The two rolled over and under one another, fighting for supremacy. The red god punched the tall god in the face, then groped at the tall god’s mouth. But the tall god, whose muscular arms Tula could see even at this distance, thrust a punch upwards into the red god’s stomach.
The red god tumbled on to the sand, coughing. The tall god placed his fingers upon his nose and bent over in agony. It was enough time for the red god to take hold of a silvery dagger and place it against the tall god’s neck.
The tall god stood still while the red god shouted menacing words in a strange, rolling tongue. He seemed to be demanding the answer to some question he had posed. The tall god did not respond. Instead, he held his mouth tightly shut.
Enraged, the red god plunged his knife into the tall god’s chest and the tall god fell backwards on to the sand.
Tula shrieked.
She slapped her hand over her own mouth, shocked by the noise that had come out of it.
Meanwhile, the red god had jumped to his feet and was peering into the jungle. Tula cowered behind a rubber tree. Why had she made such a noise? She had revealed herself for certain. She could not see him, but she began to hear his footfalls. He was coming towards her.
Shaking in fear, Tula pulled her atlatl and a single arrow from her basket, though she knew that it was useless to try to kill a god. If he was a god, then her only chance against him was the aid of another god. She braved a quick glance at the tall god, who remained motionless on the beach. She would receive no heavenly help from him, it seemed.
The red god’s footfalls grew louder. Closer. If she could create an illusion, perhaps she might confuse the red god enough for him to cease his approach. She gave a high-pitched battle cry, then a low-pitched one, then sent her first arrow flying. The red god swerved behind a tree, but he was not quick enough. The arrow’s jagged point grazed past his leg, ripping the tight cloth he wore.
Fuming, he ran towards her, his knife held high. There was nothing she could do but step out from behind her tree and launch her second arrow.
It was even better aimed than the first. It caught in the sleeve of his wrap, sending him backwards on to the ground. She had not injured him, but she had grounded him well.
Tula scanned the forest floor, finding several fine, fist-sized stones. She threw them at him, one after another, darting among the trees to make it seem as if the stones were coming from many different directions. She needed him to believe that an army lurked amongst the trees, ready to strike.
He shouted angrily, struggling to stand above the cloud of dirt and debris that she was kicking up all around. Just as he was finding his balance, Tula fixed the peg of the atlatl into the notch of an arrow and launched it. It stuck him directly in the thigh.
He howled in agony and his blazing eyes found hers. His blade in hand, he staggered to his feet. She loosed her final stone.
It hit him in the head and sent him to the ground where he remained motionless.
Tula stood in stunned silence. Had she just defeated a god? Impossible. Gods could not be defeated by humans.
At least, that was what her father had taught her. When she had asked him how he knew that Grijalva and his men were gods, he had told her that the bearded ones did not abide by the sacred law.
‘Which law?’ Tula had asked.
‘The law between gods and humans.’
‘They do not make sacrifices to the gods and for that reason you believe them to be gods?’ Tula frowned.
‘Either that, my dear Tula, or they are most certainly doomed.’
Tula wondered which was true. Were these bearded ones verily gods? Or were they merely strange, warlike men doomed to die?
The other god was still lying on the beach. If he was truly a god, then he was not dead and it was possible that he could help protect her against the red god, who would be returning to his senses soon.
She rushed from the jungle and on to the beach, trying to think of a way to rouse the tall god. When the god Grijalva had visited, he and his crew had remained inside their floating temples, revealing little but their love of gold and their devotion to the strange, naked spirit they called Cristo.
‘Cristo,’ Tula said tentatively, hoping the word held some kind of magic. But the tall god did not respond. She stared down at his face. It was so very pale, like the inside of a chayohtli fruit. He was like a beast, in truth, his wiry brown hairs growing all around his large face and down past his chin. Crude, thick bushes of it grew over his eyes and tangled around his ears.
Tula took a deep breath. Within each thing exists its opposite, she told herself.
She looked closer. Beneath his moustache, his lips were red and plump, and appeared almost soft. The skin of his high cheekbones was clean and smooth, as if it might be pleasurable to touch. She wondered about his eyes. Were they blue like the sea? She hoped not. Many of the god Grijalva’s men had such eyes and it meant that their souls had deserted them.
‘Cristo,’ she said again, but the god did not stir. Perhaps he was dead.
But gods did not die.
Tula bent to her knees and studied his face more closely. His nose was like a coati’s—long and strong and prominent. It was bent to the side slightly, and a small trickle of blood flowed out of it.
But gods did not bleed.
She wondered if his mouth held teeth or fangs. She let her finger graze across his lips. They were soft and slightly moist. She gently traced their contours, feeling an unusual thrill.
Man or god, he was fascinating.
She tilted his lower jaw downwards and peered into his mouth. Not fangs—he had teeth. They were the imperfect, slightly yellowed teeth of one who had seen much of life and the set was not even complete. Tula suppressed a smile. If a god, he was quite a besieged one.
The Sun God was nearing his defeat. His last rays shot across the sky, illuminating the man’s large pink tongue. She peered deeper into his mouth. For the second time that day, she noticed the glint of metal. It was O-shaped, like a ring. A gold ring. The god’s tongue squeezed through it like a finger.
