War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  ‘Tonatiuh?’ said Alvarado. ‘That’s what you people call me!’

  ‘Because of your golden hair,’ said Teudile.

  ‘But my features are youthful and handsome,’ protested Alvarado, running his fingers over the grotesque image, ‘not like this! Why do you show him so old and so ugly?’

  ‘We Mexica believe the sun of our own epoch is the fifth to have shone down on mankind and that there have been four previous suns, or ages of the earth, each one ended by a terrible cataclysm that destroyed the greater part of humanity. We believe that our Fifth Sun is already very old and very cruel, and that he is only kept alive, is only able to continue shining down on us, if we offer him constant nourishment and rejuvenation.’

  Cortés knelt to examine the figure. ‘The tongue,’ he said, ‘is strange. It’s almost like a dagger.’

  ‘It is the obsidian knife of sacrifice,’ Teudile answered with a gruesome smile. ‘The rejuvenation that we offer daily to the sun, and to our war god Hummingbird, is in the form of human blood and hearts.’

  Cortés felt anger grip him like a fist. ‘You Mexica know how to make beautiful and wonderful things,’ he said, ‘but your practice of human sacrifice is an abomination and the foul creatures you worship are not gods but demons. You must set them aside, you must set aside sacrifice and your other evil rites, you must destroy your accursed idols and you must turn to the worship of the one true God, the creator of Heaven and Earth, whose son is Jesus Christ and whose ways my sovereign, Don Carlos of Spain, has sent me here to teach you. It is for this purpose I must now travel with my army to your city of Tenochtitlan, there to meet your sovereign Moctezuma and correct him on the many errors he commits and attempt to save his soul.’

  As Aguilar put the words into Maya for Malinal, Cortés saw her turn towards him, her large dark eyes glowing. ‘Are you sure you want to say this, lord?’ she asked him in Castilian.

  ‘Yes!’ he snapped. ‘By all means I am sure.’

  Her next point required clarification by Aguilar: ‘Perhaps it would be wise not to tell these Mexica your plans, lord? Don’t say what you mean to do. Rather do as you wish with them when you are ready, giving them no warning or mercy.’

  But Cortés was still angry and shrugged off her advice. ‘Put what I said into their heathen tongue, Malinal, and exactly as I said it. These savages must learn the truth.’

  ‘Your will, lord,’ Malinal replied. As she switched into flowing Nahuatl, Cortés watched the faces of the Mexica delegation. Pichatzin looked afraid, Teudile, he thought, looked shifty and dishonest, but on Guatemoc’s face he saw pure anger, pure hatred.

  * * *

  ‘Whore!’ snarled Guatemoc as soon as Malinal had finished translating Cortés’s admonitions. ‘Why do you serve these bandits? Why be their tongue? You are a woman of our land. I command you to leave them now.’

  Did Guatemoc know? Malinal wondered. Had he learned how Moctezuma released her at the climax of that terrible night on the great pyramid? Did he call her a whore because he’d found out her story, her life as a sex slave, the men she’d served in Tenochtitlan – including his own father – before she was sent for sacrifice? The very presence of this prince, though he himself had never been amongst her lovers, filled Malinal with feelings of horror and terror – feelings she refused to reveal, refused to betray on her face, refused to give way to. Instead she laughed and looked him straight in the eye, showing him more disrespect in that single, simple act than he would ever in his life have received from any of the subservient women of the Mexica. ‘You cannot command me, Guatemoc,’ she said. ‘I am free of you, free of the bullying and cruelty of your race, free to do as I choose – and I choose to help these white-skinned tueles.’

  ‘Tueles. Ha! So you think they are gods then?’

  ‘You will find out for yourself what they are and what they are not.’

  Malinal realised she was trembling, so unnatural did it seem to her to address a prince of the blood in this way, and yet she had to admit it gave her exquisite pleasure to do so. Ignoring Guatemoc completely, she turned towards Teudile. ‘What do you say to the lord Cortés?’ she asked.

