War God: Nights of the Witch

by Graham Hancock

  A glance over his shoulder showed him the Cuahchics had closed the gap to less than two hundred paces and were gaining ground at alarming speed. They’d stopped using their atlatls, no doubt because they scented victory and hoped to take him prisoner with what was left of his squad, drag them back in dishonour to Tenochtitlan and put them to sacrifice. Mahuizoh’s thirst for revenge had driven this mad chase all through the long night, and the pursuers were so numerous, and so confident of their own supremacy, that it seemed none yet suspected an ambush. Still, the prey was very far from being in the pot. Even if the Cuahchic vanguard could be held off until Shikotenka’s exhausted men reached the canyon where his father waited with thirty thousand warriors, and even if the ambush went undetected until then, the real danger now was the ten thousand Mexica stragglers, who would still be outside the killing ground when the trap was sprung.

  There was too much here for Shikotenka’s weary mind to grapple with. He only knew that everything he had done would be fruitless if the Cuahchics were to overtake him. Whatever else might unfold he could not – he must not! – allow that to happen. He looked ahead. Less than a mile downslope the land levelled out into thickly forested foothills; leading into the hills, still masked by morning shadows, yawned the dark mouth of the canyon they sought. Yet even as he spotted it, and his heart soared, another of his stalwart Tlascalans stumbled and fell, bringing down two more men, and the foremost Cuahchics were on them in seconds.

  Pedro de Alvarado examined himself in the costly Venetian mirror affixed to the wall of his stateroom. God’s wounds but he was a handsome man! Thanks to La Peña’s ministrations (the doctor was already proving to be a most useful addition to the expedition), his broken left arm was comfortably bandaged and splinted, but he could still use the long, elegant fingers of his right hand to twirl the ends of his moustache. Dashing, he thought, very dashing. He adjusted his lion’s mane of blond hair – how the women loved it! – and smiled at his own somehow devilish reflection. A handsome man, to be sure, a rakish and scornful man whom no one could upstage, but also a dangerous one. Let there be no mistake about that!

  With a last approving glance at himelf he strolled out onto the deck of the San Sebastián to count the distant sails of the scattered ships all now rallying to his signal. People talked about the calm before the storm, but he was, on this morning of Friday 19 February 1519, quite content to enjoy the relative calm after the storm. There was a fair wind blowing, whipping up the sparkling blue waters into little wavelets – but nothing like the gigantic rollers that had threatened to send the entire fleet to the bottom of the sea the night before.

  It was a miracle that only one of the eleven vessels was missing, but unfortunately that vessel was the Santa María de la Concepción, Cortés’s own flagship.

  ‘Oh dear, Hernán,’ Alvarado said quietly to himself. ‘Where have you got to?’

  Tree and Acolmiztli ran to Shikotenka’s left, Chipahua and Ilhuicamina to his right, and behind them in four thin ranks pounded the other survivors of the squad. Fifty men had honoured the gods at the start of the night but now, in this bright morning, just twenty-two were still in the race.

  ‘Run!’ Shikotenka yelled. ‘Run for your lives!’

  The Mexica had their skills, no one could deny them that, but when it came to long-distance running, when it came to stamina, when it came to sheer heart and nerve, they had always been outmatched by the Tlascalans, and so it proved now. The Cuahchics had left the binding of the fallen prisoners to the mass of foot soldiers who followed them, and had closed the gap to twenty paces, but on Shikotenka’s command his men found resources of training and strength deep within themselves, conquered their fatigue and redoubled their pace, leaving their pursuers behind. Breath drawn in quick, harsh snatches, every muscle trembling, faces burned out and grey, they nonetheless soon opened their lead to thirty, forty, fifty, then sixty paces and, as they entered the cool, shadowed mouth of the canyon, they were once again close to two hundred paces ahead.

  Shikotenka had thoroughly scouted the killing ground in the days before and knew what to expect. Narrow at its mouth and fifty feet deep between steep walls of weirdly striped and patterned red rock, the great box canyon rapidly widened to half a mile across and a hundred feet deep, curving sharply west, then north, before terminating after two miles in sheer, unscalable cliffs. Flash floods had carved out a series of criss-crossing gullies along the midline of its otherwise generally flat and stony floor, but off to the sides, near the canyon walls, there were stands of acacia trees and brushwood thick enough to conceal the huge Tlascalan ambushing force.

