Feathered Serpent (39 page)

———————

“How could this have happened?”

“My lord, they were plotting against us just as they did at Cholula,” Alvarado pleaded. “One of the priests we brought here confessed in the presence of witnesses ...”

“Tenochtitlán is not the same as Cholula! They were planning a festival, no more. Now you have turned the whole capital against us!”

“They have just thrown a few stones and lances,” Alvarado protested, his voice sulky.

“They were just waiting for us to return, so they would have us all trapped here in their prison!”

“We will have Motecuhzoma talk to the people. Perhaps you can pretend to be angry at me to placate him.”

Pretend? Alvarado truly did not understand the nature of the blunder he had made. Perhaps that is my own fault, he thought. Alvarado is a loyal and good soldier, but I entrusted him with too much responsibility, elevated him beyond his intelligence.

Malinali entered the room from Motecuhzoma’s apartments. Olid, the captain of Motecuhzoma’s guard, accompanied her.

“My lord, Motecuhzoma wishes urgently to speak with you,” she said.

“I would rather talk to my dog.”

It was Olid who interjected on the Emperor’s behalf. “But my lord, he is weeping most piteously and is greatly distraught, perhaps we could ...”

“By my conscience! Who is your commander, me or Motecuhzoma?” The rebuke silenced him. In truth, the emperor’s guards had spent too long with him. They treated him as if he was their favourite uncle. “Our great friend Motecuhzoma has had secret relations with Nárvaez. I have always treated him as I would my own brother, and now he has betrayed me!”

I came so close! Cortés thought. I could have presented this great city to His Majesty intact, without fighting, but because of Velásquez' greed and Nárvaez' foolishness, I was lured away at the very moment of greatest crisis. Motecuhzoma has to shoulder some of this blame also, dealing with Nárvaez while he still called me friend. Between them, they have ruined my grand design through their stupidity and treachery!

But there was hope. Alvarado was reckless but he was also very thorough. Every noble family had lost at least one family member in the recent massacre, and so many of the important generals and senators had been murdered that it must surely have created a power vacuum. Even the Mexica could not recover quickly from such a loss. He might yet be able to conjure victory from this disaster.

Benítez watched from the roof as Ordaz led his men through the gates of the palace. An eerie silence hung over the streets and canals. Only the smoke drifting from the temples showed the Mexica had not utterly abandoned the city.

Ordaz had four hundred infantry with him. In the next few minutes he would discover the Mexica’s intentions.

“Where is she?” a voice said.

Benítez looked around, startled. It was Norte.

“What?”

“Rain Flower. Where is she?”

Benítez returned his attention to the column of nervous troops below; their arrows were nocked in their crossbows, firearms loaded, swords drawn. “I don’t know.”

“Why did she not accompany us when we rode against Nárvaez?”

“Is it your intention to interrogate me, Norte? You forget yourself.”

“I am concerned for her safety.”

“She is no concern of yours.” Look at him, he does not even try to hide from me how badly he still wants her. I should have hung him, it was within my power. Instead I feel an unnatural kinship with him, due, it seems, to our shared concern for a copper-skinned savage.

Below him, the line of infantry snaked through the streets and across the plaza. Still no sign of an attack. Perhaps they would have the miracle they all prayed for.

“Cortés does not suspect?” Norte asked.

He knows! Benítez realised; somehow he knows what she did.

At that moment bedlam broke out in the streets of Tenochtitlán. It started with a a murderous rain of arrows and stones from the roofs onto the heads of Ordaz’s soldiers. Then the
naturales
poured into the street, their bodies painted, feather plumes dancing as they ran, their terrible ululations freezing the blood. The emperor’s Eagle Knights, in their beaked helmets and feathered suits, led the assault.

Ordaz’s vanguard fell under the weight of that first attack. The bugler sounded the retreat.

The plaza, empty a few moments ago, was now filled with Mexica warriors. Jaguar Knights rushed the walls with ladders, others tried to fire the gates with their torches. They were answered with volleys of musketry and crossbows.

Benítez drew his sword. I never wanted to be a soldier, he thought. I wanted to have a farm and a little hacienda of my own. Look where my greed and ambition has led me.

I know that head, Benítez thought. It belonged to a soldier named Guzman. I spoke to him on several occasions. Now here it is, patrolling the distant parapet, in grotesque parody. His neck had been sewn directly onto his severed foot. The Indians were moving to the right, then the left, with the aid of a long stick.

