Feathered Serpent (6 page)

The act of bedding a savage appalled him. He had heard sailors speak of coupling with animals after long months at sea and once this would have seemed just as vile.

And yet, she was clean, and the smell of her, though strange, was not unpleasant. She was young, he guessed no more than sixteen, and the days when he could entertain notions of bedding a sixteen year old virgin were long gone. Some men might think him fortunate. But memories of what he had seen in that terrible shrine would not leave him.

Outside the hut, the shrieks of the howler monkeys rent the night, an unlovely chorus from hell.

Despite his misgivings he took her gently, trying not to hurt her more than was necessary for a woman’s first time. In the dancing candlelight he could see that she had a lovely body. At first he was startled by the fact that she had no hair between her legs, but even that did not displease him as much as he supposed it might.

The moment came quickly and he gasped aloud with pleasure.

When he looked down at her he saw her cheeks were wet with tears. Because he did not have her language he could not discover if she was crying from pain or some other reason beyond his fathoming. Perhaps she wept for a mother or sister or chaste love left behind for ever at Tabasco, and he allowed, with some surprise, that this creature in his arms might not be as barbarous as he had assumed. He stroked her hair, murmured words of consolation, suddenly awkward in his act of violation; beast and savage lay entwined, but far, far apart.

   ———————

Tollan

The omens had begun to appear soon after Motecuhzoma ascended the throne. Now they were too numerous to gainsay; first a bloodstone appeared in the sky every night for a year, then vanished in the west, scattering sparks like a burning log, its long and fiery tail pointing to the east; lightning had struck the temple of the Hummingbird setting it on fire; a phantom woman had been heard weeping in the streets at night; a few days ago a baby had been born with two heads.

Then Smoking Man erupted, belching smoke into the sky every day, and at night it burned in the mountains to the east like another sun.

It was time, it was time.

Why must it be me who bears this burden? Motecuhzoma thought. Of all the great speakers of the Mexica why is it I who must face this moment?

  ———————

The priests carried his litter on their shoulders all the way to Tollan. The ancient city had been Feathered Serpent’s capital when he walked the earth many bundles of years before but it was deserted now, abandoned on the sun-bright, wind-cold plain. The houses had long ago crumbled away and only the flat-topped pyramids of the temples remained, the truncated colonnades of the palace looking like the bleached rib bones of some long-dead giant. The streets were home to drifting tumbleweeds and rattlesnakes.

Motecuhzoma stepped down from the litter and was borne up the pyramid steps by his priests. It was late afternoon and the desert wind howled through the stones, throwing up clouds of grit and dust. Feathered Serpent, Lord of the Wind, was here; he was watching.

A phalanx of stone Toltec warriors, fifteen foot tall, guarded the temple roof. A crow, shivering in the desert wind, perched on one of the reclining
chacmool
s. When it saw them, it took to wing, screeching like a demon.

Another flurry of grit stung Motecuhzoma’s face. To the east, behind the mountains, a lead grey sky sparked and crackled with thunder.

The shrine itself, sanctuary of his god and ancient enemy, was in the heart of the pyramid, in a chamber below the summit. Motecuhzoma went down the steps alone, carrying the hard tack in a golden gourd, covered in rich cloth.

The wind moaned again.

  ———————

At the foot of the steps lay the Stone of the Sun, a round piece of grey-black basalt, intricately carved, as high as a man’s waist and so broad two men could lie on it head to toe. On its wheel was a map of mankind’s history ... and future. Square panels showed the destruction of previous worlds. There had been four other suns before the present one; the first had been destroyed by tigers, the second by tempests, the third by fire and the fourth by flood. And now, as every Mexican knew, they were living in the last days of the fifth sun, the final sun, the last spasm of this world before all ended.

At the centre of the stone was the sun god, Tonatiuh, a knife-blade protruding from his mouth, for the last world would end by knives.

In the darkness behind the altar, a bearded snake devoured human skeletons, the living bodies of the Mexica.

