War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent by Graham Hancock
What would she do next, his little protégée? Huicton rather imagined she would continue the quest he had sent her on, because that was her nature. He would have liked to be able to tell her she didn’t need to because she’d already recovered her power. But to do that he’d first have to find her – probably impossible – and then reveal his subterfuge to her.
Something told him she would not take it well if he told her he’d posed as her beloved Quetzalcoatl.
All in all, he decided, it was better to leave things as they were. Tozi could look after herself and she would return to Tenochtitlan in her own good time.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Friday 25 June 1519 to Friday 9 July 1519
On 25 June, a Friday, four days after midsummer, a Mexica delegation presented itself to Cortés at the new site of Villa Rica de la Veracruz, where construction work, with the willing help of the Totonacs, was already well advanced. The delegates – two youths whom Malinal identified as relatives of the Great Speaker, and four elders – were all highly placed nobles; they arrived with a large retinue of servants bearing rich gifts of gold and cloth. These they gave to the caudillo with thanks from Moctezuma for his actions in freeing the tax collectors. They further stated that Cortés’s kindness in that matter had persuaded the Speaker to overlook the great offence he had caused in taking shelter with such wicked people as the Totonacs. The meeting that Cortés had requested remained difficult, since Moctezuma was in ill health, and anyway too busy with wars and other matters to leave Tenochtitlan. On the question of Cortés going up to the Mexica capital, however, there was a marked change of tone. Despite earlier refusals, it seemed this would now be countenanced – and Moctezuma was even offering to provide guides.
‘Don’t trust him,’ Malinal warned in her increasingly workable Castilian. ‘This trap! If Great Speaker invite you in his city it means he hope kill you easy there.’
‘I wasn’t born yesterday,’ Cortés answered, all the time smiling at the delegates and showing them a friendly and welcoming face. ‘I’d sooner trust the devil than trust these Mexica. We’ll pay Moctezuma a visit when we’re good and ready, but I plan to win us some more allies first.’
He therefore answered the invitation with diplomatic prevarication. He was grateful and honoured, and he would send word across the sea to his monarch King Carlos, who would undoubtedly be pleased, but there were matters he needed to attend to here before he could travel – he gestured to the buildings and fortifications of Villa Rica rising up around them. He would come as soon as all this was complete.
The delegates professed themselves satisfied and set off on the journey back to Tenochtitlan with a present of blue and green glass beads for Moctezuma. No sooner had they gone, however, than the fat cacique appeared, bringing Yaretzi in tow. The chiefs reminded Cortés of his instructions that all Totonac towns and villages should rebel against Moctezuma and expel or arrest his tax collectors. These instructions had been followed to the letter throughout the region. Now, however, four thousand Mexica troops, one of many such demi-regiments that had been sent out across the empire to gather victims for sacrifice (and thus most likely acting independently from the delegation that had just left) had taken it upon themselves to punish the Totonacs for their rebellion. The fat cacique called upon Cortés to fulfil his promise of protection.
Pepillo remained in Villa Rica with the small garrison left to defend the new town, while Cortés led almost his full force, around four hundred men, to deal with the threat. However, the Mexica demi-regiment, which had mustered at a hill called Tizpacingo, immediately and cravenly fled the field the moment they saw the Spanish cavalry and guns. The result was that Cortés received another massive boost to his prestige, and at very little cost apart from a few days’ inconvenience. Passing through Cempoala on 29 June on his way back to the coast, he seized the moment and required the fat cacique to destroy the idols in the temple that sat on the summit of the pyramid in the city’s main square.
