War God: Nights of the Witch

by Graham Hancock

  Up above, the cloud masses thickened, covering ever more of the sky.

  They marched deep in their own thoughts for a while, and had drawn close to the clamour and frenetic movement of the pier when they heard a loud clatter of hooves behind them and a rumble of iron-clad wheels.

  Out of the night loomed four black horses, drawing a tall black coach that swept by so fast and so close they had to jump to the side of the road.

  The messenger had been sent shortly after midnight and, right on schedule, at one o’clock in the morning, amidst the freshening storm, Dr La Peña came thundering down the pier in a big medical carriage drawn by four horses. ‘Very nice,’ said Cortés, meaning the horses, ‘we’ll have those.’

  ‘And the good doctor himself,’ Alvarado reminded him.

  They retreated into the stateroom. La Peña knocked, Alvarado invited him to enter and Cortés confronted him just inside the door. ‘Good evening, doctor,’ he said, ‘or rather, good morning. Thank you so much for coming.’

  La Peña stood, apparently dumbfounded.

  ‘You’ll have been expecting to find me on my sickbed, of course,’ said Cortés, ‘but as you can see I am perfectly well.’ He paused for effect. ‘Naturally I know everything about Velázquez’s plan …’

  At this the doctor’s eyes darted rapidly several times from side to side, as though he were seeking a way out.

  ‘And I know about your part in it,’ Cortés added.

  ‘My part in what?’ spluttered La Peña.

  ‘You know, pretend I’m sick, spirit me away from here in your carriage supposedly to take me off to your hospital but in reality to hand me over to the governor’s palace guard …’

  La Peña squealed and turned to run, but Cortés caught him before he reached the door and backhanded him twice, knocking him to his knees.

  ‘Don’t kill him!’ protested Alvarado in mock horror. He looked down at his left arm, bound in a makeshift sling. ‘I need someone to fix this.’

  After La Peña had joined Escudero in Alvarado’s brig, Cortés returned to take charge of his own ship. Hours before, he’d sent orders to prepare for an urgent departure. Everything seemed ready as he came on board.

  With sailors rushing here and there around him, he felt the fresh blast of the wind on his face, listened to its keening as it whipped through the rigging, and looked up with growing disquiet to see armies of cloud now occupying much of the sky and frequently shrouding the moon. At first when the wind had risen he’d felt nothing but joy – for it was a fair wind that would drive them out of the trap of Santiago’s anchorage and west across the ocean to the New Lands.

  But dear God in Heaven, Cortés thought, is nothing ever simple? Not only did he have to contend with so treacherous and dangerous an adversary as Velázquez, but now it seemed the very elements were turning against him as well.

  His mood darkening he climbed the steps to the navigation deck and found not one, not two, but three men waiting for him outside his half of what had once been the Santa María’s stateroom. The first, he saw with a shiver of disgust, was Muñoz, directly responsible for the present, reduced state of his accommodations. Second was Antón de Alaminos, pilot and chief navigator of the fleet. Third was someone he did not know, a small bald man with a somewhat battered face and a large black bruise forming round his right eye.

  It was this latter who now rushed forward, thrusting a sheet of paper at him.

  ‘Do you wish to ruin me, Cortés?’ he yelled. ‘My slaughterhouse has been emptied in your name and there’ll be no meat in Santiago for days. None at all! I’ll be forced to breach contracts to the army, to the government, to the monasteries, to the taverns. In every case there’s a financial penalty. Citizens will be up in arms and I’ll be blamed. To add insult to injury your men beat me’ – he pointed to his eye – ‘and paid me just three hundred pesos – three hundred pesos, I say – for my entire stock.’ A look of outrage congested his face. ‘Which is worth one thousand five hundred pesos at least …’

  ‘What?’ said Cortés. ‘One thousand five hundred pesos! That’s a king’s ransom.’

  ‘That’s a fair price for my stock and your officer Díaz agreed upon it. See here …’ Again he waved his paper at Cortés, who this time took it from him, held it up to a swinging lantern and read, to his horror, in a clear firm hand, that he was indeed obligated to pay this man, Fernando Alonso, a further one thousand two hundred gold pesos …

  There came the clump of booted feet on the stairs leading up to the navigation deck and Sandoval appeared. Díaz was right behind him. ‘Ah,’ said Cortés. ‘Speak of the devil. Did you sign this piece of usury, Díaz?’ With a withering glance he handed the paper to the tall ensign.

