Feathered Serpent (14 page)

I smile at this gallantry. But then I hesitate. How can I tell him what I wish to say? “Tell him ... tell him that I know ... that I know he is Feathered Serpent.”

Norte stares at me. “What?”

“Have you not guessed?”

“This man is no god, believe me.”

“Just tell him what I say.”

Feathered Serpent watches our exchange and appears puzzled. Norte turns back to him, finishes the translation as I have asked him to. When it is done, my lord stares at me for a long time without speaking. Finally he murmurs something to Norte.

“There, I told you,” Norte says.

“What does he say?”

“He says he does not know what you are talking about. He asks me who Feathered Serpent is.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“He’s just another Spaniard, like I am. Except a little more greedy and ruthless than most.”

My lord speaks again.

“He wants you to leave him in peace,” Norte says to me. “You’re to leave and I have to remain here. He’ll probably have me flogged for this.”

I do not understand. Is it possible that a man might become a god and not know of it? Or is he trying, for some reason, to conceal his true identity? From whom?

“Go!” Norte urges me. “Don’t anger him further. You don’t know this man like I do.”

I looked at Feathered Serpent but there is no secret smile of conspiracy, no glint of amusement, as I have been offered in these past weeks when I have helped him in some way. I have offended him.

I hurry away.

Cortés studied the unappetising creature in front of him, his ragged ears and tattooed face. A traitor, a degenerate and a heretic. But for the time being, he was useful. “Do you understand what that conversation was about?”

“She thinks you are Quetzalcóatl - the Feathered Serpent. He is one of our ... one of their gods.”

Cortés noted this slip of the tongue for future reference. “And why does she think that?”

“Your appearance, perhaps. Feathered Serpent is tall, as you are, with a fair complexion and a beard. But mainly it was the manner of your arrival. The people here ... they believe that one day Feathered Serpent will return on a raft from the east and save them from the tyranny of the Mexica. Among the people of the coast it is almost an article of faith. A cult, if you like.”

“So that is why they received me in Cempoallan as a liberator.”

Norte lowered his eyes.

“You knew this?” Cortés asked him.

“It is just Indian superstition.”

“Still, I would have regarded it an act of loyalty if you had reported it to me before now.”

“I thought it meant nothing.”

A thin smile appeared on Cortés’ face. Norte must think me very dull. Or perhaps that is the best excuse he can think of. “And you, Norte, do you think I am this Feathered Serpent?”

“I am a Spaniard, my Lord.”

“You were once. Who knows, perhaps one day you will be again. But you have not answered my question.”

“I think you are a Spaniard like me, my Lord.”

“A Spaniard yes, but not a Spaniard like you. May God strike me dead if I ever become like you. Thank you for your service. Now you may return to your work.”

 
  
———————

Sunlight dapples the surface of the water. The spider monkeys howl as they glide through the canopy of trees. I am bathing alone in the stream when Aguilar appears on the bank, his face flushed from running, his robes stained with sweat. He is looking for me. I see him steal a guilty glance at my body before he turns away.

“I need to talk to you!”

“I am listening.”

“You must dress.”

How delicious. This man worships icons of fertility yet is reduced to a child by the sight of a woman without clothes. “I can listen to everything you say as easily when I am wet as when I am dry.”

I can imagine why he wishes to speak with me so urgently. Norte has told him of my conversation with my lord in the church. Well, if I must listen to his rant, then I can at least keep him at disadvantage. Let him try and intimidate me with his back turned.

“Who is this Feathered Serpent?” he demands.

I cup some water in my palm, leisurely anoint my shoulders and breast. “Feathered Serpent was once a man, the priest-king of the city of Tollan, before the time of the Mexica. He was a just and kind leader who abolished all human sacrifice and made Tollan the most wonderful city in the world. But his great enemy, Tetzcatlipoca, Bringer of Darkness, was jealous of his power and tricked him into drinking too much
pulque
. He made him so drunk he seduced his own sister. The next day Feathered Serpent was filled with remorse and sailed away on a raft of serpents into the east. He always vowed he would one day return and reclaim his throne, in the Year One Reed. This is the year One-Reed.”

“This is witchcraft! Witchcraft and heresy! There is only one god!”

I dip my head in the water, ring out the long tresses of my hair. Aguilar is such a fool. How can there be only one god? I wonder why my lord keeps company with him. If not for his ability with tongues, which is only a limited talent, it seems to me he serves no useful purpose at all.

“Is this what you have been telling the Mexica about Cortés?” he shouts at me. A man ranting at the trees. If only he knew how ridiculous he looks.

“I only ever repeat what you yourself say to me.”

“And the Totonacs?”

“I do not tell the Totonáca what to believe.”

“Then they do believe he is a god? Do you realise you will destroy him! No man may lay claim to divinity!”

“If the people think he is Feathered Serpent, it is no fault of mine.”

Aguilar is so agitated he spins around to face me just as I am rising from the water. He groans when he sees I am naked and turns away again. “You-you-you don’t understand! If these pe-pe-people believe Cortés is a god then they do not believe in Christ. It means they are not true Christians and they will roast forever in eternal torment! That is what you have done! That is the sin on your head!”

I dry myself at my leisure on a cotton cloth. I am in no hurry to dress. Let Aguilar continue to address the ferns and zopilote trees. “You accuse me wrongly. I have only relayed your words, Aguilar.”

“I pray that you are right!”

“You must know that I would never do anything that would harm my lord.” I take a step closer to him, put my hand on his shoulder. I feel him stiffen. He is frightened now, more frightened of one naked woman than he was of the whole mob that wanted his blood in Cempoallan. “Do you understand about things between men and women?”

