‘Since we have eaten your food,’ Cortés told Teudile, ‘I desire now that you eat some of ours, even though it is very different.’ He offered them biscuits, bacon and beef jerky, washed down with so many more draughts of strong red wine that they all quickly became drunk – which rendered them merry and sentimental. Pichatzin led them in a rendition of several Mexica love songs for the benefit of the Spaniards, and the eldest sorcerer went so far as to kiss Cortés’s hands, telling him that he had never in his life enjoyed such a fine drink. Even Teudile admitted that his heart was ‘gladdened’ by the medicine.
As darkness fell, fatigue overcame the delegates, their eyelids drooping closed. Cortés offered to have them ferried back to shore but Teudile, who had stretched himself out full length on the deck, refused. ‘We will sleep here,’ he said drunkenly.
Moments later, he was snoring.
Cortés grinned at Malinal. ‘You’ve done very well today,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful to you.’
‘It was nothing,’ she replied in Castilian, understanding and answering without help from Aguilar.
‘You’ve done well too, Jerónimo,’ Cortés said, clapping Aguilar on the shoulder. ‘A good day’s work. But I believe the lady and I can manage these fellows until the morning.’ He nodded towards the sleeping Indians. ‘Take the longboat back to shore; send it out for us again at daybreak.’
‘I am not required here?’ The ugly emotion of envy was plainly written on Aguilar’s face.
‘Tonight? No.’
‘And Puertocarrero? Will he not need his woman?’
‘You trespass, Jerónimo, on matters that do not concern you. Return to shore. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Chapter Fourteen
Thursday 29 April 1519
Covered in the dust of the road, footsore and offended, Tozi reached Tenochtitlan on the afternoon of the third day after her departure from Ishtlil’s camp. She was offended – or more accurately, she thought, deeply hurt – because Huicton had not permitted her to accompany him on his journey to Tlascala for further negotiations with Shikotenka, and from there to the coast to deliver Ishtlil’s message to Quetzalcoatl. ‘This is diplomacy,’ the old man had insisted bluntly, ‘and your presence will not be helpful. Where I need you now is back in Tenochtitlan, invisible, spying on Moctezuma, keeping us up to date with his schemes and manoeuvres, not at my side in full view in the courts of powerful men.’
‘But I can help you,’ Tozi had protested. ‘I can work magic. I can make them see things our way. I made Ishtlil see things our way, didn’t I?’
‘You don’t seem to realise how close to disaster we came with Ishtlil,’ Huicton had replied gravely. ‘Your rash behaviour put us both in great danger. I’m not prepared to take the same risk with Shikotenka, much less with this foreigner camped at Cuetlaxtlan who you continue to insist must be Quetzalcoatl.’
Tozi stamped her foot. ‘He is Quetzalcoatl! I am called to his service.’
‘Perhaps he is,’ Huicton reflected, ‘and perhaps you are. But perhaps not. Either way, I won’t have you there.’
‘You can’t stop me,’ Tozi sulked. ‘I’ll make myself invisible. You won’t see me until I choose to show myself.’ Even as she uttered the words she realised how childish she suddenly felt and sounded.
Huicton sighed. It was the weary sigh of an old, old man. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘I trust you to do what you are good at – and you are a very good spy – but you must also trust me to do what I am good at. I’ve been a diplomat and a negotiator for half my long life. This next meeting with Shikotenka is one I must hold alone, and our first encounter with Quetzalcoatl, if that is who he really is … well, I must hold that alone also. I will not keep you apart from him for long, I promise, but now is not the time for you to meet him. Besides, I mean what I say, Tozi, your place is in Tenochtitlan. Observe Moctezuma. Continue to undermine his confidence and his judgement, work on the destruction of his mind. This is where your skills are needed.’
But now, as she entered the Mexica capital from the north along the Azcapotzalco causeway, now as she made her way through the bustling market square of Tlatelolco in the late-afternoon sunlight, now as she approached the sacred precinct overshadowed by the great pyramid, now as the gates of the royal palace itself lay before her, Tozi found that Moctezuma was not the first focus of her thoughts.