Fray Guevarra turned from the window, pale and trembling. “The devil’s work!”

Not the Devil, but a clever tactic nevertheless. It had had a particularly telling effect on Nárvaez' men, who were new to the country and not hardened to the ways of the
naturales
.

Ordaz’s foray had proved disastrous. His force had fought their way back to the palace with the greatest difficulty, for the loss of twenty three men, killed or captured. Guzman and Flores were among those missing. Of those that survived, nearly all were injured; Ordaz himself carried three wounds.

The Mexica had tried to fire the gates and had breeched one of the palace walls. They had held them back with volleys from the arquebuses and crossbows, but the Mexica did not finally desist until they dragged one of the
falconet
s across the court and decimated them at close quarters. That evening they had counted another forty six of their comrades wounded; a dozen of those had since died from their wounds.

The attacks continued, day after day. The Mexica hurled rocks and blazing pitch at the walls while their Eagle Knights led further charges against the gates. The once-graceful patios and fountains were carpeted with arrows and stones. They spent every daylight hour throwing down scaling ladders, filling breeches in the walls, fighting hand to hand on the parapets, dragging the
falconet
s from courtyard to courtyard to blast back some new incursion. They lived and ate and slept in their armour, fought until they were exhausted, then fought on.

The great drum on the summit of the Temple beat continuously, night and day, fraying nerves and tempers.

“We are low on food and water,” Alvarado said. “The Mexica do not need to defeat us in battle, they can starve us out if they wish. I say we run for the coast. Our position here is untenable.”

“How will we do that?” Léon asked him. “You saw what happened to Ordaz. They will massacre us before we get a hundred paces.”

“The Mexica do not fight at night,” Benítez offered. “If we leave under cover of darkness we might slip past them.”

“What about the bridges? They have cut the causeways.”

“We can make portable bridges,” Benítez answered. “There is enough wood in the palace that we can use. Martín Lopez told me that he can build us whatever we need.”

“Even if we escape,” Sandoval said, “what about the Texcálans? Perhaps they will turn on us to regain favour with the Mexica.”

Fray Guevarra put his head in his hands. “I should never have followed you, Cortés ! See where you have led us!”

Cortés took no part in their deliberations. He stared out of the window, his hands crossed behind his back. Below him in the plaza, torches flitted like giant fireflies, Mexica women searching for their sons and brothers and fathers among the piles of rotting dead. Their attackers continued to shout their defiance from the surrounding buildings and occasionally an arrow would clatter harmlessly onto the roof.

“The Lord will save us,” Aguilar said. “He has stood with us from Vera Cruz and He will not abandon us now.”

“I rather think we have all tempted the Lord’s patience a little far with our adventures,” Fray Olmedo said.

“What about the gold?” León said. “If we run, what about the gold? We risk losing everything we have fought for!”

And so it went on. Benítez glanced over at Cortés. Look at his expression; any moment now.

———————

“No!” he shouted, turning from the window and striding to the head of the table. A circle of frightened faces stared back at him. Most men were like dust, Cortés thought with disgust, just blown about with the wind. “Enough of this! Do none of you see? If we run from Tenochtitlán, we lose more than the gold. We lose a kingdom! This is our prize and we shall not give it up. What manner of men are you? Any soldier can be valorous when the victories are easy and the enemy is weak. But it is only in adversity that a man truly tests his courage. Did we endure so much to win this city, to give it up so easily?”

Silence. None of them could meet his eyes.

“Perhaps Motecuhzoma can speak for us with the people,” Fray Olmedo mumbled, finally.

“That dog! I will not request anything of him.”

“But my lord ...”

“No! By my conscience, I want nothing of him!”

“There may perhaps be one other way.”

He turned around; Malinali had come to stand quietly behind him.

“My lord, the tactic of war among the Mexica is to capture the enemy’s town and burn his temple. This desecration of his gods is tantamount to defeat. Should we do the same with the temple here, they may believe their gods have deserted them and give us their surrender.”

“Perhaps. But if we leave these gates we will be slaughtered,” Ordaz said.”Out there we have no protection against their missiles and darts,” Benítez added.

Alvarado nodded. “If only we could put our fort on wheels, as we do our cannon.”

Cortés stared at him. “Perhaps we can! Get me Martín Lopez. Now!”  

