But best of all was the sight of twenty weeping, fresh-faced boys, Tlascalans by the look of them, none more than ten years of age, nearing the top of the eastern stairway. Dressed in the paper clothes of sacrifice, their bodies streaked with chalk, they were kept in order by laughing, jeering guards, who prodded them with the obsidian blades of their spears, drawing blood at every step.
‘Look!’ Hummingbird hissed, directing Moctezuma’s attention to the eastern doorway of the temple, out of which Acopol now appeared naked, but for the swirling mystery of his tattoos. Behind the nagual came four priests in black robes – priests of Hummingbird! – the killing team, who would hold the victims down over the stone.
‘They are your priests, lord!’ Moctezuma observed.
When he had sent Acopol to Cholula he had given him full authority to implement whatever changes he desired in the sanctuary of Quetzalcoatl, and orders had been carried to Tlaqui and Tlalchi, the joint rulers of the sacred city, that they should obey the sorcerer and not impede him in any way. Still, he had worked fast to get all this done – the altar, the idol, driving out the priests of Quetzalcoatl and replacing them with the war god’s men – in just a few days.
‘Yes,’ purred Hummingbird. ‘I am well pleased.’
As the limb of the sun broke the horizon, the killing began, and Moctezuma could not help but admire Acopol’s technique. Rather than first splitting the breastbone, then cutting away the ligaments and arteries and finally removing the heart, he had somehow combined all three operations into a single, graceful, scooping flow of the obsidian knife that culminated with the dripping organ, still pulsing, still pumping blood, raised high above his head and offered to the sun – Hummingbird’s symbol in the heavens. And oh, joy: in his visionary ecstasy, Moctezuma saw great rays of light and life rising like steam from those sacrificed hearts, vibrating waves and arcs and spirals, in colours brighter and stranger than any he had ever known, colours ethereal and mystical, colours that seemed to belong to another order of existence entirely, transcendental and unearthly, filled with a preternatural vigour that the war god drew into himself, gorging and feasting until the last of the victims lay dead.
‘Ahhh,’ said Hummingbird, ‘you see? That’s what I call a sacrifice.’ He licked his lips: ‘But I relish even more the basket of ten thousand virgin females you have promised me for my birthday … I trust that your preparations continue to go well.’
‘The preparations go well, lord.’
Unfortunately this was not entirely accurate. Moctezuma had received word only the day before that more than a thousand young girls from Tlascala, whose arrival in Tenochtitlan he had hotly anticipated, would not, after all, be swelling the as yet inadequate harvest in the fattening pens. A band of Chichemec mercenaries had gathered the girls in during a month in the field, only to be intercepted by that demon Shikotenka just before crossing the border. All the captives had been freed and almost the entire mercenary squad efficiently slaughtered; only one of them – just one out of three hundred! – had escaped to tell the tale.
‘You lie,’ said the war god. His voice in the dawn was a soft, menacing susurration.
‘I do not lie, great lord. There has been a setback but I have redoubled our efforts. The ten thousand will be gathered in for your birthday feast as I promised. All the resources of my empire are deployed to achieve this noble end.’
‘Do not fail me, my son. Nothing will go well for you if you fail me. But keep your promise and I will give you the world.’
Abruptly Hummingbird was gone, the magic shield dissolved and Cholula vanished. With a start and a stifled scream, Moctezuma awoke on the floor of the skull room of the temple of Hummingbird, atop the great pyramid of Tenochtitlan.
Glaring down at him was the severed head of the Chichemec mercenary who had brought the news of Shikotenka’s ambush.
* * *
In the last ten days of May 1519, as they worked together on the long, immensely complex and legalistic letter that Cortés was drafting to King Carlos of Spain, Pepillo found himself observing his master carefully. For the first months of the expedition he had admired him, indeed all but worshipped him, but he had always, also, been aware of a devious, calculating, manipulative side to Cortés’s nature, and it was this, now, that came increasingly to the fore.
The immediate focus of the caudillo’s formidable intelligence and will, Pepillo saw, was less on his long-term strategy to crush and utterly destroy Moctezuma, than on a much more pressing need to crush and utterly destroy the faction led by Juan Escudero and loyal to Diego de Velázquez, the governor of Cuba. In some way that Pepillo could not at first fully understand, the mission he had gone on to Huitztlan with Escalante, and the agreement with the Totonacs that the Spaniards could build a town of their own there, was the key to this. But gradually the picture began to clear as Pepillo watched how Cortés worked tirelessly to cultivate allies at all levels of the soldiery. To be sure some, perhaps quite a large number, broadly supported the Velazquistas’ call – which Escudero had made publicly several times – for a quick return to Cuba with the treasure they had already won. But the majority were still either undecided or frankly against such a solution, not wishing to turn their backs on the even greater wealth that Cortés had persuaded them they might win in Tenochtitlan.
