War God

by Graham Hancock

  ‘Because you’re more useful to me as a messenger,’ sneered Shikotenka. ‘Run off home to Tenochtitlan now and tell Moctezuma how the nation of Tlascala humiliated Coaxoch and his phony generals tonight.’

  Like his late father, Mahuizoh was a big man with a torturer’s cruel face but, where Coaxoch had run to fat, the son, still less than thirty years of age, was all solid muscle, a towering square slab whose tunic had come awry showing massive thighs and a heavy wrestler’s body glistening with sweat. He didn’t have Tree’s height and couldn’t match his enormous strength but, even injured, with his arms bent forcefully behind his back, he was putting up a creditable fight.

  Mahuizoh laughed – a hideous, liquid, choking sound. ‘You’ll not leave this camp alive,’ he said, ‘and when I go to Moctezuma I’ll be wearing your skin.’ Over the blood pouring from the cavity that had once been his nose his eyes burned with hatred.

  That’s right, thought Shikotenka. Hate me. Hate me with all your foul heart. It’s exactly what I want you to do.

  Tree dealt the general a stunning blow to the temple, knocking him to the ground while Shikotenka turned on the balls of his feet, his eyes urgently searching the great tented hall. He’d gambled on Coaxoch keeping the armoury of his personal guard close, so it was with a sense of vindication that he spotted racks of spears, atlatls, bows, macuahuitls, clubs and shields stacked in neat rows to one side. ‘Every man grab a shield,’ Shikotenka yelled, and the blood-smeared Tlascalans, who’d started the raid armed only with offensive weapons to maximise their speed and killing power, scrambled to obey.

  In moments they all had circular bucklers fashioned from heavy hardwood, covered in leather painted in yellow and black stripes, and studded with flint, strapped to their forearms. Shikotenka, who had also snatched up a long spear, reviewed his squad with approval. The expressions on their faces were hard to read. ‘Well?’ he yelled. ‘What are you waiting for? The whole Mexica army’s coming our way. Time we got out of here.’

  Running back south, they soon reached the dance chamber. Shikotenka paused by Tochtli, who had failed to free the javelin from his belly and was curled up in a ball around its shaft. ‘I’m sorry, little Rabbit,’ he said as he gently slit his cousin’s throat. ‘You were brave tonight, and skilful. I wish this had ended better for you.’

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Santiago, Cuba, small hours of Friday 19 February 1519

  Cortés was striding about the main deck, willing the storm to abate whilst supervising the loading of the last supplies. In his imagination he pictured the governor and a squadron of his guards thundering down the road from Santiago. Should they reach the port before the fleet sailed, all would be lost.

  Yet even as he counted the minutes, he refused to lose his nerve, and kept a calm countenance, issuing orders without panic or obvious hurry. Everything must be done that should be done for, if it was not, even if they got to sea in time, the expedition would surely fail.

  The Santa María’s share of the pigs, goats and cattle brought by Díaz from the slaughterhouse were already billeted in the forward hold, squealing and bleating in the pens hastily knocked up for them. Meanwhile, here on the main deck, the four excellent carriage horses that Dr La Peña had so generously donated to the expedition were even now being led on board and tethered into slings alongside the six fine chargers loaded earlier and stamping nervously in their stalls. With the five good mounts that Alvarado was transporting, and three more on Puertocarrero’s ship, the expedition could field a force of eighteen cavalry. Cortés would have preferred more – fifty, even a hundred! – but he was reasonably sure the natives of the New Lands would never have faced battle against mounted troops. They would likely be as overawed and demoralised by the experience as the Indians of Cuba and Hispaniola.

  ‘Caudillo … Excuse me.’ Cortés felt a tug at his sleeve and turned to confront Nuno Guiterrez, a bearded brute of a sailor, one of the team he’d ordered moments before to prepare the Santa María to be warped out from the pier.

  ‘Yes, Nuno? What do you want?’

  ‘We’ve found a stowaway, sir.’

  ‘Stowaway?’ Cortés glanced down, saw that the sailor’s massive paw was clamped around the small frail shoulder of Muñoz’s unfortunate page, and nodded in recognition. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Him.’ The boy’s nose was red and painfully swollen, and the mass of cuts and bruises on his skinny body stood out like accusations in the yellow light of the ship’s lanterns. ‘He’s no stowaway. He serves our Inquisitor. Where did you find him?’

