War God: Nights of the Witch

by Graham Hancock

  ‘I have no claim,’ said Malinal, ‘and no interest.’

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  Malinal saw no need to tell the whole truth to this oaf. ‘I was sent from Tenochtitlan,’ she said, ‘to make contact with the strangers …’

  ‘But how could anyone in Tenochtitlan know the strangers would be here? They only returned in their boats today …’

  ‘The Great Speaker heard of their visit to Potonchan last year,’ Malinal said carefully. ‘He believes they are gods in the retinue of Quetzalcoatl and wonders if Quetzalcoatl himself is about to return. He sent me to find out more …’

  Muluc’s mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘The Great Speaker sent you?’ he laughed ‘You? A mere slave?’

  ‘I’m a slave no longer,’ Malinal bluffed. ‘I’ve been gone five years and much has changed.’ She was making up the lie as she went along. ‘I work for the Great Speaker now.’

  ‘So you’re what? His ambassador? Show me your papers and insignia then.’

  ‘I have no papers and insignia.’

  ‘Ha!’

  ‘I have no papers and insignia because I’m on a secret mission to treat with the strangers.’

  ‘I wonder why I don’t believe you?’ said Muluc. He laughed again. ‘You know, you should stop wasting my time! Just admit you came back to oust me, but you got caught and now you’re making up stories about the strangers to try to wriggle out of the trouble you’re in.’

  ‘I’ve told you already,’ Malinal protested, ‘I’m not here to oust you.’ She tried flattery. ‘I know I have no chance against a powerful man like you.’

  Muluc rolled his eyes. ‘I don’t have time for this,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a full-blown emergency on my hands.’ He gave a loud whistle and the two guards Ahmakiq and Ekahau marched into the room. ‘Put her in the palace jail tonight,’ he told them. ‘I’ll review her case tomorrow.’

  ‘Have a care before you go into battle with the strangers,’ Malinal called over her shoulder as they dragged her out.

  ‘Why?’ scoffed Muluc.

  ‘Because if they are gods they will kill you all.’

  ‘Bah!’ said Muluc. ‘I’m not afraid of them. We’ve killed them before and proved they’re just men like us. If they choose to fight, they’re the ones who will die.’

  The Spaniards rowed upstream against the swift current of the Tabasco river, sweating in the close morning heat and fending off clouds of tiny bloodsucking insects. The river was broad and smelled of rot, winding in serpentine fashion between banks lined with the stunted swamp trees called manglars in the native Taino language of Cuba and Hispaniola. Sprouting from multiple exposed roots, like interlinked tripods, these ugly trees were filled with gaudy, shrieking birds and grew promiscuously in thick clumps out of rich, glistening, silty mud. Amongst them, with angry glowers, uttering hostile whoops and yells, moved immense crowds of Indians.

  An arrow struck the deck of the brigantine but failed to penetrate the stout timbers. It bounced, slid and skittered to a halt at Cortés’s feet. Curious, he picked the little projectile up, studied its head of brittle obsidian – quite shattered by the impact – and threw it dismissively overboard. He considered for a moment firing a few rounds of grapeshot into the massed foe but relented. King Charles would expect more restraint from him than that and, besides, if he wished to engage the Indians, he was legally obliged to read them the Requerimiento, a tedious piece of bureaucratic nonsense that gave them the option of avoiding battle by accepting the authority of the Spanish crown.

  He was certain there was going to be a fight – in part because that was exactly what he had come here for, but in part also because these savages, in their body paint and feathers, armed only with crude weapons, seemed completely unafraid of the invaders. And little wonder! They knew the Spanish were mortal, having given Córdoba such a sound thrashing last year, and thousands of them had mustered here on this morning of 22 March to repeat their victory – ten thousand, at least, visible on the river banks alone, and God alone knew how many more were waiting in the hinterland.

  Córdoba had come here with a hundred and ten men and left with forty.