In just a few days Martín Lopez built four massive wooden towers – tortugas. Each was roofed over with timbers and mounted on wooden wheels, so that they could be physically propelled by the soldiers inside. There were loopholes for as many as two dozen crossbowmen and arquebusiers.

The moment has come, Benítez thought. Fear had left him dry-mouthed, and his bowels felt loose. He wanted to be on with this work. The worst time was always this waiting.

The gate creaked open and he shouted to his men to put their backs to their work. The great wheeled fortress groaned and began to roll.

Holy Mary, Mother of God ...

Baking hot in here, stinking of wood sap and sweat. Someone had pissed themselves in fear and the acrid reek of the urine made him shudder. As they rolled out of the gate he heard the whoops and screams of the Mexica, then the sharp crack of the muskets above them as the arquebusiers fired their first volleys. He threw his own weight against the rollers. Rocks thudded against the wooden walls, followed by the hiss and judder of arrows.

The temple was less than a hundred paces from the palace of the Face of the Water Lord. It might as well be a hundred miles.

Benítez ran after Cortés. Behind him he heard the cracking of timber as the last of the tortugas toppled and fell, then a rush of flame. No time to wonder how they would get back across the plaza to their sanctuary in the palace. He could only follow Cortés, burn the temple, do his duty. If this was his day to die, then so be it.

The priests were hurling burning logs down the steps. One hit the man beside him, knocked him screaming down the steep stone terrace. Benítez struggled on.

Cortés was already at the summit. By the time he reached him two of the priests already lay dead at his feet. Stragglers from Ordaz’s infantry helped pitch the great stone idols over the sides of the pyramid and down into the plaza.

Benítez ran inside the Hummingbird shrine with a torch.

And almost choked.

———————

The faces of the five Spaniards taken the day of Ordaz' first sally hung on the walls like bearded masks. The Mexica had tanned the skins expertly, painting them so that they appeared to be living, except that pieces of jade had been inserted where the eyes had once been.

Benítez recognised two of the heads. They belonged to Flores and Guzman.

“Welcome,” Flores said. “We’ve been waiting for you to join us in hell.”

Xipe Totec, the Flayed One, god of harvests, watched him from beyond the open pit where they delivered his sacrifices.

The sounds of the battle outside seemed to fade away. He suddenly felt calm.

“This is where all greed and ambition ends,” Guzman whispered to him. “This is the filling of every appetite. This is the last chapter of the flesh.”

“You can dream of riches and women and jewels,” Flores said, “but look! This is where the road leads us all.”

———————

He heard someone behind him and spun around. It was Norte, blood in his hair and blood on his sword, breathing hard.

“Your friends,” Benítez said.

Norte tore the skins from the poles and flung them into the pit below.

Cortés ran in, snatched a flaming torch from the walls, held it to the dry thatch of the roof. “Get out of here, all of you! We must withdraw to the palace!”

The thatch caught quickly; there was an angry roar as the flames took hold, and the shrine filled with black smoke. In moments the Hummingbird shrine was engulfed by fire, Rain Bringer soon after.

Perhaps now the Mexica would relent.

 ———————

“It will make no difference,” Motecuhzoma tells me.

The smell of smoke is strong. From the window I watch the adobe walls of the Yopico shrine shiver in the heat of the fire and collapse.

It is evening. Below us in the courtyard the thunder lords are preparing to bury their dead, others silently repair the breeches in the walls. I hear the groans of the wounded and the keening cries of the Texcaltéca as they mourn their losses.

“If you think this will break the spirit of the Mexica you are wrong. The Flayed One will be angry but Smoking Mirror and Hummingbird are safe in the forest.”

I do not answer.

“I can still save you, Malinali Tepenal.”

“How?”

He takes off his ring, extracts the turquoise seal and hands it to me. “This will guarantee your safe passage with the Mexica generals outside these walls. You can organise a parlay, lure Lord Malinche out of the gates. Once he is taken, his soldiers will weep like women and soon be vanquished. Do this for me and I will save your life.”

“What life? Making tamales? Weaving yarn?”

“You forget, you are just a woman. You hope for too much.”

“What I hope for is to be my lord’s wife and the mother of the next Toltec empire.” I held my belly. “This is not a vain wish for I have his blood in me.”

