War God (61 page)

‘They’ll attack us,’ Aguilar advised. ‘They don’t want us to land.’

‘I’m betting they won’t attack,’ said Cortés. ‘I think Córdoba hurt them last year more than they want us to believe, but if I’m wrong,’ he raised his voice so it carried to the soldiers on deck, ‘we’re ready for a scrap, aren’t we, men?’

A ragged cheer went up.

The Indians did not attack but drew back a few hundred paces from the bank as the Spanish made their camp. Two hours later a small fleet of canoes put out from the town and paddled down to them. The fierce-eyed warrior Muluc exchanged angry words with Aguilar but the upshot was that small quantities of food were delivered – some of the delicious maize flatbreads called
qua
, a few turkeys and some fruit – all in all, hardly enough to feed more than a dozen men. This, Muluc said, was a gift.

Cortés gave thanks but pointed to his two hundred self-evidently rough and violent soldiers, every one of them armed to the teeth, who were now fortifying the camp. He reminded Muluc that hundreds more like them waited in the big ships out in the bay. ‘In view of their great hunger,’ he said, ‘these few fowls and fruits are not enough if my men are to go away satisfied. Some might even see such a “gift” as an insult. I prefer to think, friend, that you have simply not understood our needs but I give you fair warning – I cannot be responsible for the actions of my warriors if you do not bring us adequate provisions soon. We will do you no mischief if you simply allow us to enter Potonchan to purchase everything we need there.’

‘Attempt such a thing,’ Muluc replied, ‘and every one of you will die. We have fifteen thousand warriors already arrayed for battle and thousands more have been summoned from neighbouring towns. We will destroy you.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Cortés. ‘Or perhaps we will destroy you. But such threats are a waste of your breath and mine. Only bring the provisions we need and we’ll leave your town alone.’

While this was being put into the Mayan tongue, Alvarado, who had been supervising the emplacement of cannon, strode to Cortés’s side and interrupted Aguilar. ‘Tell him our needs include jewels and gold as well as food,’ he said to the interpreter. He rested his hand menacingly on the hilt of the heavy falchion he now often wore.

‘Don Pedro, you go too far,’ Aguilar protested.

‘No,’ said Cortés. ‘Don Pedro is right. Tell Muluc that we Spaniards suffer from a disease of the heart that can only be cured by gold. When he brings us food he must also bring us gold and jewels, or we
will
be forced to enter Potonchan.’

As Aguilar translated, the Mayan warrior’s face contorted with rage and he took a sudden step forward, putting both hands on his spear as though about to thrust. In the same instant Alvarado, whose left arm was still in a sling, had the falchion out of its scabbard. ‘Come on, my lovely,’ he said. ‘Just you try it.’

Seeing the joy of battle dancing in his friend’s eyes, Cortés put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Not yet, Pedro,’ he said quietly. ‘Not yet. You’ll get your chance.’

Aguilar and Muluc spoke in raised voices for some time and then the Mayan delegation returned to their canoes and paddled furiously away.

That night, Monday 22 March, Cortés used the cover of darkness to reinforce his beachhead, sending the longboats back in relays to ferry out more cannon, supplies and soldiers from the carracks and caravels. The new arrivals, numbering more than a hundred, included all the remaining crossbowmen and musketeers. Cortés also sent Brabo out with a small scouting party to gain a thorough sense of the lie of the land between the camp and the town, which lay about a mile to the east. In the small hours of the morning, the sergeant returned with vital intelligence. As well as the obvious approach, more or less directly due east along the bank and into the western side of Potonchan, he had found a good track that led inland through the fields, and then through dense brush, and eventually looped back into the town on its east side. When the time came, therefore, a squadron could be sent along this path to attack the town from the east while another marched straight up the bank to attack from the west. Brabo had also been able to reconnoitre the river, observing the currents, and recommended the brigantines be used to land men on the waterfront on the north side of the town. Such a three-pronged attack, if properly timed, was likely to be devastating. It would leave an escape route to the south for refugees, but this was surely better than forcing the enemy into a corner and a desperate last stand in which many Spaniards might also die.

Cortés congratulated Brabo on a night’s work well done, but the sergeant admitted it had been easy. ‘The Indians weren’t keeping proper watch, sir. They were too busy evacuating their women and children.’

‘Sounds like they definitely mean to put up a fight then.’

‘I’d say so, sir, yes.’

