Feathered Serpent (26 page)

——————— 

As they climbed above the timberline the driving rain turned to hail. The wind whipped ice and tiny pieces of volcanic rock, as sharp as glass, into their faces.

Then the hailstones turned to snow.

The Castilians stumbled snow-blind through the high passes, leaving scores of their Cuban porters behind them in the defiles, frozen and dying. Even two of their own soldiers, hampered from their wounds in the Texcálan battles, succumbed to the cold. More would have given up, but always there was Cortés, spurring his horse up and down the column, driving them on.

Finally they were over the high sierra and the road led down again, through forests of mulberry and cedar. Below them they saw cultivated fields of
maguey
and maize, and, in the distance, a great lake, shining like burnished steel, before the clouds drew a veil across the vista.

They camped at Merchant’s Meeting, a cluster of simple shelters built for the use of the caravans of the pochteta, Tenochtitlán’s wealthy merchants. They built fires of green pinewood inside the open thatched huts. Cortés barely had time to post sentries and organise his patrols when Alvarado galloped up with startling news.

Motecuhzoma was on his way.

———————

Behold: a palanquin richly decorated with shimmering green quetzal feathers and burnished gold, borne on the backs of eight Mexica lords, a great column of attendants following. But the wail of flutes and drums and conch shells is all but lost to the rush of wind.

My lord has no time to prepare himself. He is still buttoning his black velvet doublet as he stumbles outside. Alvarado and Sandoval and Benitez are at his shoulder. We were not expecting this. Would the Revered Speaker of the Mexica travel so far from his own capital to meet us this way?

“Is it him?” my lord whispers. It is the first time I have seen him truly anxious. “I have to know. Is it him or is it another of their tricks? Give me the truth! Our lives depend on it.”

How can I know the answer to this? I visited the centre of the world just once, when I was a child. Motecuhzoma passed on his way to the Great Temple that day. But my father told me to keep my eyes lowered to the ground. He whispered to me later that the sentence for gazing on the emperor’s face was death.

“Is it him?” Cortés says again, his voice uncharacteristically shrill.

I dare a glance at the emperor’s face as he descends from his litter. Even though I am under my lord’s protection now, it requires an effort of will, for the memory of my childhood experience is still vivid.

Well.

He is younger than I expected, but magnificent to look at, and he carries himself with almost breath-taking arrogance. He has no beard and a nose like a parrot’s beak to complement his haughty bearing. And his clothes! He is wearing a head-dress of quetzal plumes, the like of which I have never seen, and a huge golden lip ornament in the shape of a serpent, no doubt in homage to my lord. His cloak is a rich carmine with gold thread that shimmers as he moves. As he comes towards us, his attendants sweep the ground in front of him with feathered whisks.

“Is it him?”

I look into my lord’s face. I see panic. I have only these few moments to decide.

I turn my attention to Motecuhzoma’s courtiers and attendants. Some are staring transfixed at the thunder lords, but others - even the attendants with the rolled mats and fly whisks - are watching the Emperor. There is my answer. It is as if my heart has started to beat again.

I turn to my lord and give the slightest shake of the head.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. His body sags with relief. “Tell them to go home.”

I turn to the parade of frauds and clowns before us. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” My voice seems to echo all the way down the high valley. I have longed for such power. I am no longer a woman, I am the voice and ears of a god.

“Do you not know us?” one of these Mexica shouts up at me. “This is Revered Speaker, divine lord of the Mexica. He comes here to greet the Lord Malinche and bid him welcome to the centre of the world.”

“This is not Revered Speaker,” I answer. “This is some monkey you have dressed in gold sandals. Do you think my lord is a fool?”

Silence. The wind whips at the plumes and cloaks of the delegation. For a moment I wonder if I am mistaken.

But it is not a mistake; I can see it now on their faces.

Only a god would have known, they must be thinking.

“Tell them I look forward to the great pleasure of gazing on the true Motecuhzoma very soon,” my lord says, once again assured of himself, and of me. “Until then, I bid them farewell.” He deliberately turns his back on them and walks back inside the merchant hut.

I tell the Mexica what my lord has said, smiling at their confusion. When this finds its way to Motecuhzoma’s ears, I can believe it will ruin his appetite, his sleep, and, with luck, his potency.

The Hall of the Jaguar Knights, Tenochtitlán

The head of Juan de Argüello gaped at them from the low table in the centre of the hall. It was a large head, with a black, curly beard, encrusted with dried blood that glistened in the torchlight like ruby stones. It was already starting to rot and a foul odour permeated the air.

“Now we are doomed,” Motecuhzoma murmured.

Woman Snake did not know what to say to him. During his time as Prime Minister, Motecuhzoma had been by turns, rigid, cruel, even monstrous. But he had been a strong prince and that was what the gods and the empire required, and it was most certainly what was needed now.

But with the appearance of these strangers on the eastern shores the Emperor’s character had changed. One day he was the confident, decisive leader he had always been; the next he was as he was today, vacillating between morbid reflection and self-pitying tears. He rarely slept and had lost all appetite. Neither his wives nor his acrobats and musicians could distract him.

Motecuhzoma pointed to the head of Juan de Argüello. “Get it out of my sight!” His voice was shrill.

“Shall we convey it to Tollan, to the shrine where we placed the god’s food?” Woman Snake asked him.

“I don’t care what happens to it! Just remove it!”

Attendants were summoned and it was hastily carried off. There was a long silence as the gathered lords and priests waited for Motecuhzoma to compose himself.

