Feathered Serpent (31 page)

———————

A charcoal brazier burned in the corner of the room, for the nights were cool. The sounds of flutes and drums drifted on the cold November air. The naturals were dancing and singing in the streets, an ominous sign. The fear that had gripped the city on their arrival had dissipated. Once again there were rumours among the Tlaxcalans of a planned attack by the Mexica. It was Cholula all over again.

Cortés stood to address his council.

“Gentlemen, we are presented with an exquisite dilemma. At this moment we are all of us rich beyond our wildest dreams, and yet we might as well all be as poor as heathen for we are trapped here in this city with our fabulous treasure. If we are not free to leave and take our gold with us, we might as well be back in Cuba with our dreams.

“When we first arrived here, the emperor agreed to vassalage under our Majesty the King of Spain and relinquished his throne to us, in accordance with the requiremiento. Yet I believe he played us false for we have been in Tenochtitlán these five days and he still clings to his old powers while we are treated as no more than honoured guests. Have any of you gentlemen suggestions on how we should proceed?”

“Should we not wait further, and see what transpires?” Jaramillo asked.

“If we play such a game we are likely to fall victim of it. Although these Indians love us now, their hearts are fickle. Already it seems they find their hospitality too lavish. All of you here have seen how our provisions decrease day by day. Should they wish, they may at any time remove the bridges from the causeways and instantly we become not their guests but their prisoners. They do not even need to attack us; they might as easily starve us out and then offer up our hearts to their devilish idols. Motecuhzoma could, if he chose, poison the food he gives us. At the moment we are at their mercy.”

To have their situation so baldly stated sent a shiver through everyone in the room.

“Let us steal the gold and leave by night for Vera Cruz then,” Ordaz said.

Cortés gave his infantry commander a chill smile. “You forget that between here and the coast is a place called Tlaxcala. Should Ring of the Wasp the Elder discover that we have abandoned his warriors to their fate inside Tenochtitlán he may decide we are not the allies he had wished for. Is there any here who ardently desires further battles with the Tlaxcalans?”

Cortés seemed to take an almost sadistic delight in defining their dilemma.

“We do not have to return by way of Tlaxcala,” Sandoval murmured.

“No, we can flee through territory belonging to the Mexica,” Cortés said. “Is it your opinion that they will let us leave peaceably, our pockets weighed down with their treasure? In the unlikely event that we outrun and outmanoeuvre Motecuhzoma’s armies, it will take us months to build boats to return us to Cuba. And when we arrive there, my lord the Governor will take all the riches from us anyway.”

Depression settled over them like a fog.

“There is a further complication,” Cortés went on, relentlessly. “Before we left Cholula, I received a message in secret from the coast, from Juan Escalante who commands our fortress at Vera Cruz.”

This is not going to be good news, Benítez thought.

“The local Mexica governor attacked a force of our comrades in arms who had entered his territory. They were routed on the battlefield together with our Totonac allies. Nine of your fellow Spaniards died from their wounds. Many more were wounded but were able to flee to Vera Cruz, by the grace of God.”

There was an appalled silence. Until now the one thing that had stood between them and the Indians was the myth of their invincibility on the battlefield. Now the Mexica had put the lie to that. If Motecuhzoma’s armies had attacked them on the coast, what was to stop them routing them in their own capital?

“Why did you not tell us this news before?” Benítez said.

“To what end? If you had known in Cholula you would all have wanted to turn back, and the Tlaxcalans would have slaughtered us. There never has been any other choice but to come here.”

They all looked at each other. This appalling man, Benítez thought. What has he done?

“Then there is only one course of action open to us,” Alvarado said.

Benítez looked up, suspicious. This sounded as if it had been rehearsed. Perhaps Cortés had tutored him in what to say, as he had seen him do before.

“We must do as we did at Cempoallan,” Alvarado continued. “We must hold a knife at their chief’s throat.”

“You mean Motecuhzoma?” Le¢n said.

“We must take him hostage. With the emperor in our power we will be masters of our own fate once more - and of Tenochtitlán.”

“This is a dangerous adventure,” Cortés said, as if such a suggestion had never occurred to him. “We should think carefully before we act.”

Benítez could not believe his ears. Utter madness. “We are just three hundred Castilians and a few thousand unpredictable Indians. You think that by holding one man as hostage we can control millions?”

“What else did you think we should do when we came here?” Cortés asked him.

Oh, he has planned this from the beginning, Benítez thought with horror. This was always his plan, probably even as early as Vera Cruz. “You said we had come here not to fight, but to trade,” he said. “To talk.”

“Benítez,” Cortés said with a smile. “You are such an innocent!”

They all looked at Cortés, then at one another, all brought face to face with their own greed. Cortés was right. Had they really been so naive? They had followed him to this point hoping that by subterfuge they might walk away from the valley of the Mexica with their pockets full. Yet all the time he had been leading them towards a confrontation with Motecuhzoma, a confrontation they could not possibly win.

This terrible
hidalgo
who leads us is utterly mad, Benítez thought. But we are lost without him.

“Is there any other suggestion?” Cortés asked them.

