FEATHERED SERPENT, page 8
Cortés worked his mount through the press of brown bodies and white mantles. He found Malinali on her litter, Aguilar and Norte following behind her, as he had instructed.
‘Ask her why we are honored with such a welcome,’ he shouted to Aguilar.
It was not easy for Malinali and Aguilar to make themselves heard over the noise of the drums and clay flutes. But finally, ‘She says we are liberators, my lord!’
‘Liberators?’
‘I do not understand all of it. Malinali says something about the return of a serpent god. Somehow these people know that we have come to save them from barbarity and lead them to salvation!’
A Totonac woman, braver than her fellows, ran towards Cortés and threw a garland of flowers at him, even had the temerity to touch his horse before she rushed away, giggling.
‘Liberators,’ Cortés said.
Yet something else Aguilar said troubled him. The return of a serpent god. The words nagged at him.
There was more here than he had at first supposed.
His name was Chicomacatl, but Alvarado immediately nicknamed him Gordo – ‘Fatso.’ His standard bearers came first, carrying long bamboo poles supporting fans of intricate feather work. Then Chicomacatl himself approached, leaning on stout canes, young boys supporting the great scallops of his flesh from behind. Other princes followed, their presence rendered insignificant by the great mountain of lard that preceded them.
‘If they are all as fat as this,’ Alvarado said, ‘no wonder these people are cannibals.’
Jaramillo grinned. ‘The whole of Salamanca could feed off his haunches for a month.’
Cortés dismounted and looked around. Like the great towns of Spain, Cempoalan had a central plaza, surrounded on three sides by the courtyard walls of the temples, on the fourth by Chicomacatl's own palace. Smoke curled from the summit of one of the pyramids, doubtless to signify the completion of some barbaric ceremony. Cortés reminded himself that although the Totonacs had so far displayed friendship, at heart they were still heathen.
May God protect them.
Chicomacatl waited while his surrogates fumigated Cortés and his officers with their copal censers and then he stepped forward to embrace him. He wore gold ornaments through his ears and lower lips and had a turquoise stone through the pierced septum of his nose.
Another savage.
Chicomacatl's slaves stepped forward and deposited at Cortes’s feet a wicker basket containing bracelets, necklaces and earrings, all worked in gold. Chicomacatl then made a brief speech.
Aguilar listened to Malinali's translation: ‘She says he apologizes for these few paltry gifts. It is all they have to demonstrate their friendship. He says the Mexica tax collectors have robbed them for years and left them with almost nothing.’
Cortés considered. ‘Tell him we receive these gifts very gratefully.’
‘The woman...’ Cortés noted the contempt in the deacon’s voice, he could not even bring himself to say Malinali's name. ‘... the woman says he makes great complaint against Montezuma, for taking all their gold and feather work and jade in taxes. They have stolen half of their vanilla crop and taken many of the young men and women to feed their priests' demand for sacrifice at their temples. He asks for your help.’
Cortés solemnly regarded the fat simpleton standing across from him on the dusty plaza. At last. ‘Aguilar, please ask Malinali to inform Chicomacatl that we ourselves are subjects of a very powerful king who has sent us here to free him from tyranny. If he agrees to become a vassal of King Charles the Fifth, he will no longer have to pay taxes to the Mexica.’
Another long harangue passed between Malinali and Aguilar and Chicomacatl.
‘He wants our help,’ Aguilar said, finally, ‘but he is frightened because there is a garrison of Mexica not far from here. He says if he were to renounce his vassalship to Montezuma, they would come here and burn the town and drag all the young men off to Tenochtitlàn to be slaughtered in the temples.’
‘Tell him that if he obeys me, he need never fear Montezuma again.’
He heard the sharp intake of breath behind him. Puertocarrero began to protest, but he silenced him with a glance.
He watched Chicomacatl’s face. Was it possible for a man to look relieved, delighted and terrified at once? Chicomacatl made a fair imitation of it.