  A mile in, Shikotenka drained the last drops from his waterskin and put on a final burst of speed, looking quickly left and right, hoping to catch some sight of his father’s men. ‘Are you sure we’ve got the right canyon?’ Chipahua croaked through his cracked, bloody lips.

  Shikotenka nodded, saving his breath. This was the right place, but he had to admit the forests at the foot of the canyon walls did seem eerily quiet and empty. He could see others in the squad casting about anxiously, and doubt gripped him for an instant as he ran on. Had something gone terribly wrong?

  Their painted skulls glistening in the sun, the Cuahchics of the vanguard were relentless, running silent and determined, spread out across the canyon floor. Sometimes twenty or thirty of them, bunched close together, would disappear into a gully, only to bound back into view, closer than before. Next came a block of the fastest footsoldiers from the Mexica regiments, a few hundred at most, followed by thousands more in a loose, disordered throng stretching all the way back to the canyon mouth and filling it from side to side almost as far as the strips of forest.

  Shikotenka was too busy ensuring he didn’t stumble on the treacherous, rutted ground to risk more than a quick glance over his shoulder but, as the track veered sharply north and the final desperate leg of the race began, he saw that perhaps half the Mexica force had now passed through the entrance. It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough, but the cliffs that blocked the northern end of the canyon loomed ahead and there was no time left.

  The last half-mile passed in an exhausted blur. Sweat poured into Shikotenka’s eyes, thirst parched his throat, all the strength seemed to have drained from his muscles, his legs ached and trembled. Tree was not a man to show weakness but he, too, looked nearly done in, twice almost losing his footing so that Chipahua had to steady him with a hand to his elbow. ‘No more running,’ the big man said finally, and staggered to a halt a few hundred paces short of the acacia thicket at the foot of the cliffs.

  ‘We’ll make our stand here,’ Shikotenka agreed, stopping beside him. It was the right place, out in the open, and would allow the ambushers to stay concealed until they chose to show themselves.

  If the ambushers were there.

  The squad needed no orders to know what to do next. There was just time to make a defensive circle, bristling with spears, before their pursuers were on them.

  Malinal felt sad and bewildered and terrified all at once. The gods were real in all their glamour and power. Sorcery was real and Tozi was a witch of great magic who could kill invisibly, and who had saved her life.

  Ah Tozi … Tozi.

  To her surprise, Malinal discovered she missed her frightening little friend already, missed her with a great ache in her heart, and at the same time was filled with apprehension at the undertaking Tozi had set her on – to return to her homeland, to return to Potonchan, alone, without magical support, to face and overcome the demons awaiting her there.

  The demon who was her own mother, the woman who had given birth to her yet who had nonetheless bowed to the will of her demon stepfather and sold her into slavery in the interests of the demon boy the two of them had conceived together after the sudden and unexplained death of Malinal’s beloved father, the late chief of Potonchan.

  These were the demons of Malinal’s own family. Of course they were not demons at all in the supernatural sense, but they had none
theless destroyed her life to steal her inheritance, and would certainly do so again if she showed herself amongst them, an unwelcome reminder of the truths they’d tried to hide, a ghost best left buried in the past.

  So it was into this toxic mess, this stew of family rivalries and danger, that Tozi had sent Malinal, alone, relying only on her own resources, to seek out the god Quetzalcoatl.

  Well, she thought, I shall do it. I shall not falter. I shall not fail. Regardless of the schemes of supernatural gods and all-too-human demons, her story could never be complete if she did not master and overcome her own dark legacy.

  She squared her shoulders, settled her load more comfortably upon her back and strode forward into the morning. Having covered the ground before when she’d first been brought as a slave to Tenochtitlan, Malinal had a good idea of the length of the journey. If she could walk all day, every day, then it would take her thirty days, more or less, to reach Potonchan. And even though she must walk off the beaten track, she knew that there were many villages along the way, and even some great towns and cities.

  Malinal was only a woman, but she was a beautiful woman, practised in the arts of flattery and seduction. She would rely on the kindness of strangers, she resolved, and somehow she would survive.

