War God: Return of the Plumed Serpent

by Graham Hancock

  * * *

  That night Cortés dreamed of Saint Peter again.

  It was a strange dream, for he met his patron on a ship, unlike any he had ever seen before, tall as a palace but forged from steel with huge guns, set in swivelling turrets, mounted fore and aft. Amidst thunder and flashes of fire, winged engines, also of steel and of wondrous design, soared into the sky at impossible speed from a great flat deck. Other devices, shaped like bodkin points but of vast size, roared up from the bowels of the ship and split the firmament, trailing lightning and clouds of smoke until they vanished over the horizon.

  ‘What is this, Holy Father?’ Cortés asked in amazement.

  ‘This is the future, my son,’ the saint replied. ‘Come, let me show you a vision of the world I have brought you to these New Lands to create.’

  Then suddenly they sat side by side in one of those winged engines, a battery of illuminated panels in front of them, tearing through the sky so fast Cortés was stunned and bewildered, gazing in astonishment at the earth below that seemed to curve beneath them as though it were a gigantic sphere. ‘Now observe,’ said the Holy Father, pointing to an enormous metropolis, its streets seething with throngs of gaily clad men, women and children – a populous city of glass and steel and towering minarets spanning both banks of a mighty river and rising up out of a limitless desert. ‘It is a habitation of the Moors,’ the saint explained, ‘ancient enemies of Christendom; your people fought them for seven hundred years, now you will see them destroyed. Look! There!’

  Cortés looked where the saint had indicated and saw a pair of fiery bodkins, each as long as a jousting ground, pass above them, arc down towards the city, then strike it. There were twin explosions of flame, brighter than the sun, and these rapidly merged into a single prodigious conflagration, dazzling to the eye, stupefying to the mind, and the very air trembled, seeming to burn and melt, and a gigantic cloud in the form of a great dark flower blossomed into the heavens, and a sound like the crack of doom struck Cortés’s ears with the force of a blow to the head, leaving him dizzy.

  The saint was grinning, laughing. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘how the Lord has smitten his enemies,’ and they flew closer towards the steaming shadow of the river, now empty in its channel, while all around it the city was no more, reduced to the twisted, molten remains of devastated buildings, tortured outcrops of fused metal and stone and glass rising from a field of glowing ash, strewn with blackened, contorted corpses. ‘See! Some have lived,’ the Holy Father said as they flew to the most distant outskirts of the devastated metropolis, where people ran screaming into the desert, their clothes smouldering on their backs, their hair in flames, their faces livid with burns. ‘But they will not live for long,’ the Saint added, ‘for the explosions transmit a great and terrible poison that melts flesh from bones and eats a man out from within and that cannot be escaped.’

  ‘Holy Father,’ said Cortés as they soared back into the sky, ‘give me weapons like these that I may better serve you.’

  ‘Such weapons will not come to you,’ the saint replied, ‘but to your descendants, for out of your enterprise in the New Lands a mighty and ingenious nation will grow and that nation will master the world and lay waste to all the enemies of the Lord.’

  Cortés felt a keen sense of disappointment, which the Holy Father seemed immediately to understand. ‘Lament not, my son, for your part in this is the greatest and most noble. On account of your courage, on account of your cunning, on account of the strength of your hands, on account of your indomitable will, it is to you and you alone whom I offer the honour of creating this wondrous future and fulfilling the glory of the Lord. Nonetheless,’ a sombre note of warning entered the saint’s voice, ‘your path will not be easy and you may yet fail. You have acted swiftly to destroy those who would have destroyed you, and I applaud you for that, but greater dangers still remain. Amongst your followers there are many whose hearts quail at the prospect of war with Moctezuma, who quiver with fear at the thought of his mighty armies, who secretly yearn for the safety of Cuba. You have taken these waverers by storm with your eloquence and your promises and they are ready to march into the interior with you, but at the slightest reverse – and you will face many – they will turn and run, knowing their ships await them ready to carry them across the sea.’

  A mood of deep dismay threatened to overwhelm Cortés because he knew in his bones that the saint was right. His men had their qualities; for the present they would be loyal enough, but they were fair-weather friends and, when the going got difficult, there were many who would desert him if they could. ‘What, then, am I to do, Father?’ he asked.

