Feathered Serpent (4 page)

  ———————

Bright sun, intense heat, the buzzing of flies. Cortés ducked his head as he entered the temple. A wooden table had been transported from the Santa Maria de la Concepción and he took his place behind it, settling himself into the heavy mahogany chair he had brought with him from Cuba.

His officers clustered around the table. Cortés sensed the tension among them. They were afraid. They did not have faith in their divine mission, as he had faith.

He looked around; there was Puertocarrero, golden haired and aristocratic, but no fighter; the impetuous Alvarado, with his red hair and russet arrow-shaped beard, gold chain glinting against his black quilted doublet; dour young Sandoval, the horseman; the old warhorse Ordaz; the fiery young Leon, a Velasquista like Ordaz, and a troublemaker; Jaramillo with his vicious hawk’s face and pock-marked skin; and finally Benitez, with his ugly, lop-sided features and scrap of beard.

Cortés solemnly spread the ink-drawn map of the coast on the table in front of them. It had been made by Grijalva the previous year.

“Gentlemen, as yet we have received no word from the
naturales
as to their intentions, so let us examine our choices. We can return to our ships and explore further the coast to the north. However, it is my opinion that if we are seen to be running away from the Indians, as Grijalva did last year at Champotón, we will only make them bolder, and it will be doubly hard to enforce our will the next time we land. Second - we could wait here for the Tabascans to approach us. Or finally, we can move against them before they have the chance to strengthen their forces. Gentlemen, I will be guided by you.”

He gave them a tight smile and sat back in his chair.

“We should leave here at once,” Leon growled. “The actions we have taken are contrary to the governor - my uncle’s - orders.”

“I agree,” Ordaz said. “We do not have the men or supplies to conduct a full-scale land campaign against the Indians. We are heavily outnumbered. Look what happened to Grijalva last year.”

“I say we attack these bastards now,” Alvarado shouted. “We have given them enough time to find their manners! It does not matter how many of them there are, one Spaniard is worth a hundred Indians!”

“I agree with Alvarado,” Jaramillo said.

“But we have no just cause to prosecute a war against these people,” Benitez interrupted. “They believed they were defending their village against attack, no matter how misguided they might be. Let us move up the coast and look for a friendlier reception elsewhere.”

“Where they will laugh at us for being women,” Sandoval said.

Suddenly they were all speaking at once and Cortés held up a hand to silence them. “So we are evenly divided,” he said. He was disappointed with Benitez. After the fire he had shown in the river skirmish, he had expected more from him. In his mind he marked him as a potential troublemaker like Leon and Ordaz. “I shall give the deciding vote to Alonso.” He looked at Puertocarrero. “What say you?”

“I say we heed the advice of our commander,” Puertocarrero said, softly.

Cortés smiled. As if the boy would say anything else. “Very well.” He returned his attention to the map. “In my view we should proceed inland along this route until we make contact with the
naturales
. If they wish to trade and furnish us with provisions, we shall be pleased to greet them. If they wish for further punishment, we shall accommodate them in that also.”

“I question who will take the greatest punishment,” Ordaz growled.

“There is no need to fear the
naturales
,” Cortés said. “We have learned important lessons from our recent encounter with them. We were outnumbered, perhaps as much as ten to one, and though many of us received wounds, our losses were slight. The
naturales
employ some manner of brittle glass for their swords and lances and it breaks easily against a steel buckler or breastplate. Their shields are made of leather or wood, which is no hindrance to good Toledo steel. Furthermore, I have been questioning Brother Aguilar and the renegade, Norte, at length, about the Indian ways. It appears that their greatest honour in battle is not to kill but to capture, so the prisoner may be used in their infernal sacrifices.” He glanced at Benitez. “Such a tactic works to our great benefit, does it not?”

Benitez had turned pale. He nodded. “Indeed, my lord.”

“This appears to be the reason why so many of them were eager to throw themselves on the point of our swords.” He looked around the table. “It seems to me that as long as we do not grow fatigued from killing them, our eventual victory is assured.”

“Even so,” Ordaz objected, “there must come a point when the odds are so great that we cannot kill them as quickly as need demands. The
naturales
must at this very moment be gathering a much greater army.”

“Perhaps. But if two
falconet
s fired into a swamp can make them scatter, imagine their reaction when we employ a full battery of cannon against their ranks. And,” he paused and smiled, a gambler laying his final trump card, “they have yet to witness a warhorse in full charge.”