Muluc returned soon after first light on the morning of Tuesday 23 March.

This time he brought eight plucked and dressed turkeys and some maize, but only enough to feed ten people. He also brought some carved green stones and a gold mask of good quality, thickness and weight. The mask’s features, which were finely worked, seemed to be a mixture of human and feline – perhaps some species of lion. ‘This should be worth a pretty penny melted down,’ Alvarado announced as he held the piece to his face and glared out through the eyeholes at Muluc.

‘How much, do you think?’ Cortés asked.

‘Five thousand pesos,’ said Alvarado. ‘Maybe a little more … The stones are worthless though.’ He picked up one of the carvings, shaped like a small axe head, and skimmed it out across the river, eliciting a gasp of horror from Muluc as it bounced and sank.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ Alvarado challenged. ‘Filthy monkey!’

Even though he could not understand the Spanish words, and Aguilar chose not to translate them, it was clear Muluc knew he had been insulted. Shaking with anger, he told Cortés through the interpreter that the Spanish must now leave.

‘Certainly not!’ Cortés replied. He cast a sour glance at the little heap of provisions. ‘You can see I have a hundred more mouths here to feed than I did last night, but instead of offering us friendship, which would be wise, you offend us with these paupers’ rations. As to the gold,’ he took the mask from Alvarado and weighed it in his hands, ‘it’s a pretty enough piece but quite insufficient for our needs.’

The turkeys had been carried in two large baskets, four carcasses to a basket. Cortés ordered the birds removed for cooking, picked up the empty baskets and thrust them at Muluc. ‘If you don’t want us to come into your town to trade,’ he said, ‘you must fill both of these with gold and bring us four hundred more birds, twenty deer – no, make that thirty – and sufficient maize to feed all my men, not only those you see here but those who remain on my great ships. If you refuse to offer us that hospitality, then we will enter your town in force and help ourselves.’

When Aguilar had put all this into Muluc’s tongue, the Indian laughed. It was a harsh and bitter sound. ‘We do not wish to trade with you,’ he said, ‘and we have no more gold. I’ll see to it that you receive some more food from us tomorrow, the last we will bring you. After that you must leave our land or we will kill you all.’

After dark, Cortés sent out three scouting parties, but all returned within the hour to report a large Indian force massing in the fields between the camp and the town. He therefore sent the longboats back to the bay to bring out further reinforcements, several more pieces of artillery and all the remaining dogs, leaving little more than a hundred of his soldiers with the fleet. Although he would have liked the option of using cavalry, Cortés judged the riverbank at the temporary encampment too steep to land the precious animals, which were stiff from the long voyage, so they, too, remained on board ship.

Posting a strong guard, Cortés slept in his armour and ordered all the men to do the same. It meant a night of great discomfort, but the whispers of the Indians taking position in the fields were menacing enough to banish all complaints.

For two days Malinal had heard sounds of increasingly frenetic activity from the palace, and the shouts and footfalls of huge numbers of people on the move throughout the town. Neither Raxca nor Muluc visited her, and she remained in solitary confinement in the jail, largely ignored even by her guards. When they pushed food through the bars and took out her toilet slops, they spoke only a few harsh words, refusing to tell her what was happening or give her any information on the whereabouts or activities of the strangers.

But now, when her third night as a prisoner was already well advanced, Ahmakiq and Ekahau came for her and dragged her out into the courtyard. Dozens of torches – fixed to the walls and in the hands of retainers – lit up the night, and Malinal saw that all the palace slaves, numbering more than fifty, had been gathered as bearers for the portable treasures of the household, which were already being apportioned amongst them. Beautiful statuettes, pectorals, earspools, ornamental weapons, face masks, belts, plates and serving vessels, all carved from the most precious jade, a few small gold and silver ornaments, fine ceramics, costly wall hangings, bales of rich fabrics, heaped jaguar skins, and much else besides, were hastily wrapped and placed in bundles on the shoulders and backs of the slaves. No doubt to make certain none of them attempted to abscond, and to protect the treasures wherever they were about to be taken, a hundred warriors wearing Muluc’s personal livery stood watchfully around, armed with spears and obsidian-edged
macanas
– the Mayan version of the deadly weapon known by the Mexica as the
macuahuitl
.

