War God: Nights of the Witch

by Graham Hancock

  The Indian stood panting, looking round at the hard, cruel faces of the conquistadors, the fingers of his right hand with their cracked blackened nails going to the cut beneath his eye, and a moan of fear – or was it something else? Was it frustration? – escaping his mouth. Several times he seemed on the verge of speaking, but only incoherent grunts and stammers emerged until suddenly he seemed to master himself and said in clumsy, somewhat halting Castilian: ‘Gentlemen, are you Christians?’

  A shocked silence followed which Sandoval was the first to break. ‘We are Christians and Spaniards,’ he confirmed.

  The Indian burst into tears and fell to his knees: ‘God and the blessed Mary of Seville!’ he exclaimed. ‘I am saved.’

  Then, even stranger, he asked if it was Wednesday the twenty-fourth of February.

  Sandoval informed him it was Saturday the twenty-seventh, at which the Indian said: ‘I have kept a count of the days these past eight years. It seems I am not far out.’ He then dried his tears, raised his hands and eyes and proclaimed: ‘Thank you, God, oh thank you, thank you, thank you for saving me from these infidels and hellish men. Thank you, Lord, for restoring me to Christians and men of my nation.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Sandoval asked when the odd figure had finished his prayer.

  All the conquistadors gathered there, pressed in close to hear his answer.

  ‘Sir,’ the man replied, ‘I am Jerónimo de Aguilar of Ecija, and I am a castaway in this land.’

  ‘You are a Spaniard!’

  ‘I am, sir.’ He turned towards Brabo. ‘I understand why you thought me an Indian,’ he told the sergeant. ‘I’ve been amongst the heathens so long that at first I could not recall our tongue, but I’m a Spaniard born and bred and a good Christian.’ As though to prove it, Aguilar pulled from some fold of his verminous loincloth a Book of Hours, very old and worn, which he opened and held above his head.

  At once a flurry of cheers broke out from the conquistadors, a hubbub of conversation, and one by one the soldiers, Brabo first amongst them, stepped forward to clap the man on his naked back.

  Aguilar’s initial clumsy articulation of Castilian improved rapidly as he told his story, seeming less of an Indian and more of a Spaniard as every minute went by. He had been, he said, a slave of the cacique of Mutul. He had been ushered into the jungle with the cacique’s household some hours before, without being told the reason why, but after hearing the gunfire and realising that European forces must be on hand, he had slipped away from his captors and hastened to the town to seek his salvation.

  ‘We were told you were a castaway,’ Sandoval said, ‘but how did you come to be here in Mutul, so far from the coast?’

  ‘By many long and bloody twists and turns,’ said Aguilar. ‘In the year 1511 I was in Darién, involved in the wars and quarrels and mischances of that villain Pedrarias. I set sail for Hispaniola with some others to acquaint the governor with what was going on. We got as far as Jamaica when the caravel struck on shoals and twenty of us barely escaped in the ship’s boat, without sails, without water, without bread, and with only one miserable pair of oars. We drifted in this fashion for thirteen or fourteen days, when we were caught in a current running very fast and strong to the west that brought us to the shores of the Yucatán. Eight of us had died of thirst by then, but matters only became worse. Soon after we made landfall we fell into the hands of a rascally cacique named Taxmar. He sacrificed five of us to his idols and had their flesh prepared for the pot, making a fiesta of it and offering a share to his friends—’

  ‘Dear God,’ Sandoval interrupted. ‘What horrors you have faced.’

  ‘I and the six others who remained alive,’ Aguilar continued, ‘were placed in a cage to be fattened for the next banquet. To avoid such an abominable death we broke out of our prison and fled to the jungle. It was God’s will that we should find our way to Mutul, for Aquincuz, the cacique of this town in whose hands I have been ever since, is a powerful man and a mortal enemy of Taxmar. He is no less a cannibal and a sacrificer of humans, but I think he found us a curiosity, and besides we had escaped from his enemy – so he sheltered us and spared our lives, though he kept us in servitude. One by one over the years since then my companions died, until no one remained but myself. I’d all but given up hope when I heard your guns …’

  As Sandoval and Aguilar talked, the other Spaniards in the squad listened in, and from time to time added comments of their own. Hard-bitten men though they were, they were plainly astonished by the castaway’s account and filled with fear at the thought that the people they had come to conquer were in the habit of sacrificing and eating men.