  Díaz took it to the lantern to read it. ‘Yes sir,’ he said, ‘I did. On your instructions. You gave me three hundred pesos and told me to leave a promissory note if it wasn’t enough …’

  ‘I know, I know, but did you not think to bargain, man?’

  ‘No, sir. We’ve bought and are loading two hundred head of livestock and two wagonloads of fresh and salted meats. One thousand five hundred pesos doesn’t seem excessive …’

  ‘The price is fair,’ said Alonso. ‘You have my stock. I won’t leave your ship until I have my money.’

  Cortés felt cornered. Díaz seemed somehow to be judging him. Even Sandoval was looking at him in a new way and he felt the chill, flat stare of Muñoz’s dead-fish eyes on him too.

  Not too late to change tack. ‘We won’t fall out over the amount,’ Cortés told the slaughterhouse director smoothly, ‘but I don’t have that sort of cash to hand. To compensate you for the delay I’ll up the amount on your promissory note to two thousand pesos payable at the end of the expedition. We’re about to sail—’

  ‘What? What’s that?’ Still as a tombstone in the shadows, emanating an almost tangible aura of ill will, Muñoz suddenly stirred. ‘Did you say we’re about to sail?’

  Alonso spoke over him, directly to Cortés. ‘You insult me, Don Hernando. I repeat, your men have beaten me and humiliated me. All my stock has been stolen. I do not want your promises. I want my money! Only when I have it will I leave your ship.’

  ‘And I demand to know what treachery’s afoot here,’ insisted Muñoz, thrusting himself forward, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. ‘What are all these hasty preparations? Why is the fleet about to sail? And at dead of night – without the governor’s knowledge or permission, I’ll warrant!’

  Cortés turned on the friar with a snarl. ‘You will mind your tongue, Father, and your business.’

  Muñoz drew himself up to his full height, looming over Cortés. ‘All the business of the fleet is the business of the Inquisitor,’ he thundered, ‘and you’ll not sneak away from Santiago like a thief in the night while I’m here to guard the interests of God and Don Diego de Velázquez.’

  ‘God and Velázquez?’ Cortés exploded. ‘You name both in the same breath, Friar?’

  ‘I do. Don Diego is a right holy man and you, sir, are the devil’s imp. Embark without the governor’s blessing and I swear to you I will call down the wrath of heaven on this fleet and all who sail in it.’

  Cortés glanced at the soldiers and crew on the main deck and didn’t like what he saw. Those about to embark on a sea voyage tend naturally to superstition and, as the wind howled in the rigging and the lanterns swung, it was obvious the Inquisitor’s holy fury was having a chilling effect. Some of the men crossed themselves, Alaminos amongst them. Even Sandoval and Díaz looked alarmed. Matters must not be allowed to deteriorate further! But at the same time Alonso was still sounding off at the top of his voice, pacing back and forth in front of Cortés, contemptuous of his authority and thoroughly distracting his attention.

  There was, at least, an easy way to be rid of the tiresome butcher.

  Turning his back on Muñoz, Cortés swept his thick gold chain over his head, carefully removed and placed in his pocket the heavy gold medall
ion of Saint Peter that hung from it, and handed the chain to Alonso with a flourish. ‘That should more than cover your costs,’ he said. ‘And whatever surplus you’ve left over, you may keep for your troubles.’

  In no hurry now, his expression of aggrieved entitlement never wavering, the slaughterhouse director examined the chain and bit it in two places before concealing it in some fold of his garments. Then, without a further word, not even of thanks, he turned his back, clattered down the stairs to the main deck and thence made his way by the gangplank to the pier where his horse was held waiting.

  Once in the saddle he found his voice again. ‘Hey Cortés,’ he yelled, ‘a word with you.’

  Cortés was already regretting the impulsive piece of showmanship that had separated him from a chain worth at least two thousand pesos, wondering if there was some way he could get it back and realising with a sour stomach there probably wasn’t. He looked over the rail of the navigation deck at Alonso. ‘You’ve been paid,’ he said coldly. ‘What more do you want?’