Ahmakiq and Ekahau gripped Malinal firmly by the upper arms as they marched her across the yard, almost lifting her off the ground in their haste, and now manoeuvred her round the pile of treasures to a corner under a flickering torch where, with something of the manner of a dragon guarding its hoard, Muluc himself stood watching. He was once again dressed for war and his muscular body glistened with oil and paint.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Malinal! I don’t believe your story about working for Moctezuma. The white men certainly aren’t gods and the Great Speaker of the Mexica wouldn’t be such a fool as to imagine they are. All in all I think you’re here to cause me trouble …’

She tried to protest but Muluc held up a large, grimy hand to silence her. ‘No! I don’t have time to listen to any more of your lies and excuses. Count yourself lucky I’m not ordering your execution – you’ve your mother to thank for that – but tomorrow I’m going to destroy the white men and then we’ll send you back to Tenochtitlan with the next Mexica trader who passes through. There’s one visiting Cintla now who always pays a good price for ripe female flesh.’ He laughed as though he’d said something funny, and Ahmakiq and Ekahau sycophantically joined in. ‘Meanwhile, as you can see’ – Muluc’s tone was becoming pompous – ‘I’m rather busy! We’ve decided to evacuate the palace ahead of the fighting and send some things of value down to Cintla, so I thought I might as well put you to use as a bearer with the rest of our slaves.’

‘I am not,’ Malinal said very slowly and deliberately, ‘your slave.’

‘You’re whatever I say you are,’ said Muluc. He gave her an appraising leer: ‘Including my bed mate, should I give you that privilege.’

‘I imagine my mother might oppose such a … privilege,’ Malinal said acidly.

Muluc’s hand shot out and grasped her left breast as though it were a piece of fruit on a tree. ‘Your mother,’ he said rubbing his thumb roughly over her nipple, ‘respects my needs.’

‘Well I don’t,’ Malinal yelled. Thirty days of walking had made her lean and strong. With a twist of her body she broke free of Ahmakiq and Ekahau, clawed Muluc’s face and felt a rush of satisfaction as her long nails raked deep through his flesh. He yelped and jumped back, releasing her breast, then surged forward again and punched her hard in the belly. As she doubled over he took her by the hair and dragged her to the ground, roaring with rage.

‘Muluc!’ It was Raxca, wailing from an upper window of the palace. ‘You promised she wouldn’t be hurt!’

On the morning of Wednesday 24 March, Muluc was back. Four parallel scores, deep and still bloody, disfigured the left side of his face. ‘Looks like he’s had an argument with his wife,’ said Alvarado. Cortés laughed and asked through Aguilar: ‘Are you well, Muluc? You seem to have been in a fight.’

The Indian ignored the question and again presented eight turkeys and a small amount of maize. He pointed to the fields now seething with Mayan warriors, thousands of whom had approached within a few hundred paces of the camp. ‘Go now,’ he said, ‘or die.’

As Aguilar translated this, Alvarado drew his falchion and showed Muluc the edge of its heavy steel blade. ‘Do we look like the sort of men to take orders from a bunch of savages like you?’ he said.

The Mayan emissary didn’t flinch. ‘Leave our land,’ he insisted.

‘Come, come,’ said Cortés. ‘Where are your manners? Where is your hospitality? I tell you what – if you allow us to enter Potonchan, and provide food for my soldiers in your homes, I’ll give you good advice and teach you about my God.’

‘We don’t need your advice,’ Muluc replied stiffly, ‘we certainly will not receive you in our homes, and we heard enough about this god of yours last year to know we prefer our own.’

‘Ah, but you don’t know what you’re missing,’ Cortés said. ‘If you’ll only listen to me, you’ll prosper. Besides I
have
to enter your town. It’s my responsibility to meet your chief so I may afterwards describe him to the greatest lord in the world …’

‘And who is this great lord?’ asked Muluc with a sneer.

‘He is my king,’ replied Cortés, ‘who sent me to visit you here. He desires only peace and friendship with your people.’

‘If that is what he desires,’ replied the Indian, ‘then you should leave and not play the bully in our land.’

‘Enough!’ barked Alvarado. ‘Let’s stop sparring with this fool.’

‘I’m nearly done,’ said Cortés quietly. ‘Make certain all the cannon are primed and loaded with grapeshot.’ Alvarado grinned. As he set off around the perimeter, where a dozen falconets now pointed towards the advancing Indians, Cortés repeated his offer of peace and friendship, knowing it would be refused.