It was Feathered Serpent. Motecuhzoma felt his breathing quicken.

An owl blinked at him, fluttered blindly around, trapped by the walls, then escaped through the entrance into the gathering sky.

Another omen.

Motecuhzoma placed the gourd reverently on the altar, then stripped off his mantle and loincloth and knelt, naked, in front of Feathered Serpent. There was a small stone bowl, in the shape of a coiled snake, Beside it lay a stingray spine. Holding his penis in his left hand, he carefully pierced the vein that ran along the shaft with the stingray spine, collecting the blood from the wound in the bowl. He collected more blood in the same way, from his ear lobes, his thighs and his tongue.

When he had finished his body was bathed in sweat and he was panting with pain. He stood up and dashed the contents of the bowl in the face of the Feathered Serpent.

 ———————

When Motecuhzoma left the sanctuary his rich golden mantle was stained with blood. He ordered Woman Snake to seal the shrine so that it might never be discovered, then allowed the priests to carry him down the steps once more and place him in his litter. He spoke not a word on the journey back to Tenochtitlán, just stared morosely ahead, his eyes concentrated on some vision of future disaster. He had already done all he could to propitiate the gods. He could do no more. If Feathered Serpent must return, he might just as well have it done and finished.

San Juan de Ulúa

They arrived on the morning of Easter Sunday, announced by the booming of snakeskin drums and the blast of shell horns.

There were fifty-two officials, one for each year in a sheaf of time. Sunlight flashed on golden pectorals and lip plugs, quetzal-green feathers danced in the morning breeze. They were shorter in stature than the Spaniards, but well muscled with broad, square faces and hooked noses. Their bearers wore their hair around their shoulders and cut low over their eyes in a fringe. The officials had their hair bunched on their heads in a topknot, held in place with a cotton headband. They were unarmed.

Cortés met them under the palm trees, a few yards from the camp. The leader of the delegation took a step forward. He sported a carved jade ornament worn through the pierced septum of his nose.

The man put a finger to the ground then to his lips. Cortés bowed to him in turn and called for Aguilar to come forward and translate.

The naturale finished his greeting and Cortés waited for the translation. Aguilar seemed confused. He said something to their visitor in Chontal Maya. Now it was the Indian’s turn to frown, bewildered.

“What is going on here?” Cortés demanded.

“I cannot understand this language,” Aguilar said. “I have never heard it before.”

“If you cannot speak for me, then what is the use of you being here?”

“I spent eight years among the Mayans,” Aguilar protested. “What this man is speaking is not a dialect. It is a completely new language.”

Cortés heard a voice behind him, a woman’s voice. He turned around. It was the camarada with the black eyes that he had given to Puertocarrero. “What did she say?” he asked Aguilar.

“She says the language is called
Nahuatl
.”

“She understands what this Indian is saying then?”

“It would appear so.”

“Then bring her here!” Cortés waved the girl forward. “It may take an unconscionably long time for us even to say hello but at least we may speak with one another. I shall speak with you, you shall speak with her, and she shall speak with our guest! Now, Aguilar, let us find out what these gentlemen want of us!”

  ———————

The stranger’s name is Teuhtitl - Aguilar pronounced it Tendile - and he is a Mexica, the governor of the province in which we now stand. He welcomes my lords in the name of the great Motecuhzoma, revered First Speaker of the Triple Alliance, as he calls him. He himself, he says, is a vassal of Motecuhzoma, who is the greatest prince in the whole world, and who lives across the mountains in a place called Tenochtitlán, as if Feathered Serpent does not already know this.

Tendile summons his slaves forward. They lay mats on the ground and present Feathered Serpent with the gifts they have brought for him; there is a handful of figurines, worked in gold, a few small jewels and some cloaks decorated with green quetzal feathers, as well as ten bolts of fine white cloth. There is also food; turkeys, hog-plums and some corn cakes.

Aguilar tells me to thank Tendile for these gifts. Feathered Serpent says something to the lord Alvarado, who hurries back to the camp to do his bidding. I expect he wants to find something suitable to present in return.

