The Seven Serpents Trilogy (41 page)

Angered by the desolation that met his eyes and by the problems of calming an outraged city, he first up braided Alvarado for stupidly arousing the Indians and then turned his ire upon Moctezuma, calling him an ungrateful dog. Afterward, with gentle words, he coaxed the emperor into appearing before his people and ask ing them to lay down their weapons.

Moctezuma roused himself and in his imperial robes walked to the battlements. The crowds bowed before him and were quiet as he spoke. Not angrily against the brutal massacre, as they expected, but gently about their duties.

“Why do I see my people carrying weapons against their king?” he said. “Is it that you think me a prisoner? If so, you are mistaken. I am no prisoner. The strangers are my guests. Have you come to drive them from the city? That is unnecessary. They will depart, if you will only open the gates for them. Return to your homes. Lay down your weapons. The white men shall go back to their own land. And all shall be at peace again within the walls of Tenochtitlán.”

A murmur of contempt swept through the crowd. A noble shouted, “Base Aztecatl, coward, the white men have made you something fit only to weave and spin.”

A second noble raised his javelin and brandished it against the emperor. At once a cloud of stones fell upon the royal train. One of the stones struck Moctezuma's forehead, knocking him to the ground.

The emperor was borne away amid cries of remorse from the crowd. But their sorrow quickly turned to anger and the crowd again besieged the palace.

Saddened by this happening, I talked to Moctezuma the next morning. He had refused all remedies, had torn off the bandages as soon as they were applied, and as I came before him was wrapped in a bitter silence.

He had sworn himself to silence, and I left without his uttering a word.

Five days later, refusing all Christian comfort, saying, “I will not at this hour desert the faith of my fathers,” the emperor died.

His death marked the closing hours of our days in Tenochtitlán and sent us back to the Spanish quarters.

To counter the hordes that surged in upon us when the news spread, four engines were built of heavy tim ber. These towers, which sheltered twenty-four soldiers and provided loopholes for musketeers and crossbowmen, were sent out the day after Moctezuma's death, but were overthrown by a crowd of yelling Indians.

That night Cortés ordered us to make ready.

He called the officers and those of us who had served him personally to the emperor's treasure room. Using rough scales that had been devised, he appraised each gold anklet, each plate, each cup, statue, and trinket. The royal notary was there to supervise the weighing and claim the fifth,
la quinta
, that belonged to King Carlos. The value of the treasure he estimated to be in excess of two million gold pesos.

The scene was one of wild excitement, rivaling the one aboard the
Santa Margarita
when Don Luis divided the treasure he had wrung from the Indians of Isla del Oro. There would have been even more excitement had not the threats of our enemies penetrated the thick walls of the treasure house.

I clearly heard one Indian with a stentorian voice shout, “We will throw your bodies to the tigers, lions, and vipers to gorge upon! From your gold you will take small pleasure because you will be dead. And your friends, the Texcaltéca, we will fatten in cages.”

Threats did not bother the dwarf. Dazzled by the piles of shining metal, he took his time in selecting a goodly armful—all he could carry, in fact.

It was now a question of when the army should leave and by what route.

Cortés decided to retreat to Texcála and discuss future operations there.

The causeway of Tlácopan was the longest by which to flee the city but, as the most circuitous, the least likely to be guarded. Cortés made the decision to leave at night after listening to a soldier named Botello, whose astro logical advice he had taken before.

Since there were three canals to cross on the causeway, a portable bridge was constructed and four hundred Indians and fifty soldiers were selected to carry it. We made no more fighting towers, for they had failed us.

Because of my size, I was placed in the squad that was to transport the bridge and position it whenever it was needed. The dwarf, because of his ability to squeeze himself through small holes, accompanied us.

We left our quarters at midnight.

A thin rain was falling as we crossed the square and took the narrow street that led into the causeway Cortés had chosen.

To our surprise, upon reaching the causeway we saw two sentinels standing guard. At our approach they fled howling into the darkness. Immediately the priests keeping night watch on the summit of the temples sounded their horns, and the war drum in the great pyramid temple of Uitzilopochtli sent forth a series of mournful groans.

