She turned to gaze at the crowd of men exiting the armoury. Was she looking for him? He turned his head away so that she could not see that he had spotted her. When finally he turned back, he was startled to find that she had been watching him all the while. Their eyes met. Or did they? She turned away from him so quickly that he began to think he might have dreamed it.
Bah. Let her think she was faster and cleverer than him. Let her continue to believe that she studied him from the shadows, waiting for her next opportunity to pick his pockets. He had already won. She was his—legally and contractually. She was now part of an official alliance, one that had been signed and recorded on both Spanish paper and Totonac agave-bark scrolls. To abandon him now would be akin to treason. She would not only have to answer to her people, but also to her gods, which seemed far angrier and more punishing than his.
Thus she would accompany him to Tenochtitlan, compliant and biddable. She had no choice but to do so. Whether she would support him in his mission once they arrived was another matter. He could only hope to slowly earn her trust. He would therefore not go near her, or touch her, no matter how fiercely beautiful she appeared in the sunlight, with the sea behind her and the wind tousling her long black braids.
He would become her friend and find a way to explain to her that Luisa, the love of his life, waited for him still. Then he would beg her to help him find the treasure indicated on the map, so that he might return to his lady with honour.
Surely the woman—Tula, as she called herself—would wish to aid him, for it would mean that she could eventually be free of him.
Benicio ducked his head beneath the dining canopy and smelled the rich, toasted aroma of tortillas. A Maya woman who had been gifted to the Spaniards after their first battle smiled and handed him a bowl of turkey soup. ‘Tortillas?’ Benicio asked, holding up all ten of his fingers.
Five for me, five for Tula, Benicio thought, quickly draining his bowl of soup. The woman pulled ten tortillas from the cooking stone and handed him the stack. He thanked the woman and exited the dining area, anxious to return to his hut. He found himself looking forward to seeing his little thief and presenting her with this small gift. But when he walked into the hut he found that she was already asleep. She had curled herself up in her blanket and lay down upon her mat with her back to him.
She was deceiving him, of course. She could not possibly be asleep. It was not even completely dark outside yet, and she had got more than enough sleep the night before.
He sat down on his sleeping mat and took off his boots. He noticed a flank of cooked dorado lying on the brazier near him. It was the last of her fine fish and it smelled of oil and herbs and good dreams. He lay there for many long moments, trying to resist its savoury aroma. As if to entice him further, the silver fork had been placed beside it.
What trickery was she about now? No, he would not fall for this culinary seduction. It smelled...fishy. Besides, if she did not have the courtesy to greet him, if she chose to deceive him in such a small thing as sleep, then he would certainly not deign to eat her fish, no matter how delicious it appeared. But after many long moments, thoughts of rich, buttery meat ran rampant in his brain and he could not help himself. He picked up the silver fork and ate the dorado in half-a-dozen bites.
She had bested him once again. Not only had she obtained the better meal, she had lured him to consume it, the temptress.
He stretched himself out on his sleeping mat. He knew that he should give thanks. He was a gentleman, after all, and he could tell by the cadence of her breaths that she remained awake. ‘Thank you,’ he said, hoping that she sensed his genuine gratitude. But she made no stir in response. He lay back on his mat and studied the palm leaf roof until it was too dark to see.
‘Goodnight, Tula,’ he said finally. At least that was a phrase she knew.
He waited patiently for her response, looking forward to the sweet, tentative way she said his name, breaking it into a dozen syllables as if it were some long, difficult sentence.
‘Goodnight, Benicio,’ she said at last, and he smiled to himself in the darkness.
Chapter Seventeen
She would never look at him again. She kept her eyes fixed on the ground, even as he hurried toward her in anger, commanding her to come. She would not come. She would not look at him or wait for him or do his bidding—not after what had happened that morning in Cempoala’s central plaza. What his countrymen had done had gone beyond the simple disdain with which they often treated the Totonacs. The Spanish men had shown themselves to be monsters.
That morning, Chief Cortés had marched fifty men into the central plaza of Cempoala in full armour. Their swords drawn, the men had stopped at the base of the Great Temple, awaiting Cortés’s orders.
To Tula’s eyes, the Spaniards had appeared almost farcical—fifty men holding their swords out at a structure so tall and majestic that it might have been a mountain. The Temple was not a mountain, though; it was the most sacred place in Cempoala, a place where priests laboured, praying to the gods and keeping the people of Cempoala safe and well.
‘Citizens of Cempoala,’ pronounced Cortés, ‘I have come to save you from the Devil.’ Aguilar and Malinali were there by his side and they had translated the Captain’s words so that the Totonacs would understand the reason for the destruction about to occur.
Tula had understood nothing. What was this spirit called the Devil and why did the citizens of Cempoala require salvation from him? The Cempoalans were reverent, learned people. They kept the Long Count calendar, traced the paths of the stars and stored their history in thousands of ancient codices. Yet it was as if the Spaniards looked upon the Cempoalans as ignorant, naughty children.
