve. “We must withdraw!”

A single cannon fired, then fell abruptly silent. He heard infantry charging across the court. He ran after Salvatierra, up the steps towards his sanctuary atop the pyramid.

——————— 

I am going to die, Benítez thought.

He had charged the steps at the head of Sandoval’s pikemen. The moon appeared for a moment from behind the clouds, silhouetting their opponents against a smattering of stars. At that moment a giant came at him, perhaps Nárvaez himself, wielding a great two-handed broadsword, the montante. He tried to ward off the blow; a spark flew from the clashing steel and his sword was wrenched from his grasp. He fell sideways onto the steps. Nárvaez stood over him, the massive sword raised above his head a second time.

I am going to die.

He was never sure later how it happened. Perhaps Nárvaez slipped on the rain-slick stone; but somehow the fatal blow was delayed. Benítez took advantage of this reprieve to grope in the darkness for a weapon. His fingers closed around a fallen pikestaff. He thrust it desperately towards his assailant, heard Nárvaez scream.

“Holy Mary protect me! They have killed me and destroyed my eye!”

“Victory for Cortés!” someone shouted. “Nárvaez has fallen!”

Benítez clambered to his feet, saw Martín Lopez, the tallest man in their force, rush forward with a lighted brand and set fire to the thatched roof of the temple. The sky glowed red. Nárvaez' soldiers streamed out of the smoke, throwing down their weapons and screaming for mercy.

 ———————

Nárvaez lies on the surgeon’s table, a blood-soaked cloth bound over his left eye. His face and beard are caked with gore and his wrists are chained in front of him.

My lord enters, pushing aside the canvas tent flap. His hair is matted with rain and sweat, his chest heaves from his exertions. He holds his sword, unsheathed, in his right fist. He glares at his adversary.

Nárvaez opens his one good eye. “You intend to murder me?” he asks, as if the matter is of no concern to him.

“You are my prisoner. You have nothing to fear. I have placed you under my protection.”

Nárvaez appears relieved. He does not understand that my lord’s protection does not extend further than his next whim. León appears for a moment from the darkness outside the tent. “We have lost two dead, against fifteen of theirs. There is perhaps another one hundred and fifty wounded, mostly theirs.”

My lord is angry that so many useful men have been hurt when we will surely need them all when we return to Tenochtitlán. “You see what you have done?” he says to Nárvaez.

Nárvaez appears unconcerned by his losses, or ours. He is more troubled by the wound to his pride. “It has been a great feat, your defeat of me,” he says.

“Indeed? I regard it as the least of my achievements in New Spain.”

Nárvaez does not want to believe it. He notices my presence in the tent for the first time. “Who is this? Is she your whore?”

“Go sit on the devil’s cock,” I tell him. “I am no one’s whore.”

Is there the suspicion of a smile on my lord’s lips? Nárvaez gapes at me as if he has just been rebuked by an animal or a bird of the forest. Does he think a Person cannot learn such a simple language as his?

“She speaks Spanish like you or I, Nárvaez,” my lord tells him, and there is a proprietorial pride in his voice that I do not dislike, “and several other tongues besides. You would do well not to cross swords with her. I shall leave you to her tender mercies, for now.”

He stalks out.

The storm has eased, just a drizzle of rain on the canvas now. Nárvaez lies there for a long time without speaking. “Do you know who that man is?” he asks me suddenly, and I am startled, for I had thought he had passed out from the pain of his wound.

I think he is trying to trick me on some religious matter and say nothing.

“In Cuba we called him Cortésillo, little Cortés. He has an
encomienda
with a few cattle leases. He studied some law at Salamanca University and thought himself a lawyer. So Governor Velásquez, fool that he is, made him a magistrate in Santiago de Cuba. He made a little money mining gold on the Duabán River and you would have thought he was the
grandee
of Vallidolid. Then that idiot Velásquez - I warned him about this - puts him in command of a small expedition to the coast and now look, he thinks himself a great general and explorer.”

“He has done wonderful things here, heroic things.”

“Then we must be talking about a different Cortés.”

“Or perhaps between this Cloud Land you talk of and here, a god came and entered him. For he has behaved like a god.”

Nárvaez grunted. “Where is that damn doctor?” He took a deep breath and held it for a long time. He released it slowly, battling against the pain. “This 'god' of yours betrayed his own lord in Cuba. He was sent here to explore the coast, instead he tries to invade with five hundred men and take all the gold for himself. You see? He is a braggart and a thief.”