  ‘You already know the answer to that question, my son, for I have put the thought into your mind.’ Around them, as the saint spoke, the scene had changed: day had become night, and the winged craft that carried them now circled over the bay of Villa Rica, where the Spanish fleet lay at anchor under the stars.

  Cortés remembered. The idea had come to him when he had urged Martin Lopez, the expedition’s carpenter, to complete the refit of the Santa Luisa by 26 July. Lopez had said the deadline could be met only if he and his team suspended their work on all the other ships. Cortés had agreed and the carpenter had been as good as his word.

  Now, with the Santa Luisa on her way, the badly needed repairs to the rest of the fleet were scheduled to resume in the morning unless … unless …

  ‘You mean the thought that I should sink our ships, Holy Father?’

  Saint Peter beamed. ‘Indeed so, my son! If there are no ships left to sail back to Cuba, your men will have no choice but to conquer or die.’

  * * *

  Something was bothering her caudillo, but Malinal could not persuade him to speak about it. He was restless, out of sorts, bad tempered. At night he tossed and turned, groaning frequently in his sleep and, three days after Puertocarrero had sailed, he arose from their bed in the darkest hour and did not return. When she found him in his pavilion the next morning, he was deep in conversation with the other captains, and with Martin Lopez, the carpenter.

  * * *

  Though he never showed it publicly, Pepillo knew that Cortés had been deeply shaken by the Velazquistas’ plot and by the way that men like Ordaz, whose loyalty he believed he had bought, had been willing to betray him. What particularly seemed to haunt him was the thought that others might at any time choose to steal a ship, or several ships, and sail for Cuba to cause him further trouble there.

  He resolved the problem in a most unexpected and characteristically daring way.

  On 2 August, which was by chance Pepillo’s fifteenth birthday, a week after Puertocarrero and Montejo had sailed, and following much behind-the-scenes manoeuvring with his captains, who agreed to allow Martin Lopez to drill holes in the bottoms of their already leaking and storm-battered ships, Cortés called the men together and announced an unfortunate discovery. With the exception of the Gran Princesa de los Cielos, the newly refitted caravel that Francisco de Saucedo had arrived in from Cuba on 5 July, the rest of the fleet, including his own Santa Maria, had been rendered unseaworthy as a result of a galloping infestation by a species of wood-beetle known as the broma.

  It was a deception, of course – indeed the word broma in Castilian meant ‘prank’ or ‘practical joke’. But since the ten ‘infected’ ships were by then half sunk, listing and foundering in the bay, the men were persuaded, and made no complaint when Cortés ordered the failing vessels to be sailed onto the sands and broken up, their timbers to be used to complete the construction of Villa Rica. By so doing, he pointed out, the conquistadors would be spared the expense and effort of maintaining the useless vessels and would benefit from the addition of their crews, numbering close to a hundred men in total, to the strength of the army. As well as their timbers, which were immediately made available for construction work, all the salvageable parts of the ships – sails, rigging, cannon, anchors, chains, cables and other tackle – were to be carted up to the headland an
d deployed to the advantage of Villa Rica, or stored for future use.

  ‘The time has come,’ Cortés said, ‘to strike inland to Tenochtitlan and pay Moctezuma a visit.’ Everyone knew that ‘paying Moctezuma a visit’ was a euphemism for seizing the Mexica capital by force, and there was a great cheer. ‘Don’t lament the loss of our fleet,’ the caudillo continued. ‘What use would the ships have been to us anyway? If we succeed in this great enterprise of conquest we shall not need them, and if we fail we shall be too far into the interior to reach the coast. Have confidence in yourselves. You have set your hands to the work; to look back is ruin! As for me, I remain in this land while there is one to keep me company. If there be any so craven as to shrink from the dangers, let them go home, in God’s name. There is still one vessel left. Let them take that and return to Cuba. They can tell there how they deserted their comrades and patiently wait until we return loaded with the spoils of the Mexica!’

  Pepillo remembered with a smile how the men had responded. Not one of them had voted to return to Cuba. ‘To Mexico!’ they all yelled, ‘to Mexico!’

