The man lit a stick and held it over the top of a small, round pillar. Tula watched in amazement as a small thread at the top of the pillar ignited and, amazingly, stayed ignited, even as the fire in the brazier floundered.
Tula walked towards the small flame and the man backed away, as if she were some dangerous spirit. She paused, watching him retreat to his bed mat. But he gestured to the candle and nodded, urging her to continue her investigation.
She touched the pillar, which was made of a smooth but slightly sticky substance she could not identify. She passed her finger over the flame at the top of the object, marvelling at it.
‘Candle,’ he said from the shadows.
‘Candle,’ she repeated. She had never seen such a thing.
‘Bees,’ he said. He made a buzzing noise, then pointed to his arm and pinched it. ‘Ow!’ he said.
She smiled, having no idea what he was trying to tell her. He continued to make the buzzing sound, coupled with a twisting of his finger in the air. ‘Bees.’
Ah! He was talking about the pipiyolin—the insects that made honey. She touched the candle and realised that it was composed of the substance they used to make their homes.
‘Pipiyolin,’ she said in Nahuatl. She made the buzzing sound again and soon they were buzzing together until they both broke into laughter.
Their merriment quickly faded as they heard the tortured cry of a woman in a nearby hut. The woman was enduring pain and there was nothing Tula could do to help her. Slowly, the cry diminished and Tula found that her own eyes had filled with tears.
There were other noises, too. Grunts and moans and sighs—the sounds of carnal love. Already it had begun. Tula had never known the pleasures of the flesh, though Pulhko had described the act of love to her long ago. Surely the man—her new master—was expecting to enjoy Tula in that way tonight. That was what all the bearded men were doing with their new concubines, all around them.
Whatever he planned for her, Tula would have no choice but to endure it. Like the other seven women, there would be no wedding night kisses, no husband’s tender embrace. Instead of greeting their life mates atop their wedding mats, Tula and the other women were greeting strangers and doing their duty for their people. Tula found a seat on the far side of the hut. She scowled at him, then pulled her knees to her chest and put her head down.
She had always hated doing her duty.
When finally she looked up, he had removed his leather wrap and the candlelight was dancing upon his large, bare chest. But he was not looking at Tula. He appeared to be staring at a picture. She could not see it from where she sat and wondered if it was an image of a special god or goddess whom he revered.
‘Stars?’ she ventured, for that was his word for gods.
He gave a confused laugh. ‘No, no, no,’ he said, holding up the image. ‘Luisa.’
The name was familiar somehow, and Tula craned to study the image in the candlelight. It was a female face, turned to the side, but it did not appear to be that of a goddess. On the contrary, the face was soft and fine, like the face of a woman.
Then Tula realised that it was a woman. His woman—the same woman whose name he had uttered when he was inside his dream. Her hair was a cascade of curls that tumbled down her long neck and grazed her fine rounded jaw. Even at such an angle, she appeared ethereally beautiful. In that way she was like a goddess, thought Tula.
Tula felt oddly wounded, but flashed the tall man a tight smile. ‘Luisa?’ she asked, pointing from the picture back to the man.
The man nodded. He took the picture and placed it against his heart. ‘Luisa.’
Suddenly it was all so clear. The man was in love with the woman in the picture. She was probably his betrothed. That was why he had said her name when they had kissed the first time. He had been dreaming that Tula was Luisa. That was why he had been so reluctant to return the second kiss they shared. That was why he had helped her escape the cenote, despite the way he had looked at her, despite that strange, magical pull of her body towards his. He did not wish to betray Luisa.
Tula knew she should be relieved. She would not have to lie with this stranger or bear his child. He was a good man, an honourable man, a man who stayed true to the woman he loved. For a fleeting moment, Tula imagined that woman was herself.
‘Benicio,’ he said, pointing to himself.
‘Tula,’ she said, pointing to herself. She bowed her head. ‘I am humble,’ she said in her language, though she knew he could not understand.