No one spoke. He was right, of course; taking Motecuhzoma as their hostage was their only hope. From the moment in San Juan de Ulúa when they had voted Cortés his colony and his position as
caudillo
, the die was cast.

“Then it seems you are decided, gentlemen,” Cortés said. “Let us all make our peace tonight with God. Tomorrow we shall visit Motecuhzoma.”

——————— 

Benítez, Rain Flower and Norte sat on mats around the low table, picking at the food the Mexica slave girls had brought for them; some meat that Norte identified as iguana, sweet potatoes, maize cakes, beans in a chilied sauce. Rain Flower seemed to have broken free of the melancholy that had gripped her since Cholula. She oput endless questions to him through Norte.

“Where were you born?”

“Do you have a wife?”

“How old are you?”

Benítez answered her questions as best he could, but his mind was elsewhere. He had no appetite for his dinner and pushed his plate away. He had hardly touched his food.

“Rain Flower asks what is wrong,” Norte said.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

“She thinks she has done something to displease you.”

“It is nothing she has done.” He stared at the frieze of warriors and monsters captured in perpetual battle on the wall in vermillion and ochre. “I think, Norte, that you may have been right all along.”

Norte looked up, surprised.

“I now doubt that what we do here in this city is godly.”

“Your doubts are not going to save the Mexica ... or us.”

Rain Flower leaned forward and said something to Norte.

“What did she say?”

“It is difficult to translate. I do not know the word.”

“You can make an attempt at it.”

Norte shrugged. “She is unhappy because you look sad. She wants you to know she thinks kindly of you.”

“That she loves me?”

Norte avoided his eyes. “The word is not quite the same in their language.”

Benítez sighed. What should it matter what she thought of him? Once he imagined going back to Cuba with gold in his pocket and living out the rest of his life in ease with this beautiful little Indian. What a stupid dream.

Tomorrow they were all going to die in this infernal place.

“Tell her she is free to do as she pleases tonight,” he said.

Norte looked startled. “Captain?”

“We are going to die tomorrow so it doesn’t matter any more. So you may tell her that she may sleep tonight wherever she chooses. She has fulfilled her obligations too me. Don’t stare at me like that, Norte, just do as I say.”

He thinks I am soft in the head, he thought. Perhaps he is right. But when all mortal fancies are gone, it is easy to be just and generous.

Norte smiled and whispered to Rain Flower, Her eyes went wide.

Let them do as they wish. I shall find a jar of Cuban wine somewhere to see me through this last, cold night.

Rain Flower said something to Norte, who sucked in his breath as if he had been stabbed. Then he got to his feet and rushed out of the room. The silver bells on the curtain across the doorway jangled and shook.

Benítez looked at Rain Flower. She smiled, moved closer, and picked up his hand.

“God in heaven,” he murmured.

Who would have believed it?

I am asleep when my lord returns from his final counsels with Alvarado and Sandoval. He wakes me roughly and mounts. He holds my shoulders, thrusting deep inside, more savage than loving.

It is always like this with him when there is danger, before the great battles at Tlaxcala, before Cholula. The anticipation of death excited him. It is the restless god in him.

Tonight though something takes place in my mind as well as my body, for I see his seed rushing into me, hot and sticky, taking root in my belly. Afterwards, as he kneels by the window saying his prayers to his goddess Virgin, I think I can feel the moment when it begins, when the seed of a god becomes a part of my own mortal body.

————
———

My lord arrives at the palace accompanied by his captains - Alvarado, Sandoval, León and Benítez - as well as a number of his soldiers under the command of Bernal de Díaz. They are all wearing their steel armour, and they all march in past the bodyguards i.n Revered Speaker’s palace.

Our unexpected arrival causes panic. There is frenzied but pointless activity all around us. An usher directs us to a private quarter of the royal apartments where Motecuhzoma is amusing himself with his caged birds; black, glossy grackles in silver cages.

If he is alarmed by our unexpected visit, he does not show it. He takes his ease on a carved wooden
ypcalli
and gestures for my lord to join him.

My lord indicates that it is his desire to remain standing. I pass this sentiment on to revered Speaker and finally he perceives a threat. He attempts to disarm us by indicating the two lavishly costumed young women who sit demurely in the corner, their eyes on the ground.

“Motecuhzoma says these women are his daughters. He would like to offer them to you as your wives.” The children of such a marriage would be offspring of the Emperor and the gods. With such an alliance he clearly hopes to avert any confrontation in the traditional Mexican manner.

My lord examines these new offerings. He raises his eyebrows appreciatively and I feel a stab of pain.

“That is most kind of him,” he said, but there is no kindness in his voice and only steel in his grey eyes. “But please tell him I cannot take another wife because I have already have one.”

I bit her lip. Who is this woman who exercises such great control over my lord’s life? Or is this just an excuse? Perhaps the woman he finds irreplaceable in his life is me.

“Tell him that I have not come here to discuss his daughters.”

“My lord thanks you for your kind offer,” I tell Revered Speaker, “but he wishes to talk to you of other things.”

Motecuhzoma looks truly frightened now.