Tula knew that the bearded gods hungered for gold, but she had no idea that they actually consumed the yellow metal.
Tula looked closer and saw that the ring was the perch for a large gemstone of some kind. Its wide circular base extended across the roof of the god’s mouth, stirring her imagination. Maybe it was a moonstone, or even a precious jade. Tula reached for the gem, but his mouth closed suddenly.
Tula jumped backwards. The man’s eyes remained shut, but Tula was unnerved. She heard a rustling sound at the edge of the jungle. As she squinted for a better view, she saw that it was just a monkey swinging between tree branches. Still, she knew the red god would be returning to his senses soon.
‘Ooa-k-k-k,’ the monkey croaked, as if in warning. But now Tula did not want to leave without the ring. To return to her family and community with such a treasure was beyond her wildest hopes. The Mexica Tribute Takers would certainly accept the heavy prize in place of much food and many cloaks’ worth of tribute. She remembered what her father had told her about the upcoming festival of the fifteenth month. Perhaps the Takers would accept this jewel in place of Tula herself.
She tried to open his mouth again, but he held it shut. His eyes remained tightly closed and they danced beneath his lids, as if he was living inside some important dream. Clearly he was not dead, just asleep. If only she could somehow enter his dream and coax him into opening his mouth. But how to enter the dream of a god?
On impulse, she placed her lips upon his.
She pressed down softly, hoping that he would imagine some beautiful goddess kissing him and open his mouth just enough for her to retrieve the gem. She moved her lips gently against his and, amazingly, he began to move his lips in response.
Her deception was working�
��it seemed that he had accepted her into his dream. Softly, she let her tongue slide into his mouth. It touched the hoop of the ring, which remained wrapped around his tongue. She tried to coax it free with her own tongue, but it was so tightly wedged against the roof of his mouth that it would not move. It was several moments before she realised that the tiny hairs upon her arms were standing on end.
She shivered, though it was not cold, and breathed in his musky scent.
This was not her first kiss—if a kiss it was. As a younger woman, she had participated in her share of maize festivals and there had always been plenty of young men eager to join lips with her among the stalks.
That was before the Mexica Tribute Takers had taken her older sister’s husband and two boys, when life was still joyous and full of possibility.
After Pulkho’s family was taken, the idea of closeness with a man had become terrifying to Tula. Why enter into the sacred union if it could so easily be destroyed? Tula had stopped going to the maize festivals, and had determined never to get close to any man. There was simply too great a danger of losing him.
This was different, of course. This kiss had nothing to do with closeness and everything to do with theft. The excitement she felt was not the excitement a woman felt for a man: It was merely the danger of the situation mixed with the possibility of success.
She lay her tongue atop his, squeezing it into the ring, such that their tongues twisted together in the small space.
Slowly, steadily, she coaxed the heavy prize into her own mouth.
She felt a rush of triumph as she hovered over him, threading her own tongue through the golden ring. She was so proud of herself that she hardly noticed when his lips reconnected with hers and his tongue began to move inside her mouth.
He was kissing her back. Tula’s heart began to pound, and a different kind of shiver ripped through her body. His lips pressed firmly against hers. She tried to pull away, but she couldn’t. He wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her against him, keeping her body pinned against his so firmly that she could scarcely breathe. His chest was hard, as if padded with some invisible armour. But his kisses were soft and tender, and his eyes remained closed.
‘Luisa,’ he whispered.
Chapter Five
Luisa, his dear Luisa. Here she was, at last in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her breath, the softness of her skin. He could even sense her desire—how she drew in the scent of him, how she thrilled and shivered at his touch. She still wanted him, even after two long years. And he wanted her—Diós, how he wanted her. She was all that mattered, all that would ever matter. She was the only good thing in his despicable life.
He pulled her against him and heard her sigh, and it was all the permission he needed to shower her with his kisses. He started with her cheeks, which tasted salty and fecund, as if she had swum all the way across the ocean to be with him. He ran his fingers through her damp hair, which she had allowed to grow long and straight. Perhaps she had ceased to cut it the day they parted, just as he had done with his beard.
Keeping his eyes closed, he kissed beneath her jaw, then down her long, elegant neck. ‘Mi amor, how I have missed you,’ he said.
Gently, he cradled her breasts, which were swaddled in some soft, vaguely damp textile. How many times had he thought of placing his palms upon the small rises, which were as tender as ripe pears? How perfectly they fitted there now.
Ay, lusty Luisa.
He let his tongue explore her neck’s soft chalice, feeling a tingling warmth rising through his body. There had been others before Luisa—silly, fatuous women who had chosen him for what he appeared to be, not who he was. Only Luisa knew who he was. She had known him since he was a boy and he felt certain she could see into his heart.
Now her chest heaved with her emotion and it was all he needed to know that she felt as he did.
‘It has been...difficult,’ he confessed, keeping his eyes closed. ‘I think of you every day.’ He kissed her shoulders, which smelled vaguely of the briny air. ‘This new world...so much...misery.’
