FEATHERED SERPENT, page 3
Cortés turned in the saddle to address them. They were just sixteen, all the cavalry Cortés had. Yet he rode his horse, one hand on the reins, the other on his hip, like a duke at the head of thousands. Nothing frightened this man, Benítez thought.
‘This day belongs to us, gentlemen,’ he shouted. ‘We shall wait for the moment before we charge.’ His chestnut mare tossed its plumed head, nostrils flared against the scents in the air, dust and fear. ‘Remember to aim your lances high, at their eyes, so they cannot easily pull you from your mount. And fear for nothing, for today we do God's work!’
On the plain the natives had launched themselves at Ordaz’ infantry. Benítez saw the sun flashing on steel armor, then a rolling cloud of flame and smoke as the cannons they had ferried from their ship fired their first volley. They were culverins, large bronze guns that could fire an iron ball weighing thirty pounds.
It was as if the front ranks of the natives had been swept away by an invisible scythe. The warriors behind them threw clouds of grass and red dust into the air in an attempt to cover their losses. A second squadron charged. Then a third. Hundreds upon hundreds of brown bodies kept swarming forward over the piles of their dead.
Benítez fidgeted in the saddle, his nose wrinkled against the rank sweat of his horse and the grease from his armor. His mouth was dry.
Ordaz and his men began to retreat, stumbling back through the ditches and bogs.
Cortés rose in the stirrups. ‘For Saint James and for Spain!’
They started to gallop forward.
The natives had not heard them over the din of cannon fire and the clamor of their own drums and whistles. They had their backs to them, they would be taken completely by surprise. But then Benítez realized what Cortés had not; their approach would take them directly towards a gridwork of irrigation ditches. His horse stumbled in one of the drains and he saw other mounts around him rear up, their riders thrown from the saddle.
Benítez spurred on his horse. If their attack failed now, they would all die.
Suddenly he was on hard ground again, galloping fast. A cry went up from the natives, and echoed around the valley in one ululating shriek of terror. The warriors in front of him dropped their clubs and spears and ran. Benítez charged his horse among them.
At the finish of his charge he turned, expecting to see the rest of the cavalry beside him. But there was no one. He was quite alone. The others were still mired in the mud.
Benítez had no choice. He spurred his horse around to charge again. First a dozen, then a hundred, then thousands, they ran from him, like a ripple spreading from a stone dropped in the still surface of a lake. A cheer went up from Ordaz’ beleaguered infantrymen.
Benítez reined in his horse, threw back his head and shouted defiance at the blue sky. He could not believe that he had dared so much and survived.
Norte wandered the battlefield, sickened to his soul. Such a wreckage of limbs, heaving and bloody mounds of meat that were once men, moaning with pain, some trying to crawl away. The Spaniards stood among them, in their armor, grinning and shouting and clapping each other on the back.
Norte had secretly hoped the natives would prevail, even though it would have meant his own certain death. He was sure that he could endure it, no matter what they did to him. It was the humiliation and despair of living that was unbearable.
‘Everything was lost,’ he heard one of the soldiers, Guzman, saying. ‘Then I saw him. He came out of the dust on a white horse. When the natives saw him, they fled!’
‘Who?’ Flores asked him.
‘Saint James! I saw him there on the field for just a moment and then he vanished, into the dust!’
The Spaniards were as stupid and as superstitious as the natives, Norte thought. ‘It was Benítez,’ he told them.
Guzman and Flores stared at him.
‘What you saw was not a saint. It was Benítez!’
‘Do you smell something?’ Guzman said to Flores.
Flores turned his head to the wind. ‘Savages. I thought we killed them all.’
Guzman leaned over the body of one of the dead natives and cut off an ear. He tossed it at Norte's feet. ‘Breakfast,’ he said.
6.
There were four war canoes, garlanded with flowers and sitting low in the water. As they drew up to the bank the Spaniards crowded around, shouting and nudging each other with their elbows, behaving like schoolboys.
