Feathered Serpent (42 page)

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They marched day and night for five days, a stumbling column of ghosts. They climbed to the top of the pass, above a town called Otumba, and saw the mountains of Texcála, a little over ten leagues distant. Below them was the richly cultivated plain of Apam. On it, waiting for them, was the entire Mexican army. 

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A field of plumes in jade and crimson, a sea of banners and shields. At the head of each squadron of painted warriors stands an Eagle Knight peering from beneath his beaked helmet, talons clinging to the sleeves of his silver-grey armour; or a Jaguar Knight in black-spotted fur and snarling helm.

Even from a distance I can make out the generals, their rank denoted by nose plugs,
labret
s of jade and crystal, ornate cloaks. The battle standards are strapped to their backs, feather work and reeds worked into regimental insignia and stretched over wicker frames, as rallying points of their armies.

The valley echoes to the thunder of drums, the blast of conches and whistles. Our tiny army stares in dismay and despair. Our thunder lords believe they have had suffered for nothing. This is where it must end, for all of us. The numbers ranged against us are inconceivable.

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Feathered Serpent orders his soldiers and moles into a tight square, thunder lords to the outside on their beasts of war, wounded in the centre and protected. Without the iron serpents and thunder sticks we lay no claim to a killing field. We must simply stand and fight until we are all dead.

Only my lord still believes. I can see it in the set of his shoulders. He is quite magnificent, my lord, my great lord, my feathered serpent.

He turns his mount, walks her slowly around until he faces his tiny command. He holds in his right hand the ragged blue banner the thunder lords brought with them all the way from the coast.

“Gentlemen,” he says, “before you, behold the armies of the Mexica.”

He does not speak for long minutes, holds us all with his eyes. The whistles and ululations are deafening. When he speaks again, we must all strain to hear him.

“They come here hoping to destroy us. We are, once more, greatly outnumbered. And yet—"

And yet, my lord? And yet?

“And yet, how many times in these past months have we thought ourselves beaten and prevailed? Did we not fight side by side at the Tabasco River against a great army such as this? Did we not claim victory then? And what of the great hordes of Texcála and the cannon and cavalry that Nárvaez brought against us at Cempoallan?

“Always we prevailed because you and I, we are not ordinary men nor ordinary soldiers. From this day you may, with my permission, tell the world that you were with Cortés the day of his great victory over the Mexica. In years to come, ballads will be written of your exploits, for it is not only your great valour and your skill at arms that separates you from mortal men. No, more than this, you are each of you chosen by God Himself to march under the protection of His banner.” He holds aloft the tattered blue and white pennon in his fist. “Under this cross, I promise you, we will prevail!

“Now I say this to each of you: remember that while you have strength in your arm you still hold the advantage, even today. These Mexica want only to take you captive for their loathsome rites, and because of that, they will leave themselves open to your killing strokes. You fight not a battle today, but a series of duels and I believe God will give you strength to face this test. Do not slash wildly, but thrust with your swords, so they may not get inside your guard to lay hands on you or use their clubs.”

He paused, allowed his words to take effect on them.

“In the centuries to come, when men write the history of the world, you will be the shining chapter and you will each be remembered as heroes. So gentlemen, guard yourselves and turn to the enemy. When I give the word, we shall attack and, by my word, we shall slay them all!”

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I hold the strappings of his great chestnut beast. “My lord.”

He leans down from the saddle. “How is the future Emperor of Mexico?”

I put a hand to my belly. The bleeding was heavy that night on the causeway, but now it has stopped. Just now he heard his father’s speech to his soldiers and I thought I felt him move. “He is well, my lord.”

He removes the leather gauntlet from his hand, touches my cheek. “Stay inside the square of our defence. All will be well.”

“Do not let them harm you.”

“We will sit together in the palace of Tenochtitlán. I swear it.” And then, a sweet kiss. “My love.” He smiles and spurs his horse forward. The rest of his thunder lords follow, the brass trappings jangle, the great beasts snorting and stamping, sensing the fear and excitement in the air around them.

We will never sit in the palace. Even gods may die, and today is that day. You will die on this field of flowers, and I will die with you. We have tested the gods too far with our pride and arrogance.

But I will never regret it, for I have found my Feathered Serpent and followed my destiny, and if I was given my time over, I would do it all the same.

My father’s prophecies will not be fulfilled, but I have avenged him now and so I can hold my head high when I join him in the place of the spirits. 

Benítez forced himself into the saddle. Every muscle in his body ached. He had received a slash with a lance the night of the retreat - the noche triste, as Cortés now called it - which had opened his cheek to the bone and now his face felt as if it was on fire; two days before their column had been ambushed and an arrow had lodged in his calf. He could barely move his right leg. He had not eaten for days and he feared he might faint from his horse. But he was determined that the Indians would not take him alive, would not stretch him over their infernal stones. He would fight to the end.

“We will charge in squadrons of five,” Cortés shouted. “Keep your lances high, aim for the eyes and return at a gallop. Ignore the common warriors, aim only for the officers, the ones with head dresses in the form of birds of prey or of tigers. Better even than these, kill those with plumes and nose jewels and wicker standards, for they are the generals.”

And then he said to his officers what he had not dared say to his men: “If we are to die, better to die proudly. May God be with you all.”