“The revered speakers of the Mexica come through me. You are nothing! Your Lord Malinche is not a god, but an impostor! If you defy me, you will die with him here. I will take out your heart myself and fling it in the face of Smoking Mirror.”

“You are wrong. He does have a god in him, a god more powerful than any you or I have dreamed of. He will perform his miracle.”

I want to escape this room, but as I turn away Motecuhzoma calls me back.

“Tell me one thing,” he says, his voice suddenly gentle.

“My lord?”

“Why do you do this? We have the same ancestors, the same language, the same gods. These invaders do not threaten only me, they threaten us all.”

“Us? Who is this us, my lord? My mother was Mexicatl, like you. She stole my birthright and gave me to slavery. I had no us until he came? Lord Malinche is my us.”

He has no answer for that. I leave him to watch the smoke from the burning temple stain the darkening sky, a funeral pyre for the Hummingbird people.  

“We are going to die,” Fray Guevarra shouted. “Because of you, Cortés! I should never have listened to your lies!”

“By my conscience, you will keep quiet, sir, or you will repent it!”

They had become accustomed now to the rituals of the siege; the acrid and pervading smoke; the booming of the
falconet
s; the crack of muskets; the ululation of the Mexica warriors; the infernal hammering of the drum in the Templo Mayor.

“We have to do something,” Alvarado said.

“I will not give up this city.”

“
Caudillo
,” Sandoval said quietly, “Alvarado is right. We cannot hold them forever. The walls are breeched in many places and our water is fetid. We are short of gunpowder and our stock of balls for the cannon is running low.”

“Then we will make more out of our gold! I have promised Tenochtitlán for my king and my god!”

Benítez looked at Malinali. She read the desperation in their eyes.

“Doña Marina,” Alvarado whispered. “Please. Talk to him.”

Even Alvarado, knows we need her now, Benítez thought.

She took Cortés by the arm, led him away from the others. There was a long, whispered exchange. Cortés’s shoulders slumped in defeat. He nodded to Christobal Olid, captain of the guard.

“Fetch Motecuhzoma,” he said.

———————

Motecuhzoma looks like a wizened old man. But as he peers around the room and sees the fear on the faces of these thunder lords, hears Fray Olmedo’s whispered incantations of prayer, a golden smile comes to his lips.

He turns to me. “Why have you brought me here? It is weeks since Lord Malinche has come to visit me. Now suddenly I am ushered into his presence without time to prepare. What does he want of me?”

“He needs your help, my lord.”

“I cannot help him.”

“You must.”

“Why should I listen to him? See what a fate he has brought me to!”

“What does he say?” my lord asks me.

“Just whines and cries, nothing of consequence.”

“Tell him that the city is in rebellion. So far I have been patient, but unless the attacks cease I will be forced to kill them all and burn Tenochtitlán. If he wishes to prevent this catastrophe for the Mexica, he must go out and talk to the people.”

An empty boast. Perhaps it worked once, against those ignorant dogs of Texcála, but Motecuhzoma knows better. So instead I tell him: “Lord Malinche wants you to talk to the people. You must stop the rebellion.”

He starts to laugh, a high-pitched giggle that infuriates the thunder lords. “If only I could.”

“Doña Marina,” Christobal Olid shouts, “remind him that we are his friends. Have we not treated him kindly these last months? Will he see us all killed?”

I take a step closer to him. How thin he is, how much more grey there is in his hair! But the greatest change is in his eyes. They are like obsidians mirrors, black and empty.

“My lord Motecuhzoma, you can see by that one’s face that he now pleads for his life. Now look at my lord Malinche. Which one are you most inclined to assist?”

“There is nothing I can do for either of them.”

“For our sakes,” Olid shouted again, “will he not help us?”

“Hold your tongue!” my lord shouts. He takes me aside. “What does Motecuhzoma say?”

“He says he is powerless to do anything.”

“I told you we should not have asked anything of this treacherous dog!” A muscle ripples in his jaw. “Will you kindly remind him that he agreed, in front of witnesses, to accept vassalage to the King of Spain. If he does not help us now I shall construe it as act of rebellion against His Majesty and have him executed for treason. Tell him that and let us see how powerless he is!”

There, that’s more like it.

“Revered Speaker, if you do not help him, my lord Malinche says he will ensure he does not perish alone. Before he dies he intends to tie you to a stake and burn you over a slow fire. Do you remember Smoking Eagle and how he suffered?”