Pepillo had the story later from Bernal Díaz, who had been there. It seemed that Tlacoch at first refused and sent warriors to defend the pyramid. Cortés responded by seizing Tlacoch himself and holding him at sword-point, threatening to kill him if he did not order his men out of the way. There was a tense standoff, but the fat cacique eventually lost his nerve and Díaz was among the fifty conquistadors who climbed the pyramid and one by one threw down all the idols. ‘Some of them,’ he said, ‘were in the form of fearsome dragons as big as calves, and others half man and half puma and hideously ugly, but all were smashed to pieces in the fall.’ There was much howling and wailing, for the Totonacs believed the smashing of the idols meant the end of the world; when the world did not end, however, they were soon mollified, and accepted Cortés’s next demands, which were that their priests should all have their long, filthy hair shorn, that the temple should be whitewashed inside and out, and that a cross and an image of the Virgin should be set up in its inner sanctum where the idols had formerly stood.
The next morning, when all this was done, Father Olmedo, the Mercedarian friar who had served as the expedition’s spiritual leader since the disappearance of Father Gaspar Muñoz at Cozumel months before, said mass; following this, the most important caciques of the region, summoned thither by Tlacoch, submitted to baptism. Eight young maidens, all daughters of the chiefs, were also baptised and afterwards presented to the Spaniards to consolidate the alliance. Cortés divided them amongst his captains, giving the most beautiful of them to Puertocarrero, who after that date relinquished all claim to Malinal.
As far as Pepillo was concerned, this was a much more important development than the conversion of the Totonacs. He’d been aware for a long while how unhappy his friend was to be living with Puertocarrero, but when she returned with the army to Villa Rica, walking at Cortés’s stirrup, her lovely face glowed with joy. She was baptised that same day, 2 July, and moved her residence permanently to Cortés’s headquarters.
This was obviously a sensible arrangement, Pepillo thought, since they worked so closely together anyway.
* * *
Two days had passed since Malinal had allowed herself to be ‘baptised’ into the peculiar Christian religion so admired by her lover and master Cortés. Despite all the sermons she’d been obliged to listen to, she really knew nothing about this faith, and cared less. But if it pleased the caudillo for her to call herself a Christian and pray to the tortured god-man on the cross, and if it made it easier for her to be acknowledged as his woman in bed and out of it, then she was happy to oblige.
They were in bed at the moment, this night of 4 July 1519 in the Christian calendar, and Cortés, mercifully, slept quietly by her side – mercifully because on the preceding two nights he had been troubled by dreams in which he spoke aloud the name of Saint Peter and tossed and turned like a man possessed. They had made love, with passion, with joy, as they always did – he knew some tricks, her caudillo! – and then he had fallen into a deep slumber, leaving her to think in the darkness, lying on her back, her legs slightly apart, feeling his warmth and his hard muscled body next to her.
Was it a miracle – these Christians often spoke of miracles – that Cortés had succeeded in prising her away from Puertocarrero without any apparent ill feeling or consequences? For a long while their liaison had seemed dangerous, a thing to be kept secret, but then Puertocarrero had found them out. Malinal had expected a beating, perhaps worse, but he had returned from a long talk with the caudillo seemingly indifferent to what she had done; thereafter, although they had continued to share a bed until the expedition to rout the Mexica from the hill of Tizpacingo, Puertocarrero had ceased absolutely to seek sex with her. Malinal had no way of knowing what private agreement must have been reached between the two men, or what strange power it was that Cortés held that made Puertocarrero now so obliging, obsequious even, and sometimes evidently fearful, but she was grateful that because of it she could in the future be openly acknowledged – not only a
Malinal thought about this as sleep began to overcome her, and found she rather liked the idea. She had been born a princess, after all. Why should she not become a queen? Who knows, she and her caudillo might even have children together – a boy, she hoped! A prince for their royal family. This notion in turn brought suddenly to mind the image of Coyotl, the little boy who had shared the fattening pen with her and Tozi, and from whom they had been separated the night they had been led out to be sacrificed. It made her sad, filled her heart with guilt, that they had never seen the innocent child again, and that he had gone to his death alone with no one to comfort him. She remembered how the High Priest Ahuizotl, whose head Tozi had later smashed with a rock – another memory – had snatched Coyotl away and how she’d been impotent to keep her promise to care for the sweet little boy and protect him. And she remembered the astonishing events that had led Moctezuma to release her and Tozi, and the ghastly scene afterwards as they had searched for Coyotl amongst both the living and the dead, but had failed to find even his poor, mutilated body.
