Cortés paused, thinking through what he wanted to say next. Technically, the whole enterprise had become illegal as a result of his precipitate departure from Cuba without Velázquez’s permission. The only way to get round this was to win the direct support of the king, which would require some manoeuvring and some eloquence, to say the least! It was therefore essential to present the governor’s behaviour in as unflattering a light as possible, while casting the best possible light on his own. ‘I, on the other hand,’ he continued, ‘spent my entire fortune in equipping the fleet and paid for nearly two-thirds of it, providing not only ships and supplies but also giving money to those who were to sail with us who were unable to provide themselves with all they required for the journey.’
As Pepillo’s hand moved rapidly across the page, there came a knock at the door. ‘Yes,’ Cortés said with a hint of irritation, ‘come in.’
The visitors were Bernal Díaz and Father Olmedo. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Cortés said, ‘what can I do for you?’
A silence followed and both men glanced uncomfortably at Pepillo.
‘Come on! Speak up!’
Olmedo took the lead. ‘There’s trouble in the town, Hernán. It seems two murders have been committed – both the victims are little boys no more than six years old. One was found in the forest on Thursday, the day of Don Pedro’s ill-advised raid, and thought to be a casualty of the fighting. We paid blood price for him as we did for all the others killed and injured. But the second murder took place last night. It’s hard to make head or tail of what’s going on without our interpreter. They took me to see the bodies and’ – a look of profound disgust crossed his face – ‘both were sodomised. As far as we can tell, the Indians believe a Spaniard was responsible.’
‘A Spaniard!’ Cortés was horrified. ‘No Spaniard would commit the abominable sin of sodomy.’
‘There’s something else sir,’ said Díaz, stepping forward. ‘The boys were scalped.’
‘Scalped?’
‘Yes, sir. Whoever killed and sodomised them also cut a strip of scalp from the victims’ heads – in both cases between the crown and the left ear.’
With a sudden lurch of nausea, Cortés remembered Muñoz’s bags, still lying hidden in the back of the stateroom, and pictured their contents – the knives, the peculiar strips of dried skin and hair – and knew immediately who the murderer was. But he fought hard to keep his face expressionless. ‘I don’t see what this proves,’ he said.
‘Sir, the same thing happened on the Córdoba expedition,’ offered Díaz with a frown. ‘Indian boys were murdered then as well and scalped in exactly the same way.’
‘So what?’ Cortés snapped. His heart was pounding and he felt – what was this? – almost guilty.
Díaz was looking at him with increasing puzzlement. ‘But it’s obvious, sir! It can only mean one thing. A Spaniard who was on the Córdoba expedition, and who’s now here with us, is committing these murders.’
‘Almost every survivor of the Córdoba expedition is in Cozumel, Díaz, including you yourself!’ Cortés realised he was shouting and lowered his voice. ‘Thirty men, more or less … Must I suspect all of them of sodomy and murder?’
‘In theory, yes,’ said Olmedo. ‘All are suspects until they’ve been ruled out. This is a serious matter, Hernán. I urge you to authorise a full investigation at once.’
Cortés paced back and forth deep in thought. ‘I’ll do no such thing,’ he said finally. ‘Any open investigation could throw the whole expedition into turmoil. Look into it yourselves, if you must. You have my authority. But do it quietly …’
By the account originally given of it back on Cozumel, which Hope and Star repeated after recovering their composure, the town where the ‘Castilan’ was being kept was named Mutul. It had more than a thousand inhabitants – ‘every one of them cannibals, sirs,’ translated Little Julian – and it was situated in the jungles of the interior some five hours’ march south from Laguna Yalahau.
Newly converted to the merits of artillery, the guides urged Sandoval to bring the falconets; there was, they claimed, a good road cut through the jungle over which the weapons on their wheeled carriages could easily be manoeuvred. However, Brabo advised against it. ‘Even if the road’s as good as a king’s highway, sir, the cannon will slow us down. It would be a different matter if we had fifty Indian bearers, but the fact is we don’t and every minute we waste on the road is a minute longer for the enemy to make preparations against us. I say we move fast, get there before word of us reaches them, find our man and get out before the buggers know what’s hit them … Besides, sir, look on the bright side! We have the dogs and they’ll level the odds. I’m supposing you haven’t seen them at work against men, being as you’re newly out from Spain, but I’ve seen it often enough in the islands and believe me, it’s a fearsome sight fit to turn the strongest stomach.’
