War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  ‘Is this all he has for me?’ Cortés asked, taking off the serpent mask and setting it down. ‘Is this your gift of welcome? Is this how the great Moctezuma greets his visitors?’

  Teudile gave orders to his minions and a great many more baskets of presents were laid out on the carpets under the awning. ‘Now we’re getting somewehere,’ said Alvarado excitedly as he opened the baskets one by one. ‘Gods! There’s a king’s ransom here!’ He delightedly picked up a heavy gold plate and hung a gold pectoral around his neck. Meanwhile Puertocarrero had helped himself to a pair of golden cups in the shape of eagles with outstretched wings and was studying them greedily. Cortés noticed how Juan Escudero, the most fanatical of the Velazquistas, weighed everything in his hands, no doubt calculating the value of this hoard so that he could report it to his master Diego de Velázquez as soon as he got back to Cuba. Here were gold necklaces worth thousands of pesos, gold earrings – even golden sandals. Here were heaps of precious stones. Here were beautiful figures of birds and beasts and strange mythical creatures, all fashioned in gold and silver, some with emeralds for eyes. There were also piles of woven cloth, and curious, richly coloured items of featherwork, some shaped like shields, some in the form of capes and hats. But these last were largely ignored; it was around the items of gold that the Spaniards clustered most eagerly.

  Teudile was watching, his hooded eyes glittering. ‘I see you tueles like gold very much,’ he said.

  ‘We have need of it,’ Cortés said bluntly. Remembering his conversation with the savage Mayan chief Muluc by the riverside in Potonchan, he added with a straight face, ‘Many of us suffer from a disease of the heart that can only be cured by gold … Say, how are the reserves of this metal in your country? Do you have mines? Or do you bring your gold here from faraway places to be worked?’

  ‘Our land is rich in gold,’ Teudile answered proudly. ‘We find it in our rivers. We find it beneath the ground.’

  Fool! Cortés thought. If I were in your shoes I wouldn’t have shared that information.

  But the ambassador’s attention was already elsewhere. His eyes had settled on Bernal Díaz, the leg wound he’d received at Potonchan healed now, who was wearing as he often did a battered, somewhat rusty, half-gilt morion helmet. ‘Might I see that?’ Teudile asked.

  ‘Surely yes,’ said Cortés. He waved Díaz over. ‘Mind if His Excellency here takes a look at your helmet, Bernal? It seems to have taken his fancy.’

  ‘He’s welcome to,’ said Díaz, a grin lighting up his big honest face as he passed the morion over. ‘Be happy to exchange it for some of that gold of his.’

  Teudile, Pichatzin and the other Mexica delegates examined the helmet, turned it over in their hands, held it up to the light and peered inside its peaked dome. Finally Teudile said: ‘It greatly resembles a helmet that was left to us by our ancestors; we keep it now in the temple of our war god Hummingbird. May I take this one with me when I return to Tenochtitlan? I’m sure my Lord Moctezuma will wish to see it.’

  ‘Any objection, Bernal?’ Cortés asked.

  That farmboy grin again. ‘Tell him to bring it back full of gold,’ Díaz replied.

  Good idea, thought Cortés. It can settle once and for all whether they really have mines or whether that is just a boast. ‘You know, Teudile,’ he said, ‘I’m curious whether the gold of your country is the same as the gold we find in our own rivers and mines. Like you I serve a great lord who rules many lands, so can I suggest after you have shown the helmet to your emperor that you bring it back to me filled with grains of gold as a present for my emperor?’

  ‘It will be done,’ said Teudile suspiciously. ‘But if you are a god, how is it that you serve a great lord?’

  ‘I am no god,’ Cortés answered gravely. ‘I am a man, just like you.’

  ‘My Lord Moctezuma says you are Quetzalcoatl, come to reclaim your kingdom—’

  ‘I myself claim no such thing! My name is Don Hernándo Cortés. I serve a great emperor across the seas who rules my country, which is called Spain. Both my emperor and I worship the one true God who resides in Heaven and rules over the earth, whose son is Jesus Christ, and beside whom there are no other gods.’

  Teudile was looking deeply confused. ‘Then tell me, man or god or whatever you are, why have you come here to our land? What do you want with us?’