* * *
A woman! What was this? How dare he?
To Tozi’s horror, when she stole invisibly into Guatemoc’s bedchamber later that night he was not alone.
Instead, in that room lit by flickering torches, she found him naked with a girl named Icnoy, a girl with a slim waist and big breasts and round buttocks, who she recognised as a member of Moctezuma’s own harem. But in the Great Speaker’s lavish bed, thanks in large part to her own efforts, Tozi had never once seen the effect that a ripe and willing female body could have upon a man; Moctezuma’s little tepulli was always limp and thin, like some foul worm, no matter how Icnoy or the other women of the harem sought to persuade it.
Not so with Guatemoc. His tepulli was long and thick and wrapped around with pulsing veins, and at this very moment he was thrusting it vigorously in and out of Icnoy, who was on all fours in front of him like some animal, the lips of her tepilli swollen and glistening as he entered her deeply, withdrew until almost his whole tepulli became visible, then plunged in again whilst she wiggled and circled her bottom, all the while uttering little grunts, gasps and yips of pleasure. Now his hands moved forward to fondle and squeeze her breasts, now he gripped and spread her plump cheeks, now he reached back to squeeze her feet, now he caressed her sleek black hair which hung down damp with sweat around her face.
Altogether it was a disgusting, intimate, unsettling scene, and yet … and yet … Tozi could not tear herself away, and felt her own tepilli parts grow hot and moist between her legs as she watched, spellbound, for what seemed like hours. Finally, when the two of them were done, they lay exhausted, legs and arms intertwined, sighing and stroking one another, and then – worse in a way than all the rest of it – Guatemoc rolled on top of Icnoy and pressed his open mouth against hers, and they kissed, and kissed, and kissed, their tongues working, slurping and sucking at each other, saliva dripping.
Horrible! Tozi thought. Truly horrible! She couldn’t believe it. Guatemoc was hers! In her own mind she had already sworn herself to him, and yet here he was, surrendering himself so completely to another.
At last the kiss stopped and the pair, still entangled, seemed to fall asleep. Icnoy snored gently. Guatemoc rolled onto his back, his breathing heavy and regular. Silent, invisible, insubstantial as air, Tozi watched. She had intended to show herself to the prince tonight, reveal herself, and there had been so much she had wanted to say. Instead she had witnessed this shocking, deeply disturbing scene.
Nor was it over! Soon enough, the couple stirred again, Guatemoc’s hand slipped between Icnoy’s thighs, and she moaned and writhed and coiled herself around him.
Unable to bear it a moment longer, Tozi fled from the room and out into the night.
Chapter Fifteen
Friday 30 April 1519
Before dawn, Icnoy arose and dressed, fretting she would be caught.
‘Don’t worry,’ Guatemoc reassured her as he stretched and yawned on the bed. ‘Moctezuma’s got … what? Fifty concubines? A hundred?’
‘He has more, great lord,’ the girl replied. ‘Close to two hundred.’
‘Well, there you go then! Out of two hundred girls, you don’t think he’s going to miss one, do you?’ He slipped his hand under the hem of her tunic and caressed her smooth inner thigh. ‘Although mind you,’ he added, ‘you are a little bit special, I have to admit.’
Icnoy giggled shyly. ‘The great lord flatters me.’
‘It’s no more than you deserve,’ said Guatemoc. He’d passed her in a corridor of the royal palace yesterday. She’d caught his eye, so he’d followed her into one of the secluded gardens wher
e they were hidden from view amongst the fruit trees, propositioned her – if you don’t try your luck in this world you never win anything – and, to his amazement, she’d agreed to slip out that night and visit him in his town house.
And what a night it had been! She’d told him Moctezuma, never a sexual adept, had been entirely impotent for several months – which perhaps explained her willingness to take the incredible risk of cuckolding the monarch; she had fallen into Guatemoc’s bed with truly delightful enthusiasm and excitement. What they’d done was dangerous for both of them, but Guatemoc wasn’t worried. On the contrary, he rather thought he’d try his hand with a few more of the Great Speaker’s women; poor, needy creatures such as he now knew them to be, it would be uncharitable not to offer them the same consolation he’d given to Icnoy.