He retrieved a cloth from his tall leather shoe. It took her a moment to realise that he was holding the same cloth map he had shown her in the cenote—the tilted square with the four circled corners. ‘Tenoch-it-lan,’ he said with enthusiasm. He pointed to the map, then to Tula, then to the map.
It was as she suspected, then. He had purchased her for the promise of the riches she could show him, nothing more. He would not touch her—thank the gods—only expect her to show him where the gold was hidden, once they reached Tenochtitlan. She was his means to an end. That was all. She meant nothing to him.
He crossed to his blanket and curled himself up in it, then quickly blew out the candle.
‘Goodnight, Tula,’ he whispered in the dark.
‘Goodnight, Benicio,’ she whispered back, mimicking his speech. She heard him laugh lightly. Soon, there was a regular rhythm to his breaths. He had gone to sleep.
And there was her friend the darkness again.
Chapter Sixteen
Benicio had never been much of a gambling man, yet he had just staked his future on a woman he trusted less than a hungry cat. He had given up a very real, very valuable gem under the outrageous supposition that a woman who had robbed him twice would lead him to a cache of a hundred such gems. It was a tremendous risk, not to mention the height of avarice, but he knew that if he succeeded he might return to Seville with both dignity and wealth. He could march into the Plaza del Triunfo and sweep Luisa right off her feet.
It was a chance he’d had to take.
Benicio groped inside his basket of belongings until he found the silver fork. He gave the object a quick shine and placed it beside the woman’s bed mat. It was the perfect opportunity to return it to her, for when she woke, she would be reminded of his goodwill towards her. She would also see that he was a man who kept his promises.
He kept his footfalls light as he exited the hut. It was after dawn, but the woman still slumbered. It occurred to Benicio that she was probably only feigning sleep. It seemed she had a rare talent for deception, this beautiful young woman who now, by some bizarre twist of fate, belonged to him.
He smiled to himself. As if she could ever belong to anyone, the little thief. But if she was waiting for him to leave so that she could plunder his belongings, she would be sorely disappointed. Now, thanks to her, he had nothing left to steal.
Securing the reed door behind him, he looked down at the burgeoning settlement of Vera Cruz. It now had as many buildings in its central plaza as ships in its harbour and already a team of Spaniards was at work on the small church, joining its stone blocks together with the concrete paste that a group of Totonac masons mixed nearby.
There were other stone structures, as well, each at a different stage of completion, including a small Casa de Contratación and a thatch-roofed dining tent, whose large stone chimney gave the flimsy structure a hint of the permanence to come.
Radiating outward was the blue halo of the settlement’s splendid harbour, crowded with the Spanish galleons and brigantines that Benicio and the other men had sailed across the Yucatan Channel from Cuba so many months ago.
Lately, some of the men, including a few captains, had begun to express their desire to return to Cuba. They argued that the Mexica ruler Montezuma had supplied Cortés with enough treasure to pay for their expedition many times
over. Why not return to Cuba and divide the spoils? they wondered aloud, arguing that there would be plenty of time and resources to mount a new expedition when the season of heat and hurricanes had passed.
Cortés did not respond to their petitions, however. He had given no specific response to the dissenters, but Benicio knew what was in the Capitan’s heart: There would be no going back. They were readying themselves to depart for Tenochtitlan, not Cuba, and this was not an expedition, it was an invasion.
Now Benicio scanned the harbour and sensed something had changed. There were thirteen ships floating there now, not twelve. He looked closer and beheld an unfamiliar white galleon. Its energetic crew was loading its wares on to a dozen shore boats.
Benicio quickened his pace down the hill. A large crowd had gathered on the beach to receive the galleon’s captain, who leaped over the crashing waves and crossed to the cheering crowd of men. He might have believed they were heralding his fine disembarkation, but Benicio knew that they were really cheering for the crates of Spanish wine that were being unloaded upon the shore.