In the minds of those who were willing to continue, Cortés carefully planted the suggestion, which he had so far shared only with his closest confidants, that the best way forward might be to establish a permanent colony here in Mexico, which would be a legal entity in its own right, able to provide for the needs of its members. An ideal site at which to establish such a colony had, as it happened, already been found in the explorations along the coast recently conducted by Don Juan de Escalante – a location with a safe harbour, set amidst productive, well-watered farmlands that had been offered as a permanent gift to Spain by friendly and tractable Totonac Indians, who would prove strong allies if war with Moctezuma were to come. Cortés lamented he had no authority from Velázquez to found such a colony, but, ‘We should never forget,’ he hinted, ‘that the interests of Spain and of our sovereign Don Carlos are paramount.’ He then made sure that word of these discussions leaked out to the Velazquistas who, predictably, were outraged, accusing him of going far beyond the governor’s plans for the expedition, which had been strictly for trade and exploration, calling once again for an immediate return to Cuba, and announcing their own intention to depart.
Making a great show of injured dignity, Cortés convened a meeting of all the soldiery on Monday 31 May. There he spoke gravely and with convincing humility saying he had no desire to exceed his instructions – indeed, he had never had such a desire – and that if the majority wished to leave then he would not stand in their way. He even went so far as to issue a proclamation ordering the troops to make ready to embark and sail for Cuba.
But he’d prepared his ground well; the order caused a sensation as his allies stirred the men to fury, generating a storm of resentment within the camp at the selfish folly of the Velázquez loyalists. The idea of staying and establishing a colony, which had come from Cortés in the first place, now took root among the soldiers as though it was their own invention. ‘We came here,’ Pepillo overheard one of the men say, ‘expecting to form a settlement and we’ll not be frustrated just because there’s no warrant from the governor to make one. There are interests, higher than those of Velázquez, which demand it.’ The words could have been Cortés’s own! Another likewise argued that Mexico wasn’t Velázquez’s personal property and that his partisans had no right to act as though it was. ‘These territories were discovered for the king; we have to plant a colony to watch over the king’s interests.’
Cortés was now in a position to claim that the idea of a colony was not his but had arisen from the patriotic zeal of the majority of the conquistadors in their desire to expand the overseas possessions of Spain and to serve the best interests of King Carlos V – fundamental virtues t
hat he could hardly be against. He was obliged, he said, to assist so worthy a process; to this end, during a second long and emotional public meeting, he appointed his ally Puertocarrero, who Pepillo noticed had become peculiarly compliant and agreeable after the skirmish outside Cuetlaxtlan two weeks before, together with Francisco Montejo, formerly one of the ringleaders of the Velazquistas, as joint chief magistrates of the new colony. The alguacil, regidores, treasurer and other councillors – all personal friends of Cortés’s – were then sworn in. Finally the colony, which as yet existed only as a concept, was given a name – Villa Rica de la Veracruz – with the stated intention that it should be founded at the earliest possible opportunity at the location near the Totonac town of Huitztlan previously scouted by Escalante. With all this done, and entered into the minutes by Pepillo, Cortés dramatically resigned the commission as captain-general of the expedition, conferred on him by Diego de Velázquez, which indeed, he said, had necessarily expired, since the authority of the governor of Cuba was now ‘superseded by the magistracy of Villa Rica de la Veracruz’.
Cortés then returned to his pavilion beckoning for Pepillo to follow him. ‘What happens now, master?’ Pepillo asked.
‘I get my way lad,’ the caudillo replied. ‘Stick with me and you’ll see how these things are done.’
Sure enough, within the hour the newly appointed councillors called Cortés back to the meeting ground and told him there was no one else as experienced and as well qualified as himself to govern the community, both in peace and in war. They asked him specifically to lead them in the continuing invasion and conquest of Mexico and to be their captain-general, chief, and justicia mayor, ‘to whom we will have recourse in arduous and difficult situations and in the differences that might arise amongst us’. They told Cortés: ‘This is our charge to you, and, if necessary, our command, because we hold it as certain that God and the king will be well served if you accept this authority.’
Pepillo recalled the old saying, ‘Press me harder but I’m very willing’ – for after some show of modesty and reluctance Cortés did, of course, accept the commission, but not before he had secured extraordinary terms for himself, including one fifth of all the treasure that would be won during the conquest.
This last concession, an amount equivalent to the share – known as ‘the king’s fifth’ – that all expeditions were required to allocate to the king himself, outraged the Velazquistas again. They had been taken by surprise by the defection of Montejo and by the speed of the coup that had, at a stroke, stripped the governor of Cuba of all authority in Mexico, and vested supreme civil and military power in Cortés. Now, however, the governor’s kinsman Velázquez de Léon, his former major domo Diego de Ordaz, and Juan Escudero, whose hatred of Cortés grew visibly more intense as each day passed, made the mistake of attempting to start a full-scale rebellion.
Cortés clapped the three of them in irons, and locked them in the brig on his flagship. There, after letting them cool off for a few days, he visited them on 6 June, the day before the entire army would decamp towards Huitztlan, and released them again after buying their compliance with gold. ‘Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation,’ he explained to Pepillo, citing the Book of Matthew, ‘and every city or house divided against itself shall not stand.’