  ———————

After his officers had left Cortés leaned back in his chair and stared at his flagship, now framed by the temple entrance against the glittering waters of the bay. One day they will write ballads of me, he thought. I will be remembered in the same breath as Alexander, or the Cid. In Cuba he was just another poor planter, a satellite of Velàsquez the governor, but here he would become that other man, the man he dreamed himself to be.

Ceutla

Ordaz advanced the infantry through the fields of maize, his progress hampered by the network of irrigation channels and drainage ditches. On the other side of the valley were several thousand
naturales
, the plumes of their head-dresses dancing in the wind like ears of corn. Benitez watched from their hiding place in the trees. The tumult of their whistles and drums carried to him on the wind.

Dear God, let me live to see the sunset.

Cortés turned in the saddle to address them. They were just sixteen, all the cavalry Cortés had. Yet he rode his horse, one hand on the reins, the other on his hip, like a duke at the head of thousands. Does nothing frighten this man?

“This day belongs to us, gentlemen,” he shouted. “We shall wait for the moment before we charge.” His chestnut mare tossed its plumed head, nostrils flared against the scents in the air, dust and fear. “Remember to aim your lances high, at their eyes, so they cannot easily pull you from your mount. And fear for nothing, for today we do God’s work!”

On the plain the
naturales
had launched themselves at Ordaz’s infantry. Benitez saw the sun flashing on steel armour, then a rolling cloud of flame and smoke as the
culverin
s fired their first volley.

It was as if the Indians' front ranks had been swept away by an invisible scythe. The
naturales
hesitated only a moment, the survivors throwing great clouds of grass and red dust into the air in an attempt to cover their losses. A second squadron charged. Then a third. Still they came on. Some of them reached the Spanish lines, hundreds upon hundreds of brown bodies swarming forward over the piles of their dead.

Benitez fidgeted in the saddle, his nose wrinkled against the rank sweat of his horse and the grease from his armour. His mouth was dry. It was he had always suspected; at heart he was a coward.

Ordaz and his men began to retreat, stumbling back through the ditches and bogs.

Cortés rose in the stirrups. “¡Santiago y cierre España! For Saint James and for Spain!”

They started to gallop forward.

  ———————

The
naturales
had not heard them over the din of cannon fire and the din of their own drums and whistles. They had their backs to them; they would be taken completely by surprise. But then Benitez realised what Cortés had not; their approach would take them directly towards a gridwork of irrigation ditches. His horse stumbled in one of the drains and he saw other mounts around him rear up, their riders thrown from the saddle.

Benitez spurred on his own piebald mare. If their attack failed now, they would all die.

He remembered the bones in the temple at Potonchan.

Now he was on hard ground again, galloping fast. A cry went up from the Indians, echoed around the valley in one ululating shriek of terror. The
naturales
in front of him dropped their clubs and spears and ran. Benitez charged his horse among them.

At the finish of his charge he turned, expecting to see the rest of the cavalry beside him. But there was no one. He was quite alone. The others were still mired in the mud.

Benitez had no choice. He spurred his horse around to charge again. First a dozen, then a hundred, then thousands, they ran from him, like a ripple spreading from a stone dropped in the still surface of a lake. A cheer went up from Ordaz’s beleaguered infantrymen.

He wheeled and charged again, his blood drumming in his ears. He pursued the great army of the Indians like a dog after sheep.

Finally the rest of the
jinetas
arrived, and the retreat turned into rout. Benitez reined in, the whirlwind of dust in his mouth. He threw back his head to shout defiance at the blue sky. He could not believe that he had dared so much and survived.

  ———————

Norte wandered the battlefield, sickened to his soul. Such a wreckage of limbs; heaving and bloody mounds of meat moaned with pain, some still trying to crawl away. The Spaniards stood among them, in their armour, grinning and shouting and clapping each other on the back. Thanks to Cortés they had achieved the impossible.

Norte had secretly hoped the Indians would prevail, even though it would have meant his own certain death. He was sure that he could endure it, no matter what they did to him; it was the humiliation and despair of living that was unendurable.

“Everything was lost,” he heard one of the soldiers, Guzman, saying. “Then I saw him. He came out of the dust on a white horse. When the
naturales
saw him, they fled!”

“Who?” Cristobal Flores asked him.

“Santiago! Saint James! I saw him there on the field for just a moment and then he vanished, into the dust. Disappeared!”

Stupid, Norte thought. The Spaniards were as stupid and as superstitious as the
naturales
. “It was Benitez,” he said.

Guzman and Flores stared at him.

“What you saw was not Santiago. It was Benitez!”

“Do you smell something?” Guzman said to Flores.