Alvarado spurred his horse forward and leaned from the saddle. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ he whispered.
‘Have you ever known me to be reckless?’
‘More times than I can count.’
‘It will go well with us. You will see.’
Alvarado’s lips made a thin white line. ‘Whatever you say.’
‘Trust me. We have just been handed the key to Montezuma's house.’
A huge feast of turkey, fish, pineapples, plums and corn cakes had been prepared. Afterwards Malinali followed Feathered Serpent and his thunder lords to their quarters, a large palace belonging to a rich noblewoman.
It had a flat roof with a wide terrace overlooking the plaza. The rooms were spacious, though there was little furniture, just some sleeping mats and a few low tables. Tapestries hung on the walls, others were strewn on the white stucco floors. She and Puertocarrero had their own room, like the other lords and their women. The soldiers and moles were billeted together in the audience hall.
During the meeting with Chicomacatl in the plaza she had been watching Feathered Serpent, and she knew that something had made him angry. Several times she had seen him staring at the smoke rising from the pyramid.
There was trouble brewing.
The swelling on her ankle had gone down overnight, thanks to a herb poultice she had prepared herself. There were no bones broken, and she was able to walk unaided, though with what she hoped was a fetching limp.
She and Aguilar were summoned to the patio. Feathered Serpent waited there with several of his thunder lords, his expression stern. He was dressed in his suit of black velvet, his sword buckled to his hip, and a silver medal around his neck with a picture of the goddess they called Virgin. He strode out of the gates and across the plaza, the others running to keep pace with him.
The temple was like the one at Potonchan. There was a walled courtyard and a steep stone staircase that led to a truncated pyramid. At the pinnacle was a simple thatched hut of straw and bamboo, the holy temple. As they approached it, the air became dense with the smell of charred meat.
Bodies lay at the foot of the steps, or what was left after the priests were finished with them. Flies buzzed in thick black swarms.
Fray Olmedo began to mumble words from his book. Aguilar did the same.
The black-robed priests watched them from the shrine, clustered together like carrion crows. There was the rattle of steel as Feathered Serpent drew his sword from its scabbard, but Puertocarrero put a hand on his arm and whispered something, and he relented.
Aguilar pointed to one of the corpses, a child. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he asked Malinali.
‘The sacrifice is for Rain Bringer,’ she said. ‘Unlike a man, a child weeps when faced with the sacrificial stone. The tears are like the falling rain. The more tears there are, the more rains there will be in the winter to feed the harvest.’
Aguilar made the cross sign in the air. The others looked at Malinali as if this were her doing. She wished she understood what was going through their minds. But what mortal could fathom the ways of the gods?
‘Something must be done here for the Lord,’ Cortés said.
Benítez stared at the dead child. He turned around. Norte was standing behind him; Norte the renegade, Norte the traitor, Norte the savage. He could not fathom the look on his tattooed face.
‘Another offering to your gods?’ Benítez said.
‘What is a god, Benítez? An invention of our own minds.’
‘What mind invented this?’
‘A mind that has never been sure that its body will escape starvation.’
Benítez shook his head. What kind of answer was that? ‘Did you witness rites such as these?’
Norte did not answer him directly. Instead, he said, ‘You have a fanciful morality, Benítez. You do not blanche when the Church's inquisitors break a man's arms and legs on a rack when he is still alive, but remove them when he is dead and you are suddenly offended. Your logic defeats me.’
‘This is just a child!’
‘And women and children do not die in our wars?’
‘Not in our churches. Our religion is not murder and cannibalism.’
‘No, our religion is gold.’
Why do I justify what is holy to this savage? Benítez thought. No, he is worse than a savage, because he has known civilization and true faith and turned his back on God. ‘I have nothing but contempt for wretches such as you.’
‘You are supposed to have pity for me, Benítez. A lost lamb, a sinner who has strayed from the fold.’
‘Cortés should have hanged you.’