Captain Francisco de Saucedo, the lost thirteenth member of Cortés’s ‘holy company’ was soon standing before Cortés, embracing him like a brother. They spoke at length, then Saucedo produced a small leather pouch, which he untied to reveal a stack of envelopes.
Letters. Saucedo had brought letters—news and missives from Cuba and Jamaica and Hispañola and perhaps even from Spain. The men gathered closer, jostling for position as Cortés began to prattle off the names of the lucky recipients.
‘Pablo Federico Olas y Brisas,’ he began, and a man lurched forward, plucking the letter from Cortés’s hands and cradling as if it were the finest plate of porcelain.
Benicio broke into a trot.
‘Ramón Lucero de las Casas,’ Cortés called, and several of the men sighed as the fortunate recipient revealed himself.
‘Benicio Bartolomé Villafuerte,’ Cortés said. Benicio was running now, as fast as his legs could take him.
‘Benicio Bartolomé Villafuerte,’ Cortés pronounced again, searching the crowd.
‘Here!’ Benicio cried, charging on to the beach. In seconds he had plucked the letter from the Captain’s hand and was walking—or perhaps floating—towards a palm tree’s patch of shade.
Benicio stared at the letter for a long time before opening it. He studied the unmistakable looping script—the large o’s and long, luxuriant f that plunged below the line in a violation of all the rules of orthography. Benicio’s heart hummed. Island of Hispañola, said the address, Spanish Empire, Governor Diego Velázquez de Cuéllar, mariner/conscript Benicio Bartolomé Villafuerte.
The letter had probably languished inside the Hispañola Casa de Contratación for many months. Still, the Spaniards in the West Indies were a lonely lot and someone had surely recognised the nature of the letter and ferried it along.
Still, Benicio could not believe it had found him. In an act of absurdity, he lifted the envelope to his nose, as if he might smell her lingering perfume. For a moment, he thought he did smell it, right there at the place where the flap met the trifold, like the scent of an angel. He was not sure how long he sat there marvelling at the textured paper, imagining her hands upon it.
My Dearest Benicio,
It is with a heavy heart that I place my quill upon this page, for I write to inform you of my engagement. I have waited, as I said I would, for your return. For a year I have pined, holding myself aloof at balls, declining invitations, searching the faces of the seafarers in the Plaza del Triunfo. Alas, God has not seen fit to bear you home.
Meanwhile, your brother Armando has returned from the conquered territory of Navarre, triumphant. He was granted lordship of several pear orchards there and ranch lands that foster cattle and sheep. He travels much between his newly won lands and your father’s estate, for as the firstborn he is now charged with its administration.
I tell you this, Benicio, because it is Armando to whom I am engaged. He has already won enough treasure to keep me in the life to which I am accustomed and he says that he will not stop fighting until he has made me a marquesa.
Armando has re-enlisted in the Tercios and might not be back for a year or more. Then we must plan the wedding. I do not know if you will receive this letter. If you do, you will surely wish to move on with your life.
But, may God forgive me, I wait for you still. I love you still.
Luisa
Seville, Spain
March 3rd, 1518
Benicio read the letter several times in disbelief. She was engaged...to Armando? She had written the letter just over a year ago, which meant that she had only recently begun to plan the wedding. That meant that there was still time to stop it. He reread the last line until he could close his eyes and see it before him: I wait for you still.
She waited for him still. She loved him still, even as she planned to wed his own brother. How could she do such a thing?
The shade of the palm had shifted and the heat of the day was beginning to squeeze him. Benicio carefully folded the letter and placed it inside the book he kept against his heart. He needed to think and decided to go for a walk. He absently made his way to the porters’ camp, where hundreds of Taino men from Cuba were busy packing their sacks with blankets, bed mats and other supplies.