  When the telling was done, the gates of Mutul’s prison were forced open and its wretched inmates were permitted to come forth. They were all, Aguilar confirmed, to have been eaten in a month’s time at the next full moon when one of the great Mayan festivals was to be held.

  ‘Tell them they’re free to go,’ Sandoval said. He looked with more sympathy than he would have believed possible a few moments before on Star embracing his sister and added generously: ‘Those who wish to return with us to Cozumel may do so.’

  Aguilar put the offer to the freed captives, more than half of whom instantly said they wished to accompany the conquistadors. The rest hurried off towards the jungle. ‘Most will be recaptured before they get back to their home villages,’ Aguilar said wistfully, ‘but they’re too afraid of you to stay. They heard the guns – we all heard the guns! For them it was the sound of terror. For me it was the sound of hope.’

  In preparation for the five-hour return march through the jungle to the waiting brigantines, Aguilar led the conquistadors to the town’s main water supply. It lay in the midst of a shady orchard and proved to be not a river, or a lake, as Sandoval had expected, but an almost perfectly circular sinkhole, a bowshot across, which plunged straight down into bedrock to a huge crystal-clear pool fifty feet below. Such natural wells, Aguilar explained, were fed by underground rivers. They were called conots and were the main source of water for the Maya throughout much of the northern Yucatán.

  Using buckets and ropes left in place by the townsfolk, the Spaniards drank their fill and replenished their empty flasks, while the dog handlers saw to the needs of their hounds. Meanwhile, under Hope and Star’s direction, some of the women prisoners they’d freed had busied themselves preparing a meal of stewed meat, cooked with chillies, and delicious flatbreads called qua made from freshly ground maize. Though hungry, the conquistadors initially looked askance at the stew, and some asked if there was human flesh in it, but all scruples were cast aside when Aguilar assured them it was nothing more than a medley of venison and turkey, requisitioned, like the maize, from the town’s stores.

  The question of what was to be done with the Mayan fighters captured in the battle weighed heavily on Sandoval’s mind. They were, for the present, bound hand and foot and locked in the prison. Brabo remained adamant that they must all be put to death.

  ‘What do you say, Aguilar?’ Sandoval asked. But the tall castaway, who claimed never to have been fed properly by the Maya, was eating with intense concentration, stuffing his mouth with the rich stew which dribbled down his chin and onto a linen shift he’d taken from the home of his former captor.

  ‘What do you say?’ Sandoval urged.

  Aguilar gestured towards the prison. ‘They are savages,’ he mumbled through a mouthful, ‘but that doesn’t mean we must also be savages. Let them live. Leave them there.’ He returned to his chewing.

  ‘They’ll break free and come after us,’ Brabo objected.

  Aguilar considered it. ‘You don’t know these people,’ he said finally. He looked to the sun, hanging low in the sky. ‘Our march to your brigantines must be done for the most part after dark and the Maya are a superstitious people. They don’t like to fight at night when the spirits of the dead walk abroad. Besides, the jungle is a dangerous place, patrolled by great beasts. Even if the captives break free they’ll not
follow us until morning …’

  ‘By which time we’ll have sailed.’

  Aguilar was chewing ferociously. ‘By which time, God willing, we’ll have sailed,’ he agreed.

  ‘But what of these beasts?’ asked Sandoval.

  ‘They are a species of panther. Some are tawny, with black spots. Others – truly they are devils – are all black in colour. They are as large and heavy as the biggest hound and they’re very fierce. The Maya call them B’alam. They hunt by night.’

  ‘Are they a danger to us?’ Sandoval asked.

  Aguilar shrugged: ‘Not if we stick together. They hunt alone, never in packs. Besides, the dogs will scare them off.’

  ‘Still,’ Sandoval glanced uneasily at the late afternoon sun, ‘the sooner we get on the road the better.’ He turned to Brabo: ‘I’m sorry, García,’ he said, ‘I respect your advice but I can’t bring myself to order the deaths of our captives. They will remain in the prison, tied as they are but alive. Do you accept?’