She shuddered and her thoughts drifted to Pepillo, another innocent child also caught up in the events of this strange and terrible time. Malinal knew she had failed him too. She’d tried hard to persuade the caudillo to let the boy keep his dog and had even extracted a promise from him that he could, but Cortés had reneged on that commitment just a few days later and the dog had been cast in with the pack, exactly as Pepillo had feared. Unlike the death of Coyotl, Malinal consoled herself, this was at least no great tragedy. Pepillo seemed to have come to terms with the loss of his pet, although she’d often seen him watching Melchior amongst the other hounds, as Vendabal put them through their paces, training them for war.
Pepillo, too, had begun to train for war. Almost every day, Malinal went to watch him sparring with the good Captain Escalante, and showing increasing mastery of the sword. In this way, taught to accept loss stoically, taught to bear arms, and growing noticeably taller and heavier as the weeks went by, it seemed to her that the boy was rapidly becoming a man.
And that was surely no bad thing, for Malinal knew that Cortés would soon march on Moctezuma and when he did they would all be tested. There would be no time for finer feelings then, no time for soft hearts and weak limbs, no time for love.
Failure was as likely an outcome of this venture as victory, and if the Spaniards failed, then only death would await them.
On that thought, with a shuddering sigh, Malinal fell asleep.
* * *
Since 12 June, the construction of Villa Rica de la Veracruz had proceeded at a tremendous pace. Many of the wooden buildings were already complete, and the town was protected by a high stockade, with guard posts at intervals all around, and a single massive gateway. As Pepillo walked out through the open gates shortly after dawn on Monday 5 July, making for the stretch of headland beyond a stand of trees where he was to meet Escalante for their morning’s practice, he happened upon his old tormentor, Andrés Santisteban, flanked as usual by Miguel Hemes and Francisco Julian, holding a dozen dogs on leashes. Amongst them was Melchior. Although at times in the past weeks he’d shown no recognition, he now bounded out of the pack, his tail wagging furiously, barking with joy, tearing his chain from Julian’s pudgy hand, streaking in front of Hemes and leaping up at Pepillo. Huge shaggy paws were placed on Pepillo’s shoulders as the dog licked his face enthusiastically. The show of affection enraged Santisteban, who strode forward, plucked a whip from his belt, unfurled it with a sharp crack and lashed out once, twice, thrice in quick succession.
With the first strike the tip of the rawhide tore a gash in Pepillo’s cheek, while the second and third lashes opened bleeding welts along Melchior’s back, causing him to drop back to the ground with a snarl. There was no fourth strike because Pepillo, in an explosion of fury, ran straight at Santisteban and punched him hard in the eye, sending him reeling.
Pepillo was a changed boy since May, the last time Vendabal’s assistants had picked on him. It wasn’t just that he was eating more and growing taller and heavier as he approached his fifteenth birthday. Regular sword practice with Escalante had improved his balance, speeded up his reflexes, and somewhat habituated him to combat, and he had begun to exercise obsessively, for as many hours as he could snatch for himself, building muscles in his legs, belly, arms and shoulders that simply hadn’t been there before. The construction of Villa Rica had given him numerous opportunities to volunteer for hard manual labour when he wasn’t tied up with secretarial work for Cortés, and, last but not least, again on Escalante’s advice, he ran five or six miles every evening, which had increased his wind and stamina.
