Feathered Serpent (33 page)

———————

When the inventory is finished the Thunder Lords quit the room and I am left alone with Motecuhzoma. He broods silently, staring at a yellow parrot in a silver cage. “Now I know how that little bird feels,” he murmurs.

He takes the cage down from the wall, walks over to the terrace and opens the cage. The bird hesitates for a moment, surprised, then launches itself from its prison and flaps away over the roofs of the palace.

He hurls the empty cage across the tiles. “The strangers have the gold sickness again, then?”

“It seems.”

“I wonder what is so valuable about gold? Silver is harder to work, jade and quetzal feathers rarer and more beautiful to look at.” When he turns around I am surprised to see that he has a smile on his face. The frail old man is gone. Is he truly cowed by these thunder lords or is it an act? “Why do you do his bidding?”

“Why do you, my lord?”

“I have no choice.” He studies me intently. “Do you trust this Lord Malinche?”

I am silent. How am I supposed to answer such a question?

“I have noticed your waist has thickened. Are you growing stout on tamales or is his child swelling in your belly?”

I place a hand on my womb. “The future ruler of Mexico.”

He shakes his head. “He will betray you. Your son will never rule Tenochtitlán.”

For a moment I cannot get my breath. The words echo in the room, fragile clay dreams shatter on the marble floors. He would not betray me.

“Your son will never rule Tenochtitlán,” he repeats.

“Nor will yours,” I answer and hurry away.

——————— 

I wake in the final watch of the night to find my lord already dressed in his quilted armour, staring out of the window, waiting impatiently for the dawn. There have been many nights like this one since we arrived in Tenochtitlán. These days he seems hardly to sleep at all.

“My lord.”

“I did not mean to wake you.”

“Come back to bed.” He hesitates then crawls under the blanket fully clothed. I mould my body around his, my head nestles into the crook of his arm. “What were you doing?”

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“About that morning at Merchant’s Meeting ... how did you know that the lord they sent to us was not Motecuhzoma?”

“It was the way the others behaved towards him.”

“That was all?”

“How a man holds himself, how others hold themselves when they are with him ... how else do you tell if a man is a king or a peasant?”

He kisses my forehead. “And how do I hold myself, my lady? Am I a king?”

“More than a king.”

“More than a king ...” It is growing light. I can make out the lines and hollows of his face. There is something wrong.

“What is it, my lord?”

He shakes his head.

“I would do anything for you. Anything.”

He enfolds me in his arms. I wish I could always have his arms around me. I have cut myself loose from the ties of my ancestors and my people, but here at least I am safe. At least, I believe it to be aso.

He will betray you. Your son will never rule Tenochtitlán.

I hold him tighter. He will never betray me. I have his child in my belly. He is my destiny. Without him, there is no meaning to my life.

——————— 

They are all gathered in one of the great halls of audience, all of Motecuhzoma’s élite; his brother Cuitlahuac, his nephew Lord Maize Cobs, all of his most favoured noblemen, including the lords of Taluca and Tacuba. They are seated on mats with their wrists in manacles. The Thunder Lords ring the walls.

Motecuhzoma sits on a throne beside Cortés on the dais, his head sunk onto his chest. I stand at my lord’s right shoulder.

He turns to me now, his eyes hard as flint. “My lord Motecuhzoma knows what he must say. Be sure that he does not stray from the speech he has been given.”

I look at the Emperor. He looks shrunken, as if his vitals have been hollowed out of his chest. His noblemen stare up at him, none of them afraid now to look openly on their god-king.

Motecuhzoma begins, his voice shrill: “Lords, you all know the legend of Feathered Serpent, who ruled this land many bundles of years before we the Mexica were led here by Hummingbird. You all know that on the day he left he promised to return and end human sacrifice and reclaim his seat here in our kingdom. I believe that day has come. I have prayed to Hummingbird ... for enlightenment on this question and ... and he has ... has advised me ... “

Motecuhzoma’s voice breaks and he cannot finish.

My lord raises an eyebrow. “Remind my lord that this is not a time for weeping, but for celebration.”

I do this, but it has little effect on the emperor’s ill humour. He is making tiny mewing noises, like a baby in its crib. I am afraid he does not share my lord’s view of the circumstances.

“Tell my lord Motecuhzoma we need to complete our business here!”

I nudge our whining lord. “Lord Malinche grows impatient,” I tell him.