  ‘Hiding in the aftcastle,’ said Guiterrez, who had a voice like pebbles being shaken in a sieve. ‘Burrowed down amongst the springlines.’

  ‘Very well. Be about your business. You can leave him with me.’

  Guiterrez had the peculiar rolling gait of those who’d been too long at sea. As he moved aft, Cortés saw that the boy was afraid – who wouldn’t be with a master like Muñoz? – but trying not to show it.

  ‘What’s your name, lad?’

  ‘I am Pepillo, sir.’

  ‘And what’s your opinion of your master, young Pepillo?’

  A look of caution came into the boy’s eyes. ‘I’m sure I can’t say.’

  ‘Can’t say? Or won’t say?’

  ‘It’s not my place to speak of my master, sir.’

  ‘He beats you. Do you know why?’

  ‘I know nothing, sir. I’m his page. I must serve him. He may do with me as he wishes.’

  Diplomatic little fellow, Cortés thought. ‘So … You were hiding in the aftcastle, eh?’

  Pepillo nodded.

  ‘In which case, I expect you know already that your master’s no longer aboard the Santa María.’

  Another nod. ‘You sent him to Don Pedro Alvarado’s ship.’ Was there just the slightest hint of vindication in the boy’s tone? ‘You ordered him placed in the brig, sir.’

  ‘And do you know what the brig is?’

  ‘A kind of prison, sir.’

  ‘Think he belongs there?’

  Pepillo looked uncomfortable again, as though he feared a trap. ‘That’s not for me to say, sir.’

  ‘You’re careful with your words, boy. I like that. What other skills do you have?’

  ‘I can read and write Castilian well’ – a note of pride – ‘and in a fine hand. I have some Latin. I know ledgers and numbers.’

  Useful, Cortés thought. An idea had occurred to him and now he voiced it impulsively. ‘I’ll be needing a first-class secretary on this trip. My usual man’s in Santiago and I haven’t the time to fetch him to the ship before we sail. What would you say if I were to offer you his job?’

  Hope lit up the boy’s face like a beacon and was immediately doused.

  ‘I don’t think Father Muñoz would agree, sir …’

  ‘But Father Muñoz is in the brig – remember?’

  ‘Oh … Yes.’

  ‘So here’s the thing. I’m going to be writing letters as our expedition proceeds. A great many letters. I’ll be writing them in Castilian, of course, but they’re likely to be rather long with frequent corrections and crossings out. Would you be able to make fair copies of those letters in that fine hand you say you have? Copies good enough to be read by the king of Spain?’

  The boy’s jaw dropped. ‘The king himself, sir?’

  ‘Yes. His Sacred Majesty, our sovereign, Don Carlos, the most high and powerful Caesar, ever august Holy Roman Emperor and king of Spain.’

  Pepillo’s little frame had been drooping for much of the interview, but now his head was up and his eyes were clear. ‘I was judged the best copyist in my monastery, sir. I believe my work will be good enough even for the king.’

  ‘Very well then. I’ll give you a try. And don’t worry yourself about Father Muñoz. I’ll be ordering him freed from Don Pedro’s brig tomorrow, but I’ll make your new appointment right with him first.’

  A huge smile broke out on Pepillo’s face. ‘Thank you, sir! Thank you! Thank you
!’

  ‘I’ll expect you to earn your keep. Now run along and find my manservant Melchior. You know who he is?’

  Pedro nodded vigorously. ‘He showed me to my master’s – my former master’s – cabin when I first came on board, sir.’

  ‘Well that’s very much to the point, because what I want the two of you to do now is tear down the partition that was put across my stateroom to make Muñoz’s cabin. I’m going to need all the space for myself, so clear out the good Father’s bags and possessions, stow them somewhere dry and we’ll transfer them over to the San Sebastián tomorrow. He’ll be sailing with Don Pedro for the rest of the voyage.’

  For a moment Pepillo just stood there looking dazed.

  ‘Get on with it, lad!’ Cortés said gently. ‘When I say I want a thing done, it means I want it done at once.’