  There was no immediate attack. Instead the Cuahchics formed a loose ring around the Tlascalans at a distance of thirty paces. A few of them, winded, actually threw themselves to the ground. Many stooped over, gasping. All the rest stood panting, some leaning on their spears, sweat dripping from their bodies, faces set and impassive.

  For a two-hundred count nothing happened, the silence between the two groups of warriors broken only by the sound of birdsong.

  ‘What’s their game?’ whispered Ilhuicamina. ‘Why don’t they just annihilate us with atlatl darts and get it done with?’

  ‘They want us for sacrifice,’ said Acolmiztli. ‘Obviously.’

  Tree summoned up the energy to brandish his war club. ‘Women!’ he shouted. ‘Come and get us if you have the guts for it.’

  ‘They’re just catching their breath,’ Chipahua suggested sourly. He turned to Shikotenka. ‘Where’s your father?’ he asked. ‘Now would be a good time for him to show himself.’

  ‘Don’t expect any help yet,’ Shikotenka said. He looked back down the canyon in the direction they had come; thousands of Mexica foot soldiers were streaming towards them. ‘My father will wait until we have more fish in the net.’

  ‘If your father’s even here,’ Chipahua gave voice to Shikotenka’s own fears. The forested sides of the canyon presented a bosky scene. Birds flew in and out amongst the treetops, calm and unruffled. ‘Never seen thirty thousand warriors lie so low,’ Chipahua added, his sneer horribly distorted by his smashed mouth and the jagged stumps of his teeth.

  ‘They’re supposed to lie low,’ objected Tree. ‘Wouldn’t be much of an ambush if they didn’t.’

  Shikotenka nodded. ‘They’re Tlascalans, and they’re here. Count on it.’

  He was surprised how sure he managed to sound, but in the solitude of his thoughts the worm of doubt was gnawing … gnawing.

  Suppose another of Moctezuma’s armies was in the field and had mounted a simultaneous raid on Tlascala when all eyes had been on Coaxoch? If so, his father would have been obliged to divert his warriors to confront it.

  Or suppose the Senate had intervened disastrously at the last moment? Half the senators had opposed Shikotenka’s election as battle-king and voted against this plan. Could some terrible betrayal have been engineered in the past day and his father overruled? No! Surely not! Gods forbid it! He shook his head from side to side to clear away the unwelcome thought and asked: ‘Anyone got any water left?’

  Some of the men still had a few drops in their waterskins, which they willingly shared as the hundred Cuahchics, with no more than a dozen empty skins amongst them, looked on greedily. Studying the members of the elite Mexica force, Shikotenka saw just how close to the limit of their endurance the Tlascalans had run them, and could only guess at the condition of the rest of the enemy footsoldiers staggering up to reinforce them. More than a thousand had already reached the outer edges of the Cuahchic encirclement, but most of them now lay stretched out on the ground, chests heaving in abject exhaustion.

  ‘Tosspots!’ said Ilhuicamina with an insulting gesture along the canyon. ‘Mexica can’t run to save their lives.’

  Tree seemed much restored by the water and the fury of battle was glinting in his eyes. ‘Women!’ he taunted the Cuahchics again. ‘If by chance there’s a man hiding there amongst you, I offer you single combat.’ He stepped to the edge of the Tlascalan circle and smacked his club menacingly against the huge palm of his left hand.

  The Cuahchics had removed their insignia of rank and run the final miles in loincloths and sandals only, but it was obvious who their commander was. A short, squat warrior of about thirty, with the left side of his head and face painted yellow and the right side blue, masses of knotted muscle standing out on his thighs, arms and belly, he stood calmly with his eyes fixed on Tree. ‘Bluster all you wish, Tlascalan,’ he replied, his voice rasping like a saw cutting wood. ‘We’ll soon enough show you what men we are.’

  Chipahua gave a loud belch. ‘Men have balls, but your breechclouts look empty. Send your wives to us and we’ll show them what they’ve been missing.’ Around him the Tlascalan squad laughed while the Cuahchics chafed and murmured. Swinging his club, Tree ran forward to stand alone in no man’s land. ‘Single combat,’ he shouted again. ‘Single combat now.’