Sandoval glanced at the slavering pack of wolfhounds, greyhounds and mastiffs, still excited by the recent commotion, pacing back and forth in the big cage on deck. Their keeper, a sullen, heavyset hunchback named Telmo Vendabal and his four filthy, foul-mouthed assistants were readying the animals’ armour of viciously spiked collars, chain mail and even steel plate. Brabo was right, Sandoval reflected, he had never seen war dogs in action. He found himself hoping, fervently, that he would not do so today. ‘Very well,’ he agreed with a curt nod of his head, ‘we leave the guns. Let’s get on with it.’
With much shouting and cursing, frayed tempers and furious gesticulation, the launches were lowered into the surf from the decks of the brigantines and Sandoval, Brabo, the twenty-five members of Brabo’s squad, Vendabal and his assistants, the ten dogs, Hope, Star and Little Julian were all landed.
Vendabal and his men each held two of the eager, straining hounds on chain leashes attached to their collars, but one of the men stumbled in the knee-deep water as he made his way up to the beach. With a roar a huge wolfhound broke free, charged across the sand, pounced on the body of an Indian who’d been trampled when the rest of the villagers took flight and plunged its fangs into his naked abdomen.
At least he’s dead, thought Sandoval, but then the man suddenly howled and struggled to his feet, striking wildly at the dog’s head, hauling it up with him, its teeth locked in his belly, blood gushing hither and yon.
The Indian was screaming now, a desperate, keening, pleading yowl as he struck again and again at the furious animal, his naked fists bouncing ineffectually off its armoured jowls and shoulders.
For a moment the man broke free, leaving some great steak of his flesh in the dog’s mouth, which it gulped down in an instant before pursuing him, leaping through the air and attacking his naked upper right thigh, just below his breechclout, opening a ghastly wound and releasing another gouting spray of blood. The Indian went down on his face, still howling, high pitched and pitiful.
‘In the name of God and all that’s merciful,’ Sandoval yelled at Vendabal, ‘can’t you stop this?’ but the hunchback was watching with what looked like amusement – even pleasure.
‘Then Hell take you!’ exclaimed Sandoval, drawing his sword and advancing up the beach, intent on killing the dog, only to hear a rush of feet behind him and discover that a strong hand gripped his sword arm while another snaked around his neck. He heard Brabo’s voice, smelt his garlic breath. ‘Not so fast, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘That’s a valuable dog, sir, and not lightly to be wasted.’
His grip was iron. ‘Unhand me, Sergeant,’ Sandoval choked.
‘With regret, sir, sorry, I can’t do that.’
The Indian was still alive, still fighting. Somehow he tore himself loose from the wolfhound’s jaws, rolled onto his back and tried to get his hands around the monster’s armoured throat, but the effort was fruitless. His stomach already torn open, blood gushing onto the sand, the huge dog effortlessly shook off his grasp, worked its jaws into his belly and suddenly a heap of bloody intestines spooled out. A moment later the In
dian’s struggles ceased as the dog’s massive head disappeared almost entirely inside his abdominal cavity.
Brabo loosed his grip on Sandoval’s throat. ‘They’re trained to relish the flesh of the Indians, sir,’ he explained. ‘It’s not a pleasant thing, but a time may come when you’ll be thankful for it.’
No sooner had Olmedo and Díaz left the stateroom than Cortés turned to Pepillo: ‘That’s enough for today,’ he said. ‘You can go …’
‘Go, sir?’
‘Yes, go and help Melchior with the horses. You’ll find him in the pasture. We’ll work on the letter again tomorrow. I have other more urgent matters to attend to.’
Pepillo stood at the writing table for a moment, wrestling with his conscience. He and Melchior had said nothing to Cortés about the first murder. They’d been off the ship against his orders and had feared punishment. ‘Besides,’ Melchior had argued, ‘he won’t believe us anyway. It’s our word against the word of a Holy Inquisitor. Who do you think will win?’ He’d pulled out his dagger. ‘We’ll deal with Muñoz ourselves.’