It all sounded very convincing, very conciliatory. But in his heart Pepillo didn’t believe the caudillo really wanted to reconcile with the Velazquistas at all. The cunning way he had provoked them into a rash and hasty act of insubordination, and the way he now forgave them, were surely just moves in some subtle game of wits and strategy he was playing. Even the bribe of gold offered to them seemed insincere, since Cortés fobbed them off with just a fraction of the modest treasures he’d received from Pichatzin to compensate for Guatemoc’s attack on Sandoval and Puertocarrero. The lion’s share, he told Pepillo, he’d already used to detach Montejo from the Velazquistas and buy his loyalty in the manoeuvres to found the colony.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Monday 7 June 1519 to Sunday 20 June 1519
Twenty-six days had passed since Tozi’s precipitous flight from Moctezuma’s palace, and fourteen since her single disastrous attempt to re-enter it. Other than that she had remained with Yolya in the safe house in Tacuba, helping with the laundry work, sleeping a great deal, eating little, her confidence shattered. She had almost given up hope that Huicton would ever return when one morning she heard the familiar shuffle of his feet and the tapping of a stick outside in the lane. The green gate opened and he hobbled into the yard, bent over, dressed in rags, a filthy sack dangling from his shoulder, utterly convincing in his role as a blind beggar.
Tozi ran to him, embraced him wildly, tears pouring down her face. ‘I’ve failed,’ she said. ‘I can’t do my work any more. Moctezuma has a new sorcerer, a great nagual from the north, one of the tattooed ones. I fear him, Huicton. He could see me even when I made myself invisible. Such power he has! He’s no longer in Tenochtitlan, yet his magic still protects Moctezuma—’
‘My dear … wait. Slow down … ’
But Tozi was in no mood to be interrupted: ‘I know Huicton! I tried. Truly I tried to enter the palace but spirit knives and spirit razors attacked me until my head burst and my brains bled.’
‘That is not good, Tozi.’
‘I know,’ she sobbed. ‘I fear I’m losing my powers. I’m nothing without my powers.’
Huicton guided her to a bench in the yard and they sat together under the lines of drying laundry for a long while until her weeping subsided. Finally the old spy spoke, the vibrant nasal hum that characterised his voice peculiarly resonant this morning: ‘This sorcerer who you say is no longer in Tenochtitlan … has he gone to Cholula?’
At this Tozi looked up sharply. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘He has.’
‘And is his name perchance Acopol?’
‘Yes! It is. How do you know this?’
‘I have come here directly from Cholula, my child. After I left the Spanish camp near Cuetlaxtlan—’
‘The Spanish?’
‘They are the white-skinned ones you believe to be the companions of Quetzalcoatl. They call themselves Spaniards.’
Tozi felt her pulse quicken. Here was the end of all her woes. Here was the fulfilment of all her hopes. ‘And did you meet – O tell me it is true, Huicton! – did you meet Quetzalcoatl? Did you meet the god himself?’
‘I met the leader of the Spaniards,’ Huicton replied carefully. ‘He is a man called Cortés, Hernán Cortés, and – I cannot deceive you, Tozi, for I love you dearly – he is no god.’
As fast as Tozi’s hopes had risen, so now they threatened to come crashing down. ‘You lie, Huicton!’ she protested. ‘He is a god. I know he is a god. He will destroy Moctezuma! He will destroy Moctezuma’s bastard sorcerer! He will destroy them all.’
‘Well there, my dear, you may very well be right – for I believe that Cortés will indeed destroy Moctezuma and all his henchmen, and I am willing to believe that Cortés has been sent to us from heaven, even perhaps that he may be the manifestation of Quetzalcoatl in human form. Nonetheless, you must accept, Tozi, that he is a human being, with all the faults and frailties of a human being. Your friend Malinal knows this better than any other since she has become his lover.’
‘If she is his lover,’ said Tozi fiercely, ‘then she is the lover of a god.’ She took Huicton’s hands. ‘Tell me of Malinal! Is she well? Is she working to bring Quetzalcoatl here?’
‘She is well and she is undoubtedly working to bring Cortés here. She has not faltered for a single moment in the mission you and she agreed, and she’s promised to send me messages through my spies to keep us informed.’
‘I knew it,’ said Tozi. ‘I knew she wouldn’t let me down … ’ A pause: ‘She is beautiful, is she not?’
‘She is possibly the most beautiful woman it has ever been my privilege to know.’
Tozi’s mind was flooded with memories of the brie
f, intense time she and Malinal had spent together in the fattening pens of Tenochtitlan, and of the way they had cheated sacrifice at the hands of Moctezuma, thanks to the inexplicable intervention of Hummingbird – that wicked god whose servant Acopol undoubtedly was. All of this, everything that was happening, must be tied together in some deep, secret, hidden way, and the fact that Acopol was now in Cholula only added to the mystery. Why would the murderous sorcerer go to the last sanctuary of the living worship of Quetzalcoatl in Mexico, if not to work murder and magic there?
‘You said you came here from Cholula,’ Tozi reminded Huicton.
‘Yes. I have travelled far, child. I have been with the Spaniards at the coast, I have been with Shikotenka in the mountains of Tlascala and I have been with my master Ishtlil. It was Ishtlil who sent me onwards to Cholula to gather intelligence of certain happenings there … ’
War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent Page 27