Meanwhile Tendile addresses himself directly to me. “Who are your hairy companions? Are they human? What do they want with us here?”

I find his tone offensive but I relay this question exactly to Aguilar who confers with Feathered Serpent.

“Tell them we are sent by his most Catholic majesty Charles the Fifth, King of Spain, who has heard much of this great lord, Motecuhzoma. Tell him we have been sent here to offer him trade and friendship and show him the way to true religion.”

What is he talking about? If only I could speak with Feathered Serpent directly! This Aguilar is a fool. He has twisted my lord’s words to make them incomprehensible. I hesitate, give myself time to compose a more fitting reply.

Look at this Tendile, so full of his own importance, like all these Mexica. “The ancient prophecies are fulfilled!” I tell him. “Feathered Serpent has returned!”

There is a long silence. Tendile does not seem totally surprised by my announcement. News of our progress up the coast must have preceded us. “Is he truly a God?” he asks.

“Look at his white face, his black beard. Do you not recognise him?”

The play of his emotions shows on his face. “Impossible.”

“He has returned from the East on a great raft as he promised he would. Look at the way he is dressed, in Feathered Serpent’s colours!”

At that moment Alvarado returns, his curly red hair showing below his golden helmet. “Who is that man?”

What a fool! "That is not a man. His name is Tonatiuh. Sun God.”

Aguilar interrupts me. “What are you saying to him?” he asks. “He looks excited. Does he wish me to tell him the mysteries of the Cross?”

The mysteries of the Cross? The cross is a symbol of fertility. Does Tendile need to be enlightened on the making of babies? I think not. This Aguilar seems obsessed with such matters. “He wishes to know more about where my Lord is from and why he has returned.”

“Returned? Ah, so they remember Grijalva’s voyage of last year!” He confers again with Feathered Serpent and then turns back to me. “Tell him my lord Cortés is the subject of a great king who lives over the sea from the direction of the dawn. He would like to know where and when he can meet Motecuhzoma in person and bring him the good news of the one true religion.”

What is this nonsense? Aguilar speaks too quickly for me to understand everything he says and his knowledge of our language leaves much to be desired. That Feathered Serpent should be served by such fools. I turn back to Tendile. “Feathered Serpent wishes to meet Motecuhzoma straight away. As you can imagine, my Lord, they have much to discuss. Principally, of course, matters concerning the gods.”

Tendile battles to maintain the steely countenance of an ambassador. “How can he ask to meet with the Revered Speaker?” he asks me. “He has only just arrived in our lands.”

“They are his lands, so he may do as he wishes.”

Aguilar interrupts us once more. “My lord Cortés wants to know what is going on.”

I wonder how I may answer him without offending Feathered Serpent. These Mexica are such recalcitrant people. “He says he will pass on my lord’s request to Motecuhzoma, but does not know if he can arrange an audience straight away. He says that my lord has only recently arrived on these shores and he will need to rest after his travels.”

Another whispered conference.

“My lord Cortés says he is not easily fatigued and any errand he performs for his king cannot be delayed.”

I have Aguilar repeat what he has just said, but it makes no sense to me. I wonder which master Feathered Serpent refers to. I realise he must surely be referring to Olintecle, the father of all the gods.

I turn back to Tendile. “Now you have made him angry,” I tell him, and I am gratified to see him blanche. “He says he must meet Motecuhzoma and speak to him at once and without delay. He has been commanded this by Olintecle himself.”

Alvarado has brought up an assortment of gifts, carried for him by mole-slaves who are as shiny and black as obsidian: there is a casket of blue glass beads and a throne that has been attacked by sea worms.

Aguilar addresses me now: “Tell this Tendile that my lord Cortés hopes Motecuhzoma finds joy in these gifts. Perhaps he can use this throne as his seat when they meet with each other.”

I pass on his words and then both Tendile and I stare at the worm-eaten chair and the beads and I believe we both have the same thought: someone has just been deliberately insulted.