FEATHERED SERPENT, page 28
‘We have beaten greater armies than yours since we have been in this land.’
‘They were natives, with bows and arrows, not proper soldiers.’
‘You will see.’
‘Your attitude disappoints me, León. I thought you had more sense. I was even about to offer you a senior position in my command.’
‘I could not betray someone who has done so much to further the fortunes of his country and his church.’
Astounding, Nárvaez thought. When did little Cortésillo come to command so much loyalty?
‘Tell him I will roast his ears and eat them,’ Salvatierra said.
‘A fine attitude for a cannibal, but not for a Spaniard.’
‘I think you should leave us now,’ Nárvaez said, ‘before you impose too far on my patience and generosity.’
‘I should not dream of staying a moment longer in such company.’
He walked out. Nárvaez felt the eyes of his junior officers on him. That had not gone well.
Later, when they were alone, he told Salvatierra he did not want León to leave the camp. ‘Wait till everyone is asleep then put him in chains.’
Salvatierra beamed. He hurried away to issue the order.
But though his men conducted a thorough search of the camp they found no sign of León. Someone, Nárvaez realized, must have warned him.
León rode slowly west, guided by the full moon. Cortés was right, the morale in Nárvaez’ camp was low, the officers suspicious of their commander and of each other. The twenty thousand castellanos he had offered to each captain who would join them had found many takers, especially after Fray Guevarra had told everyone how Cortés’ troops strolled around Tenochtitlàn with their pockets bulging with gold.
His Captain-General would be less pleased to hear of Montezuma's perfidy. He also worried about what was happening in Tenochtitlàn. He hoped Alvarado knew how to play the king as well as Cortés’ had done.
66.
Tenochtitlàn
As the sun dropped down the sky the drums beat faster, quickening the rhythm of ten thousand hearts. The statue of Smoking Mirror was dragged to the steps of the great pyramid for the Dance of the Young Men. There were six hundred dancers, the cream of the noble families, their finest sons. The whole city crowded into the plaza to watch.
The drummer stood, legs astride, at a snakeskin drum, his hands a blur of movement, quickening the pace.
The men danced around him. They wore spectacular costumes, cloaks woven with brightly colored feathers and greaves of ocelot skin on their legs, sewn with golden bells that jangled as they danced. Their shaven heads were brilliant with paint. They all wore nose plugs and labrets of jade or shell.
They danced faster and faster.
Meanwhile, at the Eagle Gate, the Gate of the Reed, and the Gate of the Obsidian Serpent, armed Spaniards slipped through the shadows, taking up position in the narrow doorways.
As he danced, Falling Eagle saw Spaniards moving among the crowd. They were wearing swords, steel armor and helmets. Surely no enemy could be so treacherous, so cowardly, as to attack them when they had no means to defend themselves.
One of the thunder lords, Tonatiuh, stood on the steps of the Great Temple, the setting sun reflected on his breastplate. The one they called Jaramillo stood beside him, grinning as if he had drunk too much pulque.
The dancers leaped and spun.
More soldiers, holding firesticks, climbed the steps of the temple, crouched down to load.
Tonatiuh reached for his sword.
The firesticks cracked. There were screams, panic, everyone rushed towards the gates. Falling Eagle stood quite still, searching for an escape.
The thunder lords were everywhere, slashing with their swords. He turned around and headed for the Gate of the Reed. A soldier loomed in front of him and he veered away, felt the breath of his sword as it arced down. He veered again, dodging and twisting, jumped over a thunder lord with a brown curly beard who was tearing the jewels from the body of the bloodied dancer at his feet.
Falling Eagle reached the gate but there was no way through. The thunder lords had gathered there, shoulder to shoulder, slicing with their swords at anyone who came within range. He found a madman's strength in his terror, picked up one of the bodies at his feet, lifted it over his head and tossed it at one of the soldiers. The man lost his balance and fell. Falling Eagle vaulted over him and ran through the gate.
67.
Cempoalan
Rain.