That was all he would say. He would not tell her about the things he had seen, the things he had done. He would not sully her view of him, or shatter her illusions by admitting that there had been many times since they’d parted that he had wished himself dead.
Though perhaps he was dead now. If so, then he thanked Diós, for surely he had made it to Heaven. Here it did not matter that he would inherit nothing but his bootstraps. All that mattered was his love, which was truer than the stars, and burned more brightly than the sun.
He plunged his tongue into her mouth. But instead of soft wetness, he felt only a smooth, hard stone.
Then Luisa released a frightful yelp.
Benicio opened his eyes to behold a strange, big-eyed woman staring back at him. He might have believed her a ghost, were it not for the deep honey hue of her skin, the wind of her breath and the large jade and diamond ring resting upon her tongue.
His jade and diamond ring.
‘Bruja!’ he cried. Witch!
The woman jumped backwards in the sand.
‘Give it to me!’ he shouted. In a blur of motion, he leaned forward and cupped her jaw, forcing open her mouth. Then he plucked the large jewel right off her tongue.
He felt a sudden, piercing ache behind his ribs. He careened backwards in pain, his head swimming. In that instant, it all came back to him—the battle, the priest, the ring, the thrust of Rogelio’s blade as it plunged through his chest.
He sat up and peered down at his jerkin, half-expecting to see a spreading bloodstain. But the leather garment was spotless. The only evidence of the stabbing was a coin-sized hole in the pocket that covered his heart.
Benicio struggled to right his thoughts, wondering why he was not dead. Rogelio had chased him relentlessly into the night. By daybreak, Benicio thought he had lost the greedy villain, but Rogelio had burst from the jungle with the first rays of sun.
It was at that moment Benicio had realised the reason for Rogelio’s speed: he had abandoned his heavy armour. Wearing nothing but his woollen hose and leather boots, Rogelio had easily caught up to Benicio. When Benicio finally decided to abandon the weight of his own armour, they had already reached the coast.
‘Where is the ring?’ Rogelio had demanded, pinning Benicio upon the beach.
But Benicio had refused to open his mouth.
‘And where is the map?’ Rogelio had added, searching the pockets of Benicio’s jerkin. Benicio had only blinked mindlessly. ‘Do not play a fool,’ Rogelio had sneered. ‘Where is the map to the Maya treasure?’
And thus Rogelio had given away the secret. It was a treasure map that Benicio carried, just as he suspected.
Benicio looked around now, confused. After such a tireless chase, and after plunging his very knife into Benicio’s chest, Rogelio had all but abandoned Benicio, and without taking the ring that he had chased him all night to obtain. Something was amiss, but Benicio could not determine what.
Benicio studied his would-be bandit. Her wet black hair hung in ropes about her breasts, which were covered by a damp yellow shawl that betrayed the shadow of two small nipples.
Benicio felt his desire tighten against his will. If not a witch, then surely she was a siren of the sea, for her lips were pink like coral and her eyes were dark, watery maelstroms. When he finally wrenched his gaze from the pools of her eyes, he took in her whole face. Her cheeks were high, her nose straight and long and her steep, angled eyebrows tilted like twin arrows. She was at once lovely and fearsome, and he felt strangely helpless in the grip of her ancient beauty.
‘Leave!’ he shouted, but she only stared at him with those unfathomable eyes. Perhaps she was casting a terrible enchantress’s spell upon him—some witch’s curse that would see his golden prize back inside her mouth on
ce again. And where, oh, where had Rogelio got to? Had she cast her enchantress’s spell upon him, as well?
She squared her shoulders to Benicio and he observed that she was quite small, but with all the fascinating dips and curves of a woman. She straightened herself upon her knees, as if to make herself seem larger. But her fearsome posture only served to display her lovely long neck, reminding him that just moments ago, his lips had been upon it. His mouth grew wet with an unsavoury lust. Surely she was an enchantress, for only enchantresses were this beautiful and corrupt.
‘Leave me in peace,’ he entreated, feeling exhaustion overtake him. Even if she did not understand his language, surely she could understand his tone? ‘Now,’ he commanded weakly, but the enchantress would not move. Instead, she seemed to grow in stature as she loomed over his prone body.
He gripped the ring tightly in his fist. The sun beat down from above and a menacing chorus of cicadas rose from the jungle. Surely this was part of her enchantment—to paralyze him beneath her sorceress’s gaze until he all but begged her to take the ring. Or perhaps her beauty was just a trick of his mind—some sweet illusion to help him cope with his own slow death.
He reached beneath his jerkin, expecting to discover a bloody wound. Instead, he found a stiff, leathery object. He gasped, letting his fingers caress the brick of pages. Ah! It had not been fortune, but irony that had kept him from extinction: It was the pages of Amadís de Gaula that had protected him from Rogelio’s blow.
He gave a thunderous laugh. Since the day Luisa had given it to him, he had always kept the slim volume close to his heart. Now he saw that the cover had been completely penetrated by Rogelio’s blade, as had many of the pages. But the tales of chivalry had not been fully impaled and had literally saved his life.
The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden Page 4