  Although Cortés had five hundred men, he’d only been able to bring two hundred with him this morning because the river wasn’t deep enough for navigation by the carracks and caravels which he had therefore been obliged to leave at anchor in the bay, with most of his army still on board. The two brigantines did have a sufficiently shallow draught and were, in addition, superbly manoeuvrable under oar-power, so he had crowded fifty soldiers onto each, taking temporary command of one himself and giving charge of the other to Alvarado. The rest of his flotilla consisted of five good-sized longboats, borrowed from the largest ships, each carrying twenty soldiers.

  Until a beachhead could be established and reinforced, the odds weren’t much better than Córdoba had faced, but mistakes had been made in the debacle of 1518 that wouldn’t be repeated in the event of a massed enemy attack today.

  Most notably, Córdoba had been ill equipped, being able to bring only two small, outdated cannon to bear on the foe, whereas Cortés had loaded five good falconets, and their gun carriages, on each of the brigantines, and had many more besides waiting to be ferried out from the ships in the bay. He had also brought along Vendabal with the first thirty of his armoured war dogs – Córdoba had none – and these, Sandoval assured him after the battle he had fought to rescue Aguilar, would terrify the Maya.

  Potonchan lay less than three miles upstream, where a long straight stretch of the river began; even battling against the current, the Spanish flotilla came in sight of it before noon. Alarmingly the town was large – far larger than the Córdoba veterans had remembered it, unless it had grown enormously in the past months. Sprawling for more than a mile from west to east along the bank and half a mile inland to the south, it consisted, Cortés estimated, of some twenty-five thousand houses. Although these were for the most part built of adobe thatched with straw, he spied many substantial stone structures amongst them, including a towering stepped pyramid standing at the heart of a great ceremonial plaza.

  He turned to Sandoval, Brabo and Aguilar who stood by him on deck. ‘Looks quite impressive,’ he said. ‘One might almost imagine these people possess a culture.’

  ‘Not as we know it, Don Hernán,’ Sandoval replied. ‘As I’ve come to understand the matter, their ancestors were indeed civilised, with many great achievements of architecture and engineering, but the Maya of today have fallen far from that high estate …’

  ‘They are brave enough warriors though,’ added Aguilar, pointing to a fleet of thirty large canoes, each with ten armed men on board, paddling down towards them. ‘I don’t suggest you underestimate them.’

  The Indians surrounded the Spanish boats while they were still almost a mile west of Potonchan. Again Cortés was tempted to disperse them with grapeshot and again he decided to wait. Let them make the first move.

  Amidships the largest canoe, a tall painted warrior now got to his feet. Aged about forty, he had an air of authority. He was dark and muscular, with many scars on his body, straight hair falling in braids over his prominent brows and fierce, rather bulging eyes. He leaned on a long spear and shouted a harsh challenge up to the brigantine where all the conquistadors were at action stations, lining the rail, swords drawn, muskets and crossbows levelled.

  ‘What does he say?’ Cortés asked Aguilar.

  ‘He wants to know our business here,’ the castaway replied. ‘He says we look like the men who tried to force the Chontal Maya to worship their god last year. He says the Chontal Maya don’t want any gods except their own, so they put those men to flight. He asks if we would like them to teach us the same lesson.’

  ‘Cheeky bugger,’ said Brabo.

  ‘Tell him I heard a different story,’ said Cortés. ‘Tell him we know the Spanish were few yet it was they who put his people to flight.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s wise, Don Hernán,
’ said the interpreter.

  ‘Tell him.’

  ‘He says let’s not waste time talking about past events,’ Aguilar translated when he’d received the warrior’s reply. ‘If we wish to force our god on them again, and test their mettle, then they’re ready to fight us now and we will see who flees and who stands at the end of the day.’

  Cortés frowned. ‘When this is over he will accept our God! But don’t tell him that yet! Tell him instead we are only an advance party and that we have many more men and much larger ships out in the bay. He knows this already but I want you to tell him anyway, and tell him if we’re attacked that the rest of our force will fly to our aid. Tell him not to start a war or he’ll be sorry, but also tell him – and convince him of this, Aguilar! – that we don’t seek battle. You’re to say we’ve been long at sea and we require only provisions – fresh water, for the river here is salt, and meat for our men. Tell him we’ll gladly pay for these things.’

  A long exchange followed and at the end of it the Indians applied themselves to their paddles and the canoes shot back towards the town.