  Teudile’s mask of patrician disdain had not slipped. ‘Our revered Speaker has charged me with a message for your master,’ he said, ‘and it is this. He is to accept these gifts he has been given with the same grace as Moctezuma has shown in sending them, and he may divide them as he wishes amongst the tueles and men who accompany him. Our revered Speaker furthermore says he hopes one day to see the face of the great emperor, Don Carlos of Spain, of whom the lord Cortés speaks, but under no circumstances will he meet with the lord Cortés. Our revered Speaker is ill and cannot descend to the sea, and it will be extremely difficult and laborious for Cortés to come to him, not only on account of the many high mountains that lie between, but also because of the great and sterile deserts he would have to traverse, where he would necessarily suffer from hunger, thirst and similar hardships. Besides, much of the country through which he would have to pass is in the hands of Moctezuma’s enemies, who are cruel and evil people and who will kill him as soon as they learn he is travelling as Moctezuma’s friend. The lord Cortés is therefore to take these presents and return across the sea whence he came.’

  Malinal needed Aguilar’s help to put Teudile’s speech into Castilian, and as the message was conveyed she saw Cortés’s face cloud over. When he had understood everything, he said: ‘Tell Teudile, and that bad-mannered young upstart beside him, that I will be coming to Tenochtitlan with my army whether their revered Speaker likes it or not. I have journeyed from distant lands, crossed thousands of miles of oceans and fought battles with savage foes solely to see and exchange words with Moctezuma in person. My great king and lord Don Carlos will not give me a good reception should I return to him without achieving that goal, so tell these Mexica dogs that nothing will stop me – not mountains, not deserts, not men – and that wherever their Speaker may be, I intend to go and find him.’

  From that point the negotiations became extremely heated, and Malinal watched with growing interest as harsh words were exchanged not only between Cortés and Teudile but also between Teudile and Guatemoc. Technically the steward outranked the young prince, but it was clear that Guatemoc was not only higher born but also the stronger personality, and ultimately his will prevailed.

  After Cortés had insisted for the fourth or fifth time, and in increasingly bullying language, that nothing would stop him marching on Tenochtitlan and that in fact he felt the Mexica were simply making excuses to delay his progress, Guatemoc flew into a wild rage and shouted at him: ‘You’ve got everything you came for – gold, jewels, more wealth than thieves like you have ever dreamed of. You’d have had none of this, believe me, if Moctezuma had followed my advice. So consider yourselves lucky, get back in your boats and return to your country now, or I warn you, Cortés, you will perish in my land and all your little army with you.’

  Cortés smiled: ‘The Chontal Maya made exactly the same threat to me at Potonchan, and look what happened to them.’

  Guatemoc’s face was tense with fury. ‘We are not the Chontal Maya,’ he said. ‘You make a great mistake if you imagine we are.’

  Another mocking smile from Cortés. ‘I don’t see much difference. You’re all heathens and savages worshipping false gods, and none of you has a clue about how to win a real fight. If I choose to march on Tenochtitlan tomorrow, you’ll not be able to stop me.’

  Guatemoc drew himself up to his full height. ‘My soldiers are as numberless as the sands of the sea,’ he boasted, ‘and undefeated in battle. March on Tenochtitlan and I will teach you the Mexica way of war.’

  ‘That is a lesson I await eagerly,’ said Cortés, ‘and, when we have thrashed you, be sure I will pay Moctezuma a visit in his palace.’

  After she had translated this, Malinal could not resist adding a few words of her own. ‘When a man has to lie,’ she said quietly to Guatemoc, ‘I take it as a sign of weak
ness.’

  ‘Silence, whore,’ the prince sneered. ‘You have no voice of your own here.’

  ‘But I have ears,’ she said, ‘and I know, as the lord Cortés also knows, that your warriors have faced defeat. Do you think the loss of an entire Mexica army in battle against the Tlascalans is a matter that can be kept secret? So the only sense in which your soldiers are numberless is that they now indeed number less than they did before, great Prince, while your enemies multiply.’