Which was all very well, except they hadn’t dealt with Muñoz and now murder had been done again.
‘Sir …’ Pepillo said as he shuffled the papers on the writing table into a neat pile.
‘Yes?’ A note of irritation.
Pepillo sought the right words. It was too late to report what he’d seen Muñoz doing three days ago. But might he not somehow hint, put an idea in the caudillo’s mind? He gathered his courage: ‘Sir … I couldn’t help but overhear Father Olmedo and Don Bernal and I’ve been thinking, sir, that Father Muñoz was with Córdoba …’
‘What’s that boy? What are you suggesting?’ Cortés’s voice was suddenly hard and dangerous, and his features had contorted into an angry frown.
‘… And Father Muñoz is very cruel,’ Pepillo persisted, ‘and … and—’
‘Be silent, boy! I took your side against Muñoz but I’ll not permit you to make such vile insinuations … He’s here to do God’s work, as are we all.’
Pepillo’s heart fell. This wasn’t going at all as he’d hoped. ‘Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I don’t mean to cause offence … I just thought—’
‘You’re not here to think, boy!’
‘No sir … It’s just that …’ Pepillo’s voice trailed off. The fact was that he would never convince Cortés unless he was prepared to report what he’d seen and get himself and Melchior into terrible trouble – even worse trouble, now, than they would have faced if they’d reported it three days ago.
‘It’s just what?’ Cortés roared, and Pepillo suddenly saw something monstrous in the caudillo’s usually good-humoured features.
‘Nothing, sir. I’m very sorry, sir, for speaking out of turn. I mean no harm.’
‘Get out of my sight,’ Cortés snapped.
And with that, filled with foreboding and self-loathing, Pepillo hurried off.
Below deck on the San Sebastián, Father Gaspar Muñoz lay naked, face down on the bare boards of his dark prayer cell in a state of sacred rapture. Last night he had sodomised and murdered a second young Indian boy. This morning, as penance, he had scourged himself severely, passed almost at once into communion with the divine, and now found himself in a vast, celestial chamber, flooded with supernal light, at the distant end of which Saint Peter sat in majesty on a great jewelled throne. The walls of the chamber were of mother-of-pearl, its lofty ceiling of diamonds and rubies, its floor of gold. Heavenly music, as though of a choir of angels, filled the air.
‘Approach,’ said the saint, his voice booming, and Muñoz felt himself drawn forward at tremendous speed so that an instant later he was before the throne.
‘Kneel,’ said the saint, and Muñoz knelt, his head bowed.
‘You are troubled, my son,’ said the saint.
‘Yes, Holy Father.’
‘Then unburden yourself …’
‘The boys of the Indian tribe are dragons that lurk in hidden lairs to tempt the innocent. I was tempted, Holy Father, and I sinned again last night …’
‘You do the work of God, my son. I have already taught you there is no sin in taking your reward on the bodies of the heathens.’
‘I understand, Holy Father, but I am tempted to another and greater sin for which I seek your absolution …’
The saint leaned forward in his throne and tilted Muñoz’s head up, forcing him to look into his eyes.
‘Tell me, my son …’
Those eyes, like black whirlpools, seemed to suck Muñoz’s brain out of his head. ‘Holiness,’ he said, ‘you know my mind already …’
‘Still I would hear you speak the words.’
‘As you command, Holy Father. This matter concerns the blackamoor Melchior, who once before tempted me to carnal lust, and the page Pepillo. That little Judas! My own servant turned against me! Two days ago, when I was seeking out the first Indian child, I observed the pair of them watching me. Following me! I evaded them. But last night Melchior followed me again, this time alone …’
‘And you evaded him once more and took a second child?’
‘I did, Holy Father, but I cannot allow this spying to continue. I fear others will soon be informed of my … appetites. Melchior harbours a deep hatred for me—’
‘Because you had carnal knowledge of him?’
‘To my shame, Holiness … On the Córdoba expedition, my lust for the blackamoor was great and he tempted me to the sin of Sodom.’