Sheets of it, flooding the river, throwing a pall over the flat horizon. Cortés small army, bolstered by Sandoval's reinforcements, struggled through the mud. It muffled the sound of their approach. A scouting party surprised one of Nárvaez’ sentries and took him prisoner.
You upstart, Carrasco thought.
I heard of you in Cuba, I remember the scandal when you refused to marry Catalina Suarez, whose father was so friendly with the governor. Escudero arrested you on charges of sedition and the governor had to force you to act honorably.
I've seen you carousing in Santiago de Cuba in your fine clothes, you and your hidalgo friends, always talking too much and laughing too loud, acting as if you were grandees because you owned a little bit of dirt on some God-forsaken heathen island. Now look at you. Because a few natives have run away from you, you think you are a king.
The torches crackled and smoked, the rain dripping down through the branches of a ceiba tree. Carrasco struggled to his feet, his boots slipping in the slick mud. He was encumbered by the ropes that bound his wrists behind his back.
‘What is your name?’ Cortés said.
‘Carrasco.’
Sandoval pushed him back into the mud and kicked him in the ribs. ‘Show some respect.’
‘Carrasco, my lord.’
‘Do you know who I am, Carrasco?’
‘You are Hernan Cortés. You own a gold mine and a small farm in Cuba.’
Cortés crouched down next to his prisoner. ‘No, you are wrong, I am not that Hernan Cortés. I am the Hernan Cortés who is the master of this whole kingdom. You would do well to remember that.’
Fool, Carrasco thought.
‘I want to know,’ Cortés went on, ‘how Nárvaez has deployed his forces.’ He held out a purse, emptied its contents into his palm. A few jade and turquoise stones glittered in the dull light of the torches. ‘These are yours if you tell me.’
The rain slapped on the leaves.
‘I'm waiting,’ Cortés said.
Suddenly Cortés was on top of him, his fingers clawing at his throat. Carrasco kicked his legs. He couldn't breathe.
‘You are not going to get in my way, you little peasant! Do you understand me? This is New Spain, my kingdom.’
Saliva spilled from Cortés’ mouth onto Carrasco's cheek.
‘I will make you talk, even if I have to cut off your toes and ears and force them down your throat!’
Carrasco tried to nod his head, desperate to give in, but Cortés’ fingers were clamped too tight around his neck. He lost control of his bowels. The other captains struggled with Cortés, finally dragged him away. Black spots appeared in front of Carrasco’s eyes and he passed out.
If we had not intervened, he might have killed him, Benítez thought. Cortés is losing his mind.
A helmet full of river water was thrown in Carrasco's face and he started to recover. As he squatted, shivering in the mud, he told them all they wanted to know. Nárvaez had made his headquarters in the temple in Cempoalan. His artillery had been drawn up in front of it, and he had split his cavalry, which meant that a squadron of them were isolated on the road to the west.
There were no patrols because Salvatierra did not believe Cortés would dare an attack at night.
It was all they needed to know.
Malinali shivered inside her cloak, huddled beside Feathered Serpent’s soldiers. They were all cold, hungry and exhausted from the long march from Tenochtitlàn. Rain dripped from their helmets, and soaked into their quilted armor, leaked into their tunics.
Feathered Serpent turned his horse to face them. Even on this cold and black night he was resplendent in breastplate and plumed burgonet. Cáceres stood beside his horse holding a pine torch. It sizzled in the rain.
‘Tonight, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘you carve your names in the histories. You can choose to die here, or go on to make your fortunes in this land of New Spain.’
There was a steady patter of rain on the soft earth and ripe leaves.
‘You will recall that it was the governor himself who sent me here, with orders to explore and barter along this coast. I have tried to fulfil my commission. But you will also remember that while we were at San Juan de Ulúa, it was demanded of me that we establish our own colony there. I wished all that time to return to Cuba, but at your insistence we stayed on here, and time has proved you all wise in pressing that decision.