Not bothering to dress, he escorted her to the servants’ entrance, which opened discreetly onto an unfrequented alley, gave her a passionate kiss and a playful slap on the bottom, and watched her as she slipped away into the darkness pulling a shawl over her head. In the east, where the sun would soon rise, a blush of the softest pink touched the sky. The morning air was cool and fresh. Guatemoc took a deep breath, then another. By all the gods of the thirteenth heaven, he was glad to be alive!
Too energised to return to bed, he performed his ablutions, called on his butler for breakfast, and strolled out into the courtyard to work up an appetite with an hour of vigorous exercise.
* * *
Around mid-morning, Guatemoc’s closest friends Man-Eater, Starving Coyote, Fuzzy Face, Big Dart and Mud Head paid him a call. High-born scions of five of the noblest, wealthiest, and most powerful families of Tenochtitlan, Eagle and Jaguar warriors every one, they were the captains of his own elite fighting squad. It was they who had carried Guatemoc off to safety after Shikotenka had left him for dead on the night of the great battle with the Tlascalans. But for these five and their decisive action, Guatemoc, helpless at death’s door, would certainly have perished when the Mexica field army, more than thirty thousand strong and under the direct command of general Coaxoch, had first been divided into two parts by a clever ruse of Shikotenka’s, and then slaughtered so efficiently that hardly three thousand shattered and demoralised men had made it back to Tenochtitlan alive.
But it was a reverse, not a disaster. The Mexica nation was populous, its resources immense, and though one army had been destroyed, five more of equal size were still intact, ready to mete out revenge and gather victims for sacrifice. With four regiments per army, and eight thousand men per regiment, this meant a combined total muster remaining of one hundred and sixty thousand regular soldiers – and that before the hundred thousand auxiliaries available from vassal states were counted, or the fifty thousand Otomi and Chichemec mercenaries Moctezuma had also recently hired. All in all, the vast Mexica war machine was unmatched by any other nation, and was big enough to smash Tlascala to pulp; big enough to crush Ishtlil like a bug; big enough, despite recent reverses, to impose and maintain Mexica hegemony throughout the One World for a thousand years.
If – and this was the point – if there was the will.
‘We require, indeed we demand, in fact we insist,’ said Man-Eater to Guatemoc, ‘that you be appointed commander in chief of the five armies.’
It was what Guatemoc wanted, it was what he had begun to manoeuvre for, and his friends and their powerful families played a crucial role in his strategy. But there were obstacles in the way that would first have to be cleared. Most notably, no one could be appointed commander in chief unless he was first a member of The Thirty, the Supreme Council that advised Moctezuma on all matters of State. The problem here was not Guatemoc’s blood; as the Great Speaker’s own nephew, that could hardly be questioned. Nor was it his age – for younger men of exceptional quality had served amongst The Thirty during previous reigns. No, the heart of the matter was that every place on the council was already filled by nobles in good health, and a vacancy would be needed if Guatemoc were to join.
‘There’s the problem of The Thirty,’ he said casually.
‘We’ve thought about that,’ replied Nezahualcoyotl, whose name ‘Starving Coyote’ was entirely appropriate, since he was small, fast and lean-flanked, with shrewd brown eyes and somewhat prominent ears.
‘And what conclusion have you come to?’ Guatemoc asked.
‘I have received a vision,’ said Starving Coyote with a straight face. ‘The spirit of prophecy has come upon me and revealed to me that by tomorrow The Thirty will become The Twenty-Nine. Councillor Tototl is to meet with a tragic accident tonight.’
‘I see,’ said Guatemoc. He smiled. ‘You feel there can be no doubt over this prophecy?’
‘None at all. Which means, of course, in these troubled times, that a new councillor will have to be appointed immediately. Our fathers are with us on this. They will raise the matter with Moctezuma when the council meets tomorrow and you must ask your father to do the same.’
