Feathered Serpent (19 page)

———————

Acrid smoke on an empty plain.

The Texcálans had finally retreated into the valley reaches. Ordaz hawked deep in his throat. “I told you, Benítez. Cannon fodder.”

Cortés walked his horse back through the guns, a bloodied sword hanging limp in his right hand. “Perhaps now they will parlay,” he said.

I hope so, Benítez thought. If they do not, we are all dead. A horse is supposed to be worth three hundred men. If that is true, then this small engagement has cost us six hundred dead and nine hundred wounded.

Jaramillo waited until Cortés had moved out of earshot then leaned down from the saddle. “What kind of Indian is not afraid of a horse?” he whispered.

Benítez did not respond. He did not have the answer.

We have found another broad plain, and a green panorama of maize plantations. The villagers have abandoned their farms before us, taking everything with them but a few small and hairless dogs that were immediately slaughtered for the pot.

We have set camp near a small stream. Night is falling quickly, black and cold. It starts to rain.

Four of the
jinetas
were wounded in the clash with the Texcálan scouts and the thunder gods have their owl man, who is called Mendez, cauterise the wounds with hot steel. The men’s screams make the hair rise at the back of my neck. Rain Flower and I offer our services to Mendez and show him how to dress the men’s' wounds with the fat from a dead Texcálan warrior.

Sentries are placed around the camp and the thunder gods try to sleep, but I watch them start at the screech of every night owl and wild cat that prowls these dismal mountains. Their moles roll their eyes and shiver under their blankets. Even their beasts whimper and fret at the night.

———————

A candle burns in Feathered Serpent’s tent as he holds his war council. I smell fear on them all.

“We should go back,” Leon is saying.

“We cannot go back, even if we desire it,” my lord rebukes him. “Put your noses to the wind, gentlemen. Do you not smell it? That is the sweet aroma of boiling pine sap, coming from the east. The gate through which we entered is no longer deserted. The Texcálans await us there and if we try to retreat we shall receive a bath of scalding pitch as we pass under the walls. How often must I remind you? Our Indian allies support us because they think us invincible. Should we prove otherwise we will no doubt find ourselves adding a few pounds to Gordo’s girth even if we escape this particular trap.”

There is a profound and sombre silence.

“I have discussed today’s events with Dona Marina, and there seems to me no cause for gloom.”

“Well, there is no need for her to be gloomy,” Alvarado mutters. “She does not have to fight these devils.”

I cannot believe my ears. How dare he talk to me this way? “Give me your sword and I will despatch these whoresons as well as you,” I tell him. “In return you can cook my Lord’s dog for dinner.” And then I add, for good measure, a new word I have just learned: “Goat fucker!”

Alvarado’s eyes flash in anger, but the other thunder lords turn their heads to hide their grins.

“Before you give yourself over to your temper,” Cortés says, trying to mollify him, “hear what she has to say.” At least my lord shows me proper respect, as it should be. I serve Feathered Serpent, but that does not make me vassal to any of these others.

I gather my thoughts in the strange tongue they call Castilian. “Some of you are wondering why the Texcaltéca returned today for their dead and wounded. This is because a warrior believes that if he leaves the corpse of his comrade on the place of flowers, the Lord of Darkness will curse him until the day he dies. He also believes the enemy will eat these dead bodies and absorb their valour and strength so tomorrow he will be twice as fierce.”

“Their belief in this witchery cost them twice as many dead today,” Benítez says.

“It is true,” I tell him. “But whether he is Mexica or Texcaltéca or Totonáca, a warrior has a strict code that must be obeyed on the place of flowers. To kill, as you do, with your great iron serpents at a great distance ... to a Person, this is unnatural ... and dishonourable. A coward’s way.”

Alvarado looks perplexed. “Is she insulting us?”

“What she is saying is that if he has the stamina, there is no reason why one man should not kill scores of
naturales
, perhaps hundreds. If they were a conventional army their numbers would be enough to crush us but these Indians have no military discipline, and their glass spears shatter on our steel armour.” He slams both palms on the table. “Let them come on tomorrow. We shall show them what Spanish arms can do, as we did the Tabascans. After that, they will beg for an alliance.”

Look at them. I do not understand why they are so afraid. They are just dust, after all, borne on the wind of the gods, the east wind of Quetzalcóatl, Feathered Serpent. They are privileged to rise above the ordinary lives of men, of planting and tilling, birth and death. If they cannot sacrifice their bodies in the service of a god, what other end is there to life? 

The wind howled over the black plain. As he left the
caudillo
’s tent Benítez saw a dozen soldiers huddled around a meagre fire. He stumbled over a body in the darkness.

“I piss in your mother’s grave,” a voice hissed at him.

“Norte?”

“Ah, my apologies, my lord,” Norte grunted. “If I had known it was a captain who stepped on my head I would have kept silent.”

Norte was shivering, just a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders. “Why aren’t you with the others?”

“Why do you think?”

Benítez found a cob of maize he had saved from Cortés’ table and pushed it into his hands. “Here. Take it. Go on, it’s not poisoned.”

Norte snatched it, mumbled his thanks. Benítez blew into his hands.

“How is your horse?” Norte asked, his mouth full of corn.

“Lame.”

“You’re lucky you’re still alive. These Texcálans have a reputation for fighting. Cortés must try and talk his way out of this. He won’t defeat them in battle.”

“He thinks we can.”

“Once they get used to the noise of the cannon we won’t beat them back as easily.”

“They could have killed me easily today,” Benítez said.

“They did not wish to kill you. A true warrior is only interested in the glory of having a prisoner to offer to the gods. What is the point of wars otherwise?”

“To win.”

Norte laughed, a hollow sound like the bark of a frightened dog. “That is the Spanish way of thinking. For these people a battle is a gathering of ... of duels. You understand? One man against one, a thousand times.”