Flores turned his head to the wind. “Savages. I thought we killed them all.”

Guzman leaned over one of the dead Indians and cut off an ear. He tossed it at Norte’s feet. “Breakfast,” he said.

Potonchan

There were four war canoes, garlanded with flowers and sitting low in the water. As they drew up to the bank the Spaniards crowded around, shouting and nudging each other with their elbows, behaving like schoolboys.

Cortés came down to the riverbank to greet the deputation, accompanied by Aguilar in his brown Franciscan habit. The
naturales
had finally sued for peace and he had demanded a token of their goodwill. The spoils of his victory were in the canoes.

The
cacique
greeted Cortés in the traditional way, first dropping to his knees, then putting his fingers to the ground and touching them to his lips.

“He asks you to accept these small tokens of their friendship,” Aguilar said, translating from the chief’s Chontal Maya. “He also begs your indulgence for their foolishness in attacking you.”

Cortés regally inclined his head. But his attention was not on the
cacique
. He was more concerned with what the delegation had brought with them in their canoes. In line with his demands, there was a certain amount of gold, worked into some disappointingly small figurines of birds and lizards. There was also some precious stones and a pair of gold sandals, all of which the
cacique
’s slaves laid out on mats on the ground.

The pickings were not as rich as he had hoped but he was surprised at the craftsmanship. He turned to Aguilar. “Ask him where the gold comes from.”

Aguilar translated the query. “He says the mines are far inland. In a place called Mexico.”

“Does this Mexico have much gold?”

“He says the king of the Mexica is the wealthiest sovereign in the whole world,” Aguilar said.

Cortés took a moment to digest this piece of information. “Does this king have a name?”

Aguilar asked the question several times, checking his pronunciation. “Motecuhzoma,” he said finally. “His name is Motecuhzoma.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a harsh bark of laughter from the river. He looked up around. The Indians had brought women in one of the canoes and they were being lifted ashore by the
cacique
’s slaves. The men had moved in for a closer inspection. Jaramillo nudged Alvarado’s ribs and made some ribald comment. More laughter.

Cortés mouth twisted in contempt. Dogs! Even Alvarado with his fine manners and his coat of arms. None of them understood what it meant to be a knight in the service of a great king.

“The women are the most beautiful in all of Acalan,” Aguilar translated for the
cacique
, who had noticed Cortés interest. “He says he puts them at your service, to grind maize for you, mend your clothes and ...” Aguilar paused and his cheeks flushed bronze. “... and to perform any other services you desire.”

There were twenty women in all. They were dressed in the Mayan custom; plain white tunics and cotton skirts, almost to their ankles, and held at the waist by an embroidered belt. Their ears, wrists and ankles glittered with gold, their hair decorated with brilliant green quetzal feathers and pink flamingo plumes. But the trinkets and plumes could not disguise the fact that most were squat and plain. Several were even cross-eyed; a mark of great beauty among the Mayan Indians, Aguilar whispered to him.

And then he saw her.

She was no slave girl, it showed in her bearing. She was unusually tall for a natural and instead of demurely studying the ground like the others she stared straight back at him, and in her black eyes he saw both a challenge and an invitation.

He felt the beast move in him. A delicious creature, his for the taking in other circumstances.

The
cacique
murmured something to Aguilar.

“He says her name is Ce Malinali Tenepal. It means One Grass of Penance. Tenepal is ... well, it is a name you give to someone who likes to talk a lot.”

Finally she lowered her eyes in submission. But she did not seem at all discomfited by his stare and did not giggle and chatter like the other women.

“The chief says she is very skilled with herbs and is a great healer,” Aguilar said.

“Thank him kindly for his gifts,” Cortés said.

The
cacique
’s tone became more urgent. “He asks that you do not burn the town,” Aguilar translated. “That is how the victors generally behave in this heathen country,” he added.

“It is how victors behave almost everywhere. But you may assure the chief we do not intend any harm to him or his village. But in return for our beneficence he must renounce his false idols and the practice of human sacrifice. He will instead give obeisance to our Lord Jesus Christ.”

There was a long and animated discussion. Finally Aguilar said: “I do not think he quite understands everything. I will instruct him further.”

“Good. I leave the responsibility for their salvation to you and

Father Olmedo.”

Cortés returned his attention to the women.

“My Lord.”

“Yes, Aguilar?”

The deacon’s face was still flushed. He stammered, unable to form the right words.

“What is it?” Cortés snapped.

“ Any form of ... commerce ... between a Christian gentleman and a ... is forbidden by the Church ...”