“Ask him if he still has the head of Juan de Argüello.”

At the mention of a decapitated head, Motecuhzoma turns the colour of cold ash. “Tell my lord Malinche I do not know what he means.”

My lord holds up his hand. “You do not need to translate that. I see he knows what I am talking about.”

My eyes meet his. I revel in such moments of conspiracy between us. This morning we spoke at length of this encounter and he has tutored me well. I have never felt so powerful, or so proud. I only wish that my father, his spirit wandering miserably in the Land of the Dead, could see this me at this moment.

“Ask him to explain the unprovoked attack on my men at Vera Cruz.”

I think Motecuhzoma is going to faint when I put this question to him.

“I know nothing of this,” he says, and breaks into a high-pitched giggle.

“He thinks this is a jest?” Alvarado snarls and takes a step forward.

My lord puts a hand on his arm to still him then regturns to his inquisition of the emperor. “Nine of my men were killed by his warriors,” he continues, over Motecuhzoma’s protests. “My captains wish to take revenge immediately. I am all that keeps them from burning down his capital and its temples.”

I repeat this ridiculous assertion and I am astonished that Motecuhzoma takes it seriously.

“You must tell my Lord Malinche that it is not I who is at fault, but the governor of that district, Smoking Eagle. I will send for him at once to answer your questions.'

“He blames the governor of the district. As you said he would.”

“Tell him what we require of him.”

I turn to Motecuhzoma. “My lord is very disappointed. Thus far he has shown you nothing but friendship but now he believes you have treated him falsely. However, he says he will forgive you if you accompany him, without fuss, to his palace, and remain there with him until this matter is settled.”

Motecuhzoma stares at me as this was the ravings of a madwoman. I cannot blame him. Even I do not think my lord’s plan will work.

“I have ... I have explained I had nothing to do ... with this. I cannot be given such an order. Whoever ... whoever heard of this?”

“He refuses, my lord.”

“Explain to him that if it were up to me, I would certainly never ask such a thing, but that my captains are insistent. There is no other way to solve this problem.”

Motecuhzoma twitches and stammers, unable to fully grasp what is going on. “This is a most grevious affront ... to the dignity of the Mexica. My chiefs and priests could never consent ... to such an arrangement.”

“Explain to him, that there is no affront here. After all, the palace where he will abide once belonged to his own father. He will be treated with every respect accorded a great king.”

“My people would never allow this to happen!” Motecuhzoma shouts. “There would be uproar.”

“Tell them your gods have asked it of you,” I tell him. “Tell them that you are going of your own free will"

“I cannot do such a thing! It is impossible!”

The argument rages for almost an hour. The Thunder Lords become uneasy. their eyes stray nervously to the guards ringed around the room.

León is the first to break. His hand goes to his sword. “Let us just drag him out of here with a knife at his throat,” he hisses. “We do not have time to waste on more of this!”

“Silence!”

“We have already spent too long arguing with this dog!” Jaramillo joins in. Fear has made him bold.

Motecuhzoma watches this angry exchange in bewilderment. Something must be done to break the stalemate. I move closer. “They want to kill you,” I whisper.

“Kill me?” His voice is shrill, like a girl’s.

“It is only the Lord Malinche holding them back. They want to kill you and put the Great temple to the torch.”

“They would not dare!”

“Look at them, my lord, these men are afraid of nothing. I know, I have been with them since the very beginning.”

“Tell Malinche he may take my daughters, my son as well, if he wishes. Will that not satisfy his warriors?”

I relay this offer to my lord, who is, of course, contemptuous.

“This is taking too long!” Jaramillo repeated, his panic betrayed in his voice. “Let’s just grab him now!”

“No one makes a move against the emperor unless I give the order!”

Meanwhile Motecuhzoma pleads with me. Oh Father, if only you could see him now, how he sweats and grovels.

“There is only one way you can avert the disaster we all dread,” I tell him. “My lord is very angry with you and with all the Mexica. You must do as he asks and go with him. Nothing else will pacify him.”

I am certain Motecuhzoma will defy us. If he does, of course, he will die on the end of León’s sword, and we will then all be slaughtered by the palace guards. But while he still believes my lord is Feathered Serpent, he hesitates.

We wait.

The burden of his situation overwhelms him. He puts his head on his chest and weeps.

Motecuhzoma was borne from the palace in a plain litter that his own chamberlain used for visiting the Tlatelolco markets. He wore a plain cotton robe, the same robe he used for visiting the temple. As he passed through the cavernous halls he shouted to his startled servants and courtiers that he was going with the Thunder Lords of his own accord, that he wanted to get to know the strangers better, that he had consulted Hummingbird who had endorsed his decision. He gave orders for his court, his entertainers and concubines to be transferred to his father’s palace at once.

Then there was silence, except for the tramp of the Castilians’ boots in the cavernous halls. They all had their swords drawn. The whole palace stopped and stared at this extraordinary sight.

His bodyguards called to him, asking if he wanted them to fight the Spaniards. “No,” he shouted back. “These lords are my friends. I am in no danger.”

And all the while he wept.