  * * *

  It was now 16 August, two weeks after those daring shouts rang out. Every preparation for a major expedition of conquest had been made, and all the men were gathered in Villa Rica’s assembly ground. More than eighty of the original five hundred expeditionaries had died of wounds, bilious fever and the bloody flux since Potonchan, but the army’s ranks had been replenished by the hundred sailors from the scuttled ships and the sixty soldiers of fortune brought by Saucedo. The total muster was therefore around five hundred and eighty. Of these, some two hundred and thirty, under the command of Juan de Escalante, would be staying behind to garrison Villa Rica. That number, however, included many who were still too sick or too badly injured to be much use in a fight. The other three hundred and fifty, all in good health and supported by a thousand Totonac warriors and as many bearers, were arrayed in marching order to begin the thrust into the interior. The Totonacs, and Cortés himself, were convinced Moctezuma’s fierce enemies – the Tlascalans – would join them, so it was to Tlascala they would go first to win allies and increase their strength.

  Wearing his new sword, its scabbard fixed to a strong leather belt around his waist, and with Melchior bounding by his side, Pepillo went to Escalante and embraced him. ‘Thank you, Juan,’ he said, ‘for everything you have done for me. I’ll never forget.’

  ‘I’ll not let you forget, lad!’ the captain said gruffly. ‘I plan to be seeing you again soon enough. In the meantime, keep up your practice with the broadsword! I’m sure Bernal Díaz will be willing to spar with you and, if you get the chance, see if you can talk Don Pedro de Alvarado into giving you some lessons. He’s the finest swordsman in this or any army that I’ve ever known—’

  ‘Not so fine as you, Juan,’ Pepillo protested.

  But Escalante would have none of it. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Don Pedro’s more than a match for me – more than a match for five men! But luckily enough I’ll never have to fight him since we’re friends.’ He clapped Pepillo on the shoulder: ‘Now, off you go, lad. It’s time to march.’

  ‘Will you be safe here, Juan?’

  Escalante looked up to the strong stockade surrounding Villa Rica, with cannon mounted at strategic points along the battlements. ‘I’ll be safer than you will, Pepillo. But my God how I wish I could come with you. New Lands to conquer! Great adventures to be had! Instead I’m stuck here, nursemaiding the sick and injured!’

  Cortés had walked over quietly to join them. ‘It’s so much more than that, Juan,’ he interrupted. ‘Villa Rica gives the whole expedition legitimacy. We need a strong rearward base that can maintain lines of supply for us and to retreat to if necessary, and I need a strong man to run it – a man I can trust completely.’

  ‘And unfortunately you chose me,’ said Escalante, making a long face.

  ‘There’s no one I trust more, Juan. But you won’t be stuck here for long, I promise you. Once we get to Tenochtitlan, I’ll relieve you here with another commander, and you can come upcountry and join us.’

  The two captains said their farewells and Pepillo embraced Escalante again. It was painful, to know a father, mentor and guide for the first time in his life, only to be separated from him so soon. ‘Off you go lad,’ Escalante repeated. ‘It’s time to march.’ He turned to walk away, then looked back: ‘Remember, Pepillo, if anything does happen to me, everything I have is yours. The papers are with Godoy.’

  Pepillo nodded, his throat too constricted to speak. He beckoned Melchior to heel, and went to stand with Malinal, as Cortés climbed into Molinero’s saddle, from where he gave a final short address to the men.

  ‘Ours is a holy company,’ he bellowed, ‘and we must conquer this land or die. But be sure that our blessed saviour and Saint Peter himself will carry us victorious through every battle with our enemies. Indeed, this assurance must be our stay, for every other refuge is now cut off but that afforded by the Providence of God, and by your own stout hearts.’

  That said, with Malinal and Pepillo walking at his stirrups, Cortés led his little army out past the gallows, where the mouldering skeletons of Escudero and Cermeno still hung, towards the distant mountains of Tlascala. Beyond those looming peaks, the golden prize of Tenochtitlan lay hidden like the Grail, promising either unimaginable wealth and power, or a terrible death, to those who dared seek it.