  Cortés said that he was here because his religion, called Christianity, was the only true faith on earth, and that it was his duty as a Christian to bring news of it to other peoples around the world. In particular he was required to teach those who lived in ignorance of Christ to abandon their false gods, such as this Hummingbird whom the Mexica worshipped, who in reality was not a god but a demon, sent to mislead mankind and damn the souls of those who followed him to burn in hell for eternity.

  Teudile’s face clouded while Malinal put all this into Nahuatl for him. He then asked again why Cortés had chosen to come to the lands of the Mexica rather than to other lands. This, Cortés lied, was on account of the emperor he served, Don Carlos, the greatest lord on earth, who had many great princes as his vassals and servants. ‘Even on the other side of the ocean, rumours of your land and of your emperor have reached my lord, and because of these he sent me here to meet the great Moctezuma, and establish friendship with him, and bring the Christian faith to him, and tell him many things that will delight him when he knows and understands them.’ To this end, Cortés added, it was his intention to travel to the place where Moctezuma was and to meet with him at the earliest possible moment.

  ‘You have only just arrived,’ spluttered Teudile, looking shocked. ‘You admit to being a man and not a god, yet already you wish to speak with our emperor?’

  ‘That is my wish and my intention,’ Cortés said.

  ‘Such a meeting was not to be arranged, even if you were a god,’ Teudile countered. ‘Our Great Speaker is no less a monarch than this Don Carlos of yours, being likewise a mighty lord served by lesser lords. Nonetheless, I will go to him to discover what his pleasure may be in this matter and return to you with his answer. In the meantime,’ he indicated the gifts that the Spaniards were still eagerly examining, ‘I ask you to enjoy these presents, which have been bestowed on you in Moctezuma’s name.’

  Cortés rubbed his hands together. ‘Ambassador Teudile,’ he said, ‘I am glad we understand each other so well. And in return for the gifts you have given us, we also have gifts for you. He turned to a box that had been placed earlier at the side of his chair, pulled out some Spanish beads of coloured, twisted glass and ceremoniously handed these over. ‘Kindly send these to your towns and summon their inhabitants to trade with us, for we have many more of these beautiful beads, which we would like to exchange for gold.’ Teudile, whose expression was unreadable, gave thanks and passed the beads to a retainer.

  Cortés then signalled to two of his soldiers to bring over some more glass beads, necklaces and bracelets, some pearls, a silk coat, looking glasses, scissors, straps, sashes, shirts, handkerchiefs, an inlaid folding armchair, similar to his own, and a crimson cap, to which was attached a small gold medal stamped with a figure of Saint George on horseback killing a dragon. These, he said, were presents for the great Moctezuma himself, and he would like it if Moctezuma would sit in the armchair and wear the crimson cap when he himself came to visit him. He added: ‘In the temples where you keep the idols that you believe to be your gods, I wish you to set up the cross of Christ and an image of Our Lady with her precious son in her arms. If you do that, you will prosper.’

  Teudile appeared aghast. ‘Such a thing is impossible,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Nevertheless, kindly convey my wishes to your lord Moctezuma. I am sure he will agree, and when he does I will arrange to have these sacred objects sent to him or bring them to him myself.’ A sudden change of subject: ‘Now tell me please, Ambassador Teudile, about the great Moctezuma. What sort of man is he? Is he a young man, or mature, or in his old age? Is he an old man now, with white
hair? And if old, is he still able or is he aged and infirm? Kindly describe his appearance for me so that I already have a picture of him in my mind when I meet him face to face, which most assuredly I will.’

  As Malinal put the question into Nahuatl, Cortés noticed that all the Mexica delegates were paying close attention and that the four sorcerers made strange signs with their hands and muttered ferociously under their breath.

  ‘Our Great Speaker is a mature man in the prime of life,’ Teudile eventually replied, ‘not stout, but lean with a fine, straight figure. He is vigorous and powerful in battle and has led our forces to many victories over our enemies … ’ A pause: ‘We have heard that you tueles, or Spaniards, or whatever you call yourselves, are also powerful warriors. We are informed that you defeated a great army of the Chontal Maya at Potonchan. Is this true?’

  ‘It is true,’ Cortés allowed.