‘You did me the honor of voting me caudillo, Captain-General, of your colony until His Majesty's pleasure was known to us. In that time I believe we have done glorious things for our King and won him much treasure and many lands. How often in this past year did we succeed when the odds were against us, how much suffering and death have we known in carrying Christ's banner into these heathen lands? We have endured snowstorms, fatigue, hunger, and betrayal, and never once did we think of turning back.
‘Now the governor's lackey, Nárvaez, has landed on these shores and declared war on all of you, wishes to take away all that you have so gloriously won. Shall we meekly stand aside and let him? Not if we are men, not if we are Spaniards! This usurper will not rob us of the riches and the glory that is rightfully ours.
‘They are greater in number, yes, but when has that deterred us? We battled thousands on the Tabasco River, tens of thousands on the plains of Texcála. We are hardened in battle these many months and they are not. Furthermore, our comrade León tells me there is great discontent in their camp. Many are sick with fever and others recognize the justness of our cause and have no stomach for the fight.
‘The storm has made them incautious. We will launch a surprise attack against their cannon while Sandoval takes a squadron of men to capture Nárvaez himself. When he is taken, the rest of his soldiers will put down their arms, for they will have no heart to continue the battle without him.
‘So, let us gird ourselves. Rather we die here today, if that is God's will, than let these scoundrels take from us what is rightfully ours!’
His soldiers cheered. His eyes seem to glow in the dark, the only light in this black valley. Outnumbered, tired and hungry, his moles and soldiers were suddenly spoiling for the fight. He was dragging them all along in his wake.
Man or god, Malinali thought, tonight he is irresistible.
68.
There were shouts of alarm. Men ran for their weapons. The moon was hidden by ink-black clouds.
Nárvaez stared into the night. He saw hundreds of lighted matches in the forest, as Cortés’ arquebusiers prepared to fire their muskets. They were surrounded. But that was impossible. How had Cortés mustered such a force?
The captain of the artillery shouted at his men to load the cannons. A panicked voice screamed that the cannon had been spiked, the firing holes plugged with wax.
There was a volley of musket fire, followed by the whine of arrows, men shrieked in pain from wounds.
Salvatierra tugged at his sleeve. ‘We must withdraw!’
A single cannon fired once, then fell silent. He heard infantry charging across the court. He ran after Salvatierra, up the steps towards his sanctuary atop the pyramid.
I am going to die, Benítez thought.
He had charged the steps at the head of Sandoval's pikemen. The moon appeared for a moment from behind the clouds, silhouetting their opponents against a smattering of stars. At that moment, a giant came at him, wielding a two-handed broadsword, a montante. He tried to ward off the blow with his own sword, a spark flew from the clashing steel and his smaller weapon was wrenched from his grasp. He fell sideways onto the steps. Nárvaez stood over him, the massive montante raised above his head a second time.
Benítez was not sure, even later, how it happened. Perhaps Nárvaez slipped on the rain-slick stone, but somehow the fatal blow was delayed. Benítez took advantage of this moment’s reprieve to grope in the darkness for a weapon. His fingers closed around a fallen pikestaff. He thrust it desperately towards his assailant, and heard Nárvaez scream.
‘Holy Mary protect me! They have killed me and destroyed my eye!’
‘Victory for Cortés!’ someone shouted. ‘Nárvaez has fallen!’
Benítez clambered to his feet and saw Lopez rush forward with a lighted brand and set fire to the thatched roof of the temple. The sky glowed red. Nárvaez’ soldiers streamed out of the smoke, throwing down their weapons and screaming for mercy.
69.
Nárvaez lay on the surgeon's table, a blood-soaked cloth bound over his left eye. Malinali stood in the corner, watching. His face and beard were caked with gore and his wrists were chained in front of him.
Feathered Serpent entered, pushing aside the canvas tent flap. His hair was matted with rain and sweat. He held his sword, unsheathed, at his side.
Nárvaez opened his one good eye. ‘Do you intend to murder me?’ he said, as if the matter did not concern him.
‘You are my prisoner, Nárvaez. You have nothing to fear. I have placed you under my protection.’