  ‘Well …?’ said Cortés.

  ‘I’ve persuaded Muluc – that’s the spokesman’s name – that they’ll have more to lose than gain by fighting us,’ Aguilar replied. ‘He’s gone to put the matter to their chief. He says we’re to anchor midstream and wait for their return.’

  ‘Right!’ said Cortés, rubbing his hands. The riverbank here, so close to the town, had been cleared of manglars and was more sandy than muddy, with flat fields of young maize growing beyond. There were crowds of Indians about but it looked a good place to set up and fortify a camp. He ordered the brigantines and longboats into shore and the cannon unloaded.

  ‘They’ll attack us,’ Aguilar advised. ‘They don’t want us to land.’

  ‘I’m betting they won’t attack,’ said Cortés. ‘I think Córdoba hurt them last year more than they want us to believe, but if I’m wrong,’ he raised his voice so it carried to the soldiers on deck, ‘we’re ready for a scrap, aren’t we, men?’

  A ragged cheer went up.

  The Indians did not attack but drew back a few hundred paces from the bank as the Spanish made their camp. Two hours later a small fleet of canoes put out from the town and paddled down to them. The fierce-eyed warrior Muluc exchanged angry words with Aguilar but the upshot was that small quantities of food were delivered – some of the delicious maize flatbreads called qua, a few turkeys and some fruit – all in all, hardly enough to feed more than a dozen men. This, Muluc said, was a gift.

  Cortés gave thanks but pointed to his two hundred self-evidently rough and violent soldiers, every one of them armed to the teeth, who were now fortifying the camp. He reminded Muluc that hundreds more like them waited in the big ships out in the bay. ‘In view of their great hunger,’ he said, ‘these few fowls and fruits are not enough if my men are to go away satisfied. Some might even see such a “gift” as an insult. I prefer to think, friend, that you have simply not understood our needs but I give you fair warning – I cannot be responsible for the actions of my warriors if you do not bring us adequate provisions soon. We will do you no mischief if you simply allow us to enter Potonchan to purchase everything we need there.’

  ‘Attempt such a thing,’ Muluc replied, ‘and every one of you will die. We have fifteen thousand warriors already arrayed for battle and thousands more have been summoned from neighbouring towns. We will destroy you.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Cortés. ‘Or perhaps we will destroy you. But such threats are a waste of your breath and mine. Only bring the provisions we need and we’ll leave your town alone.’

  While this was being put into the Mayan tongue, Alvarado, who had been supervising the emplacement of cannon, strode to Cortés’s side and interrupted Aguilar. ‘Tell him our needs include jewels and gold as well as food,’ he said to the interpreter. He rested his hand menacingly on the hilt of the heavy falchion he now often wore.

  ‘Don Pedro, you go too far,’ Aguilar protested.

  ‘No,’ said Cortés. ‘Don Pedro is right. Tell Muluc that we Spaniards suffer from a disease of the heart that can only be cured by gold. When he brings us food he must also bring us gold and jewels, or we will be forced to enter Potonchan.’

  As Aguilar translated, the Mayan warrior’s face contorted with rage and he took a sudden step forward, putting both hands on his spear as though about to thrust. In the same instant Alvarado, whose left arm was still in a sling, had the falchion out of its scabbard. ‘Come on, my lovely,’ he said. ‘Just you try it.’

  Seeing the joy of battle dancing in his friend’s eyes, Cortés put a restraining hand on his shoulder. ‘Not yet, Pedro,’ he said quietly. ‘Not yet. You’ll get your chance.’

  Aguilar and Muluc spoke in raised voices for some time and then the Mayan delegation returned to their canoes and paddled furiously away.

