The Seven Serpents Trilogy (48 page)

The bishop glanced at me to make sure that I was in earnest. “I see that besides your other sins you have turned against Spain, your own country.”

“Not against Spain,” I said, “only against those she sends here. Like Cortés and his lieutenants.”

“These brave men may find their graves in the land of the Azteca,” the bishop said. “But in Spain thousands are anxious to take their place. In Hispaniola hundreds crowd the harbor waiting for ships. Draw back from the abyss, Julián Escobar, before it is too late…”

The sound of chanting interrupted his lecture. A line of priests wound slowly up the path that led from Chac Balam to the Temple of Kukulcán. The last six were supporting a litter, on which rested the remains of high priest Chalco. In their black gowns that were stiff with blood, with their long, unwashed hair hanging like hanks of rusty metal halfway down their backs, they looked like a procession of carrion birds.

The bishop held his nose, as if he smelled a carrion odor. His amethyst ring caught the sun. His gown and violet-colored vest were clean. How different he appeared against the procession of Maya priests, how civilized and elegant!

Behind Pedroza was the power of the Holy Roman Empire, the Church, the king, the Council of the Indies, the powerful governor of

Hispaniola, the long line of tradition, of civiliza tion itself. And here was I, a seminarian masquerading as a god, the ruler of a half-ruined city inhabited by pagan Indians who, after months of exhortation and Christian love, still wor shipped the sun and sacrificed girl children to celebrate the planting of corn and the coming of spring. “Your Eminence,” I said as the chanting faded in the dis tance and the room grew quiet, “I have spoken to you before about this matter. Our conversation was brief and unsatisfac tory. I asked you to honor me by bestowing upon me a priest hood. You refused to do so, giving me instead some undigested advice and a long list of penances.” Pedroza began to worry his violet ring, slowly turning it round and round on his finger.

“I am making the request again, sir. This time I expect you to grant it. Cortés or one of his numerous captains, all of them scoundrels, are making a sweep southward along the coast. They will arrive here any day, any hour. You are aware that we will defend ourselves. And that it will be a time of turmoil. My people will be injured. Some may die. I wish to have the power of administering absolution and last rites.” Pedroza gave a polite snort. “How can you absolve someone who has no soul? A savage? Or say last rites over a soulless creature?” “There are ways,” I said, “and I will find them.”

“Not as a priest,” the bishop said, “for I refuse your request. Now, today, and tomorrow. Take heed. Hernán Cortés is an emissary of the church and the king. Do not oppose him.”

“He comes searching for gold.To find it he'll ran sack the temples, turn the city upside down, and slay anyone who threatens or resists him.” “Welcome Cortés with flowers and song, and I will see that he does no harm to the people.”

“With songs and flowers Moctezuma welcomed him into the city of the Azteca. And Cortés burned the temples and slew the people.” On the table beside his bed was Pedroza's Bible. I picked it up. “There are verses I want to read, Your Eminence. Things I have forgotten. Tomorrow we'll meet for further discussion.”

The bishop frowned, not pleased that I had his Bible. “There is nothing to discuss,” he said. “Give up this play acting. Welcome Cortés to the city. Go to Hispaniola and again take up your studies. Only then will I discuss the matter with you.”

“We'll discuss it tomorrow,” I said and closed the door softly behind me.

 

T
HE COUNCIL OF ELDERS CAME TO SEE ME SHORTLY AFTER THE PRIESTS
went by with Chalco's body. The old men wished to declare the full week of mourning demanded by the death of someone of importance. I tried to convince them that the city was in hourly danger, that it could ill afford to spend that much time in lamentations.

Two of our most reliable weasels arrived while this argu ment was taking place. They came separately and with different stories. One reported that an attempt had been made on Cortés's life, led by a soldier named Villafaña. The plot was discovered, and the culprit had tried to swallow his list of conspirators—among them prominent men in Spain and Hispaniola—but failed and was hung at once from his win dow ledge.