Motecuhzoma makes an effort to compose himself. “Feathered Serpent .... wishes us .... to hand over the throne ... as is his right ... and agree to pay him ... yearly tribute ... in gold.”

“This is not Feathered Serpent,” Cuitlahuac shouts. “You have allowed a thief into our house and now he wants to take everything we have!”

“We should have attacked him before he reached our city,” Lord Maize Cobs says, “as we planned to do at Chalco. By your cowardice and indecision you have shamed the name of the Mexica!”

“I will never agree to this,” Cuitlahuac says. “I would rather die!”

Motecuhzoma’s face is wet with his tears. “We have no choice!”

Why is he doing this? I wonder. Does he still fear the gods or is it, as Lord Maize Cobs says, just cowardice?

“What are they saying?” my lord asks me.

“They cannot agree among themselves.”

“They have to obey their emperor. To do otherwise is treasonous.”

“They say they would rather die.”

“I can oblige them in their wish. By my conscience, they are an intractable people!” A pulse pounds in his temple. “Very well. We do not require their sanction at this point.” He turns to one of his moles, who is scribbling on a piece of parchment. “Let it be known that I asked of Motecuhzoma, the emperor, if he agreed to become a vassal of the King of Spain and pay regular tribute, in gold, to the King and his agents, of a sum yet to be determined.”

This is my cue; I turn to Motecuhzoma. “He wishes you to formally declare your vassalage and accord him tribute in gold each year.”

Motecuhzoma cannot speak. Instead, there is an almost imperceptible nod of the head.

“He accepts your terms.”

“Very well. Let the royal notary record that Motecuhzoma is from today under the protection of his most catholic majesty, the King of Spain, according to the bequest of the Holy Church.” He glares at the gathering of rebel noblemen before him. “As for these others, keep them here, under guard, so they can do no mischief. Doña Marina, will you kindly ask my lord Motecuhzoma to rise.”

The emperor, fearing further humiliation, gets slowly to his feet, aided by his own courtiers. My lord rises also. Unexpectedly, he embraces him.

“Thank my lord Motecuhzoma for his help in this. Tell him he has nothing more to fear. I will care for him as if he was my own brother.”

He leaves the room. Motecuhzoma stares blankly at the wall, his body stiff, startled by this final humiliation, this violation of his person.

“My lord conveys his thanks,” I tell him, “and tells you not to fear. From now on he will treat you as his own brother.” And then, in a whisper, I add through some mischief of my own: “But I do not think you should believe him.”

Cortés strode from the room, jubilant. He had within his grasp that treasure he had glimpsed from the first; he would hand to his king a new kingdom, fully made, fully realised, the most beautiful city ever built together with unheard-of riches in gold. He would scrub the temples clean of their accurséd idols and the pyramids would become shrines to the Virgin. He would have served not only his king but fulfilled the destiny shaped for him by God. He would bring light to this darkness and save millions of lost souls for God. His deeds would bring him fame and honour such as no Spaniard since the Cid had achieved.

When it was done he would ask the king’s permission to be
grandee
of this land, to rule as absolute governor. How could any king refuse such a request?

He was just one small step from achieving his goal. There was just one more risk to take for God.

———————

The allotment of the treasure took place in the courtyard, in the presence of the royal notary. Cortés climbed on one of the carts that had been used to transport the artillery. A hush fell over the assembled soldiers. This was the moment they had been waiting for, when they would know how much of the fabulous wealth they had seen would be theirs. Each of them nursed a dream of what they would do with their share when they returned home, to the Indies or to Extremadura or to Castile.

The treasure-room had been unsealed and the trove melted down, to make for easier accounting; the gold figurines, the gold scabbards and gold collars with their pieces of jade and turquoise, the head dresses and masks bossed with gold, all had been stripped and smelted into iron bars, stamped with the royal seal. No value had been placed on workmanship; it was only weight of metal and cut of stone that would buy land and power and women.

“I am aware that you all have been eagerly awaiting reward for your efforts,” Cortés began. “You have fought long and hard and showed great loyalty and endurance and I commend you for it.”

A ripple of eagerness passed through the crowd. Yes, they had fought hard, and if sufferings were diamonds they would all be
grandee
s.

Their captain-general brought out a scroll of parchment and began to read.

“We have weighed that treasure we found in the hidden chamber, as well as those gifts so far presented to us by Motecuhzoma. We estimate them at a value of three hundred thousand crowns.”

