War God (34 page)

There was no mercy in Shikotenka’s heart, only the sense of time slipping away too fast – for undoubtedly many had fled the pavilion to spread the alarm and Mexica reinforcements must be on the way. He pointed at Mahuizoh. ‘We’ll let that one live,’ he said.

‘Why?’ demanded Ilhuicamina. He was angry, his prosthetic jade nose giving him a strange, almost inhuman appearance.

‘I want him to bear witness to what happened here. You can cut off
his
nose if you like but keep him alive.’

Shikotenka turned back to Coaxoch. ‘You fat turd,’ he said. ‘You used to be a man once but look at you now, blubbering like a woman. Stand up!
Stand up I say!
’

With great difficulty Coaxoch clambered to his feet. ‘What do you want of me?’ he asked sullenly.

Shikotenka had been holding Guatemoc’s
macuahuitl
loosely in his left hand. Now he clamped his right hand to its hilt and swung the weapon up between Coaxoch’s legs with savage force, hacking through his pubic bone, rending his abdomen to the navel and finally twisting the weapon as he pulled it out so that the Snake Woman’s intestines, swollen and stinking, spooled to the ground at his feet. To his credit he did not cry out in death, perhaps recovering some of the warrior composure he’d been famed for in his youth, and as he dropped to his knees a ghastly smile stiffened his corpulent features.

Hearing a sudden shriek behind him, Shikotenka spun and saw Mahuizoh bent almost double by Tree who had twisted his arms behind his back. Ilhuicamina loomed over the struggling general, holding a fat knob of flesh and gristle in his hand which he now threw with disgust to the ground. ‘Well,’ he said defensively, ‘you did say I could cut off his nose.’

‘It’s the least he deserves,’ said Tree as Mahuizoh roared and tried to pull free but was unable to break his grip, ‘the very least.’

Shikotenka swung the
macuahuitl
again, decapitating Coaxoch, then walked over to Mahuizoh, the head dangling by its hair from his fist. ‘Do you remember me?’ he said.

An incoherent roar from Mahuizoh.

‘
Do you remember me?
’ Shikotenka repeated, louder this time, and Tree twisted the captive’s arms tighter, extracting a gasp of pain.

‘I remember you,’ Mahuizoh replied, his voice gurgling through blood and horribly distorted. ‘You are Shikotenka, battle king of Tlascala. You’ve killed my father. You’ve killed my brothers. Why don’t you go ahead and kill me?’

‘Because you’re more useful to me as a messenger,’ sneered Shikotenka. ‘Run off home to Tenochtitlan now and tell Moctezuma how the nation of Tlascala humiliated Coaxoch and his phony generals tonight.’

Like his late father, Mahuizoh was a big man with a torturer’s cruel face but, where Coaxoch had run to fat, the son, still less than thirty years of age, was all solid muscle, a towering square slab whose tunic had come awry showing massive thighs and a heavy wrestler’s body glistening with sweat. He didn’t have Tree’s height and couldn’t match his enormous strength but, even injured, with his arms bent forcefully behind his back, he was putting up a creditable fight.

Mahuizoh laughed – a hideous, liquid, choking sound. ‘You’ll not leave this camp alive,’ he said, ‘and when I go to Moctezuma I’ll be wearing your skin.’ Over the blood pouring from the cavity that had once been his nose his eyes burned with hatred.

That’s right
, thought Shikotenka.
Hate me. Hate me with all your foul heart.
It’s exactly what I want you to do.

Tree dealt the general a stunning blow to the temple, knocking him to the ground while Shikotenka turned on the balls of his feet, his eyes urgently searching the great tented hall. He’d gambled on Coaxoch keeping the armoury of his personal guard close, so it was with a sense of vindication that he spotted racks of spears,
atlatls
, bows,
macuahuitls
, clubs and shields stacked in neat rows to one side. ‘Every man grab a shield,’ Shikotenka yelled, and the blood-smeared Tlascalans, who’d started the raid armed only with offensive weapons to maximise their speed and killing power, scrambled to obey.

In moments they all had circular bucklers fashioned from heavy hardwood, covered in leather painted in yellow and black stripes, and studded with flint, strapped to their forearms. Shikotenka, who had also snatched up a long spear, reviewed his squad with approval. The expressions on their faces were hard to read. ‘Well?’ he yelled. ‘What are you waiting for? The whole Mexica army’s coming our way. Time we got out of here.’