‘The only sin is that you failed to kill him on the day you had him! I permit you these … pleasures, Muñoz, because you do God’s work, but I expect you to be efficient. I expect you to be … discreet.’
‘Will you absolve me then if I kill the blackamoor now, though he is a converted Christian? Will you absolve me if I kill the page Pepillo, also a Christian and reared amongst my own Dominican brothers?’
Muñoz felt the familiar warmth of a strong, calloused hand resting on his head. ‘Ego te absolvo,’ the saint pronounced, ‘a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.’
The jungle chimed and trumpeted with birdsong and reverberated with the grunts and roars of wild beasts, while high above, long-haired black monkeys swung howling from branch to branch amongst the trees.
The road through this hostile, poisonous, alien realm was almost as astonishing as the jungle itself, somewhat raised above the surrounding ground level, two lances wide and surfaced, Sandoval discovered on investigation, with iron-hard limestone stucco over a stone and rubble fill. Brabo had joked earlier that even should it prove to be as good as a king’s highway, it would not be practical to bring the cannon. Yet the workmanship of this sacbe, as Hope and Star called it – the word apparently meant ‘white road’ – was far superior to any of the great thoroughfares that Sandoval had travelled on in Spain and surely testified to the presence of a high civilisation with advanced engineering skills.
He found the thought a chilling one. The assumption had been made by Cortés that the Indians of the New Lands must be at the same low level of culture as the Taino of Cuba and Hispaniola; the first encounters made by Córdoba, and even this morning when the falconets were fired, had seemed to confirm this. Yet the sacbe sent a very different message.
Through the limited interpreting services of Little Julian, Sandoval attempted to question Hope and Star on the matter as the little group of expeditionaries pushed on at a forced march. His worry increased as he learnt that dozens of roads, just as well made as this, crisscrossed the Yucatán; however, the knots of tension that had settled at the base of his neck gradually began to dissipate as the guides explained that the sacbes had been built hundreds of years earlier by the ancestors of the Maya and that although they were still maintained and kept free of jungle growth, none of the tribes possessed the skills, organisation or technology to make such wonders today.
‘Why?’ Sandoval asked. ‘What happened here to bring about this change?’ But Hope and Star merely shrugged. Their
ancestors, they said, were ‘giants’, but the gods had brought them low, and the Maya now inhabiting the Yucatán were ordinary mortals living simple lives, much as they themselves did on Cozumel, amongst the mighty memorials of their long-lost glory.
‘We can be grateful for that at least,’ Sandoval said to Brabo, and the sergeant nodded. ‘Indeed, sir. Our numbers are small. It’s the superiority of our arms and military discipline we must rely on to bring us victory.’
There was a chorus of agreement from the men and Miguel de La Mafla, the bright-eyed young adventurer who led the five musketeers in the squad, said, ‘Don’t worry, Sergeant, we’ll see them off for you. Judging from what happened this morning, they’ll run at the first sound of gunfire …’
‘Just as well,’ Brabo grinned, ‘seeing as you boys can’t hit a barn door at twenty paces!’ He put his hand to the hilt of his broadsword: ‘Until your aim improves, I’ll put my trust in good Toledo steel.’
Rearing above them, the dense foliage of the great trees, overgrown with creepers, all but blotted out the sky, so the Spaniards marched in a deep emerald gloom through which the rays of the sun rarely penetrated directly. This made it difficult to know the time of day, but from his glimpses of the sun’s position, Sandoval estimated it must already be an hour or more past noon. Despite the shade there was no refreshing breeze down here on the jungle floor, not even the slightest movement of air, and the heat and humidity were becoming insufferable. The armoured dogs, which led the column, straining at their leashes, panting, constantly snarling and snapping at the unfamiliar scents and sounds, were plainly distressed, their pink tongues lolling, saliva dripping from their fangs. Sandoval and Brabo came next, and behind them the twenty-five members of the squad marched in their customary square of five ranks of five. Several men had already stripped themselves of their armour, which they now carried awkwardly as they trudged onward, and Sandoval, itching and sweating, was seized by an overwhelming urge to unstrap his own heavy steel cuirass within which he imagined he was slowly baking like a crab in its shell.
War God: Nights of the Witch Page 38