“I know you are given to Alonso Puertocarrero.”

“We are given to some, we belong to others. It was not for me to choose.”

“What are you saying?”

“If you really understand about these things, you will know it is not just that a woman’s body is different from a man’s. It is much more than that. It is like the sun and the moon, the land and the ocean, laughter and tears. One exists to counterweight the other. In this way I cannot exist without my lord. That is why I would never do anything to hurt him.”

“I will pray for you,” he says, and walks quickly away without a further backward glance.

Why is it so terrible for a man to be a god? I do not comprehend the reasons for Aguilar’s anguish but I do understand the warning I have been given. From now on I must be very careful.

It is clear that these thunder gods and their moles and dwarves do not know my lord is Feathered Serpent. He himself wants to hide his identity from them; that would explain his reticence in the church. It is not for me to understand his reasons for doing this, so I must tread carefully until I do.  

His new quarters was not the palace he had imagined for himself; the floor was beaten earth, the walls clay brick, the roof constructed of thatch. But it placed him firmly in this new land. There could be no going back now.

Cortés put quill and parchment aside, interrupting the letter he was presently writing to the King of Spain and regarded his two visitors.

His great treasure, Malinali, kept her gaze demurely to the floor. How he would like to warm himself by that particular fire! Those black eyes and proud nose were sufficient challenge to any man.

And then there was Aguilar, awkward and thin, sweat like dewdrops in his thinning hair, his hatchet mouth a study in piety.

Cortés slapped at an insect on his neck. “I want you to ask Doña Marina to tell me more about the capital of the Mexica, this place they call Tenochtitlán. She has told me that she went there once, as a child.”

Malinali replied softly to the question.

“The woman asks what it is you wish to know,” Aguilar said. “She will do her best to search her memory.”

“She has said the city is built on a great lake. Can the city then only be reached by boat?”

“She says Tenochtitlán is connected to the mainland by three causeways,” Aguilar answered. “There are bridges on the causeway, made of wood, which can be removed quickly in the event of an attack, making the city impregnable.”

Impregnable, Cortés thought with a smile. How often had he heard men say that about a woman or a city? “And what is the city like? Is it like Cempoallan?”

Malinali became animated. Cortés thought she would never stop talking, words spilling from her in a rush. Aguilar spoke quickly also, to try and keep up with the translation. Finally: “She says it is much bigger and incomparably more beautiful than Cempoallan. She says on the outskirts of the city are what the Mexica call chinampas, islands of mud that have been built in the water and that are used to grow crops. The suburbs are adobe and thatch houses, similar to the ones in which the Cempoallans live, but at the centre of the city there are many large temples and palaces, too many to count. She says that the population is numbered not in thousands, but in hundreds of thousands.”

Cortés was disappointed. All Indians were prone to exaggeration and it seemed even this Malinali was guilty of it. If she was to be believed such a city would be the largest in the known world, and it was quite obviously impossible for savages to construct anything on the same scale as, say, Venice or Rome or Sevilla. He decided to confine his questions to military matters: “ Ask her, if a force of men were able to get over one of the bridges, could the city then be easily invested?”

Malinali understood immediately what he was asking.

“She says it is impossible to take Tenochtitlán by frontal assault. The houses all have flat roofs and parapets, like Gordo’s. The warriors could use them as forts.”

So: they would have to find some other way inside.

“Thank her for her wisdom,” he said to Aguilar. “Even as a child she was obviously a very bright and observant little girl.” He saw her smile with pleasure at this flattery.

Aguilar leaned forward. “Should we pay so much attention to the word of an Indian girl?”

“I shall be the judge of that.”

“But my Lord ...”

“Be silent or you will regret it!”

Aguilar obeyed. Cortés drummed his fingers on the table. “I have one more question to ask of her. I need to know more about the relationship the Mexica enjoy with their neighbours. Are the Totonacs the only peoples who struggle under their yoke?”

Malinali had much to say on this subject.

“She says the Mexica have many enemies inside the federation,” Aguilar translated. “I think what she is saying ... I do not quite understand everything but it would seem that the Mexica are regarded as upstarts in the Valley of Mexico, that they have attained their dominance through brutality. She says they demand heavy tribute from all the tribes under their dominion, and there is great resentment against them. There is even one republic permanently at war with them.”

“Indeed?”

“She says it is called Texcala, the Land of the Eagle Crags. It is situated in the mountains between here and Tenochtitlán.”

“I see.” A kingdom divided against itself cannot stand. “Well. Thank Doña Marina kindly for me, Brother Aguilar. She has been most helpful. Tell her I may wish to speak with her again later, but that is all for now.”

As Malinali rose, their eyes met. There was no mistaking that look from a woman, even a naturale. I am her chosen, whenever I decide to take what is offered. But I must tread carefully. He looked back at Aguilar, who had not missed this moment of commerce. He was waiting, apparently thinking that he would now be consulted privately.

“You may go also,” Cortés said to him and took satisfaction from the look of wounded pride on the deacon’s face.

When they had gone, he considered his position. The idea that had insinuated itself in his mind was not so much a plan as yet another gamble, perhaps the biggest wager of his life. But, why not take it? He was thirty three years old. What else was there for a man of his years but to die or claim his fame and fortune? So many men worried over danger, as if they would live forever, and left their destinies unclaimed. Of one thing he was sure; if a man did not choose his moment of risk by the time of his middle years, the rest of his life would pass by in a moment and be done. He had promised himself, when he left Extremadura, that he would either dine with trumpets or die on the gallows.