A gasp of excitement. Three hundred thousand crowns! A fortune!

“From this we must deduct the quinto real, the royal fifth of the king, and also a further fifth part, for the captain-general of the army, as was agreed by you all at Vera Cruz.”

Somewhere in the crowd, Benítez folded his arms, impressed. So, Cortés has voted himself sixty thousand crowns. Not a bad sum.

Cortés went on: “This leaves us with a sum of one hundred and eighty thousand crowns. From this must be deducted my further expenses to fit the expedition in Cuba and we have put aside a further sum to give as compensation to the governor in Cuba, to ensure that he causes none of you further trouble. There must also be a share for the Holy Church and an extra bonus for those men who brought with them their horses, which have proved such a decisive factor in our victories at the Tabasco River and at Texcála. There should also be special consideration for those men who went to Spain to plead our case for us in the court at Toledo.”

Well, Benítez thought. That means all the officers and captains, except perhaps for Ordaz and Mejía, will receive handsome commissions. That should ensure their loyalty.

“That leaves us with a sum of sixty four thousand crowns.”

There was a murmur of apprehension through the waiting soldiers.

“We have put aside ten thousand crowns for the families of those who have been called to heaven since the commencement of our expedition. We have split the remainder among the rest of you here, granting that we must also include the one hundred still remaining at the fort in Vera Cruz and granting also a double share for those with arquebuses and crossbows.” Cortés consulted the figure on the scroll. “That will leave each man with around one hundred crowns.”

Uproar.

The men shouted and waved their fists at Cortés. It was long minutes before order was finally restored.

“Must you cause so much trouble over so little?” Cortés shouted. “This meagre treasure is nothing to what we shall gain in the future! There are hundreds of rich cities in this land and as many gold mines!”

“And when you allot the shares we will again receive a dribble in the flood!” It was Norte, of all people.

“Be silent!” Cortés hissed. “Mind what you say or I will have you punished!”

“One hundred pesos will not buy me a new sword!” someone shouted.

“The allotment has been done in accordance with the law!” Cortés shouted. “May you all repent of your greed!” He jumped from the cart and stamped away, the men shouting their insults at his back.

Norte caught Benítez’s eye. “One hundred pesos! Is this reward for all we have been through for him?”

“I did not think the gold concerned you.”

“I am just a dirty Indian, of course, but what about the others? Flores lost an eye, Guzman a part of his hand at Texcála. They followed him to hell for one hundred pesos?”

“I will put your case to him, Norte. But it will do no good. Do you think I am happy about this?”

“You are a captain. He will take care of you!”

“I will see you have your proper reward. Even if it comes from my own purse.”

“I want nothing from you, Benítez.”

“Then what do you want?”

“I want ... I want ... “ He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want any more.”

———————

My lord takes breakfast with the emperor accompanied by Alvarado and Fray Olmedo. They sit down to a table piled with maize cakes sweetened with honey, and a selection of meats, venison, dog, turkey and wild fowl. When they are finished eating they are brought sweet drinks of chocolatl in painted gourds. Then the women who have brought them their food wash their hands with soap tree roots and anoint their feet with copal incense.

When the servants have left, my lord beckons me over to translate for him.

“Mali, I want you to speak to Motecuhzoma for me. Ask him if he has made progress on the re-dedication of the Great Temple.”

“I need a little more time,” Motecuhzoma tells me, when I relay the question. “This is not something that may be quickly achieved.”

For weeks now he has been stalling on this and for weeks my lord has not pressed him. I wonder when the explosion will finally come.

“My captains grow insistent,” my lord says. “I cannot stay them longer. Something must be done now.”

Motecuhzoma gives me a shy smile. He relishes my lord’s discomfort. He thinks the Thunder Lords will not act against his priests without his approval. I think he underestimates them.

“Tell Lord Malinche it is in his best interests to wait,” Motecuhzoma says.

I am losing heart for this. I believe my lord cares more for the gold now. He allows Motecuhzoma to manipulate him. Greed has the better of the god in him.

And yet I notice with some excitement the angry blue pulse of that extraordinary vein at his temple. Someething is brewing here. “Soon after I invited Motecuhzoma here to our palace, he promised me that the human sacrifices would stop. I have been patient. But the time for waiting has passed.”