  Teudile was eyeing Bucephalus, quieter now, still tethered outside the pavilion. ‘We heard,’ he said – and Cortés did not think he had ever seen a man more obviously fishing for military intelligence – ‘that your war animals played a decisive role in your victory.’ As Malinal had predicted, the steward then requested a demonstration of the prowess of the horses and dogs.

  ‘Of course,’ Cortés said. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Allow my men a few moments to prepare.’ He turned to Puertocarrero, Ordaz, Olid, Escalante, Morla, Montejo, Davila and the others he’d selected to ride today and said quietly, ‘You know what to do.’ The horses stood tethered just out of sight at the foot of the next dune and, as the cavaliers hurried away to mount up, Cortés cast a long glance at Malinal, trying to let her know by the warmth in his eyes how grateful he was for her cleverness in second-guessing the needs and wishes of Moctezuma and formulating this plan to impress and overawe his ambassador. He had always believed that to know one’s enemy was more than half the battle of defeating him, so Malinal was rendering a service of inestimable value by showing the Spaniards how to look beneath the daunting appearance of the Mexica to see and understand the primitive fears, superstitions and ignorance that governed everything they did and thought. Yes, Cortés and his conquistadors had now entered the heartland of Moctezuma’s power; yes, this savage emperor would be able to throw overwhelming numbers against them – hundreds of thousands! – when war broke out, as it surely would; and yes, his warriors would possess huge advantages arising from their knowledge of the terrain and their access to virtually limitless supplies and reinforcements. Nonetheless, Cortés was confident that working with Malinal to undermine and demoralise Moctezuma in the arena of the mind before he ever met the emperor’s forces on the battlefield would ultimately give him victory.

  Undoubtedly this woman had charisma, and it was, he thought, something more than simply the enchantment of a great and noble beauty. There was depth to her, and a mystery, that touched his heart and put fire into his soul. As she returned his glance, and he sensed again that special private communion that had somehow grown up between them, he felt a burst of annoyance that she was still obliged to return to Puertocarrero’s bed each night after her work of interpreting was done. To be sure the man was his friend, and a useful and important ally, but what had he been thinking of when he had so carelessly handed this treasure over to him?

  Alvarado was standing by. At Cortés’s signal, he strode out from under the awning with a wide grin, untethered Bucephalus and bounded into the saddle. The massive stallion reared, gave a spirited whinny and wheeled round twice, its front hooves lashing the air again, sending up a spectacular spray of sand, before Alvarado urged it into a rushing, plunging gallop down the dunes. In his gleaming cuirass, with his blond hair flying in the wind, he did indeed have the aspect of some god, Cortés thought; as he looked at the astonished faces of the Mexica delegates, he saw a numinous fear written there as they whispered urgently to one another.

  ‘What are they saying?’ he asked Malinal through Aguilar.

  ‘They are calling him Tonatiuh,’ she explained. ‘It means the sun. They imagine he’s the sun in human form. It’s a great compliment.’

  Alvarado had disappeared from sight, but moments later he reappeared, holding a long lance. The rest of the cavalry, all similarly armed, trotted behind him. They made a splendid sight, their armour sending off dazzling reflections as they descended the soft sand of the dunes, and the hundreds of little bells that Malinal had suggested should be attached to the horses’ barding chimed and jingled melodiously as they made their way onto the wide expanse of the beach. There they arrayed themselves into a long line, spurred immediately into a gallop, and with yells of ‘Santiago and at them!’, levelled their lances and charged off at tremendous speed.

  ‘Would you like to look closer, Ambassador Teudile?’ asked Cortés. ‘Perhaps we may all walk out a little into the sun to observe the display better?’ Malinal translated the proposition and the Mexica delegates, including their wizards, priests, artists and the twenty Cuahchics, all followed Cortés to the edge of the dune, where the lombards had been set up on their carriages and aimed inland towards a copse of pines, half a mile distant, that had taken root in the sandy soil. All three of the heavy cannon were primed and ready to fire, their gun crews, under Mesa’s command, standing by with lighted tapers.

  ‘Your war animals are very fast,’ observed Teudile as he watched the receding line of horsemen.

  ‘As fast as the wind,’ said Cortés.