To our further discomfort, a deep trench had been dug between the street and the causeway that could be crossed only by the use of the portable bridge. It was quickly brought up and slid into place.

The army came in a tight formation behind us. Cortés rode in the lead with half of his officers and Doña Ma rina, the rest of the officers bringing up the rear.

Between them came first the cannoneers, then the foot soldiers, armed with harquebuses, muskets, and cross bows. All of us, officers and soldiers alike, including the dwarf and me, had discarded our steel breastplates for the quilted cotton armor of the Mexica, which was less cumbersome, and more effective against arrows and javelins.

Cortés, in need of all the strength he could muster, had released the rebellious officers from their chains, as well as Don Luis de Arroyo, who was given back the stallion Bravo.

The army passed safely over the bridge without seeing the enemy, though Indians surrounded us on three sides, shouting threats and insults.

The drizzle ceased and a half-moon showed.

On one side was the lake, flat-roofed houses on the other. Beyond the causeway, not twenty paces away, canoes began to appear out of the mist.

The drum in the great pyramid sounded again, sad and drawn out. Whether it was a signal or not, there was suddenly unloosed upon those of us who were carrying the bridge a shower of stones and flaming arrows.

Two men were injured and we had to abandon them. We moved on through the mist, which was turning again to rain. Ahead of us I heard the rattle of muskets but not the sound of cannon. From rooftops, stones and darts fell upon us, accompanied by insults that I did not understand but whose tone left no doubt that the In dians would not rest until they saw us dead.

We moved slowly, carrying the heavy bridge.

Those in the lead shouted back for us to hurry, that they had come to another breach in the causeway. We passed three soldiers slain by arrows and others lying wounded. Two horses had fallen on the slippery road and were struggling beside the lake.

The farther we advanced, the more dead we encoun tered, Azteca and Spaniards alike, lying in our way so that we had to tramp upon their bodies.

We came to the second breach to find the army in disarray, the artillery in a tangle, and the horses neigh ing and trying to stampede. The breach was wider than our bridge. When we attempted to slide it into the breach, the forward end got fouled against the bank. We lit torches and strained at it, but could not pry it loose.

Don Luis, who had appeared from somewhere and stood watching us, said, not to me but to others, “We should have built two bridges instead of one and of dif ferent lengths.”

An officer—one of his friends—answered, “We should have remained in Cuba and saved our lives, which we are about to lose.” Judging from his voice, I guessed that he and his comrades were ready to flee.

The bridge was left where it lay, and the army clam bered over it. But then we came to a third breach.

Here, hundreds of Indians were waiting for us, some massed along the lakeshore, others crouching in canoes. The dwarf was knocked down by a stone that bounced off his quilted armor. Breathless, but not wounded, he began to stagger under his heavy burden of gold, so I helped him carry part of it.

The rain grew heavy. Our torches went out. Darts and javelins showered upon us and many soldiers fell. A horse ran past with its mane on fire.

Cannon were brought up. Because of wet powder, not all of them fired, but enough did fire to drive the Indians back on the causeway and silence the canoes pressing in on us from the lake.

By now the breach was half-full of crates, spilled sup plies, dead horses, and dead soldiers, so we scrambled as best we could to the far side.

Now that I was no longer burdened by the bridge and the dwarf had a lighter load to carry, I said to him, “We are not fighting
against
the Azteca. Nor are we fighting
for
Cortés and his Spaniards. We are fighting to save our lives. If we see a chance to escape, let us take it.”

The dwarf was too exhausted to answer.

The night wore on, but the chance to escape did not come.

Everything was in confusion.

Cortés, from all I could tell, was somewhere beyond us with his musketmen, lost in gray curtains of rain. Be tween us, heavy cannon boomed from time to time, and I heard the whine of a harquebus.