Guatemoc’s father was Cuitláhuac, younger brother of Moctezuma and now the second most powerful lord of the Mexica following Coaxoch’s humiliating death at Shikotenka’s hands. Cuitláhuac was a stickler for procedure; three months ago there would have been no chance of him supporting a bid by his firebrand son to be appointed a member of The Thirty and commander in chief of all the nation’s armies. Following Moctezuma’s cowardly attempt to have Guatemoc poisoned, however, things had changed. ‘Under the circumstances,’ Guatemoc agreed, ‘he might lend his weight to this.’
‘Nothing could be more urgent,’ said Cuatalatl, whose nickname ‘Mud Head’ had been with him since childhood, its origins long forgotten. ‘Moctezuma is losing his grip. We all know it.’ So strong he could lift a dozen men on his arms and shoulders, Mud Head was deeply insecure. Now he looked around at the others for reassurance, as though he feared he’d gone too far, said too much.
Ixtomi – ‘Fuzzy Face’ – grinned through the straggly beard that he’d been unsuccessfully attempting to grow since he was a teenager. ‘Losing his grip?’ he echoed. ‘I’d say he lost it long ago. He’s not fit to rule this nation. If we face a crisis as the rumours suggest, then we have to take matters into our own hands.’
‘We need you in The Thirty, Guatemoc, and we need you at the head of our armies.’ It was Huciimuh’s – ‘Big Dart’s’ – turn to speak. He was handsome, somewhat long-nosed with unusually round eyes, high cheekbones and a firm chin, but he got his nickname from the fabulous size of his tepulli which, it was often jokingly suggested, could be used as a weapon in battle and would soon have all the enemy on the run. ‘I believe the rumours,’ he added, ‘and I think we’re about to face a great test. I feel it in my bones. We must put ourselves in a position where we can sweep Moctezuma aside when the need arises. If we fail to do so, the day will come when all will be lost.’
The rumours concerned Guatemoc greatly – far more than he had allowed his companions to realise. They concerned him because they seemed in every way to bear out the warnings of the return of Quetzalcoatl that the elusive goddess Temaz – if she was indeed a goddess! – had given him. He did not know, yet, exactly what to make of this. He only knew that for days Tenochtitlan had seethed with alarms concerning the white-skinned bearded strangers – perhaps gods – who had destroyed an enormous Mayan army at Potonchan and had since appeared at Cuetlaxtlan, within the borders of the empire. Rumours of gloom and destruction had spread everywhere, dangerously undermining public morale. Although civic laws forbade gatherings of more than twenty people in any one place, assemblies of scores, even hundreds, were seen every day on every street corner, where the gossip was of imminent destruction. As Temaz had uncannily foreseen, many said that Quetzalcoatl had returned to overthrow Moctezuma and all who stood by him, to end human sacrifice, to tear down the temples of Hummingbird and Tezcatlipoca, and to punish the Mexica for their wickedness and cruelty. Terror, astonishment and dejection filled the air and the people were everywhere in distress, some exchangi
ng tearful greetings, some seeking to encourage others. Here was a father smoothing his little son’s hair, comforting him against what they all believed was about to come to pass. Here was a mother, weeping, bidding farewell to her children as though she feared she would never see them again. It was said that the white men were few, that they were many, that their bodies were made of shining metal, that they possessed fire-serpents, that wild beasts obeyed their commands, and that they had been seen riding on great deer, tall as houses, and flying on the backs of eagles. Now they were a day’s march from Tenochtitlan, now they were at the gates, now they were already within the city, cloaked with invisibility but about to materialise and strike the populace down at a single blow.
It had so far proved impossible to discover the source of the rumours that seemed to proliferate simultaneously, in endlessly new variants, in every quarter of the capital and, moreover, were not confined to Tenochtitlan, but were equally prevalent across the lake in Texcoco and Tacuba. Such was the turmoil, such the unrest, that yesterday the Great Speaker finally conceded what he had attempted to keep secret before – namely that he had already opened negotiations with the strangers, who he indeed believed to be gods; that his steward Teudile had met with them and that he must even now be making haste along the road back to Tenochtitlan.
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