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The battle went on, hand to hand, for hours. Young Mexica warriors with obsidian-bladed clubs, intent on glory, were thrown against squadrons of well-drilled Spanish pikemen who fought as units and slaughtered them in their thousands. The Spaniards' lurchers and mastiffs, already demented with hunger, took a terrible toll of the Indians. Hundreds of Mexica died for every Spaniard.

But the weight of numbers began to tell, and by the middle of the day the Castilians, weak from their wounds and from starvation, were at the point of exhaustion.

Their lines began to waver. The Mexica pressed on.

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“Here, take this dirk.” Jaramillo reaches into the scabbard at his waist and presses a dagger into my hand. He was pierced through the thigh with a lance during the noche triste and now lies with the other wounded inside the defensive square. The Mexica howl and whistle as they throw themselves against the thin line of pikemen, all that lies now between them and us.

“My lord?”

“I am not having my blood spilled in their bestial temples!” His hands are shaking. “I have seen your dexterity with this weapon. I just ask you make the end a little cleaner and a little quicker than it was for my lord Motecuhzoma.”

I hold the knife, bewildered. A man should not fear the flowery death on the battlefield or on the stone. Would he rather prefer to bleed and die at the hands of a woman?

Jaramillo lifts his shirt, grasps the hilt of the dagger and pulls it towards him, so that the point rests against the skin above his heart. “Do it.”

I shake my head.

“Do it!”

“No!” Strong fingers close around my wrist and tries to wrest the knife from me. It is Aguilar. “You must not! He will burn forever in the fires of hell!”

“Only if I die by my own hand!” Jaramillo shouts.

“The intention is the same.” Aguilar falls to his knees. “Let us pray to God to give you strength for the end.”

Jaramillo pushes him away. “I don’t want your prayers!” He turns back to me. “Do it now! Do it now, you demon cunt! Let me die quickly!” His voice is shrill, like a woman’s.

Aguilar again grabs for the knife. “He will lose his mortal soul!”

Oh, these men are not worthy of Feathered Serpent. How did he come so far with such cowards and fools?

The battle is on us now, a man screams and falls on us, and dies. I can hear nothing over the cries and whistling and drums. The Mexica are close enough to touch. I bring the knife down. The blade pierces the earth to the hilt, a few inches from Jaramillo’s head.

He starts to cry.

“You have saved his soul,” Aguilar tells me.

“No, Aguilar. I just do not believe my lord will lose.”

I am defeated, Cortés thought.

Even as he broke his charge he knew he had disobeyed his own instruction, had ridden too far from his own lines. Fatigue had blurred his concentration. The Mexica had broken their line, but now as he wheeled his horse they ran back in to encircle him. They could kill him easily with their clubs and lances but none of them dared spill his blood because Lord Malinche belonged to Hummingbird.

He slashed wildly with his sword, chopping at the hands that tried to hold him, cutting the nooses of the snarers. But there were too many of them and he was dragged from the saddle. He hit the ground hard and the breath went out of him.

He saw Benítez and Sandoval charging through the Indian ranks. Three others joined them, Olid, Alvarado and Juan de Salamanca. Cortés jumped back to his feet, and regained his mount.

I cannot die, Cortés thought. God chose me for this. He keeps me alive, even now, for a purpose.

It was then he saw her, in the clouds above the hill. Her smile was serene, her eyes luminous. She stretched out her hand towards him, and the east wind whipped the folds of her purple robe.

Nuestra Señora de los Remedios.

Below her, on a grassy knoll, he saw the royal litter, shaded by a golden canopy, and reclining on it a great lord with an elaborate wicker standard strapped to his back with a shoulder harness. The towering basketwork emblem was worked with rich feathers into the insignia of the Woman Snake and decorated with gemstones and gold. The lord who carried it wore a great head dress of quetzal plumes and his ears and nose and arms flashed with gold ornaments.

It was their chief general. His rash charge had brought him to within a hundred paces, and now there was just a handful of Mexican warriors between them. He remembered the first battle with the Texcála and what Malinali had told him then; when they lose their commander, they lose heart.

“We must move back before they encircle us again!” Benítez shouted.

“No! We go there!” He pointed towards the knoll. “The Virgin points the way! Kill their chiefs and we are victors!”

He spurred his horse up the slope, slashing a path through the ragged lines. The Virgin beckoned, the promise of victory in her mother’s outstretched arms.

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Cortés galloped towards the golden canopy. The generals saw his intention and he read the confusion and dismay in their faces. There was nothing they could do to stop him. He rode straight at Woman Snake, struck him with his horse, the elaborate wicker standard smashing under the hooves of his mare. Cortés wheeled around, saw the general stagger to his feet, bleeding and dragging his leg. Juan de Salamanca, charging in behind, drove his lance through his chest, driving him off his feet. Benítez, Olid, Sandoval and Alvarado scattered the rest of his company with their swords.

Cortés reached down from his horse and picked up the shattered wicker standard. He held it aloft in his fist. At once there was a bedlam of whistles and drums.

He watched in amazement as the Mexica immediately melted away across the plains, a tide turning from his feet, as if he had commanded the very ocean to retreat. Our Lady had brought him a miracle.

Cortés let his sword hang limp at his side.

Alvarado started to laugh, then wept. Benítez slid from the saddle and lay spreadeagled on his back. Juan de Salamanca stared at him, his eyes empty.

It was over. He had won.