“He would not dare!”

“My lord Malinche will dare anything, you know that. Look around the room at the faces of these other thunder lords. Do you see mercy anywhere here, O Angry Lord?”

Motecuhzoma hangs his head. How sweet this is. If only my father could see it!

“I learned from this Nárvaez,” Motecuhzoma mumbles, “that Cortés is no god. He does not even have the authority of his own king. He is a mercenary and a traitor. A nomad. Nárvaez was sent here to arrest him.”

“And for this nomad and mercenary you forfeited your throne!”

“Do not taunt me!”

“What a fool you have been! Even the gods curse you.”

Spittle spills from his lower lip.

“What does he say now, the old fool?”

“More whimpering and pity for himself, my Lord. It is good you do not have the elegant speech and you are spared this whining.”

“Repeat to him that I will have him hanged for treason should he continue with his rebellion.”

“My lord says that all he wants now is to depart in peace. He will even leave you all your treasures. All you have to do is tell your people to desist, so that he can march away from here with his life. You have his word on that.”

“His word! When has he ever kept his word to me?”

“Everything can be again as it once was.”

Motecuhzoma shakes his head. “I cannot betray my people.”

“Then I shall tell them to prepare a fire for you. It will be a slow death, much slower than Smoking Eagle’s. They will roast you one limb at a time.”

I watch him struggle with himself. He wants to defy them. Perhaps a few months ago he would still have had the strength.

“You think the Jaguar Knights will storm the gates in time to save you. Suppose that should happen. What fate befalls the former king? Will they bow before the tlatoani who allowed the thieves beyond their gate to burn the temple and murder their sons? No, my lord, this is your one chance to restore your authority as Emperor. If you can make them obey you, then tomorrow we will march away from here and your rule will be restored. You will rebuild the Templo Mayor to a greater glory than before, do penance before your gods, redeem your spirit. But if we die, you will die with us, and on your shoulders will lie the blame for all this. There will not even be a jade in your mouth to pay the Yellow Beast, just pain and ashes.”

He raises his head, just a little. “If I do this ... Malinche ... and all of you ... will leave this city?”

“Call off your warriors. We only want our lives.”

Motecuhzoma looks at Cortés. “And I thought him divine!”

“As I once thought you.”

He takes a deep breath. He loves life too much to part with it. “I will do what I can,” he says.

A trumpet blast heralded the Emperor’s appearance on the roof. He was protected from the rain of stones and arrows by Spanish shields. Falling Eagle saw one of the Castilian priests with him, the one called Aguilar.

A slow and shuffling silence fell over the plaza.

Even now, a few still lowered their eyes, afraid to look directly upon Revered Speaker. But Falling Eagle did not avert his eyes. He stared, affronted and appalled at how ill the Emperor looked, how shabby his clothes appeared. He wore a makeshift head dress of yellow bark paper and a robe of white
maguey
fibre. The Spaniards had stolen his gold and silver jewellery, even his cotton mantles.

Motecuhzoma started to speak.

“My people! You of the Aztlan! Of the Eagle and the Cactus! I command you all to desist from this war! I have spoken with Lord Malinche and his followers and I have told them they are no longer welcome in our capital. They are sorry they have caused so much dissension among us and they are now ready to leave immediately. They wish only that you withdraw and allow them to return to the East Lands in peace.”

Falling Eagle listened to this speech with growing incredulity. Motecuhzoma still believes he has authority over us, after all that has happened, after all the humiliation and disgrace he has brought us. We have seen him grovel at the feet of these thieves and murderers. Does he still believe that we revere him as our tlatoani?

He looked around at the young warriors around him in the plaza, realised with plunging dismay that some of these other innocents might yet obey him.

Something must be done to break the spell.

Falling Eagle took a deep breath. “Who is this woman?” he shouted. “Who is this disgusting wife of a Spaniard? We will not listen to you, Motecuhzoma! You are no longer our king! You have disgraced us before our gods! We will not shame ourselves further! Cuitlahuac is our king now and we will fight on until all the foreigners are dead!”

He picked up a stone lying at his feet and tossed it at the walls, saw it fall harmlessly on the patio at Motecuhzoma’s feet. But now others were shouting too; there were more rocks, even several arrows. One slammed into Motecuhzoma’s shoulder and he gasped and fell back. The Castilians threw up their shields and dragged him away.