Indians were shooting at us from the lake, moving along beside the causeway in their canoes. We passed a falconet and a gunner sprawled beside it, stripped of his uniform and pierced by arrows. We passed a dead staghound and a wounded Indian who held up his hands, asking for mercy.

I saw a pile of gold bars from a horde that Cortés had melted down, lying on the causeway. They were no larger than a lady's hand, but their owner had found them too heavy to carry. I left them and said nothing to the dwarf.

We were now at the rear of the army, in a dangerous position, stumbling ahead in the dark, soaked to the bones. The rain stopped again, and we lit torches, which attracted arrows, but we moved faster and felt in better spirits with the torchlight shining.

Near dawn we reached the end of the causeway. Cortés and his men were still out of sight, but I could hear musket fire and cannon.

After leaving the causeway, we went forward on a road that ran deep with muddy water. We passed can non mired to their axles and abandoned, more dead horses, and five dead soldiers in a pile. We came to a small, four-sided pyramid that stood just off the road. Here, in the role he had taken over as our captain, Don Luis pulled in his horse.

“We'll wait,” he said. “At sunrise we'll count bullets, climb the pyramid, and survey the countryside.”

Cantú and I hung back as he tied the stallion.

The dwarf was for leaving him and pressing on. But it was a better idea for us to climb the pyramid and from its height find out, as best we could, if there were Indians hiding around us, where the road led, whether it went in a circle around the lake and back to Tenochtitlán or to the sea, what had happened to Cortés and to the rem nants of his army.

 

I
T WAS NEAR DAWN, WITH THE SKY GRAY AND A STREAK OF PINK MIST
off to the east, when we went up the pyramid, the dwarf clasping his gold. Of the fifty soldiers who had started from Tenochtitlán, only nine remained. Three of them, too weak to make the steep climb, stayed behind.

There was a god house at the summit and a terrace that looked out on the valley we had left. Off to my right I had a clear view of the causeway and the lake on both sides.

In the dim light I could see canoes wrecked on the shores, drowned men floating, and bodies piled up at the last breach we had crossed.

In the other direction, at the end of the road we had just left, were a group of buildings and a tree-lined square. A fire burned in the square, and around it the remnants of the Spanish army were huddling against the cold.

We left Don Luis and the soldiers talking beside the god house.

The stairs were slippery with rain. We went down slowly, a step at a time. Halfway to the bottom I heard an owl hoot, an answering sound, then a second hoot, long and drawn out, high above us.

Looking up, I saw that the terrace was crowded with yellow-striped Indians. Apparently they had seen us climb the pyramid and had gone to its far side and waited out of sight. There were more than a dozen of them running around in front of the god house. One pointed down at us and brandished a club.

We had no way of defending ourselves if we were at tacked. I carried a battered musket and a pouch of wet powder. The dwarf had lost his sword, his only weapon.

I put an arm around him and we hurried as best we could to the bottom. The three soldiers had built them selves a fire and were lying around it. Bravo stood shivering under the tree. I untied him, got into the saddle, and pulled the dwarf up behind me.

It was still dark here below, but the first rays of sun had reached the terrace. The Indians were chanting as they dragged a body toward the god house.

The chanting ceased. There was no sound except a cannon shot far in the distance. The silence deepened. I heard a Spanish oath that Don Luis often used, then quickly a single, choked cry. Black-robed priests came out of the god house, and one of them held up a bloody heart to the rising sun.

“It was a stout heart,” the dwarf said.

“Stout,” I said.

“If we had time we could stop and bury him.”

“If we had a dozen soldiers with muskets and dry powder.”

“It would do little good. The Azteca would dig him up.”

The Indians had left the terrace and were clambering down the stairs toward us. Wishing that I had a pair of Spanish spurs, I thrust my heels into the stallion's flank.

The dwarf said, “We might say a prayer for his soul.”

“Let's pray for ourselves. Let us think about getting out of the mud and into Cholólan.”

The dwarf still puffed and wheezed from the blow on his chest. “A hundred arrows came your way during the night and many stones,” he said, “yet not one struck you in all that time. It puzzles me.”