Cortés came down to the riverbank to greet the deputation, accompanied by Aguilar in his brown Franciscan habit. The natives had finally sued for peace and Cortés had demanded a token of their goodwill. The spoils of his victory were in the canoes.
Their chief greeted Cortés in the traditional way, first dropping to his knees, then putting his fingers to the ground and touching them to his lips.
‘He asks you to accept these small tokens of their friendship,’ Aguilar said, translating from Chontal Maya. ‘He also begs your indulgence for their foolishness in attacking you.’
Cortés regally inclined his head. But his attention was not on the chieftain. He was staring at what the delegation had brought with them in their canoes. In line with his demands, there was a certain amount of gold, worked into some disappointingly small figurines of birds and lizards. There were also precious stones and a pair of gold sandals, all of which the chief’s slaves laid out on mats on the ground.
The pickings were not as rich as he had hoped but he was surprised at the craftsmanship. He turned to Aguilar. ‘Ask him where the gold comes from.’
Aguilar translated the query. ‘He says the mines are far inland. In a place called Mexico.’
‘Does this Mexico have much gold?’
‘He says the king of the Mexica is the wealthiest sovereign in the whole world,’ Aguilar said.
Cortés took a moment to digest this piece of information. ‘Does this king have a name?’
Aguilar asked the question several times, checking his pronunciation. ‘Montezuma,’ he said finally. ‘His name is Montezuma.’
Their conversation was interrupted by a harsh bark of laughter from the river. He looked around. The natives had brought women in one of the canoes and they were being lifted ashore by the chief’s slaves. The men had moved in for a closer inspection. Jaramillo nudged Alvarado's ribs and made some ribald comment. More laughter.
Cortés’ mouth twisted in contempt. Dogs! None of them understood what it meant to be a knight in the service of a great king.
‘The women are the most beautiful in all Tabasco,’ Aguilar translated for the chief, who had noticed Cortés interest. ‘He says he puts them at your service, to grind maize for you, mend your clothes and...’ Aguilar paused and his cheeks flushed bronze. ‘...and to perform any other services you desire.’
There were twenty women in all. They were dressed in the Mayan custom, plain white tunics and cotton skirts, to their ankles, and held at the waist by an embroidered belt. Their ears, wrists and ankles glittered with gold, their hair decorated with brilliant green quetzal feathers and pink flamingo plumes. Most were squat and plain. Several were cross-eyed, a mark of great beauty among the Mayan people, Aguilar whispered to him.
One of the young women stood out from the others. She was no slave girl, it showed in her bearing. She was unusually tall for a native and instead of demurely keeping her eyes to the ground like the others she stared straight back at her tormentors in defiance.
He felt the beast move in him. A delicious creature, his for the taking in other circumstances.
The chief murmured something to Aguilar.
‘He says her name is Malinali. The chief says she is very skilled with herbs and is a great healer.’
‘Thank him kindly for his gifts,’ Cortés said.
The chief’s tone became urgent. ‘He asks that you do not burn the town,’ Aguilar translated. ‘That is how the victors generally behave in this heathen country,’ he added.
‘It is how victors behave almost everywhere. But you may assure the chief we do not intend any harm to him or his village. In return for our beneficence he must renounce his false idols and the practice of human sacrifice. He will instead give obeisance to our Lord Jesus Christ.’
There was a long and animated discussion. Finally Aguilar said, ‘I do not think he quite understands everything. I will instruct him further.’
‘Good. I leave the responsibility for his salvation to you and Fray Olmedo.’
Cortés returned his attention to the women.
‘My Lord.’
‘Yes, Aguilar?’
The deacon's face was still flushed. He stammered, unable to form the right words.
‘What is it?’ Cortés snapped.
‘Any form of commerce between a Christian gentleman and a... is forbidden by the Church.’
‘I am aware of what the Church proscribes. You shall assist Fray Olmedo in the morning. These women will all be baptized into the True Faith then.’