  PART THREE

  24 August 1519–02 November 1519

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Tuesday 24 August 1519 to Saturday 28 August 1519

  A fast, direct road, patrolled by Moctezuma’s guards, ran from Huitztlan, close to the new Spanish settlement of Villa Rica de la Veracruz, and thence through the sacred city of Cholula all the way to Tenochtitlan. Had the Spaniards and their Totonac auxiliaries chosen to take this road, and to travel at the pace of a forced march, they could – assuming there were no ambushes to delay them – have reached the Mexica capital in four or five days, completely bypassing the free state of Tlascala. Moreover, Cortés had not forgotten the dream Saint Peter had sent him in the middle of the month of May, when they were still camped on the dunes at Cuetlaxtlan – the dream in which the Holy Father had quite specifically told him that he must go to Tenochtitlan ‘by way of a city called Cholula, a vassal city to the Mexica. I am preparing a great victory for you there.’ Cortés had every intention of obeying this command from on high. However, he was determined to visit Tlascala first, for there he hoped to recruit strong allies to stand by his side in whatever battles lay ahead. The route of march, proposed by Meco, whom the fat cacique had placed in overall charge of the Totonac warriors and bearers, avoided areas of heavy concentration of Mexica power, and led for the most part through uninhabited mountainous country. It had proved to be a long and circuitous journey that had exposed the troops to great discomfort, freezing fog, rain, hail, and a series of high-altitude passes. Finally, however, on the morning of Tuesday 24 August, after an arduous eight-day trek, they came down into a warm, pleasant valley, dominated by the town of Xocotlan, the last Mexica outpost before the Tlascalan border.

  Because Xocotlan housed a large Mexica garrison, Meco’s advice was to press on directly to the Tlascalan capital – called, simply, Tlascala: a journey of thirty-eight miles, less than two more days’ hard march. But the men needed rest, so Cortés overruled him and instead had him select two emissaries, Mamexi and Teuch, both minor Totonac chiefs in their own right, who he sent ahead to Tlascala that same morning, bearing gifts, a message of friendship, and a specific request for safe passage.

  Almost as fat as Tlacoch, Xocotlan’s chief was a truculent, irritable man named Olintecle. Initially he was hostile, but within a few hours his frowns turned to smiles and he offered food and hospitality. Cortés’s suspicions were aroused by the marked change of attitude, but Malinal remained unruffled. Mexica spies, who would be maintaining daily contact with Tenochtitlan by relay messengers, must have followed t
hem from the coast, she said, and undoubtedly had a standing instruction to ensure the Spaniards were well treated. ‘Moctezuma is coward. He frightened. He keep changing mind what to do. Now he think you gods, now he think you men. First he want keep you far away, then he think bring you Tenochtitlan, deal with you there. He coward. He feel safe in his city. Maybe once we inside he think he cut the … ’ – she searched for the word: ‘Roads that are bridges?’

  Cortés suggested ‘causeways’.

  ‘Yes,’ Malinal said, ‘causeways. He cut! He surround us! His armies very many; they trap us in narrow streets, no good place for our cavalry, and he destruct.’

  ‘Destroy,’ Cortés said.

  ‘Yes. Destroy. That his plan. So we safe, I say, until Moctezuma get us where wants us.’

  As was increasingly the case, Cortés found Malinal’s arguments persuasive. She might be a woman, she might not speak perfect Castilian yet – although her grasp of the language was improving every day – but she was calculating and intelligent. If she was right, and he believed she was, then it was all the more urgent that the Spaniards recruit stronger, more steadfast allies than the Totonacs before they reached Tenochtitlan. Hence the importance of Tlascala, with its warlike reputation and its implacable enmity towards Moctezuma.

  Here again, however, Malinal disagreed with Meco, who seemed certain the Tlascalans would be delighted to enter an alliance with Cortés against the Mexica. ‘Tell you once, tell you again,’ she told Cortés. ‘Tlascalans mountain people. They stubborn, think for selves, fierce to protect Tlascalan land. If they decide you enemy – and maybe they already decided you enemy – they fight you and fight you hard.’

  * * *

  The Totonacs were a cowardly, devious people in Shikotenka’s opinion, and he’d never trusted them. ‘I propose we kill these two,’ he said to the assembled senators, ‘and if the white men cross our border, I propose we kill them as well.’