  ‘To give you something to think about, you knave. Before I rode over here I sent my messenger to the governor. Thought I should let him know his fleet is leaving tonight in a hurry. I expect you’ll be hearing from him soon.’

  He laughed and spurred his horse away.

  ‘I expect you lick the governor’s arse!’ Cortés yelled after him.

  At the back of his mind he was aware that Muñoz’s complaints, threats and curses had never ceased and he made three quick decisions. First the Inquisitor’s loud imprecations were bad for the morale of his crew, doubly so on a stormy night like this. Second, he wanted his stateroom back and wasn’t prepared to share it for a moment longer. Third there was the matter of his dream – his fingers went unconsciously to the medallion in his pocket – which could not safely be dismissed. Most likely it was just a dream, but suppose it was more? Suppose it really was Saint Peter who’d told him Heaven would not bless the expedition without Muñoz?

  Cortés wanted to think further on all these matters, but first he had to get the fleet safely out of Santiago. So he told Díaz and Sandoval to escort Muñoz discreetly along the pier to the San Sebastián. ‘Throw him in the brig when you get there,’ he said. ‘He’ll be in good company.’

  ‘You can’t do that to me!’ roared Muñoz.

  ‘I’ve looked into it,’ said Cortés, ‘and in circumstances like these I can do pretty much anything I like.’ He leaned closer, lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘You might unsettle the men with your curses, but don’t imagine any of them will rush to support you. You’re not well liked after the Córdoba expedition, Muñoz. In fact, I’d go so far as to say you’re hated.’ He smiled pleasantly, lowered his voice still further: ‘Then there was that terrible business with your last page.’ An almost inaudible whisper now. ‘Tell me, is it true, did you murder him to stop him witnessing against you?’

  He had the satisfaction of seeing Muñoz’s face turn ashen-white. ‘Take him away,’ he told Díaz and Sandoval.

  When they were gone, Cortés was alone on the navigation deck with the pilot Antón de Alaminos, an experienced explorer of these waters since his youth when he’d sailed as a cabin boy on Columbus’s fourth voyage. The wind was howling without let-up, whipping around them, rattling the sails in the rigging. Alaminos shrugged his shoulders and held both his hands palm out in a gesture of surrender. ‘You understand we can’t sail in this,’ he told Cortés, ‘it would be suicide …’

  Buffeted by the storm, Cortés knew Alaminos was right, and yet could only think of one thing. All tonight’s careful planning and manoeuvring – the snatching of the meat supply, the foiling of the plot with La Peña – now lay in ruins. That bastard Alonso had sent a messenger and Velázquez was sure to act on it. The sands were running through the hourglass at a terrifying rate, and even now the governor would be galloping towards them with a strong force of his guard to appeal to his friends amongst the captains and stop the fleet from sailing.

  ‘Come come, Alaminos,’ Cortés chided. ‘Has easy living stolen your courage? You’ve sailed in worse gales than this!’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tlascala, small hours of Friday 19 February 1519

  ‘Where am I?’ Guatemoc asked.

  ‘This is Aztlán,’ a man’s voice replied. ‘Homeland of your people and of the gods. You are in the caves of Chicomoztoc.’

  Guatemoc looked around. He was in a vast underground cavern, illuminated by a soft but pervasive glow that seemed diffused everywhere. The domed ceiling overhead glittered with a thousand stalactites of pure transparent crystal. From the floor, made of the same substance and towering above him, soared a forest of stalagmites. He felt no pain and looked down at his body to find he was uninjured and dressed in a robe of simple white cotton loosely belted at the waist.

  Everything about this was very strange. There had been a fight, though he could not remember with whom, then darkness and now he was here.

  ‘Who speaks to me?’ he asked.

  An arm’s length in front of his face, the air of the cave rippled and swirled. It was as though a pair of great curtains, hitherto unseen, had been momentarily whisked apart revealing a blank void. And out of that dark and empty gap, out of that nothingness, there came a blur of wings, and suddenly a small hummingbird with a long, dagger-sharp beak and feathers of iridescent blue and yellow burst forth, making Guatemoc throw himself back with a gasp of surprise.