This report placed Cortés in Tenochtitlán, at least a month away, but the second weasel brought word that a Spanish fleet had been sighted at Ixtlilzochitl, the port where we had found the
Delfín Azul.
This information, fortunately, backed me up, and we compromised on three days of mourning.

Since the people had already enjoyed a full week of cere monies, I was reluctant to give them more time to indulge themselves. They were devout believers in an earthly heaven, where you worked when you had to and spent the rest of your hours either mourning or rejoicing, so long as it was the will of friendly gods. In the old days, when the magnificent city was conceived and built, they must have had a different atti tude about work.

Chalco's cohorts, those who had taken his body from Chac Balam, already were going about the streets dressed in skele ton masks, making prophecies of disaster. Crops would fail. Plagues would rain down. St. John the Baptist would erupt and bury the city in ashes. Before the day was out I rounded them up—fifty-nine in all—and sent them by ship to the southern part of the island, to a village of farmers who wor shipped at a ruined temple. They were given tools and told to clear away the jungle and replace the fallen stones. The task would remove them from the city at a time of impending peril and keep them busy for a year at least.

On the two journeys Chalco had made to Tenochtitlán, he had brought back nearly a hundred Azteca porters. I had always believed that they were not porters but assassins in disguise and that he planned to use them against me. My suspicions were quickly borne out, for that very night, fearing for their lives, no doubt, they stole three of our big sailing canoes and disappeared.

I was glad to see the last of them, though I could ill afford to lose the big canoes.

Further news came after I had eaten dinner and was read ing the Bible I had taken from Pedroza.

The Spanish fleet, made up of two large caravels and a small pinnace, had left the bay at Ixtlilzochitl. It was heading south, the weasel thought, but because of a
chubasco
he was not sure of the direction. (I had borrowed Moctezuma's sys tem of fast runners—
andadores
, I called them—who ran two leagues and passed their messages to a second runner. And so forth, night and day, to a village across the strait, whence they were brought to the island by canoe.)

At midnight I received news that the Spanish fleet was headed south in our direction. It sent me and the
nacom
out to inspect our defenses. The wall now completely enclosed the harbor on three sides. The
Delfín Azul
lay at the end of the channel. We had removed half her cannon and mounted them on each arm of the bay, three to each side. The dwarf had taken the
Santa Margarita
to the channel entrance and anchored her broadside to the sea, as I had planned.

The warriors who had fought at Tikan were in readiness behind the wall, armed with spears, copper-headed arrows, and muskets. The
Santa Margarita
was too heavily laden with gold, the crew of the
Delfín Azul
too inexperienced, for either of the ships to venture out and fight at sea. But they were in position to repel an attack. Furthermore, any landings the Spaniards might make along the coast would fail because the few trails that led into the city wound through heavy, easily defended jungle.

My one great problem was with the populace itself. No one was in a mood to fight or even to listen to the rumors of a possible fight. They had never seen the cold gray eyes of Hernán Cortés, nor his army of marauding Spaniards dressed in steel, mounted on horses protected by steel, carrying weapons that spat death from a distance, bearded men asking no quarter and giving none. My efforts to rally them were futile.

Their chief concern when the
nacom
and I made a tour of the fortifications and talked to the crews of both ships was the search for a dog, a yellow dog, which was needed for Chalco's funeral. A man of his standing could not be buried unless he was accompanied by a small yellow dog who would see him safely across the river and into the other world. There were many small dogs in the city, but none was yellow. Priests solved the problem late that afternoon by painting a small white dog with yellow ocher.

Thereafter, preparations for the burial went forward. Green boughs and flowers were gathered and seven slaves whom Chalco had marked for sacrifice on a coming feast day were anointed with oil and given fresh gowns to wear.

The Council of Elders met and suggested by messenger that I appoint in Chalco's position an elderly priest, Tecoa Pital, whom Chalco had managed to defeat in the contest for high priest the year I came to the island. I lost no time in accepting this soft-spoken man. They also suggested that they would like to talk with the dwarf and asked if I would send word for him to appear before them the following day.