“Is that why they do not help each other? They could have overcome me easily if they had attacked together.”

“The battlefield is the only way a young man can raise himself above his station in life. If he wins enough captives, he will wear rich cloaks and have his own harem and live in a beautiful house. That is why they do not help each other. You do not rob a comrade of his one chance of a better life.”

Benítez listened, fascinated and repelled by these ideas. “Is that how you fought for the Maya?”

“I had other uses. I gave them another bloodline.”

“And will our great lover fight for us tomorrow?”

“I must. Or the Texcálans will kill me, won’t they?”

“Even though they are your people?”

“The Maya were my people. These are Texcálans.”

“They’re
naturales
.”

“Must you continually bait me, Benítez? Do you want me to say the words? All right, it’s true, I despise you, all of you. I even despise myself for there is still part of me that is a Spaniard. If I could I would go back to live with the Maya. But I can’t. Is that what you wanted to hear? Will you hang me now?”

Benítez heard a wild dog’s mournful howl somewhere on the plain. Can Norte not understand that for a civilised man to live with heathen is an abomination before God? He thought. How can a Spaniard say that he prefers to live like a savage? How can a man find happiness among the reek of their temples, prostrating himself before clay idols?

He walked away. He had no time for priests but before this expedition was through he was determined to make his own conversion here. Norte would see that he was right.

Then he would let them hang him.

I watch Cortés kneel before the goddess Virgin, his lips moving in silent prayer, tiny beads clicking softly between his fingers. He is totally absorbed by his devotion and does not notice that I am awake. He finishes the prayer and makes the sign of the Cross in the air.

He reaches for his gauntlets and sword. Last night he undressed to explore the pleasures of the cave, but when we were done he had replaced all but his steel armour. I swore to him that the Texcaltéca never fought at night but he said that a good commander never assumed anything. He ordered patrols for the perimeter and told all the men to sleep ready in their armour, as he did.

“Is it morning so soon?” I whisper.

His eyes shine in the grey light, luminous as a cat. “I did not mean to wake you.”

“It was not you who woke me.” I sit up, pull the rough woollen blanket about my shoulders. “I heard the ocelots calling to each other in the valley.”

He buckles his sword, took the helmet he calls a
burgonet
, with its long green plume, from the table. The morning wind whips at the silk of the tent. He hesitates before going outside. “Will the Texcálans yield, Marina? If we vanquish them today, will they sue for peace?”

“I cannot say, my lord. All I know is that they have never yielded to the Mexica.”

He looks suddenly sad. “I do not wish to fight them. They have forced me to this. What am I to do?”

What kind of god is this, I ask myself, that fights his enemies only when they bring him to it? Who weeps over every drop of blood spilt? Why can the Texcaltéca not see that he is their salvation and not their enemy?

I hear the murmur of soldiers' voices outside; they kneel before Fray Olmedo and Fray Diaz by turns, whispering strange and strangled prayers, as they have been doing through the night. The Texcaltéca drums start to beat somewhere in the early dark.

I catch his wrist. “My lord, when you plan the battle remember that they do not fight as you do. If they lose their commanders they lose heart. Remember this.”

“I will remember it.” He kisses me gently and leaves the tent.

I watch the shadows fade to grey, hear the mountain cats howling to welcome Feathered Serpent as he strides to his horse. The ocelots are sacred to my dawn lord, and they have awaited him on this day of all days to acclaim his coming.

For the first time I feel a little afraid. If he should be defeated today, he will return to the Cloud Lands to wait for a more propitious time. But for me there will be no other days, nor would I wish for them. Why survive just to spend the rest of my life at the loom until I am old and withered? Rather a glorious death with Quetzalcóatl than a wearisome life without him.

———————

And this is what happened.

The entire plain is covered with the naturals; there are the Otomí in their war paint of red and white, the Texcaltéca striped with the yellow and white of the Rock Heron clan, the generals sporting the great battle standards of their lord, Ring of the Wasp. The sun flashes on thousands of obsidian blades. I hear the blast of whistles and conch shells, the ululations of their war cries, the beat of the snakeskin
teponaztli
drums: ta-tam, ta-tam, ta-tam ...

My lord forms his tiny army into a square, the artillery at the wings and his
jinetas
at point. He rides his warhorse ten paces to the front and himself reads out the strange god-language that the thunder gods call the Requiremiento. His voice is all but drowned by the battle cries of the Texcaltéca as they move towards us across the plain.

My lord spurs his warhorse around so that he is facing his soldiers. “Gentlemen. The cavalry will make their charge by three. Keep your lances high ... “

The Texcaltéca come on, the hammering of drums and the blast of whistles deafening. My lord must raise his voice to make himself heard.

“ ... remember, they wish for captives, not for kills, and their glass lances will shatter on your armour. Do not concern yourselves with being overwhelmed for only the front rank of the Indians will fight and no more than one Indian will confront you at any one time. Your only enemy today is fatigue ...”

The Texcaltéca are almost within bow range.

“The arquebusiers and the crossbowmen will stagger their fire so that they are not overrun.” He turns his horse to face the enemy and draws his sword. “For God and for Saint James!”

I realise our Totonáca allies have not understood a single word of my lord’s speech. So I clamber on one of the thunder serpents and raise my voice in the elegant speech: “People of the Totonáca! Feathered Serpent promises us victory today! You cannot die! He has promised to make you invincible!”

They raise their war clubs and cheer wildly when they hear this.

Aguilar grabs me by the arm and shakes me. “What are you telling them?”

I tear myself free of his impudent grip and ignore him.

“What did you tell them?” he screams at me again, but his words are lost in the bedlam. A shower of arrows, darts and stones rain down on us.