  Teudile’s eye was suddenly caught by the fleet of great carracks and caravels moored out in the bay; though visible from beneath the awning, it was as though the ships had only now attracted his attention. He and the other delegates stood staring at them, speaking amongst themselves in hushed tones. ‘What do they say?’ Cortés asked Malinal.

  ‘They wonder if your ships are your temples,’ she answered, and again her eyes seemed to communicate something private and personal to Cortés. ‘They are interested in the sails because Quetzalcoatl is a god of the wind.’

  A mile away on the beach, the cavalry split elegantly into two files, a standard battleground manoeuvre, curved out left and right in great semicircles, reformed into a single line and came charging back.

  Tearing their gaze away from the ships, the Mexica officials watched open mouthed as the horsemen galloped full tilt towards them, their hooves drumming on the packed, wet sand, their bells jingling, lances and armour flashing in the sun. Cortés waited until the troop had passed beneath the viewpoint and gave the signal to Mesa; at the same moment he, Malinal, Aguilar and all the other Spaniards nearby raised their hands unobtrusively and covered their ears. The Indians were so absorbed in the display of the cavalry, and the ships looming out in the bay beyond, that they noticed nothing until all three of the lombards discharged at once with a tremendous, earthshaking concussion and recoil, fire billowing from their barrels, great clouds of noxious smoke rising up and the whistle of the three seventy-pound balls flying through the air.

  Cortés found the effect on the Mexica comical, and it was only with great difficulty that he was able to stop himself laughing out loud as every one of them, even the painted Cuahchics, threw themselves down with great shrieks and howls of fear, rolling and moaning in the sand. Nor was their ordeal over. Even as Teudile tried to get to his feet and recapture some of his shattered dignity, Cortés gave another signal and his entire corps of fifty musketeers marched forward, levelled their weapons at wooden targets that had been set up thirty paces distant and fired over the heads of the Indians, provoking more groans and screams of terror. With a despairing cry, Teudile threw himself once more onto the sand.

  Again, Cortés noticed, it was only the artists who maintained any kind of self-possession, quickly returning to their paints and parchments to sketch accurate images of the cannon, the muskets and the galloping cavalry.

  * * *

  Over the next two hours, with looks of awe and sighs of wonderment, the Indians were shown the splintered and shattered targets, inspecte
d the shredded and flattened pines in the copse where the cannonballs had struck, and were allowed to see the lombards fired again and a further demonstration of sharpshooting by the musketeers. The fifty dogs that Vendabal and his assistants had armoured were then brought out in a pack and paraded before them, and half a dozen of the largest animals, fed to satiety to reduce the risk of a serious accident, were let loose amongst the delegates and bounded threateningly around them, sniffing and snarling at their feet. A mastiff knocked one of the priests to the ground, planted its forepaws on his chest and dripped gouts of saliva on his face through bared fangs before an assistant drove it away from him with a whip. A greyhound cocked its leg and urinated on the hem of the young magician’s ornate feathered cloak.

  The last marvel, to which Teudile, Pichatzin, one of the carmine-cloaked officials, two of the artists, two of the priests and all four of the magicians were treated, was a visit by longboat to the Santa Maria, bobbing at anchor in the bay. Malinal advised strongly against allowing any of the sorcerers on board, but Cortés convinced her that he, his men and his ships – and she too – were invulnerable to their spells. ‘Let them do their worst,’ he laughed. ‘It will avail them nothing.’

  The Mexica were struck dumb with amazement, their eyes wide and their jaws gaping as they were shown around the great carrack, taken above and below decks, and even into the stateroom. Then, since a good breeze was blowing, Cortés ordered the crew to put the ship under full sail, provoking gasps and exclamations of childlike amazement from the visitors who picked their way gingerly from side to side, looking down over the railings at the foaming waves as they raced around the bay. Not long afterwards, however, they all became seasick – an affliction that Malinal, who’d proved to be a good sailor, had ceased to suffer from after her first day at sea – and lay about miserably on deck, groaning and clutching their bellies until the short excursion was over and the Santa Maria was again at anchor. Cortés then brought out two large jugs of a potent red wine he kept under lock and key in his stateroom. ‘Tell them this is medicine that will help them,’ he said to Malinal with a wink. She poured cups for each of the delegates, from which they drank hesitantly at first, then enthusiastically, and were soon much restored.