‘I am sure he will, at the first opportunity.’ He sighed. ‘I do not excuse the slaughter of women and children, Benítez. But I don’t think Spaniards like us have any right to judge.’
‘You are not a Spaniard like me,’ Benítez said, and walked away, not because Norte disgusted him, but because there was a part of him that feared he may be right.
They feasted in the square. The mats were heaped with the finest delicacies the Cempoalans could provide; venison with chilies, tomatoes and squash seeds; roasted turkeys; locusts with sage; newts with yellow peppers. The Spaniards gorged themselves on the venison and turkey but the other dishes were pushed aside. Dogs fought for the scraps of gristle and bone that the soldiers tossed over their shoulders while the Totonac girls serving the food flirted and giggled.
Cortés was seated beside Chicomacatl on one of the feasting mats. Malinali and Aguilar stood behind them to translate. The Totonac chieftain was still enumerating his complaints against Montezuma when his servants brought out a steaming tray of meats, which was placed reverently between him and Cortés. Chicomacatl indicated that this dish was special and that Cortés should have the great honor of serving himself first.
Cortés recognized the sulfurous smell of cooked human blood. There was a shocked silence broken only by Fray Olmedo's murmured prayer for the dead.
‘Tell him I cannot touch this,’ Cortés hissed at Aguilar. ‘Tell him that eating human flesh is an abomination.’
Aguilar relayed Cortés’ outrage to Malinali, who leaned forward and whispered a few words in Nahuatl to Chicomacatl. The cacique's jaw fell open in astonishment.
‘What has he to say for himself?’ Cortés asked Aguilar.
‘He asks what else might be done with prisoners captured in battle if one does not eat them. May God have mercy on his soul.’
‘Explain to him if you will, Brother Aguilar, that these gods he serves are actually devils and he will burn for all eternity in the fires of Hell unless he desists from his heathen practices. Tell him we come here to bring him true religion, and that if he wishes to become a vassal of King Charles he must learn to be a Christian gentleman.’
Cortés watched Malinali as she spoke at some length with the Totonac chief. At first Chicomacatl seemed confused. He whispered an answer to Malinali who hesitated before relaying it to Aguilar.
‘The woman says he will think about this,’ Aguilar said, ‘but he fears that if they do not give the gods due sacrifice there will be droughts and floods and locusts will come and devour all their harvests. But he is still happy to become your vassal.’
Cortés felt himself losing his rein on his temper. ‘Tell him again...’
Fray Olmedo, seated next to Alvarado, leaned forward. ‘Perhaps, my lord, we need not suppress their barbaric rites immediately. We are in a tenuous position. We should speak gently to them over time, so that they...’
‘We are here to do God's work!’
‘Even God's work is not done in one day.’
Now it was Aguilar's turn. ‘Fray Olmedo, with respect, I agree with our commander, the Lord cannot...’
The debate was interrupted by the blast of conch shells. The Totonacs leaped to their feet and rushed from the square. A messenger hurried over to Chicomacatl and whispered in his ear.
Malinali smiled and nodded, as if she had orchestrated this moment. What could have happened that could have pleased her, yet so terrified the Totonacs?
She said something to Aguilar.
‘It seems,’ he said, ‘that the Totonacs are about to receive more visitors. The Mexica have arrived.’
17.
From the panicked reaction, Cortés had expected an army. But there were just five officials with a handful of attendants. Their cloaks were knotted at their shoulders with the imperial seals of Montezuma and they each held the royal crook of office in their right hands, with the other they kept flowers pressed to their noses, to ward off the stink of their hosts. Attendants kept the flies from their faces with broad feathered fans while others held parasols to shade them from the sun.
They made their way across the plaza, Chicomacatl and the Totonac nobility fawning in their wake. They completely ignored Cortés and the Spaniards, although a small army of bearded strangers encamped in the center of the town must have been the most remarkable thing they had ever witnessed in their entire lives.
Cortés said to Aguilar. ‘Ask Malinali to find out what she can.’ He turned to Alvarado. ‘May they repent their arrogance! They walk right past us as if we are peasants in a field.’
