War God (78 page)

‘Then he is a god of war! But his war is against Hummingbird himself, the wicked ruler and authority of the unseen world, who contaminates and pollutes everything he touches with evil and darkness, whose puppet Moctezuma is, just as the physician Mecatl was Moctezuma’s puppet in the plot to poison you … So the question you must ask yourself, Guatemoc, is this – will you, too, be Hummingbird’s puppet in the great conflict that is to come, or will you fight on the side of the good and the light?’

Guatemoc’s lean, handsome face was serious. ‘Lady Temaz,’ he said, ‘if you are asking me to fight against Moctezuma then I will tell you now I am ready to do so! He is a weakling and a fool and he sought to murder me! But if you are asking me to fight against Hummingbird, my lady – well, that is quite another matter and by no means so easily done.’

‘The time will come, Prince, when you will have to choose,’ Tozi said. ‘I can only hope you choose wisely.’ She pressed her fingers one more time against the wounds that scarred his lean, naked belly, sending healing warmth into his body. ‘I will see you again,’ she said, straightening, relinquishing the contact, ‘but now I must return to Aztlán.’

Quick as a striking snake, Guatemoc sat up on the bed and threw one arm around Tozi’s waist and another around her neck. ‘Not so fast, Lady Temaz,’ he said. ‘I still want my kiss.’

‘Well you shall not have it, foolish boy! I am a goddess and you a mere man. Do you wish to be turned to stone?’

‘I’ll take that risk,’ said Guatemoc, and pulled her face down to his, crushing his lips against hers. Her mouth was open, perhaps with shock, perhaps something else. She felt his tongue enter, pass the barrier of her teeth, and –
what was this?
– her own tongue responded! For an instant she was lost in a delicious, roiling, wet warmth, tasting this man, smelling this man, melting into him, and then she remembered herself and focussed her intent and
whoosh
, with a whisper of reluctance she dissolved into smoke and vanished and left him embracing empty air …

In the few seconds she remained invisible in the room with him, she saw him look with astonishment at his hands, at his arms, and press his fingers to his lips.

‘Well at least,’ he said finally, ‘she didn’t turn me to stone.’

Guatemoc stood by the open window of his bedchamber in the dawn light, listening to the chorus of morning birds amongst the trees of his father’s estate.

What just happened?
he thought.
Who is she? A goddess, as she claims? Or something else?

He touched his lips again, glowing, alive, tingling with sensation. But when he brought his fingers away he saw they were smeared with red.

He frowned. What was this? Blood? He tasted his lips with his tongue. No! Not blood! Something else. Something familiar.

He found an obsidian mirror and examined himself. This red stuff, whatever it might be, was not confined to his lips but smeared all round his mouth. He tasted it again and suddenly he had it. Tincture of cochineal! Rare and exotic, yes, but quite definitely a woman’s makeup.

What would a goddess need with makeup?

As the sun rose on a new day he pondered this question, but could come to no definite conclusion.

As the sun rose on the new day, Huicton was ushered into Shikotenka’s presence.

The battle king of Tlascala, he was pleasantly surprised to discover, had no pretensions whatsoever. Rather than insist on meeting him in some overblown audience chamber in the royal palace, he’d invited him to his home where his beautiful young wife Zilonen, doe eyes, high cheekbones, bee-stung lips, silky dark hair hanging to her waist, pert bottom, perfect hips, was personally cooking breakfast. ‘Your eyes are clouded, father Huicton,’ she said, noticing his scrutiny, ‘but I think you see everything.’

So … not only stunning to behold but clever, feisty and direct as well!

‘I see,’ he replied, ‘everything I need to.’

Shikotenka entered the room. He wore only a colourful length of cloth wrapped around his waist that covered his legs to just below his knees. His black hair hung in knotted braids around his broad shoulders. His eyes were shrewd and intelligent, weighing his guest up. He was not handsome in the way his wife was beautiful, but there was a roguish forthrightness and charm about him, and his hard, muscular body was inscribed with the pictographs of a hundred old scars – all to the front, Huicton noticed, none at all on his back. Deduction: this was a man who stood and fought. This was a man who did not run away.

‘Good morning, Ambassador Huicton,’ said Shikotenka. ‘To what do we owe this honour?’

Huicton decided to be honest. ‘To your remarkable success in your recent battles with the Mexica, Lord Shikotenka. Your destruction of the great field army of Coaxoch has attracted the attention of my master Ishtlil of Texcoco. He would like, if you are willing, to propose an alliance between your people and his.’