  ‘I am Huitzilopochtli,’ the creature said, flying a rapid circle around him, ‘the Hummingbird at the left hand of the Sun.’ Though it was tiny, its voice was strong and deep.

  The resolute voice of a warrior.

  The commanding voice of a god.

  Guatemoc dropped to his knees. ‘Lord Hummingbird,’ he said. ‘Is it truly you?’

  There came another shimmer of the air, the hummingbird was gone and a man stood before him. A perfect man in the prime of life, beautiful and strong, tall, with sculpted muscles and glowing skin and golden hair and brutal soldier’s hands, wearing a blue loincloth and armed with a long, wickedly sharp killing knife fashioned from some deadly metal. ‘Yes, Prince,’ he said. ‘I have work for you to do.’

  ‘Work, lord?’ Guatemoc glanced up to see the god towering above him, to see that gleaming, murderous knife raised high, poised over his head. ‘I am here to serve you.’

  ‘And serve me you will.’

  ‘Tell me what I am to do,’ Guatemoc said. The god’s eyes, he noticed, were black as night, black as obsidian, and yet shone with a fierce inner fire.

  ‘You must return to the land of the living,’ Hummingbird replied. ‘You must return at once.’

  And suddenly everything that had happened came back to Guatemoc in a rush. He remembered every move, every moment, every mistake of his fight with Shikotenka, remembered the icy chill, the tearing agony, the fatal heaviness, as the Tlascalan’s knife entered his viscera, remembered how he had been bested and vanquished with contemptuous ease, as a child might be slapped down and put in his place by a grown man. ‘But I was killed, lord,’ he said. ‘How can I return when I am dead?’

  ‘Because this is not your time to die,’ said Hummingbird. ‘Because I have made you live again that you might do the work you were brought into the world for. Because a great battle lies before your nation, but the weakling Moctezuma is not competent to fight it.’

  Then, in a flash, the god’s arm came lashing down and the blade clasped in his huge hand smashed through the top of Guatemoc’s skull, admitting an explosion of light …

  It was deep night, and a big moon feathered with clouds was riding high as Guatemoc regained consciousness in a pool of his own blood. Two images superimposed themselves in his mind – Shikotenka stabbing him to death and Hummingbird stabbing him back to life again. Which was real and which a dream?

  He dragged himself forward out of the cold, coagulating mass, but the effort required to move was great and he lay prone, gasping like a fish on a riv
erbank, still uncertain if he was alive or dead, a freshening wind blowing through the grass and over his body. Finally he accepted that by some miracle, perhaps indeed worked by Hummingbird, he was still amongst the living, that Shikotenka’s knife, which had struck him so often and so fast, had somehow spared his vital organs, and that he must raise the alarm. The battle king of the Tlascalans would not have been here, doing his spying in person, unless something deadly and spectacular was planned …

  Six bowshots down the steep slope, almost directly beneath the hollow where Guatemoc lay, was the camp’s south gate, little more than a line of thorn bushes drawn across the wide, lantern-lit thoroughfare running two thousand paces due north to Coaxoch’s pavilion. Uninjured, Guatemoc could have reached the gate and alerted the sentries in minutes but now, as he struggled to rise, his strength failed again. He couldn’t even get off his knees! He tried to call out but his voice was no more than a whisper and the wind was strong.

  He had to get closer to those sentries! It was the only way. He formed a mental picture of the straight route to them, lowered his head and began to slide on his belly. The movement opened his wounds and had him lathered in fresh blood in an instant. More agony followed as he slowly worked his way downhill, now crawling, now shuffling on his buttocks through the long grass, unable to see exactly where he was going, the camp a lake of light and voices far below, always luring him on.

  Guatemoc knew himself to be savagely injured. Despite Hummingbird’s intervention – whether real or imagined – he would surely die if he couldn’t reach the royal surgeons soon; nonetheless the pain that burned him deepest was his shame at the easy, contemptuous way Shikotenka had destroyed him in combat. The Tlascalan prince wasn’t just better than him. He was massively, consummately better. Guatemoc remembered boasting and strutting before the fight, trying to put the other man down. But now it was he who was down, a crawling cripple, while Shikotenka was free to go where he pleased and do what harm he wished.