Knowing that all the king's fine horses could never drag Cantú away from the
Santa Margarita
, still I sent messages to the ship, one written in Maya, asking him to come at once, and one written in Spanish, warning him not to come, not until the rumors concerning Chalco's death had had a chance to die after the battle that was rapidly taking shape.

And the rumors would die after the battle, for whichever way it went, the City of the Seven Serpents would never again be the same. The city would be either an armed camp, always on the alert to fend off attacks from other adventurers, or a city ruled by Spaniards, without even a memory of a Council of Elders, a thousand priests, and the god Kukulcán, Lord of the Evening Star.

The
chubasco
at Ixtlilzochitl swept down the coast and fell upon us at dusk, battering the city with heavy winds and torrents of rain. Further news of the Spanish fleet could not be expected until the storm blew itself out, which would not occur for two days at least.

Thinking to put Bishop Pedroza in a mood to hear what I had to say, I sent him an invitation to join me for dinner. When after a long wait his refusal came back, I ordered guards to bring him to the throne room.

I greeted him from the throne with a curt nod and let him stand in his neat cassock and violet-colored vest, his high forehead white with anger.

“There was little chance today to more than glance at the Bible,” I said, “but a thought about what I did read comes to mind. The Bible says that God loves all men, of whatever color, those with souls and those without souls, equally. Your ideas about the Indians are different from God's. That may explain why you are such a keen admirer of Hernán Cortés and the cruel means he uses to subdue them.”

I waited for the bishop to answer, but he stood disdainfully stiff and silent.

“Unlike Cortés and you, Your Eminence, I believe that the Indians on this island are God's creatures and I have treated them as such. My work has suffered because I lack the au thority to convert them to the Christian faith.”

“We have gone over this before,” Pedroza broke in. “I readily admit that you have the training for the priesthood, but for the last time, I advise you to declare the gold you have collected and to give up your heathenish masquerade. If you do, I will help to further your vocation. If you do not, then I'll denounce you to the king, the governor of Hispaniola, and to Cortés.”

“Who will be here soon,” I said. “Unless he drowns in the storm.”

A gust of wind found its way through a crack in the roof and lifted the bishop's gown, revealing his stout, white legs. Unruffled, he settled himself and started for the door.

“A moment.” I got to my feet. “Chalco, the high priest, will be buried in two days.”

“In the storm?”

“Yes.”

“Because the stars say the time is right?”

I nodded.

“Heathenish!” the bishop said.

“You are invited.”

Pedroza was silent.

“A number of slaves will be sacrificed,” I said, feeling a strong impulse to shock him out of his complacency. “Not so many as Chalco would desire were he alive, yet ample to see him and his small yellow dog safely across the river.”

Pedroza reached for the doorknob, his beautiful ring flash ing in the votive lights. I held him back with a hand on his arm. The cloth of his cassock was soft and of the finest weave.

“Since you are now in the land where men and women and children are sacrificed to the gods,” I said, “you must come and be a witness so that you may go out in disgust and chastise the natives with long, fiery sermons.”

“I don't have to be a witness in order to preach against this abomination.”

“Bishop Pedroza,” I said, “since you will not come to the burial by choice, I'll send guards to bring you. You will have a place in front of the god house, where you can watch every thing that goes on—and much does. I will bring the Bible with me so it can be used.”

I opened the door and stepped aside for the bishop to pass.

“What place,” I said, “is more fitting to join the priesthood than the terrace of a Maya temple at sunset, before pagan thousands chanting the praises of Kukulcán, Feathered Serpent, Lord of the Evening Star! An irony seen but rarely, and then only in heaven, where God, I hope, looks kindly upon such things.”

The bishop stepped past me. In the light of the votive lamps his face looked ghastly, yet he went down the corridor with swift strides, his heels clicking defiantly on the stones.

 

T
HE STORM LASTED FOR TWO DAYS.
T
HEN A HOT LAND FOG CREPT OUT OF
the jungle and covered the harbor and the city. Only the god house high on the Temple of Kukulcán rose above it, like an island in a sea. Word came that the Spanish fleet was anchored at a cove twenty leagues to the northwest and had lost one of its ships, apparently in the storm.