‘You say “his”, not “ours”. Can I take it you are not a Texcocan yourself then?’

‘I am Mexica.’

‘Yet you work for Ishtlil against the interests of your own people?’

‘As I worked for his father Neza before him. I do not see myself as Mexica, or Texcocan, but as a citizen of the one world, and in that capacity I strive honestly, I strive truly, I strive with all my heart, for balance. For a generation now, the power of the Mexica has been too great. It has introduced distortions into the one world. It has created a nation of cruel and arrogant bullies in Tenochtitlan. I have done my best, played my part such as the gods allow, to restore that balance.’

‘And this is why you now seek an alliance with Tlascala?’

‘My master Ishtlil seeks that alliance. I am merely his messenger.’

Zilonen had laid out a stack of maize cakes on the table and a bowl of richly spiced venison in which green chillies floated. There were goblets of foaming chocolate and plates of succulent fruit. ‘Sit down,’ she said, ‘break your fast. No good business gets done on an empty stomach.’

Huicton licked his lips. ‘Very true, my lady.’ He took his place at the table, broke off a handful of bread and gathered up an ample mouthful of stew. ‘Ah, excellent,’ he commented as he chewed, smacking his lips. ‘Truly excellent.’

‘So this alliance,’ Shikotenka asked, ‘what’s the purpose of it?’

‘Why, to defeat Moctezuma, of course, once and for all. Even for his most loyal, arselicking vassals,’ an apologetic glance at Zilonen, ‘his endless demands for human sacrifices have become too burdensome for any reasonable person to stand. And you in Tlascala, who have never submitted to vassaldom, have borne the cruellest burden in the incessant wars and raids of the Mexica – until, that is, you smashed Coaxoch’s army.’ Huicton helped himself to another dripping mouthful of stew. ‘That, I can tell you –
that
gave Moctezuma something to think about!’

‘So much to think about,’ Shikotenka said, ‘that our Senate does not believe we’ll be troubled by him again for many a long year. Which raises the question – if we’ve got Moctezuma off our backs, why do we need a pact with Ishtlil? As you know, Huicton, we in Tlascala go our own independent way. We’ve never been very keen on alliances.’

Huicton chewed in silence for a moment. He would not speak of Tozi and her prophetic utterances. He could hardly expect a pragmatist like Shikotenka to believe any of that. But he didn’t see now how he could avoid the subject of Quetzalcoatl. It was impossible to understand Moctezuma’s motivations, and his insatiable quest for ever more sacrificial victims, without taking the legends of the plumed serpent and his return in a One-Reed year – this very year! – into account.

‘I’m afraid, Shikotenka, it is not so simple. Not nearly so simple. And I much regret to inform you that your victory over Coaxoch will not be an end to the matter “for many a long year”, as your Senate naively imagines. There is another factor at work, one you may not even be aware of, but I have reason to believe that because of it you and your people will face more – not fewer – attacks from the Mexica in the months ahead, and the same will unfortunately be true for Ishtlil’s people and for many others. So, contrary to your commendably proud and independent stance, the truth is there has never been a time when an alliance would be more expedient or more worthwhile for Tlascala than it is today …’

Shikotenka took a long draught of chocolate and wiped his mouth. ‘Very well, old man, I’m here to listen.’

Huicton dipped another handful of bread into the stewpot and transferred it to his mouth, smacking his lips with satisfaction. ‘It’s a long story,’ he said, ‘and I’m an old man, as you rightly say, and much given to prolixity, so please bear with me while I tell it …’

Melchior had been buried with full honours alongside the four Spaniards also killed in Thursday’s fighting. The graves lay in a shady corner of the orchard behind the palace, the same orchard where the horses had been exercised before the battle, and on the morning of Saturday 27 March Pepillo returned there carrying the little dagger Cortés had given him. He knelt, whispered, ‘I miss you, Melchior,’ and then very carefully carved four words onto the wooden cross that bore his friend’s name. The words were:

RIDE IN GREEN PASTURES

‘A fitting epitaph,’ said a gruff voice behind him, and Pepillo turned to see Bernal Díaz standing there leaning on a stick. The ensign’s thigh looked less swollen than before and the bandages around his chest were clean. He was holding a hessian sack with some object inside it.