“My lord,” the chief high priest of the temple finally ventured, “Feathered Serpent has appeared many times before. He first came with the secret of fire, then returned to demonstrate the making of paper and teach the writing of poems. If he has indeed decided to visit us once more, it may only be to bring us some other great gift. Let us take what he has to offer, find out what he wishes for himself in return and send him back to the Cloud Lands. The important thing is that we do not offend Hummingbird or Smoking Mirror for they are stronger lords and if he challenges them they will outwit him, as they did at Tollan.”

“On the other hand,” Woman Snake said, “they may not be gods at all. It is possible they are merely ambassadors from some land we know nothing of, and this girl they have with them ascribes him powers he does not possess. If malintzin and his followers are indeed envoys we should receive them with all due hospitality. But we have no reason to be so afraid of their approach.”

Neither of these arguments seemed to stir Motecuhzoma from his gloom. “If he is just an ambassador,” he said, “how is it that he knew of the ambush your generals had prepared for him on the road to Chalco? How is it also that when we sent my lord Tziuacpopocatzin, disguised as myself, he knew immediately he was an impostor?” He looked around at his council. None of them had an answer for him. “Our spies who guide him say he has a mirror with him that looks into men’s souls. Is this like any ambassador you have ever known?”

“These things are indeed mysterious but I still think this Lord Malinche is neither god nor ambassador,” Cuitlihuac protested. “I believe they are invaders and we should attack them now, while they are in the open.”

“I agree,” Lord Maize Cobs said.

“Invade us?” one of the generals jeered. “With a few hundred men?”

A terrifying and high-pitched sound filled the chamber, breaking off the argument. All eyes turned to Motecuhzoma. He was giggling, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“It is Feathered Serpent,” he said, “come as prophesied. If we destroy him, we destroy one of the gods. If we let him come on, who knows what mischief he will bring? There is nothing we can do.” He made a gasping sound, deep in his chest, as he fought to catch his breath. “The prophesies foretell that we shall all die at his hands and those who survive shall be his slaves. I shall be the last of the Mexica to rule this land.”

He got to his feet and staggered from the chamber.

Snake Woman hung his head. Unless they could convince Motecuhzoma to act, they were all helpless. How did it come to this? A nation of warriors and now they were rendered impotent by, of all things, a priest.

Another palanquin studded with jade and gold and silver; another richly cloaked prince in a great head-dress of emerald quetzal plumes. Servants again swept the dirt from his path with plumed whisks. As the Mexica made his greeting, Cortés kept his eye on Malinali’s face, wondering if this was another trick.

But on this occasion she appeared impressed. “My lord, this is Motecuhzoma’s own nephew, Lord Maize Cobs. Revered Speaker has sent him here in person to greet you.”

Cortés bowed. At last! "That is most gracious of him.”

There followed a long exchange between Lord Maize Cobs and Malinali. Cortés grew impatient at the delay. “What does he say?”

“My lord, he says that Revered Speaker is angry that you have approached so near to his capital and now asks that you return at once to the east.”

What game are they playing with me now? Cortés wondered. “Remind him that I am here at his Emperor’s own invitation.”

“I did this, my Lord. But he insists there is not enough food in Tenochtitlán to feed us all so he says that we must go back to the coast at once.”

“By my conscience! What is going on, Mali?”

“I do not know, my lord.”

Cortés looked at Alvarado who was standing at his shoulder, listening to this exchange. “Let’s run him through with a pike,” Alvarado said, grinning.

Cortés turned back to Malinali. “Tell this Lord Maize Cobs that he should not upset himself on the subject of provisions as my men can survive on very little. But repeat that I must meet his king in person and I shall not be swayed.”

Another, more heated, exchange. Even Malinali appeared exasperated by it.

“What is he saying now?”

“He says that Motecuhzoma has a large private zoo and some of the lions and alligators have recently escaped. He is afraid that if you approach too close to the city these animals may attack you and tear you to pieces.” She took a deep breath. “This goat fucker lies like a Muslim.”

Alvarado and Jaramillo grinned at this obscenity. Cortés felt a stab of irritation. “My men have been giving you more Spanish lessons, I see.”

“My lord?”

“I will have to instruct you further in the ways of a Christian gentlewoman. For now you will again repeat to Lord Maize Cobs that I must meet with his lord Motecuhzoma personally. Remind him I have already taken very many risks and the threat of alligators or lions does not deter me.”

When he heard this, Lord Maize Cobs sighed and gave a signal to his attendants; the retinue of slaves that had accompanied him came forward, one by one, and laid their burdens on the ground in front of Cortés. He heard Alvarado and Sandoval gasp when he saw what they carried.

“By the sacred balls of Saint Peter,” Alvarado murmured.

“Gold,” Sandoval hissed.

Gold, indeed; pannier after pannier of gold objects, necklaces, bracelets and exquisitely carved statues, perhaps as much as two or three hundred pounds in weight.

With this cornucopia spread before him, Lord Maize Cobs spoke again.

“He says this gold is for you alone,” Malinali said. “There is a separate horde for each of your captains if you will but turn around and return to the coast.”

Cortés stared at the treasure. With each step I take towards Tenochtitlán the bribes increase. Nothing could persuade me to turn back now. “This Motecuhzoma is indeed a fickle ruler. In Cholula I was told to make all haste to the capital. Now he offers me a king’s ransom to retreat.”

“What will you do,
caudillo
?” Alvarado asked him.

“Malinali, thank my Lord Maize Cobs for these fine gifts and the trouble he has taken to bring them to me. But I cannot neglect my duty. My king has commanded me to convey his messages to Motecuhzoma in person. Assure him that we come as friends and he has nothing to fear.”

There was one final, long exchange.

Malinali turned to Cortés. “He says that in that case, he will guide you the rest of the way to Tenochtitlán. He also asked me ... he wanted to know if you were the god, Feathered Serpent.”