Running back south, they soon reached the dance chamber. Shikotenka paused by Tochtli, who had failed to free the javelin from his belly and was curled up in a ball around its shaft. ‘I’m sorry, little Rabbit,’ he said as he gently slit his cousin’s throat. ‘You were brave tonight, and skilful. I wish this had ended better for you.’

Cortés was striding about the main deck, willing the storm to abate whilst supervising the loading of the last supplies. In his imagination he pictured the governor and a squadron of his guards thundering down the road from Santiago. Should they reach the port before the fleet sailed, all would be lost.

Yet even as he counted the minutes, he refused to lose his nerve, and kept a calm countenance, issuing orders without panic or obvious hurry. Everything must be done that should be done for, if it was not, even if they got to sea in time, the expedition would surely fail.

The
Santa María
’s
share of the pigs, goats and cattle brought by Díaz from the slaughterhouse were already billeted in the forward hold, squealing and bleating in the pens hastily knocked up for them. Meanwhile, here on the main deck, the four excellent carriage horses that Dr La Peña had so generously donated to the expedition were even now being led on board and tethered into slings alongside the six fine chargers loaded earlier and stamping nervously in their stalls. With the five good mounts that Alvarado was transporting, and three more on Puertocarrero’s ship, the expedition could field a force of eighteen cavalry. Cortés would have preferred more – fifty, even a hundred! – but he was reasonably sure the natives of the New Lands would never have faced battle against mounted troops. They would likely be as overawed and demoralised by the experience as the Indians of Cuba and Hispaniola.

‘Caudillo … Excuse me.’ Cortés felt a tug at his sleeve and turned to confront Nuno Guiterrez, a bearded brute of a sailor, one of the team he’d ordered moments before to prepare the
Santa María
to be warped out from the pier.

‘Yes, Nuno? What do you want?’

‘We’ve found a stowaway, sir.’

‘Stowaway?’ Cortés glanced down, saw that the sailor’s massive paw was clamped around the small frail shoulder of Muñoz’s unfortunate page, and nodded in recognition. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Him.’ The boy’s nose was red and painfully swollen, and the mass of cuts and bruises on his skinny body stood out like accusations in the yellow light of the ship’s lanterns. ‘He’s no stowaway. He serves our Inquisitor. Where did you find him?’

‘Hiding in the aftcastle,’ said Guiterrez, who had a voice like pebbles being shaken in a sieve. ‘Burrowed down amongst the springlines.’

‘Very well. Be about your business. You can leave him with me.’

Guiterrez had the peculiar rolling gait of those who’d been too long at sea. As he moved aft, Cortés saw that the boy was afraid – who wouldn’t be with a master like Muñoz? – but trying not to show it.

‘What’s your name, lad?’

‘I am Pepillo, sir.’

‘And what’s your opinion of your master, young Pepillo?’

A look of caution came into the boy’s eyes. ‘I’m sure I can’t say.’

‘Can’t say? Or won’t say?’

‘It’s not my place to speak of my master, sir.’

‘He beats you. Do you know why?’

‘I know nothing, sir. I’m his page. I must serve him. He may do with me as he wishes.’

Diplomatic little fellow
, Cortés thought. ‘So … You were hiding in the aftcastle, eh?’

Pepillo nodded.

‘In which case, I expect you know already that your master’s no longer aboard the
Santa María
.’

Another nod. ‘You sent him to Don Pedro Alvarado’s ship.’ Was there just the slightest hint of vindication in the boy’s tone? ‘You ordered him placed in the brig, sir.’

‘And do you know what the brig is?’

‘A kind of prison, sir.’

‘Think he belongs there?’

Pepillo looked uncomfortable again, as though he feared a trap. ‘That’s not for me to say, sir.’

‘You’re careful with your words, boy. I like that. What other skills do you have?’

‘I can read and write Castilian well’ – a note of pride – ‘and in a fine hand. I have some Latin. I know ledgers and numbers.’

Useful
, Cortés thought. An idea had occurred to him and now he voiced it impulsively. ‘I’ll be needing a first-class secretary on this trip. My usual man’s in Santiago and I haven’t the time to fetch him to the ship before we sail. What would you say if I were to offer you his job?’