Perhaps this is the moment at last. I turn triumphantly on Motecuhzoma. “My lord is very angry now. He has had enough of waiting.”

But Motecuhzoma has become complacent. He bestows on me an unctuous smile. “The decision is not mine. You cannot commit sacrilege in our temple. The gods would be very angry. They may not stop at taking all our lives.”

How long they have been doing this, tossing responsibility for the gods between each other, like a hot coal taken from a brazier? When will my lord be a god again? When will he put aside his greed for gold and bring the spirit of the mother and the infant to Tenochtitlán?

I pass on what Motecuhzoma has said, perhaps layer it with a little more arrogance than was intended.

“He toys with me, Mali,” my lord murmurs.

“Yes, my lord.”

Here it is again, the calm ferocity I remember from Cempoallan and Cholula. Fray Olmedo leans forward, hoping to forestall the storm. “We must not act rashly,” he whispers. “Day by day we make progress with my lord Motecuhzoma. Through the Lady Marina we have taught him the Creed in his own tongue, even the Lord’s prayer.”

My lord gives him a look of utter disdain.

Now it is Alvarado’s turn. “
Caudillo
, you know how I deplore their devilish religion, but now is not the time to press the question of the Temple. The treasury is bursting with gold, we must not risk its loss! Puertocarrero must soon return from Spain with reinforcements. Then we may be in a better position to force our demands!”

“We cannot stay our hand any longer and leave our honour unstained. We have done enough for ourselves. Now we must do something for the Lord.” He gets to his feet and strides from the chamber. Fray Olmedo and Alvarado stare after him. I see fear on their faces and at last I am glad. Now we hurry to the brink.

Whatever else they may say about us when the histories are written, Benítez thought, today we are magnificent.

He went ahead, Cortés close behind him, in full armour, sword drawn. The
caudillo
looked exultant, in the grip of some great emotion that had transformed his grey eyes into burning coals. Like Benítez, he took the steps two at a time, a picture of the Virgin and Babe under his left arm. Behind him came Alvarado, León, Jaramillo, Malinali, a dozen infantrymen with pikes and swords. Straggling far below, Father Olmedo holding the great Cross, Aguilar with him.

As Benítez reached the top, one of the temple priests came at him with a flint knife. The razor-sharp blade of the Spaniard’s sword sliced through the black robe and the priest fell to his knees screaming and clutching at his entrails as they spilled from his wound.

Another came at him but he brushed him aside with the hilt this time. He ran inside the temple and tore aside the curtain that led to the shrine.

He was prepared for the stench but still it made him gag. Obsidian eyes gleamed from the darkness; into the lair of Satan now.

Another creature came at him from the gloom but by now Alvarado and three of his infantry were there and they wrestled the apparition onto the blood-caked floor, and pinioned his arms and legs. The other priests shrieked like grackles, the great snakeskin drum boomed as others sounded the alarm. The noise was deafening.

The blood on the walls was like black paste, and thick as plaster. Something black and shrivelled sizzled in a brazier of copal incense. Painted monsters glared at them from the shadows, stone serpents and skulls.

Cortés sheathed his sword, and held out his right hand. Aguilar put the iron bar he had been carrying into the
caudillo
’s fist.

“Today we strike a blow for the Lord!” Cortés shouted and leaped into the air, at the same time bringing the bar down in a broad swinging arc into the face of the idol. The obsidian eye shattered, and the golden mask crashed to the stone floor.

The priests howled. Alvarado and his men kept them at bay.

Cortés reverently placed his picture of the Virgin in a niche in the wall, then fell to one knee and made the sign of the cross. He turned and pointed a trembling finger at the priests. “Tell them should they dare lay a finger on the blesséd image of the Madonna they shall answer for it!”

Malinali quickly shouted a translation of what he had said.

They howled again but retreated as he strode among them. “Doña Marina! Tell these ghouls to remove their devils and whitewash these walls or we shall do it for them!”

He strode back down the steps.

Benítez would have died for him at that moment. Such a calculating bastard, he thought, yet today he acts on a moment of passion. And not one of us here who would not follow him to hell when he is like this. I believe he truly thinks he can conquer the Mexica and their gods by the force of his will alone.

Today he understood why men loved Cortés. The
caudillo
had made him part of something that was both magnificent and just, a deed he could never have achieved if left to his own ambitions. Today, this cheat, this schemer, this thief, has made me more than I am, and I will always be grateful.