The Totonac Chief appeared from behind the Great Temple, stretched on his litter. ‘I cannot allow you to destroy our gods,’ he’d said as fifty Totonac archers emerged from behind him. Their bows drawn, they took their positions standing face to face with Cortés’s fifty swordsmen.
But Cortés would not be moved. ‘Honour your agreement. Renounce human sacrifice and free your people from idolatry.’
‘We have accepted your god,’ the Chief had answered. ‘Why cannot you accept ours?’
It was a fair question, but Cortés was not interested in fairness. He unsheathed his hand blade and held his sword to the Chief’s throat. ‘Honour your agreement or die.’
The terrified Chief had raised his hand and ordered his archers to lower their bows.
Cortés’s soldiers had rushed to the high platform at the top of the temple and pushed the gods over the edge one by one. The ancient stone statues had come smashing down the steps in a thousand pieces. Her gods were being destroyed. The Totonac Chief had wailed as the eye of a winged serpent rolled to his feet and stopped there, like a child’s broken toy. Tula had felt each crash like a blow to her own body. Her gods were being destroyed before her eyes.
Screams of terror had split the air. Many of the onlookers had sought shelter, as if at any moment the sky might come tumbling down beneath the wrath of their forsaken gods. Other Totonacs collapsed where they stood, howling and moaning as the bearded strangers washed their sacred temple with lime.
Tula willed herself not to weep. She had watched from amongst the Spanish company as the horror unfolded, letting the injustice strengthen her resolve. The Spaniards did not respect the Totonacs or view them as equals—it was suddenly so clear.
The Totonacs were not part of an alliance with the Spanish, Tula realised. They were their vassals.
* * *
The destruction took half the morning. Soon the sacred, blood-stained steps had been whitewashed. The ancient statues were replaced with a shrine to some benevolent virgin goddess whom Tula doubted could protect anyone from anything.
The Totonac priests wept. They tore at their own flesh, as if their self-inflicted wounds m
ight compensate for the crime that had just been committed. Cortés had not merely destroyed their stone effigies. He had destroyed a part of the Totonacs themselves.
It was the worst possible way to begin a journey between allies. But of course, that was the point. The Spanish soldiers were simply putting the Totonacs in their place. After their destruction was concluded, Cortés announced that they were now ready to begin their journey to rescue the Totonac captives. And, bound by necessity as well as the terms of the alliance, the Totonacs could do nothing but join the Spanish.
Thus they had begun their march to Tenochtitlan—already beaten. Tula had marched in the women’s entourage during the day, grateful to be as far away from the Spanish soldiers as possible. The road wound its way through the lowland jungle and into the foothills, and with each step Tula’s anger and resentment grew. When the army stopped at the small Totonac outpost of Xalapa, she tried to lose herself in the chaos of the dispersing men. But her attempt failed. Benicio had spied her amongst the women, and was now marching towards Tula with his lips pursed in anger. She had angered him by avoiding him—that much was clear. She knew she could not escape him at a run. Nor could she sneak away under cover of darkness, for she knew that she would only be returned to him. She belonged to him now, legally and contractually, and everyone knew it.
Still, she kicked and fought as he hoisted her on to his shoulder and carried her into the forest. She was glad now that she had lied to him about the location depicted on the secret map he carried. He could carry her across the land like a sack of maize, but she had already beaten him, for she had made sure that he would never find his treasure.
When he finally placed her upon the ground beside a large kapok tree, she lunged to its base, trying to hide herself in the shelter of the tree’s tall roots. She pulled up her knees and hugged them to her chest, refusing to look at him.
She did not wish to see him, for she would see a man whose Chief had desecrated everything she held true. She would not see a man; she would see a monster.
Chapter Eighteen
No wonder Tula cowered before him now. Everything she had ever been taught to believe had been destroyed today by men like him.
Benicio unbuttoned his doublet and draped it over her shoulders, but she pushed it off of her as if it might harm her. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, though he might as well have been consoling himself.
He did not agree with what Cortés had done. The practice of human sacrifice was horrific, but so was hanging, beheading and burning—things that happened regularly in Spain, though Benicio had long ago learned to keep such ideas to himself.
Still, it made no sense that Cortés would do such a thing to his only allies. Then again, many of Cortés’s actions made little sense. When Benicio had awoken that morning, for example, he had made his way down the hill to behold sinking masts amidst an empty harbour. In the night, Cortés had sunk all the Spanish ships.
Now his conscripts had no choice but to follow Cortés on his mission, for there was no longer any easy way home. What was worse, Cortés had placed a bounty on the head of any mutineer. Any man found to be leaving Cortés’s ‘holy company’, as he called it, had been ordered captured or killed, with a guaranteed reward.
Benicio unbuckled his sword belt and lay down his scabbard on the hard earth. In a sense, he was as trapped as Tula was now. Benicio pulled two rations of dried fish from his bag. He held out a piece before Tula’s folded arms, but she did not move to accept it. Instead she kept her eyes fixed upon the ground.
‘You must eat,’ he said, putting a piece into his own mouth, though in truth he had little appetite himself. Benicio saw a tear bulge, then break upon her cheek. She refused to look at him.
It occurred to Benicio that Tula probably could not stand the sight of him.