Poor Nárvaez, Malinali thought. He does not understand that my lord's protection extends no further than his next whim. León appeared for a moment in the doorway. ‘We have two dead, against fifteen of theirs. There are perhaps another one hundred and fifty wounded, mostly theirs.’
Feathered Serpent was clearly angry that so many good men had been hurt in the battle when they would need every one of them when they returned to Tenochtitlàn. ‘You see what you have done?’ he snarled at Nárvaez.
Nárvaez appeared unconcerned by his losses, or theirs. He was more troubled by the wound to his pride. ‘It is a great triumph, your defeat of me,’ he said.
‘Really? I regard it as the least of my achievements in New Spain.’
Nárvaez noticed her presence in the tent for the first time. ‘Who is this? Is she your whore?’
‘Go sit on the devil's cock,’ Malinali said. ‘I am no one's whore.’
Nárvaez gaped at her as if he had just been rebuked by an animal or a bird of the forest. Did he think a Person could not learn such a simple language as his?
‘She speaks Spanish like you or I, Nárvaez,’ Feathered Serpent said to him, ‘and several other tongues besides. You would do well not to cross swords with her. I shall leave you to her tender mercies.’
He walked out.
The storm had eased, just a drizzle of rain on the canvas.
‘Do you know who that man is?’ Nárvaez said after a while. The question startled her, she thought he had passed out from the pain of his wound.
She didn’t answer.
‘In Cuba we called him Cortésillo, little Cortés. He had an encomienda, a farm with a few cattle. He had studied some law at Salamanca University and thought himself a great lawyer. So Governor Velasquez, fool that he is, made him a magistrate in Santiago de Cuba. He also made a little money mining gold on the Duabán River. The way he acted, you would have thought he was the grandee of Vallidolid. Then that idiot Velasquez - I warned him about this - put him in command of a small expedition to the coast and now look, he thinks he is lord of all.’
‘He has done wonderful things here, heroic things.’
‘Then we must be talking about a different Cortés.’
‘Or perhaps between this Cloud Land you talk of and here, a god came and entered him. For he has behaved like a god.’
Nárvaez grunted. ‘Where is that damn doctor?’ He took a deep breath and held it for a long time. He released it slowly, battling against the pain. ‘This 'god' of yours betrayed his own lord in Cuba. He was sent here to explore the coast, instead he tried to invade this land with his paltry army so he could take all the gold for himself. He is a braggart and a thief.’
Malinali could not stand to listen to further calumnies against him. She left Nárvaez to suffer alone and went in search of Feathered Serpent.
He was alone, a cloak wrapped around his shoulders, watching the sun rise over the jungle. The debris of the battle lay around the temple courtyard; abandoned weapons, a few bloodied rags. The smell of smoke smudged the air.
‘What did Nárvaez say to you about me?’
‘He said you are just a man.’
‘Well, he is right about that.’
The jungle was waking to the cry of birds, the rattle of insects. ‘I think not,’ she said.
‘Why do you persist in making me more than I am? I am just the son of a poor hidalgo. Do you see the way your own farmers live, fertilizing their fields with human manure, wearing only loincloths, eating maize cakes and gruel? I wasn’t much better than that. I was born in the poorest part of Spain, flat dust to the horizon in summer, frozen mud in the winter. My family had its own coat of arms yet our greatest luxury was to eat ham and eggs on a Sunday. When I went to the university in the city, I had patches in my breeches and my friends laughed at me behind my back.
‘I dreamed my way through my youth. I dreamed I was more than I was. That dream was set in my heart like a stone, and until now it has brought me no peace.
‘I believed that with a dream and with steadfast courage a man might change his circumstance. And here, in Mexico, I have re-made myself. I am no longer Cortésillo, the womanizer, the braggart, the gambler, the petty landowner and poor law student. Here I am Lord Malinche, and tonight this same Malinche has defeated proud men who would not have deigned even to speak to me on the street in Salamanca or Toledo. Here I really am a king.’