Hope lit up the boy’s face like a beacon and was immediately doused.

‘I don’t think Father Muñoz would agree, sir …’

‘But Father Muñoz is in the brig – remember?’

‘Oh … Yes.’

‘So here’s the thing. I’m going to be writing letters as our expedition proceeds. A great many letters. I’ll be writing them in Castilian, of course, but they’re likely to be rather long with frequent corrections and crossings out. Would you be able to make fair copies of those letters in that fine hand you say you have? Copies good enough to be read by the king of Spain?’

The boy’s jaw dropped. ‘The king himself, sir?’

‘Yes. His Sacred Majesty, our sovereign, Don Carlos, the most high and powerful Caesar, ever august Holy Roman Emperor and king of Spain.’

Pepillo’s little frame had been drooping for much of the interview, but now his head was up and his eyes were clear. ‘I was judged the best copyist in my monastery, sir. I believe my work will be good enough even for the king.’

‘Very well then. I’ll give you a try. And don’t worry yourself about Father Muñoz. I’ll be ordering him freed from Don Pedro’s brig tomorrow, but I’ll make your new appointment right with him first.’

A huge smile broke out on Pepillo’s face. ‘Thank you, sir! Thank you! Thank you!’

‘I’ll expect you to earn your keep. Now run along and find my manservant Melchior. You know who he is?’

Pedro nodded vigorously. ‘He showed me to my master’s – my former master’s – cabin when I first came on board, sir.’

‘Well that’s very much to the point, because what I want the two of you to do now is tear down the partition that was put across my stateroom to make Muñoz’s cabin. I’m going to need all the space for myself, so clear out the good Father’s bags and possessions, stow them somewhere dry and we’ll transfer them over to the
San Sebastián
tomorrow. He’ll be sailing with Don Pedro for the rest of the voyage.’

For a moment Pepillo just stood there looking dazed.

‘Get on with it, lad!’ Cortés said gently. ‘When I say I want a thing done, it means I want it done at once.’

While he’d been talking to the boy, Cortés had kept his eyes and ears open. Some expanses of clear sky had opened up amongst the clouds, the moon was shining through brightly and the storm appeared to be slackening. He hurried up to the navigation deck where Alaminos was looking out to sea. ‘Well,’ he said to the navigator, ‘what do you think?’

‘A little better, Don Hernán, but I still don’t like it. Can I not persuade you to delay?’

‘God hath not given us the spirit of fear,’ Cortés quoted cheerfully, ‘but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.’ He rubbed his hands together: ‘Gird up thy loins like a man, Alaminos! We sail. Now!’

‘Very well,’ said the pilot, ‘and may God save us.’ He barked a command to Guiterrez and his mates who stood ready with the uncoiled springline they’d brought down from the aftcastle. All business now, they looped one end of the line round a sturdy cleat nailed to the side of the ship near the front of the navigation deck, while two of the team swarmed down the mooring ropes, cast them off and looped the other end of the springline round a stanchion on the pier.

Holding a powerful lantern fuelled with whale oil, a lookout named Inigo Lancero stood waiting in the crow’s-nest at the top of the mainmast. ‘Ahoy there, Inigo,’ Cortés bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth to attract the man’s attention over the wind. ‘Do you hear me well?’

‘I hear you, Caudillo,’ came the faint reply.

‘So hear this. The fleet sails now! The fleet sails now! Give the signal.’

For a few seconds nothing happened, then the lantern flared in Inigo’s hands and the flare rapidly blossomed, steadying and sharpening into a brilliant effulgence that would carry for miles. At once Cortés pounded up the stairs to the aftcastle and hurried to the starboard rail. The crow’s-nests of the rest of his fleet were visible from here, and he stared out anxiously into the moonlit night, waiting for the answering signals. He counted ‘one … two … three … four … five … six … seven …’ Before he reached eight he saw the signal blaze to life atop Alvarado’s carrack – then Escalante’s, then Puertocarrero’s, then Montejo’s, then Ordaz’s, then Morla’s, and then all the others in rapid succession. It seemed that not even the most ardent Velazquistas were using the storm as an excuse to stay in port!