  While he’d been talking to the boy, Cortés had kept his eyes and ears open. Some expanses of clear sky had opened up amongst the clouds, the moon was shining through brightly and the storm appeared to be slackening. He hurried up to the navigation deck where Alaminos was looking out to sea. ‘Well,’ he said to the navigator, ‘what do you think?’

  ‘A little better, Don Hernán, but I still don’t like it. Can I not persuade you to delay?’

  ‘God hath not given us the spirit of fear,’ Cortés quoted cheerfully, ‘but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.’ He rubbed his hands together: ‘Gird up thy loins like a man, Alaminos! We sail. Now!’

  ‘Very well,’ said the pilot, ‘and may God save us.’ He barked a command to Guiterrez and his mates who stood ready with the uncoiled springline they’d brought down from the aftcastle. All business now, they looped one end of the line round a sturdy cleat nailed to the side of the ship near the front of the navigation deck, while two of the team swarmed down the mooring ropes, cast them off and looped the other end of the springline round a stanchion on the pier.

  Holding a powerful lantern fuelled with whale oil, a lookout named Inigo Lancero stood waiting in the crow’s-nest at the top of the mainmast. ‘Ahoy there, Inigo,’ Cortés bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth to attract the man’s attention over the wind. ‘Do you hear me well?’

  ‘I hear you, Caudillo,’ came the faint reply.

  ‘So hear this. The fleet sails now! The fleet sails now! Give the signal.’

  For a few seconds nothing happened, then the lantern flared in Inigo’s hands and the flare rapidly blossomed, steadying and sharpening into a brilliant effulgence that would carry for miles. At once Cortés pounded up the stairs to the aftcastle and hurried to the starboard rail. The crow’s-nests of the rest of his fleet were visible from here, and he stared out anxiously into the moonlit night, waiting for the answering signals. He counted ‘one … two … three … four … five … six … seven …’ Before he reached eight he saw the signal blaze to life atop Alvarado’s carrack – then Escalante’s, then Puertocarrero’s, then Montejo’s, then Ordaz’s, then Morla’s, and then all the others in rapid succession. It seemed that not even the most ardent Velazquistas were using the storm as an excuse to stay in port!

  Cortés pounded back down the stairs to the navigation deck. The warping team were applying their weight to the springline now, pulling it rapidly round the cleat to put leverage on the stanchion while Alaminos leaned on the whipstaff, turning the steering hard shoreward. Responding to these opposing forces, the bow of the Santa María began to swing ponderously out from the pier, while deckhands swarmed over the masts, unleashing the flying jibs and the inner jibs. These were immediately filled by fierce gusts of wind, and there came a tremendous cracking and lashing of canvas as the foresail, too, was unfurled. At the last moment, the two men still on land loosed the springline from the stanchion, leapt across the rapidly widening strip of water between the ship and the pier, grabbed dangling ropes and hauled themselves on board.

  ‘That was well done,’ Cortés said to Alaminos, clapping the navigator on the shoulder. But the man made no response and was staring back to land.

  Cortés followed his gaze. A mounted troop of the governor’s palace guard was galloping hard along the pier. At their head, dressed in full armour and quite unmistakable in the moonlight for his bulk and girth, was Velázquez himself.

  With a sigh Cortés gave the order to lower sails, there was a flurry of activity as the crew obeyed, and the Santa María’s forward dash slowed and stopped.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Santiago, Cuba, small hours of Friday 19 February 1519

  Pepillo could not believe his ears as he heard Cortés give the command to lower the sails, could not believe his eyes as the great ship wallowed to a halt, and was utterly perplexed and dumbfounded as the caudillo then called for a skiff to be lowered, showing every sign of getting into it himself and returning to the pier where the governor and his men waited – most certainly to arrest him!

  Unnoticed in the hive of activity, Pepillo and Melchior had made their way to the rear of the navigation deck and now stood at the door of the stateroom, hammers and saws in hand, ready to demolish the partition as their master had ordered.

  Pepillo had not told Melchior that he, too, now worked for Cortés – and in such an exalted position as the great man’s secretary. He worried that the Negro, who seemed to have a high opinion of his own abilities, might take the news badly. So he had stuck to the simplest part of the truth, namely that Cortés had assigned both of them to remove the partition.

  ‘Muñoz doesn’t object to you doing this work?’ Melchior had asked. ‘Because if he does, I don’t really need your help.’