  ‘It’s not for me to accept or deny, sir. Command is a lonely business, suited to a gentleman such as yourself. You must carry its burdens.’

  As the sun dropped low it swelled into a vast orange disk, alien and somehow menacing, streaked with smears of cloud. Lying poised on the horizon where the sky met the ocean it cast a glittering path across the ripples of the bay.

  Pepillo and Melchior had been dismissed for the evening by Cortés, who was in a foul and sullen mood. They had made their way to shore and found a hiding place in the thick undergrowth of a palm grove a bowshot from the water’s edge that gave them a fine view of the sunset and overlooked the spot where the launches from the ships usually came to load and unload cargo and passengers. They were both armed, Melchior with his long rusty dagger and Pepillo with a small hatchet that his friend had procured for him and insisted he thrust into his belt. The idea that he might actually have to use this weapon to kill Muñoz made Pepillo feel sick, and a little light-headed. Yet this seemed to be Melchior’s only plan. ‘We’ll wait and watch here,’ the older boy said, ‘and if the devil comes ashore we’ll follow him and do away with him first chance we get.’

  With a little luck, Pepillo hoped, the wicked friar would not come ashore! It was certainly beginning to look that way since he was preaching a seemingly interminable sermon to a few bored men on the main deck of the San Sebastián – and had been doing so for the past two hours at least. His loud but somewhat fluting, high-pitched lisp had carried across the water to the Santa María and now, amongst the palms, his proclamations against the common sins of soldiers and sailors could still be heard clearly: ‘And they shall say unto the elders of his city, this our son is stubborn and rebellious; he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton, and a drunkard. And all the men of his city shall stone him with stones, that he die: so shalt thou put evil away from among you; and all Israel shall hear, and fear …’

  More admonitions and dire warnings followed, but then, quite suddenly, Pepillo realised with a lurch of alarm that Muñoz was winding himself up to a conclusion: ‘Dearly beloved, I beseech you as strangers and pilgrims, abstain from fleshly lusts, which war against the soul, and follow righteousness, faith, charity, peace with them that call on the Lord out of a pure heart.’

  ‘Abstain from fleshly lusts!’ Melchior gave a bitter laugh. ‘Follow righteousness! A pure heart! That’s rich coming from a murdering sodomite! I can’t wait to give him what he deserves.’

  ‘Suppose he doesn’t come?’ Pepillo asked, trying to keep the hope he felt out of his voice.

  ‘We’ll get our chance. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But we’ll get him sooner or later. It’s just a matter of time.’

  In the last of the light, the two boys saw the friar’s tall, angular form stride across the deck of the San Sebastián and go below.

  Another hour passed, the night grew black as pitch, bloodsucking insects buzzed and whined, lanterns were lighted across the fleet and there came the sounds of raucous laughter as food was cooked and served. Some of the men had begun drinking, bottles clinked, a few songs were struck up, a long and plangently beautiful guitar riff rang out, a drunken fight got started and was equally quickly stopped.

  ‘Listen!’ whispered Pepillo, nudging Melchior in the ribs. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s what, you silly mammet?’ Melchior growled.

  ‘There! Don’t you hear it?’

  Pepillo strained his ears and there it was again – a faint, almost inaudible splashing in the bay. There was no moon but the starlight was bright. By its silvery luminescence, and the reflected glow of the ships’ lanterns, the breaking line of surf where the wavelets lapped against the shore was clearly visible.

  The hairs on the nape of Pepillo’s neck and along his forearms suddenly stood on end as he saw the figure of a naked man, gleaming ivory in the starlight, slowly and stealthily emerge from the sea. The man carried a bulky object – a bag! – and in a moment had pulled a dark garment over his head and all but disappeared.

  Then he came padding up the shore, taking the path that ran through the palm grove, towards the hill and the lights of the Indian town.

  As he passed within an arm’s length of their hiding place, Pepillo and Melchior both recognised Muñoz.

  ‘Let’s get after him,’ Melchior whispered after the friar had gone by, heading up the hill towards the Indian town.

  ‘Are you sure we’re the right ones to do this?’ Pepillo asked, hearing and instantly regretting the anxious, childish tone in his voice.