  That night, Monday 22 March, Cortés used the cover of darkness to reinforce his beachhead, sending the longboats back in relays to ferry out more cannon, supplies and soldiers from the carracks and caravels. The new arrivals, numbering more than a hundred, included all the remaining crossbowmen and musketeers. Cortés also sent Brabo out with a small scouting party to gain a thorough sense of the lie of the land between the camp and the town, which lay about a mile to the east. In the small hours of the morning, the sergeant returned with vital intelligence. As well as the obvious approach, more or less directly due east along the bank and into the western side of Potonchan, he had found a good track that led inland through the fields, and then through dense brush, and eventually looped back into the town on its east side. When the time came, therefore, a squadron could be sent along this path to attack the town from the east while another marched straight up the bank to attack from the west. Brabo had also been able to reconnoitre the river, observing the currents, and recommended the brigantines be used to land men on the waterfront on the north side of the town. Such a three-pronged attack, if properly timed, was likely to be devastating. It would leave an escape route to the south for refugees, but this was surely better than forcing the enemy into a corner and a desperate last stand in which many Spaniards might also die.

  Cortés congratulated Brabo on a night’s work well done, but the sergeant admitted it had been easy. ‘The Indians weren’t keeping proper watch, sir. They were too busy evacuating their women and children.’

  ‘Sounds like they definitely mean to put up a fight then.’

  ‘I’d say so, sir, yes.’

  Muluc returned soon after first light on the morning of Tuesday 23 March.

  This time he brought eight plucked and dressed turkeys and some maize, but only enough to feed ten people. He also brought some carved green stones and a gold mask of good quality, thickness and weight. The mask’s features, which were finely worked, seemed to be a mixture of human and feline – perhaps some species of lion. ‘This should be worth a pretty penny melted down,’ Alvarado announced as he held the piece to his face and glared out through the eyeholes at Muluc.

  ‘How much, do you think?’ Cortés asked.

  ‘Five thousand pesos,’ said Alvarado. ‘Maybe a little more … The stones are worthless though.’ He picked up one of the carvings, shaped like a small axe head, and skimmed it out across the river, eliciting a gasp of horror from Muluc as it bounced and sank.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Alvarado challenged. ‘Filthy monkey!’

  Even though he could not understand the Spanish words, and Aguilar chose not to translate them, it was clear Muluc knew he had been insulted. Shaking with anger, he told Cortés through the interpreter that the Spanish must now leave.

  ‘Certainly not!’ Cortés replied. He cast a sour glance at the little heap of provisions. ‘You can see I have a hundred more mouths here to feed than I did last night, but instead of offering us friendship, which would be wise, you offend us with these paupers’ rations. As to the gold,’ he took the mask from Alvarado and weighed
it in his hands, ‘it’s a pretty enough piece but quite insufficient for our needs.’

  The turkeys had been carried in two large baskets, four carcasses to a basket. Cortés ordered the birds removed for cooking, picked up the empty baskets and thrust them at Muluc. ‘If you don’t want us to come into your town to trade,’ he said, ‘you must fill both of these with gold and bring us four hundred more birds, twenty deer – no, make that thirty – and sufficient maize to feed all my men, not only those you see here but those who remain on my great ships. If you refuse to offer us that hospitality, then we will enter your town in force and help ourselves.’

  When Aguilar had put all this into Muluc’s tongue, the Indian laughed. It was a harsh and bitter sound. ‘We do not wish to trade with you,’ he said, ‘and we have no more gold. I’ll see to it that you receive some more food from us tomorrow, the last we will bring you. After that you must leave our land or we will kill you all.’

  After dark, Cortés sent out three scouting parties, but all returned within the hour to report a large Indian force massing in the fields between the camp and the town. He therefore sent the longboats back to the bay to bring out further reinforcements, several more pieces of artillery and all the remaining dogs, leaving little more than a hundred of his soldiers with the fleet. Although he would have liked the option of using cavalry, Cortés judged the riverbank at the temporary encampment too steep to land the precious animals, which were stiff from the long voyage, so they, too, remained on board ship.

  Posting a strong guard, Cortés slept in his armour and ordered all the men to do the same. It meant a night of great discomfort, but the whispers of the Indians taking position in the fields were menacing enough to banish all complaints.

  For two days Malinal had heard sounds of increasingly frenetic activity from the palace, and the shouts and footfalls of huge numbers of people on the move throughout the town. Neither Raxca nor Muluc visited her, and she remained in solitary confinement in the jail, largely ignored even by her guards. When they pushed food through the bars and took out her toilet slops, they spoke only a few harsh words, refusing to tell her what was happening or give her any information on the whereabouts or activities of the strangers.