  Shikotenka reluctantly decided to see how his friend’s act of bravado played out. It was a useful distraction while the canyon behind the Cuahchics continued to fill up with Mexica footsoldiers – at least ten thousand of them now and counting. Every minute the ambush was delayed meant more of them would fall into the trap.

  As three of the Cuahchics darted forth to answer Tree’s challenge, their leader barked a command and they stopped in their tracks while they were still out of range of the big man’s whirling club, then slunk back to the protection of their squad in a way that was almost comical. ‘Cowards!’ Tree roared. ‘Three not enough? Send six. Send twelve. I’ll kill you all!’

  More murmurs of fury from the enemy ranks were answered by further stern rebukes from the thickset officer. ‘Nobody fights,’ he was yelling, while he held one of his men by the scruff of the neck and knocked another to the ground with a great blow of his fist. ‘Nobody dies! Not until General Mahuizoh gets here.’

  Suddenly Shikotenka understood the Cuahchics’ strange behaviour. Ah, he thought as he sent Chipahua and Acolmiztli to drag Tree back to the Tlascalan circle. Now it all makes sense.

  Mahuizoh arrived within the hour, more than enough time for every man of the two Mexica regiments to enter the killing ground. Stripped down to his loincloth like all the rest, a thick brown poultice covering the ruin of his nose, breathing noisily and blowing bubbles of blood through his mouth, pale and shaking with pain, you had to admire the dedication of the general, Shikotenka reflected; you had to admire the resolve; you had to admire the sheer violence of the hatred that had driven him across mountains, up and down steep gradients and along the length of this canyon to extract vengeance for what had been done to his father and his brothers.

  And there was no doubt his revenge would be terrible, as cruel and as hideous as anything the wicked imaginings of the Mexica could devise …

  If the Tlascalan ambush was not in place.

  Flanked by four strutting Cuahchic bodyguards, Mahuizoh advanced to within a dozen paces of the Tlascalan circle and sought Shikotenka out, fixing him with an inflamed glare. ‘You, Shikotenka!’ he said, his voice wet and bubbling. ‘Tell me the name of your man who cut me.’ He turned towards Ilhuicamina whose prosthetic nose of jade mosaic tiles glittered in the morning’s brilliance.

  ‘He’ll tell you himself,’ Shikotenka replied.

  Ilhuicamina laughed and lifted the mask from
his face, exposing the gaping bone beneath. ‘I am Ilhuicamina,’ he said. ‘It was I who cut you. Do you wish to thank me for making you as lovely as myself?’

  ‘I will thank you with this,’ said Mahuizoh. He produced a long-bladed obsidian knife from his waistband and held it up to the sun. ‘My gratitude will be beautiful to behold and will require much time to express.’ He turned back to Shikotenka. ‘I told you I will go to Moctezuma wearing your skin,’ he said. A choking cough shook him and blood sprayed from his mouth. ‘I will make your own men flay you alive before I take your heart.’

  Shikotenka didn’t reply but turned to his captains. ‘When my father attacks,’ he said, with more assurance than he felt, ‘we go straight for Mahuizoh. Cut the heart out of the Mexica resistance. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Chipahua.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Ilhuicamina.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Acolmiztli.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Tree. ‘We cut out their heart.’

  Shikotenka glanced again at the strips of forest at the base of the canyon walls and at the coming and goings of the birds. Once again the shadow of doubt fell over him, but then the great war conch blew a triumphant blast and the birds scattered up to heaven amidst a flurry of wings. Thirty thousand Tlascalans erupted from their hides amongst the acacia and brushwood to engulf their hated enemies in a howling, vengeful tide.

  The look on Mahuizoh’s evil face made every agonising moment of the last day and night worthwhile. Shikotenka surged forward and, as Tree’s club and Chipahua’s macuahuitl and the knives of Acolmiztli and Ilhuicamina struck down the astonished bodyguards, he closed with the general and tac, tac, tac, tac, tac, he took his vile and vicious life.

  By noon, when there was still no sign of the Santa María, Alvarado looked out at the rest of the fleet gathered around his own magnificent carrack, San Sebastián, and shrugged his shoulders.

  The only thing to do, under the circumstances, was to sail at once to Cozumel. Cortés had the coordinates. If he’d survived they would meet him again there.