  ‘Course I’m sure,’ said Melchior. ‘If we don’t do him now and he kills other children, I for one will never forgive myself. We’ll not get another chance half as good.’

  In the darkness Pepillo nodded. He was afraid, but he remembered how Muñoz had beaten and tortured him, the madness in the friar’s eyes, the feeling of his teeth and his wet lips at his ear. If there was justice in the world the man had to be stopped and it seemed that Cortés, for whatever reason, was not prepared to act against him.

  Melchior was already in pursuit, hunched forward on the path through the palm grove, running uphill in the direction the friar had taken.

  With a pounding heart, tugging the little hatchet from his belt, Pepillo followed.

  Chapter Fifty

  Tenochtitlan, Saturday 27 February 1519

  Moctezuma was awaiting his dinner and taking some comfort in the prospect. Tonight the dishes would include one cooked from the thigh of a delicate young boy he had sacrificed at dawn in an attempt to coax Hummingbird to visit him again. The attempt had failed, as had every other since the holocaust on the great pyramid nine days before, but at least he could enjoy the tender flesh of the victim.

  There was little else that gave the Great Speaker pleasure. His stomach was constantly disturbed, busily moving, inclined to strange rumblings and howlings, as though it had taken on a life of its own. Only when filled to satiety did it fall quiet for a short while and give him peace.

  Another problem was also beginning to trouble Moctezuma greatly. Although he continued to have intercourse with his legitimate wives in the hope of siring an heir healthier than his weakling son Chimalpopoca, he greatly preferred the company of his many mistresses for solace in the bedroom. Since the holocaust, however, his tepulli had ceased to function as it should and neither his wives nor even the most appetising females in his harem had coaxed him to an erection. Sometimes – quite often – Moctezuma had the sinister feeling he was being watched as he attempted to perform. He’d consulted his magicians but as yet they had been unable to offer a solution.

  He was in the spacious, high-ceilinged dining chamber on the first floor of his palace, seated on a soft, richly worked stool in front of a low table covered with a white cloth of the finest cotton on which were laid a selection of long napkins of the same colour and material. To his right, at a distance of some twenty paces on the far side of the chamber, the three grey-haired dignitaries who would dine with him tonight
stood with their heads respectfully bowed.

  Moctezuma decided to keep them waiting a little longer while he gave thought to the matter of Guatemoc. He had received two irritating visits from Mecatl today, the first in the morning to announce that the troublesome prince had refused his ‘medicine’ and a second unscheduled visit in the afternoon to report continued lack of success. This non-cooperation was a setback to what had, until today, been solid progress, and if it continued there was a danger that Cuitláhuac would return and take his son from the hospital before the cotelachi had done its work. Urgent measures were called for, and Moctezuma had not hesitated to accept Mecatl’s offer to prepare a new batch of poison from a large cotelachi butterfly – large enough to kill Guatemoc with a single dose. It would be best if the dose were swallowed willingly, but if not he had authorised the physician to use force.

  Guatemoc was feeling very much better, and far stronger than he had believed would ever be possible again.

  Perhaps it was because he had successfully avoided Mecatl’s poison all day.

  But he could not get out of his mind the incredible sensations of warmth and healing that had filled his body, and the instant relief from pain he had been granted when the goddess Temaz had placed her hands upon his wounds the night before. Despite the exhausting effort of fending off Mecatl without arousing his suspicions, Guatemoc’s conviction that a miracle had put him on the path of recovery had not left him for a single moment.

  It was one of the reasons he remained certain his encounter with the goddess in the still of the night had been real and not some fever of his imagination.

  But the more powerful proof was the little bottle Temaz had given him, a physical thing quite outside the realm of imaginings. He had passed it on to his mother that morning, without explaining how it had come into his hands, telling her only that it was a medicine Mecatl kept pressing on him, that he suspected poison and that his father must be summoned back at once to Tenochtitlan to help unravel the plot. His mother had wanted to confront Mecatl herself, but Guatemoc had forbidden it. The doctor was part of a wider conspiracy. They must trap him in such a way that he could be forced, by torture if necessary, to reveal its instigator. Only Cuitláhuac had the power to see such a drastic initiative through, and until he arrived they must give no sign of their suspicions.