  Malinal looked slowly round at the grim Spanish captains beside Cortés, their armour shining in the torchlight, and at Cortés himself, his eyes hooded and pitiless, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. ‘Are you so certain,’ she said to Teudile, ‘that Prince Guatemoc is right to add these tueles to the roll of your enemies? You have not seen their way of war as I have. You cannot yet imagine the deeds they are capable of.’

  Teudile stepped close to Malinal and peered into her eyes, but he did not answer her question. ‘We know your story,’ he said in a tone filled with menace. ‘And the lord Moctezuma remembers you.’ Then, without another word, leaving all the golden gifts behind, he led his delegation away down through the dunes and out of the camp.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Small hours of the morning, Wednesday 12 May 1519

  Moctezuma felt joy, an emotion he had almost forgotten. His heart beat like a drum threatening to burst forth from his chest. Excitement welled in his throat. He’d made no sacrifice, he’d eaten only a small dose of mushrooms, yet here was the god Hummingbird, looming over him, gleaming like the risen sun in the darkness of the night. ‘Lord,’ he said. ‘You have returned to me.’

  ‘I never left you,’ said Hummingbird. ‘I’ve been watching your progress … with approval.’

  ‘Thank you, lord. So you approve, then, that I resisted Guatemoc’s demand for ten regiments to attack the white-skinned tueles in their camp?’

  ‘I approve, my son! I approve mightily! Now is not the right time to fall in force upon the white-skins. Disaster would have been the result if you had allowed Guatemoc to proceed with his foolish and importunate plan. You made the right choice and I applaud you for it.’

  Moctezuma’s feelings of pleasure were so intense that for the first time in several months he felt his tepulli flush with blood and grow erect. ‘Instead of making war on the white-skins,’ he told the god, ‘I thought it wise to assign additional regiments to the sacred duty of hunting out virgin girls to offer you in sacrifice. I had originally set four regiments to this holy work, but in the days since the last meeting of my council I have increased the size of the task force to ten regiments – eighty thousand skilled men; the same number Guatemoc demanded – and I am confident now that the enterprise will proceed to your satisfaction. My regiments have been sent out far and wide, like the fingers of two great hands stretched across the empire. Runners reach me daily with reports. We have already begun to extract additional tributes from our subject peoples, we have begun to raid enemy cities, and the fattening pens of Tenochtitlan are being prepared to accept a ripe harvest of virgin girls.’

  The Great Speaker, lord and master of the Mexica nation, lay spread-eagled on the floor of his darkened chamber. Standing over him, the god licked his lips: ‘I have seen your preparations,’ he said, ‘and I delight in them.’

  Moctezuma’s tepulli swelled further. ‘My aim,’ he said, ‘is to gather an immense basket of virgins in your name. The target is ten thousand. If it is acceptable to you, lord, I will sacrifice them on your altar in the four days that culminate with the annual celebration of your birth.’

  Hummingbird’s tongue darted out again. ‘How very thoughtful of you, and how very appropriate. Ten thousand virgins will make a splendid birthday gift!’ He stooped, placed his huge hand on Moctezuma’s head and gently caressed his hair. ‘I shall await the offering with … anticipation,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, allow me to offer you a little something in return.’

  ‘A gift, lord? You have a gift for me?’

  Moctezuma was both excited and flattered at the prospect and found the sensation of the god’s hand caressing his hair deeply arousing. ‘I have something to show you,’ Hummingbird now said. A jolt of energy radiated suddenly from his fingers and at once, by magic, a vision was conjured forth. Without even being aware of the transition, Moctezuma discovered he was no longer in his palace, no longer in Tenochtitlan, no longer immersed in darkness but flying like a bird in bright sunlight over his beautiful vassal city of Cholula and above its remotely ancient pyramid dedicated to Quetzalcoatl. From that aerial vantage point he looked down on the vast walled enclosure that surrounded the antique shrine of the once and future king – the only one of its kind still permitted to function with an active priesthood throughout the domains of the Mexica.

  ‘This is the place, O great Moctezuma,’ said Hummingbird, ‘and this is the time of the unmaking of prophecy. When the leader of the white-skins comes to Cholula and enters the shrine of the Plumed Serpent, he will lose his power.’