Benicio pulled his dagger from its hilt and studied it. He had an idea, and quickly jumped to his feet. In moments he was squatting by a nearby stream, dipping the well-honed blade in the water and dragging it over his chin. He was amazed at how quickly a decade’s worth of beard growth could go falling to the ground. The other men would surely chide him tomorrow when they saw his clean cheeks. They would call him pretty and muse about the effects of too many hours in the sun.
Benicio did not care. He could endure far worse chiding if it meant winning back this woman’s trust. He needed her on his side and he needed her to know that he was on hers.
He scraped the last of his long whiskers from his cheeks and splashed his face with water. When she saw him now, she would see a man very different from those who had desecrated her temple. She would see a man who was not a killer, or a warrior, or a thief. God willing, she would see a good man, a man she could trust.
He pictured her peering up at him with that shy, curious smile—the one she had flashed him that night in his hut. He hoped she would laugh at his new appearance, or even tease him about it. She seemed possessed of such a large spirit and he wished that she would share it with him again.
He touched his bare cheeks. He wondered briefly if it was really her trust that he so craved, or something else.
He marched back to the kapok tree and greeted her, but he might just as well have painted his body blue, because she kept her eyes fixed upon the ground. He sat down between the tree roots and faced her, hoping to force her gaze to meet his own. He needed her to see that he was no longer one of the men who had ruined her temple and destroyed her gods. He was Benicio, her partner.
Benicio, her friend.
He stayed facing her as the light of day waned. She was as obstinate as the roots themselves and seemed to bury herself in her own misery. Finally, Benicio stood. He needed to prepare their beds while there was still light. He hailed the nearest porter and retrieved two bed mats from the man. Then he set about creating two separate beds between the adjacent roots of the tree.
When he returned to where she sat, he saw the stains of tears upon her cheeks. She continued to stare at the ground. He placed himself before her once again, trying to think of how he might reach her.
He had another idea. He unclasped the small metal crucifix he wore around his neck and held it in his hand. He looked at it for a long while. It was a simple cross, fashioned in copper. When the authorities of the Inquisition would come to the university in search of Muslims and Jews, Benicio would always demonstrate his cross to them, careful to conceal the letters from Copernicus that he studied.
He stared hard at the tiny cross. It seemed odd that such a simple symbol could provide such magical protection, especially in light of all the killing that took place in its name.
He thrust the shiny object into her view, then crushed it in his hand. He might have been condemning himself to eternal damnation, though he doubted that his God would protest an attempt to win the trust of a brave, worthy woman.
Finally, she lifted her gaze and stared at the bent cross in his palm.
‘You lost your gods today, so I shall lose mine,’ he said, though he knew she did not understand his words. He threw the cross out into the jungle.
She shook her head in protest and stood to retrieve the object, but he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back down. Look at me, he thought. See me.
Finally, her eyes met his and Benicio froze. It was the first time she had looked at him directly in many days and he found himself fighting to slow his breaths. Her fierce loveliness seemed to bubble up from some deep well within her, inviting him to drink. And drink, he did, for he had never beheld a woman so magnificently beautiful.
Finally, she released him, peering uncertainly at the small patch of sky above them, as if any moment it might come crashing down.
‘No,’ he said, recovering his wits. He took her face in his hands. ‘Do not rely on the gods.’ He stared into her eyes. ‘Rely on me.’
And in that moment he realised that it was not her trust
he sought, but her affection. He wanted her to want him, to need him, even. It was entirely improper, but he wanted to wrap his large body around hers and protect her from everything that could do her harm.
He released her face. ‘It is all right,’ he whispered lamely. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’
To his surprise, she did not turn away. Instead, she blinked at him and offered him a half-smile.
He smiled back at her, hearing a nearby woodpecker beat a trunk like a lonely drum.
Benicio watched her place her hands atop the wide fig leaf that stretched across the roots in the adjacent root well. She traced her fingers across the leaf’s deep veins, then nodded in approval. Whatever crime Captain Cortés had committed against the Totonacs on this terrible day, it appeared she would not hold it against Benicio.
On impulse, Benicio picked a purple flower he had spied growing on the ground. He stood and held it out to her and she accepted it graciously, taking a lusty whiff into her nose. She peered at him with those bottomless eyes, then let her gaze slide down to his chin.
‘No more beard,’ Benicio said. ‘Do you like it?’
She reached out her hand and swept it across his cheek.
It seemed that she did.
A chill shivered down his neck and travelled to his limbs. He wished to catch her hand and keep it there where it rested upon his cheek, but he knew that her touch did dangerous things to his gentlemanly restraint. She brushed her fingers across his other cheek, this time a little slower, and Benicio felt his desire rising quickly. What in Hell was she doing to him now?
He closed his eyes. Think, Benicio. Use your wits.
He needed a distraction—something that would divert her from her dangerous path. A puzzle! He unwrapped his cotton armour and pulled his book from beneath his chemise. He unfolded the map before them, pointing to its middle. Tula sighed, then nodded. ‘Tenochtitlan,’ she intoned.
She had taken her hand off his cheek, thank God.
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