Pepillo, who’d been crying again, sheathed the knife and rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘Don Bernal. I’m happy to see you on your feet.’

‘Dr La Peña has done well by me,’ Díaz replied with a smile. ‘He tells me I’ll be fit for battle in no time.’

Pepillo shuddered. ‘I hope there’ll be no more fighting!’

‘I’m afraid there will be, lad, it’s what we’re here to do … Now, look …’ Something moved in the sack he was holding and he glanced down at it. ‘There’s a kindness you could do for a poor orphaned creature … If you’re willing.’

‘A kindness, sir? I don’t understand.’

‘It concerns the war dogs.’ Another wriggle of the sack. ‘Amongst them when we sailed from Santiago was a pregnant wolfhound bitch. She gave birth to a litter of six pups on the voyage and was nursing them, but Vendabal dragged her away from them on Thursday and put her into the pack for battle. She was one of his best fighters, so he said, but she was killed. The pups are barely weeks old, too much trouble to feed by hand, so Vendabal and his handlers destroyed them all …’

Pepillo’s face fell.

‘… Except this one, which I managed to save. I was thinking you might have time to rear him. Goat’s milk, I’m told, is a good substitute to feed an orphaned pup when its dam is lost. And, well, we have plenty of goats on the hoof with us. A veritable farm! I should know, since I requisitioned them from Santiago’s slaughterhouse the night we sailed! Here, take a look.’

And with that the ensign hobbled forward, reached into the sack and lifted out by the scruff of its neck a surprisingly large, furry, brindled puppy, which opened its toothless jaws in a yawn and licked him with its pink tongue. ‘Here, lad, he’s yours if you want him,’ Díaz said, passing the animal over. ‘He’s not a purebred wolfhound. From the look of him Vendabal says he was likely sired by a greyhound.’

Pepillo cradled the puppy. It was quite heavy, as long as his forearm and wonderfully warm. He could feel its heartbeat. It gave another yawn and a small contented whimper.

‘Well?’ asked Díaz. ‘Will you keep him?’

‘Oh yes, sir!’

‘And what will you call him?’

Pepillo already knew the answer to that question. ‘Melchior,’ he said fiercely. He stroked the soft hair of the puppy’s head. ‘His name is Melchior.’

Sunday 28 March was not a day of rest for Cortés. After an early mass he left Potonchan two hours before dawn with two hundred men, proceeded at a forced march and reached Cintla by sunrise to pay a surprise visit to Ah Kinchil. Both the paramount chief and Muluc were detained under armed guard and the royal palace was ransacked. Other than a few small items of little value, however, no gold was found.

It was the same story in every other town and village searched during the days that followed – lean pickings or nothing at all. Gradually, after Cortés had given Alvarado a free hand to use torture (Muluc had been blinded in one eye with a hot iron, and Ah Kinchil had died, foaming at the mouth on an improvised rack), it became clear, even to Alvarado, that the Maya must either be extremely brave, stubborn and good at hiding their treasure, or – more likely – they were telling the truth and had none. This, anyway, was what Aguilar, who grew increasingly distressed at his role as interpreter during the interrogations, had been saying all along. The Maya were, in his view, a fallen people, whose once great and prosperous kingdoms had lapsed into obscurity, poverty and barbarism hundreds of years before. Nothing now remained of their former glory, except the mighty pyramids and temples, many already in ruins, they had inherited from their ancestors.

With the Velázquez faction complaining bitterly that the whole story of the rival Pedrarias expedition had been a trick to procure a hasty departure from Santiago, and demanding to know why they were wasting their time in this godforsaken, gold-bereft land, Cortés began to feel the lure of the fabled, indeed almost legendary, empire of the Mexica ever more strongly. Why, it was rumoured to possess so much gold that even its children’s toys were made of the precious metal! Moreover, although the mysterious city of Tenochtitlan, standing in its lake beyond snow-capped mountains, was always spoken of as far away, repeated questioning of traders made it clear that it could in fact be reached by forced march within as little as thirty days.

And there was something much more important, much more significant, much more
meaningful
to be considered.

From the moment under the silk-cotton tree when Muluc had first spoken of it, Cortés had known it was Tenochtitlan that Saint Peter had revealed to him in his dreams. The mountains wreathed in snow that must be crossed to reach it, and its distinctive location in the midst of a great lake at the heart of an immense green valley, left no room for doubt. This was the jewelled and shining city that was to be his reward.