I do not understand what he is saying, and I shall not stand to listen to calumnies against him. I leave him there to suffer, and go in search of my lord.

———————

He stands alone, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders, watching the sun rise over the jungle. The debris of the battle lies around the temple courtyard; abandoned weapons, a few bloodied rags. The smell of smoke smudges the air.

“What did Nárvaez say to you about me?”

“He says you are just a man.”

“Well, he is right in that.”

The jungle is waking to the cry of birds, the rattle of insects. “I think not.”

“Why do you persist in making me more than I am? He is right, you know, I am just the son of a poor
hidalgo
. You see the way your own farmers live, fertilising their fields with human manure, wearing only loincloths, eating maize cakes and gruel? Yet the humblest of them have a more contented life than mine was. I was born in the poorest part of Spain, flat dust to the horizon in summer, frozen mud in the winter. My family had its own coat of arms yet our greatest luxury was to eat ham and eggs on a Sunday. While I was at university I had patches in my breeches and my friends laughed at me behind my back.

“I was rich in dreams is all. I dreamed my way through my poverty. I dreamed I was more than I seemed to be. That dream was set in my heart like a precious stone, and until now it has brought me no peace.

“You see, Mali, I always believed that with vision and with steadfast courage a man might change his circumstance. And here, in Mexico, I have re-made myself, become more than I was. I am no longer Cortésillo, the womaniser, the braggart, the gambler, the petty landowner and law student. Here I am Lord Malinche. Here, tonight, this Lord Malinche has defeated proud men who would not have deigned even to speak to me on the street in Salamanca or Toledo. Here ... here, I really am a ... a king.”

I stand closer and he wraps his cloak around my shoulders. His body burns like a furnace. Much of this I already knew, or had guessed. It is the story of a man chosen by gods and inspired by gods.

Poor Rain Flower. Did she realise what she had almost done?

I wonder where you are now, Little Sister? If you had not run away I might still have protected you. No one would have suspected that a Mexicatl woman would dare such a thing. I would not have whispered your name under the most terrible of tortures. Why did you do it? If only you had not eaten the flesh of the gods. It made you mad.

I wonder where you are now ...

Cortés sat on a stone bench, steam rising from the cloak about his shoulders. Nárvaez' officers and men waited in line to pay him their respects and pledge him their future loyalty. In return Cortés promised that they would have their horses and their weapons returned to them. Only Nárvaez and Salvatierra were exempt from the amnesty. They were to be kept in chains in the fort at Vera Cruz.

It had indeed been a great victory. The Virgin had watched over him once again; the fireflies that had swarmed in the storm had been mistaken by Nárvaez' men for hundreds of musketeers lighting matches to their weapons and the downpour had made Nárvaez' gunpowder too damp to use.

Yes, he had also bought his own luck with the gold castellanos that León had distributed in Nárvaez' camp a few days ago. It had persuaded certain officers them to put wax in the firing pins of the larger artillery pieces.

So Nárvaez arrival was not the end, but a new beginning. He now commanded an army of thirteen hundred men and a hundred cavalry; enough, surely, to secure their future in New Spain.

After he had received pledges from each of his new recruits he climbed onto a plinth to thank them all for their support and assure them of a triumphant welcome when they reached Tenochtitlán. You will all be showered with gifts, he shouted over their excited laughter. There are crowds to cheer us wherever we go, and all Mexico bows to my feet!

You cannot imagine the glory that awaits you!

Tenochtitlán

Utter silence.

It was as though there was not a soul alive in the valley. Even the Xolo dogs were silent. There were no canoes on the lake, not one farmer in the chimalpas or on the causeway. As they drew closer to the city they were relieved to hear the sound of trumpets from the walls of the palace of the Face of the Water Lord. A single cannon shot welcomed them, the only sign that the city was not entirely deserted.

One of Nárvaez' officers shouted to his comrade: “Hey, Gonzalo! If the people get too close to your horse, force them back with your lance!”

Several men laughed.

“Oh, but these garlands of flowers are heavy about my neck!” the one called Gonzalo shouted back.

“I have never seen such crowds.”

More laughter.

“It is like the marketplace in Seville.”

“At midnight!”

Cortés’ face burned with humiliation. He spurred his horse on, away from these idiots. He looked back only once to confirm his worst suspicions. They were, in fact, no longer alone. In the distance Mexica warriors were gathering behind them on the causeway.

He could almost hear the trap slam shut behind him.