  Moctezuma’s heart stirred with a sudden flutter of panic. ‘But I have every hope, lord,’ he hastened to reply, ‘that the white-skins will not penerate so far into my territory as Cholula! I have sent them a huge treasure of gold, in exchange for which I expect them to return across the sea whence they came.’

  ‘They will not do so, my son,’ said Hummingbird flatly. ‘The treasure you have sent them has only whetted their appetite for more. On that matter Guatemoc was right, and in the months ahead they will swarm over your lands and march upon you, arrayed for war.’

  Moctezuma groaned, terror rising in his throat like vomit.

  ‘But have no fear,’ Hummingbird continued, ‘because at Cholula you will stop them and destroy them utterly. Observe now and I will show you.’

  Moctezuma obeyed, gazing down in vision on the city of Cholula and on the pyramid and shrine dedicated to Quetzalcoatl that lay at its heart and – behold! – he saw a great battle between Mexica soldiers and the white-skins raging within the precincts of that immense enclosure. As the fighting reached its climax, he saw companies of his brave jaguar and eagle knights laying low the white-skins and taking them prisoner, trussing some in hammocks so they could not move, holding others like slaves at the end of long poles with collars fastened tight round their necks and leading them off towards Tenochtitlan for sacrifice.

  The spectacle was so uplifting and reassuring to behold that it took Moctezuma’s breath away. ‘Will it be so, lord?’ he asked.

  ‘It can be so,’ Hummingbird replied, ‘if you make it so, but before this high objective can be accomplished, there is something I require of you first.’

  ‘Anything, lord. Anything … ’

  ‘The sorcerers of your court, Cuappi, Hecateu, Aztatzin and Tlilpo, are all empty vessels. They have no skill. They have no power. They are mere performers of mummery and ritual.’

  ‘Yes, great lord.’ Moctezuma hung his head. ‘Even I, who am merciful, have seen this. They failed in all their attempts to work magic against the white-skins. They are nothing—’

  ‘They are worse than nothing. They are frauds. They are imposters! I want them burnt.’

  ‘Burnt, lord?’

  ‘Yes, you heard me. Burnt alive. Roasted in a fire-pit. You will arrange this immediately.’

  Moctezuma felt his fear rising again. ‘Who then will be my sorcerers, lord?’

  A new image swam unbidden into his mind. It was an image of a man dressed only in a loincloth whose powerful body from his bare feet to his shaved head was covered in such a dense web of swirling, interwoven tattoos that he seemed to be almost entirely black, black as night, black as a jaguar in the depths of the jungle. Excepting his eyes – terrible, terrifying eyes – which shone and blazed like firebrands amidst a pall of smoke, and from which darted forth the complex interconnected patterns, the sacred geometry, the mathematical lightning bolts of high magic.

  ‘This man,’ said Hummingbird, ‘will be your sor
cerer, the only sorcerer you will ever need. His name is Acopol and he is one of the pure ones of the Chichemec tribe, out of the northern deserts. He is a nagual, a shape shifter who has served me well for many a long year and now I, even I, have called him out of the ocean of sand to serve you. You must not keep him at your court, however. Instead appoint him to the role of high priest in Cholula. Do that, my son, and he will prepare the way for your great victory there.’

  Moctezuma had misgivings. How could he feel secure in his own court with no sorcerer to protect him from magical attacks? But Hummingbird read his mind and reassured him. ‘Acopol is powerful. He will cast warding spells around your palace, and around my temple where you come to commune with me, and even from Cholula he will keep you safe.’

  ‘In that case, lord,’ said Moctezuma, ‘I am ready. I will do as you require.’

  ‘Of course you will, my son. Of course you will.’

  The vision widened, beginning to show more of the background in which the tattooed figure stood. He perched, Moctezuma suddenly realised, on the summit platform of the immense and unspeakably ancient pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuacan, ‘the place where men became gods’, which lay some thirty-five miles north of the Mexica capital.