  Pepillo hastened to reassure the older boy that Muñoz was presently in no position to object. ‘He can’t! While I was up on the aftcastle, the caudillo had him marched over to Don Pedro Alvarado’s vessel and thrown in the brig. I think he’ll let him out tomorrow.’ He couldn’t bring himself to add that the Dominican wouldn’t be returning to the Santa María. Once he revealed that, he thought, he’d be more or less obliged to cough up the rest of the story and he felt reluctant to do so without preparing the ground.

  So there he and Melchior stood, at the door of the stateroom, divided by a secret, while Cortés seemed poised to hand the expedition back, without a struggle, to the man he’d been about to steal it from. ‘Why’s he doing this?’ Pepillo whispered as crewmen hurried to lower the boat.

  Melchior raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Returning to the pier. Delivering himself to the governor.’

  ‘No chance of that!’ Melchior scoffed. ‘It’s like I told you this morning – there’s an old quarrel between these two. I expect my master wants the last word … Come on, let’s watch from the rail.’

  The wind had risen again, adding to the swell, and as the skiff reached the water it banged repeatedly against the Santa María’s towering flank. A ladder was rolled down and Cortés strode to it, telling Guiterrez to bring the oars and follow. Then they both climbed on board, Cortés cast off the line and Guiterrez at once began to row towards the pier, the little boat rolling perilously, throwing up wings of foam as it breasted the waves. The moonlight still shone fitfully through the clouds, reflecting off the angry water, and Pepillo could see Cortés gesticulating to Guiterrez, who suddenly began to thrust back on one oar while pulling hard with the other. The flimsy craft turned, almost foundering in the process, and was soon bumping against the Santa María again. Thank goodness, Pepillo thought as the ladder was once more rolled down, the caudillo has come to his senses.

  Cortés was shouting something now, standing up as Guiterrez held the skiff in place, pointing to the navigation deck; pointing, it seemed, directly at Pepillo and Melchior who were peering down over the rail.

  ‘My master wants me to accompany him,’ said Melchior, swelling with pride.

  He ran to the main deck where the ladder was positioned, but returned in moments with a thunderous face. ‘It’s not me my master wants,’ he told Pepillo. There was resentment an
d hurt in his voice. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Come on,’ Cortés boomed as Pepillo climbed down into the wildly bucking skiff. ‘Quick about it. I need you to keep a proper record of what passes between me and the governor. What’s said now will have a place in history.’

  Much troubled by Melchior’s reaction, Pepillo was now doubly dismayed. ‘I have no writing materials, sir …’ A plunge of the skiff all but pitched him into the sea and he fell back hard on a bench that stretched from side to side across the stern of the little boat. Cortés sat down next to him. ‘Of course you don’t have writing materials, lad! I don’t expect you to perform miracles. But your memory will suffice. Mark well what’s said and jot it down when we get back to the ship.’

  The Santa María had dropped anchor about three hundred feet from the pier, not a great distance, Pepillo thought at first. Yet the wind was blowing strongly out to sea and it was quickly obvious that the skiff was making poor headway, despite a great deal of rowing, splashing and blaspheming by Guiterrez. What seemed like an age passed before they came within thirty feet – and hailing distance – of the pier, and Cortés at last ordered the little boat held still, a feat that seemed to require even more mighty efforts and curses. ‘Watch your tongue, man!’ he snapped as the sailor took the Lord’s name in vain for perhaps the twentieth time. ‘We’re here to parlay with the governor, not break the third commandment.’

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ said Guiterrez. ‘But these waves. They’re terrible, sir. Like to capsize us, they are.’

  Velázquez had dismounted and stood on the edge of the pier, which towered a full fifteen feet above the heaving waterline. Raised up on this eminence and silhouetted by the setting moon, his massive, armour-clad figure seemed monstrous in Pepillo’s eyes. Most of his men, perhaps as many as twenty, had also dismounted and stood around him, glaring down at the little boat. Only four remained on horseback and one of the great beasts now reared and pawed the air as a streak of lightning crashed across the sky. At this Guiterrez paused from plying the oars to cross himself – a singularly useless thing for such a blasphemer to do, Pepillo thought. But Cortés, too, seemed moved by the scene: ‘Behold a pale horse,’ he said quietly, ‘and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.’