Aguilar seemed appeased. ‘Thank you.’
This Malinali was staring at him. What was it on her face? Curiosity? Fear? No, something else, that he could not describe. He felt a slow tingling at the nape of his neck.
A god!
He had corn silk hair and blue eyes, and his skin was pale, almost pink. The chief had told them to keep their eyes lowered, so as not to offend the thunder lords, but she had to look, she could not help herself.
As Malinali gathered with the other women in the shade of a ceiba tree, the strange creatures clustered around them.
There, another God!
He was taller than the others, with a beard shaped like an arrowhead. The most startling thing about him was his hair. It was the color of the sun, the same color as the gold medal at his neck and the gold rings on his fingers.
Everything was dazzling, frightening, fascinating. Over there a dog, but unlike any dog she had ever seen, a red-eyed slavering creature with terrible teeth, like the beast that guarded the gates to the underworld. She tried not to show it fear, even when the other girls shrieked and drew away from it. The god with the fire-colored hair found this amusing.
The ground thundered beneath her feet. As she turned around she saw one of the two-headed monsters that had so unnerved and defeated their warriors. But it did not have two heads; the reality was far more astounding. She saw one of the gods dismount from the creature, which was as tall as a house with feet of stone. It was breathing smoke. It seemed that these gods could sit astride these beasts and make them do their bidding.
How was such a thing possible?
There was a great canoe on the river, flying a banner with the red cross of Feathered Serpent. The final proof she needed.
‘Look,’ she whispered to Rain Flower.
‘I see it, Little Mother.’
‘I told you! It has happened!’
But still she could not see him. He could not be the god with the corn silk hair and turquoise eyes, or the fire-haired one, nor any of the other hairy-faced creatures, many of them with faces pitted like lava stone.
There!
Feathered Serpent finally appeared, and he was just as she had imagined him, as he had been depicted a thousand times on statues and carvings and reliefs on temple walls. He had a dark beard and long hair falling to his shoulders. His face was framed by his helmet, which was decorated with a quetzal-green plume. The grey eyes settled on her.
He approached.
She fell to her knees, touched the earth with her fingers, and brought them to her lips. Feathered Serpent bowed and offered her the faintest smile in return.
‘My Lord Quetzalcóatl,’ she said, in her own language, and then in Chontal Maya. ‘Feathered Serpent.’
He turned to the helper beside him and they conversed a moment in their strange tongue. Then he moved on.
But his helper looked back once over his shoulder and the look he gave her was venomous.
What had she done wrong?
A large wooden cross had been erected in the shade of two palm trees, and below it, hanging from a nail, was a picture of a mother suckling a baby. It was immediately clear to Malinali what was about to happen. The cross was a symbol of fertility and together with the painting on the tree it was clear that the gods wished to mate with them.
She knew she should be frightened. She had heard the other girls whispering. Rain Flower said that the gods' penises had claws, which were as sharp as obsidian, and that they would all die a terrible death. Another girl said that the gods' seed would not grow into a Person but into a jaguar, and when the time came for birthing it would tear its way out of their wombs with its teeth.
The one called Brother Aguilar had tried to explain to them what was about to happen. But his words were difficult for her to follow. He talked in intricate riddles.
She felt a pulse pound in her temple, making her light-headed. She only wished her father were there to witness this sublime moment.
Fray Olmedo and Brother Aguilar waited under the palms next to the cross. Feathered Serpent stood to one side. Behind him was the god with the astonishing turquoise eyes, the one called Puertocarrero, and next to him the fire-god. It was quiet save for the sound of the wind stirring the palm fronds. It blew from the east, as no doubt he had commanded.
When she reached the cross, Aguilar ordered her to kneel on the sand. Fray Olmedo stood over her, holding a small censer filled with water. He said something in a language she did not understand.
‘Say yes,’ Aguilar said, in Chontal Maya.
She did as he said.