‘I should like to teach them a lesson.’
‘And we shall, I promise you.’
The Mexica had arrived at a propitious moment. Even now a plan was taking shape in his mind. Very soon he would start picking at the corners of this great foundation that the Mexica had built, see if he could break off a small piece with his fingers. If it came easily away, then the rest would surely follow, a piece at a time.
The Spaniards heard the keening that came from Chicomacatl’s palace. Malinali returned to report that the chieftain had spent much of the interview with the newcomers on his knees, crying like a baby. The five Mexica, she reported, were imperial tax collectors, and although she could not hear all of what was said, it appeared they were demanding a heavy tribute from the Totonacs because they had entertained the Spaniards so lavishly, against Montezuma's express instructions.
Cortés watched from the roof terrace as the Mexica noblemen left Chicomacatl's palace, still clutching their nosegays. The Totonacs had prepared quarters for them on the other side of the plaza. The rooms had been decked with hundreds of flowers, Malinali reported, food had been prepared, servants provided.
‘Look at them,’ Alvarado snarled. ‘Like five bishops on their way to Mass.’
Cortés looked around for Malinali. She was waiting, unobtrusively, at his right shoulder. Her dark eyes glittered, intelligent and watchful.
‘Ask her,’ he said to Aguilar, ‘why these people are so terrified of five unarmed men holding flowers.’
He did as he was told.
‘She says that it is not the five men they are frightened of, but the five thousand that will follow if they disobey them.’
Cortés frowned. ‘So they are more frightened of the Mexica than they are of us.’
‘We should correct that impression,’ Alvarado said.
‘Yes, we should.’ He turned back to Aguilar. ‘Ask her to go to the palace and request my lord Chicomacatl's presence here. Immediately.’
Chicomacatl's face shone like a lump of sweating dough. He was so terrified that if it weren’t for the four slave boys holding him upright, Malinali thought his knees would have collapsed under him.
She looked at Feathered Serpent. His eyes were cold.
He spoke softly to Aguilar.
‘My lord Cortés wants you to remind Chicomacatl that he is a subject of King Charles of Spain and he has nothing to fear from the Mexica. If he does as Cortés commands, he will be safe.’
She turned to Chicomacatl and told him in Nahuatl, ‘Feathered Serpent says he will protect you. But you must do everything he says.’
‘The Mexica have demanded twenty of our young people for sacrifice because we disobeyed Montezuma! They insist that three of my own children must be among those surrendered to them!’
‘Feathered Serpent says you are under his protection now,’ she repeated, trying to be patient with him.
‘Tell me what we must do.’
Feathered Serpent whispered something to Aguilar who looked as if he could not believe what he had heard.
‘My lord Cortés wants you to tell that man...’ Aguilar hesitated. ‘Tell him his men must seize the Mexica immediately, bind them and put them under guard.’
She conveyed these words precisely and when she had finished, she thought he was going to faint. His pageboys grunted, struggling to hold him upright. He looked like a cornered animal. ‘I cannot!’ he shouted, his voice shrill.
‘You must do as Feathered Serpent commands.’
‘Montezuma will slaughter us all!’
What a spineless coward, she thought. Did he not realize that here was a god offering to help him? What was there to fear? ‘He refuses,’ she said to Aguilar.
Feathered Serpent leaped to his feet. ‘My lord Cortés says that if he does not do as he commands, he will leave immediately and never return!’ Aguilar was so agitated he almost shouted his translation at her. ‘It is Chicomacatl’s choice. But if he wants to save the lives of his children and free himself from the Mexica, then he must do as he says!’
She rounded on Chicomacatl and now she was shouting, too. ‘You see! You have made Feathered Serpent angry! Unless you do as he asks, he will return to the Cloud Lands and your sons and daughters will have their hearts ripped out on Montezuma's altars!’
Chicomacatl made a noise as if he were choking.