A short man who called himself Big Tree waved at Benicio. He had come over on the same ship as Benicio and the two had learned to communicate in gestures. There was no mistaking the soldierly steps he performed for Benicio now. They would begin their march to the Mexica capital—to Tenochtitlan—at daybreak.
Benicio flipped Big Tree his last ducado and thanked him, though he could not remember what he said, for a haze of confusion had settled like a fog over his mind. Armando? But Luisa did not love Armando. Even as children, Luisa had always favoured Benicio. The two had often made mischief together, frequently at Armando’s expense. Indeed, Armando had always found Luisa annoying—like a bothersome pet he was none the less charged with keeping safe.
Armando?
Benicio loved his older brother with all his heart, though ever since he had joined the Spanish army, he had held himself above Benicio and Carlos. His self-importance had seemed to grow in tandem with his waistline and Benicio and Luisa had often made sport of teasing him. What on Earth did Luisa see in Armando?
But Benicio already knew the answer to that question and it maddened him. Armando was a wealthy man.
* * *
The sun was low in the sky when Benicio arrived at the armoury tent. Inside, the Quartermaster was explaining the benefits of native cotton armour over heavy Spanish steel to a crowd. Benicio listened as the grizzled old man described the conditions they were likely to face on their journey to Tenochtitlan.
Even with the aid of hundreds of Totonac and Taino porters, the Quartermaster explained, theirs would be a gruelling month-long march into the heart of the Mexican Empire, a road that rose slowly out of the sweltering jungle into vast forests, dry, empty plateaus and towering mountains that played host to unpredictable storms.
The crowd groused as the Quartermaster described the enemies they were likely to face, not only an endless stream of Mexica vassal city-states, but also the Mexica’s most formidable enemy, the fearsome Tlaxcalans, whose co-operation was anything but guaranteed.
And when the Quartermaster announced that Cortés intended to send all of the gold they had obtained so far back to Spain, an eruption of dissent ensued.
‘It is not just!’ someone shouted. ‘We are owed our fair share!’
‘Cause for mutiny!’ another barked.
‘Hold your tongues, wretched hounds,’ interrupted the Quartermaster, ‘and dare to dream bigger. Would you rather rob the banker or the bank itself?’
The crowd burst into a spate of discussion, but the Quartermast
er’s voice rose above it. ‘There will be no mercy for mutineers,’ he clarified. ‘Cortés has ordered it.’ The crowd hushed. ‘Deserters will be found and slain. No exceptions.’
Benicio touched his heart and the ragged book that protected it. He had no choice, it seemed, but to continue. And continue he would. He would not give up now, so close to his goal. Besides, he loved her, and he would win her hand in marriage. Curse Armando and his inherited lands and battle-born wealth. All that was nothing in the face of true love.
‘Ready your weapons and fill your bellies,’ pronounced the Quartermaster. ‘It is a long journey to Tenochtitlan.’
Benicio realized suddenly that for him, the journey to Tenochtitlan had begun two years ago, when he had promised himself he would return to Luisa with a fortune. And although Luisa’s news had changed everything, it had also changed nothing. The gold remained somewhere in Tenochtitlan and Luisa still waited for him to find it. I wait for you still, she had said. I love you still.
Lost in thoughts of Luisa, Benicio was surprised to catch sight of Tula as he exited the armoury. She walked with several of the other Totonac maidens down the beach, a spear in her hand and her basket brimming with fish. She had changed out of her white skirt and shawl and wore a simple dark blue undershirt and matching skirt, which lay heavy and damp upon her shapely legs. She had obviously been fishing.
She walked with confidence, almost arrogance, and he could not help but smile seeing her swish her round hips across the beach. Though she clearly had fallen victim to the sin of pride, her diminutive size made her swagger seem quite charming. And he had to admit that she had caught herself quite a haul. A delicious flat-nosed dorado poked its green head out of her basket. He was almost jealous. His stomach already churned at the thought of drinking down yet another bowlful of Totonac turkey soup.
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