“I am aware of what the Church prescribes. You shall assist Father Olmedo in the morning. They will all be baptised into the True Faith then.”

Aguilar seemed appeased. “Thank you.”

Cortés found the girl staring at him again. What was it? Curiosity? Fear? No, something else, impossible to define. She lowered her eyes again, but slowly. He felt a slow tingling, at the nape of his neck. Something had just happened. He was not sure what it was.

  ———————

A god!

He has corn silk hair and blue eyes, and his skin is pale, almost pink. The
cacique
had ordered us to keep our eyes lowered, so as not to offend the Lords of Thunder, but I have to look, I cannot help myself.

As we women gather in the shade of a ceiba tree the strange creatures cluster around us.

There, another God!

He is taller than the others, with a beard shaped like an arrowhead; but it is his hair that I find most startling. It is the colour of fire, the colour of the sun which flashes on the gold medal at his neck and the gold rings on his fingers.

Everything here is dazzling, frightening, fascinating. Over there a dog, but unlike any dog I have ever known, a great red-eyed slavering creature with terrible teeth, a monster plucked from the realms of Mictantlecutli, a beast like that which guards the gates to the underworld. I try not to show it my fear, even as I hear the other girls shriek and draw away from it. The god with the fire-coloured hair laughs at them.

The ground thunders beneath my feet. I turn around and now I see for myself one of the great two-headed monsters that so unnerved and defeated our warriors. But I can see at once that the beast does not have two heads after all; the reality is far more astounding. For even as I watch, I see one of the gods dismount from the creature, which is as tall as a house and has feet of stone. It is breathing smoke. It seems the gods can sit astride these beasts and make them do their bidding. How is such a thing possible?

Out on the river is the great canoe they speak of, flying a banner with the red cross of Feathered Serpent. There can be no doubt. The day has finally come.

“Look,” I whisper to Rain Flower.

“I see it, Little Mother.”

“I told you! It has happened!”

But still I cannot see him. I know he is not the god with the corn silk hair and turquoise eyes, or the fire-haired one ... not any of these other bearded, pink-faced creatures, many of them with faces pitted like lava stone, others with ...

There!

For a moment it is hard to breathe. He is just as I have imagined him, as I saw him on the pyramid at Cholula, as he has been depicted a thousand times on statues and carvings and reliefs in temple walls; a dark beard, black hair falling to his shoulders, his face framed by his helmet, which is itself decorated with a quetzal-green plume. The grey eyes watch me intently, as if he too has experienced this same moment of recognition.

And now he approaches.

The girl fell to her knees, touched the earth with her fingers, then brought them to her lips. Cortés returned the greeting, bowing and presenting her with the slightest smile.

“My Lord Quetzalcóatl,” the girl said, in her own language, and then in Chontal Maya. “Feathered Serpent.”

Cortés turned to Aguilar. “What did she say?”

Aguilar stared at her. He appeared flustered. “Just a traditional greeting,” he said. But his eyes stayed on the girl long after Cortés had moved on to insect the others and instinctively Malinali knew she had found an enemy.

 ———————

They have erected a large wooden cross in the shade of two palm trees, and below it, hung from a nail on one of the trees, is a picture of a mother suckling a baby. It is clear to me what ceremony we are about to undertake. All Persons know that the cross is a symbol of fertility and the painting on the tree makes it quite clear to us what they want.

The gods wish to mate with us.

I know I should be frightened. I heard the other girls whispering about it last night. Rain Flower said that the gods' penises had claws, which were as sharp as obsidian, and we would all die a terrible death, to horrible to contemplate. Another girl said that the gods' seed would not grow into a Person but into a jaguar, and when the time came for birthing it would tear its way out of our womb with its teeth.

But they are just stupid Tabascan girls.

The one called Brother Aguilar has tried to explain to us what is going to happen. But his words were difficult for me to follow. He talks in intricate riddles.

As we step out of the canoes, the Lords of Thunder line the beach on either side of us. I feel the heat coming from them. Their eyes drink us in.

The pulse in my temple pounds with excitement, making me light-headed. I wish my father was here to witness this sublime moment.

Fray Olmedo and Brother Aguilar wait under the palms next to the cross. Feathered Serpent stands to one side. Behind him is the god with the astonishing turquoise eyes, the one called Puertocarrero, and next to him the fire-god. It is silent save for the sound of the wind stirring the palm fronds. It blows from the east, as no doubt he has commanded.

When I reach the cross Aguilar orders me to kneel on the sand. Fray Olmedo stands over me, holding a small censer filled with water. He says something to me in a language I do not understand.