He nodded at Fray Olmedo who sprinkled her hair with water and spoke quickly in the strange new language. Aguilar put a hand on her shoulder. ‘You are saved, thanks be to God. Your new name is Doña Marina. Go in peace.’
7.
As soon as the baptisms were completed, Cortés could feel the men watching him, wondering what he would do. He had proved to them his worth as a commander in battle, now they wanted to see if he could be trusted with the spoils.
One by one he took the women by the hand and led them to one of his officers. He included potential troublemakers – men loyal to the Cuban governor - such as Ordaz and León in the division of the bounty, but did not forget staunch supporters such as Jaramillo and Sandoval. The less important officers received the girls who were cross-eyed. There was much joking about this. Jaramillo advised them to put sugar bags over the girls’ heads when they mounted them.
There were three girls remaining, the three prettiest. Cortés chose for Benítez a tiny coffee-skinned girl with a hooked nose and bright, dark eyes, like a cat. She was pretty, but she had an arrogant tilt of her head that hinted at a fierce temper. There, that should keep him busy.
That left two; Malinali and one other, a young heavy-breasted girl. Alvarado and Puertocarrero watched him, ready to be either pleased or affronted, depending on his choice. Would he exclude one of them for the benefit of himself?
He considered. Should it be Alvarado, reckless and loyal, and a good fighter; Puertocarrero, also loyal but as he had shown in the river and at Ceutla, too timid for the fight. But he had excellent breeding and powerful friends at court.
He gave Alvarado the full-breasted girl and then looked at the one called Malinali. Bright black eyes looked up at him. Well, here was a thing, his ambition pitted against his desire.
He took her hand and led her across the sand to Puertocarrero.
She did not even try to hide her shock or her dismay at his choice. But there, it was done. There was a murmur of approval among the men. Cortés had proved himself to be the perfect diplomat and captain.
Without another glance, he strode away.
‘He says he will be gentle with you,’ Aguilar mumbled to her.
He looked uncomfortable as he hesitated in the doorway. She wondered if it was his intention to stay with them through the night to pass on her new husband's endearments as they joined bodies.
‘Tell him I am a virgin,’ she said to Aguilar.
He seemed surprised and pleased with this news. ‘It is true? You still have your virtue?’
‘No, but tell him anyway. He will appreciate it.’
The candle guttered in the night breeze. These were another wonder. Their hot grease pooled on the table, and shadows danced around the walls.
Aguilar clutched his Book of Hours to his chest. ‘He wants to know if there is anything you would like to ask him.’
‘Is he a god?’
Aguilar's cheeks flushed bronze. ‘There is only one God. Puertocarrero is a poor sinner like the rest of us. ‘
Only one God? She thought he must mean there was only one god among those here today, and that could only be the one they called Cortés.
Aguilar turned to leave. What a strange man he was, of pale complexion and pungent sweats. ‘If he asks you to do anything... unnatural, you do not have to acquiesce.’
This last utterance left her perplexed. ‘I shall gladly do whatever he asks me to do.’
He fled from the hut.
8.
Aguilar stumbled away through the darkness. He did not trust this Malinali. Some of the other women the natives had given them, the fat ones, the homely round-faced ones, the ones with the unnaturally crossed eyes, well, if he tried he could still imagine there was a soul in them needing salvation. But not this one, he saw the devil behind those black and unfathomable eyes.
Nothing good would come of this, he was sure of it.
Her new husband sat down beside her on a sleeping mat of woven reeds. She studied him more closely in the light of the candle, reached out to touch the strange corn silk hair. His beard was wiry but the hair on his head was surprisingly soft to the touch.
‘Cariño,’ he said. She could not understand why Feathered Serpent did not take her for himself. Perhaps it was as Rain Flower said, no mortal woman could conjugate with a god and live.
Puertocarrero lay her gently on her back, stroked her hair, murmuring soft words in his own language. She could not understand him, of course, but she found the soft timbre of his voice soothing.