All this work, all this effort, all this training, all the momentum of his charge and all his pent-up anger at the frequent persecutions he’d endured, Pepillo therefore put into his attack on Santisteban, which took the older boy completely by surprise. Nor did he stop with the first blow. Something Escalante had impressed on Pepillo repeatedly was the need to follow up any advantage won in combat immediately and without mercy, so he didn’t hesitate to step in on Santisteban as he staggered back, punching him in the belly and treading hard on his ankle, tripping him and making him fall. He might have won the fight with a few well-placed kicks (‘There’s no such thing as a dirty trick in battle,’ Escalante had drummed into him; ‘anything goes’) but Hemes and Julian came to their friend’s rescue, grabbing Pepillo’s arms and slowing him long enough for Santisteban to stumble to his feet, shaking his head like an enraged bull. ‘You’re for it now, you little shit,’ he yelled, as he lurched forward and headbutted Pepillo, who was still struggling to free himself from the grip of the two other boys.
‘My, my, what’s this?’ came Escalante’s deep voice as Santisteban drew back his massive fist for a killer punch. ‘Three against one. That hardly seems right.’
Suddenly Pepillo was released. Santisteban stood before him, panting and shaking with rage, a huge bruise swelling beneath his right eye, hatred twisting his pockmarked face. Hemes and Julian had jumped back, as though they’d come too close to a hot fire. Melchior was circling at Pepillo’s feet, snarling. The other pack dogs, their leashes dropped, had scattered back into the town. The sentries in the guard posts on either side of the gate were peering down with amusement, and appeared to be placing bets.
‘What am I to make of this?’ Escalante wondered. He was carrying the two swords he and Pepillo would use in practice. ‘Item: one dog, formerly a pet, bleeding from the back, seemingly whipped. Item: one Caudillo’s secretary, bleeding about the face.’ He stepped closer and examined the wound on Pepillo’s cheek. ‘Also seemingly whipped … Item: one senior apprentice dog handler who will soon have a shining black eye, knocked down, beaten in a fair fight as I saw it, but given succour by Messrs Hemes and Julian, which he used to unchivalrous advantage to head-butt aforesaid caudillo’s secretary.’
Escalante paused, rubbed his chin. ‘Well, lads,’ he said finally, glaring at the three dog handlers, ‘what do you have to say for yourselves?’
‘It was him as started it,’ sniffed Hemes, pointing a finger at Pepillo.
‘Tried to take his dog off us,’ said Santisteban. ‘I had to stop him. I’m responsible for the dogs, see … ’
‘Well I must say you’re not doing a very good job,’ observed Escalante, ‘since a moment ago there were twelve dogs here and now there is only one. The others will be causing havoc in the town, I’d venture.’
As he spoke, as though in confirmation, there came the sound of distant barks and growls, a yelp, angry shouts. Hemes, Julian and Santisteban looked at one another nervously.
‘This isn’t over,’ Santisteban said. He signalled to the others and backed away towards the gates, dragging Melchior by his leash. ‘We’ll catch u
‘I don’t get offended by scum like you,’ said Escalante. ‘But I do know a bit about settling scores, and I’ll tolerate no ambushes or gangs, nor harm worked on that dog either. The only right way for this to be done is for you and Pepillo to square up to each other, man to man, at an agreed time and place … Do you have the spleen for that, Santisteban?’
‘Course I do,’ said the dog handler. ‘Name the time, name the place, I’ll be there.’
‘Dawn, a week from today, out on the headland – ’ Escalante pointed – ‘past the trees there. Are you agreed, Pepillo?’
‘Yes, Don Juan, I am.’
‘And you, Santisteban. Agreed?’
‘Agreed.’
‘Oh, one other thing,’ said Escalante. It seemed to be an afterthought. ‘I propose that this battle be fought with staves. So much more elegant, so much more like the real thing than fisticuffs. Any objection to that, Santisteban?’
The dog handler frowned, looked at his companions, looked back at Escalante.
‘Well?’ said the captain. ‘I’m waiting.’
‘Staves it is,’ Santisteban finally agreed, but Pepillo could see he didn’t like the idea.
‘And you, Pepillo? No objection to staves, I take it?’
‘None.’
Escalante looked pleased with himself. ‘So,’ he said, ‘that’s settled. Staves at dawn, on the headland, a week from today.’
The dog handlers turned and hurried off into the town, where more growls and barks could be heard.