‘Ah well,’ said Cortés mildly, ‘it’s as I expected. But don’t be put out, Pedro, our work has just begun. I’ve learned there’s an even larger town to the south called Cintla where the chief of the whole region – a far more important man than Muluc – has his seat. I’m certain when we take Cintla that great wealth will fall into our hands.’
He turned his attention back to the prisoners whom, to Alvarado’s horror, it appeared he was about to set free. ‘Go to Cintla,’ he said, speaking through Aguilar, ‘and tell its chief I know the truth of many great mysteries and secret things of which he’ll be pleased to hear. Tell him we do not want war. Tell him we sorrow at the injuries and death we’ve been forced to inflict on the people of Potonchan. We would rather not have done so, but it was their own fault because they attacked us and gave us no choice. Tell him we come in peace to teach him about our God who has the power to grant him immortal life.’
‘You’re not really going to let them go, are you?’ said Alvarado.
‘Yes I am, so the big chief in Cintla can have the opportunity not to repeat the mistake Muluc made in Potonchan today.’
‘And what if he chooses not to seize that opportunity?’ sneered Alvarado.
‘To be quite honest with you, Pedro, I am gambling that he will not – because then, by the rules of war, we have the right to destroy him. Today we faced thousands, yet the cost to us was small. Twenty with slight injuries – some hit in the head by their slingers, a few with spear or arrow wounds, but they’ll all mend soon enough. Not a single man killed, Pedro! Not one! And tomorrow we’ll put horse in the field and teach these savages a lesson they’ll never forget!’
Footsteps. The sound of clothing being adjusted. A hoarse whisper: ‘Don Pedro! A word with you if we may.’
Alvarado had walked out from the campfires for a piss and now found himself flanked in the moonlight by two other men, all likewise clutching their privy members – Juan Escudero to his right, Velázquez de León to his left.
‘Gentlemen!’ Alvarado commented as he sprayed a great arc into the bushes, ‘this is passing strange.’
‘Nothing strange about a full bladder,’ muttered Velázquez de León through his beard as he too made copious water.
Escudero had so far summoned forth not even a dribble. ‘You seem to be having some trouble there, Juan,’ Alvarado observed.
‘I’m not here to piss,’ replied the ringleader of the Velazquistas, his voice seething with resentment. ‘When we last talked you gave us to believe you were ready to join us, yet I saw you stand by Cortés tonight.’
‘And I’m standing by you now, Juan, am I not?’ Alvarado shook his member, being sure that a few fat drops flew up to hit the other man in the face.
With an oath Escudero stumbled back, but to his credit retained his composure. ‘We’ve been watching you, Don Pedro,’ he said. ‘You found no gold in the palace …’
‘No gold anywhere,’ Velázquez de León added.
‘It’s clear Cortés has brought us here for reasons of his own,’ said Escudero.
‘Which would be what?’ Alvarado asked.
‘Power? Glory? Personal aggrandisement? Revenge? Who knows? But certainly not the interests of this expedition. These are primitive savages we’re fighting and it seems they have no treasure. We’re wasting blood and strength here for nothing. Córdoba’s reconnaisance last year showed richer and easier pickings further inland …’
‘So you want me to do what?’ Alvarado asked. ‘Turn on Cortés now, when we’re surrounded by the enemy? Arrest him? Truly, gentlemen, I do not think this is the right moment.’
‘On this we agree,’ said Escudero. ‘Cortés has made this bed for us and we must lie on it. But when we’re done here, if God gives us victory over these barbarians, then the time will come to choose. Cortés is not the right man to lead this expedition. You know it in your heart, Don Pedro, and we ask you to be ready to join the friends of your friend the governor of Cuba and help us return this expedition to legitimacy.’
‘What’s in it for me?’ Alvarado asked.
‘Gold, Don Pedro. All the gold a man could possibly want. Put this expedition on the right side of the law, win over Cortés’s supporters to our side, and we’ll make you a rich man.’
‘I’ll think on your offer,’ said Alvarado. He was already walking back towards the light of the fires. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Escudero and Velázquez de León walking in opposite directions, one to the left, the other to the right. Soon both disappeared amongst the shadows.
Last night, after Malinal had gouged Muluc’s face, Raxca’s intervention had saved her from a beating at his hands, but had not stopped Muluc forcing her into the column of his household slaves carrying the palace valuables from Potonchan to the safety of Cintla. The slaves had reached the regional capital in the small hours of the morning where they’d been put to work in the great palace of Ah Kinchil, the wizened and ancient paramount chief of the Chontal Maya. Malinal had been assigned lowly duties in the kitchen under the watchful eye of Muluc’s steward Ichick, who had roped her ankles and allowed her no possibility of escape.
Muluc himself had turned up in Cintla early that evening and since then had been ensconced with Ah Kinchil in the dining chamber of the palace. Malinal had not even considered appealing to the paramount chief’s sense of justice, since he was Muluc’s uncle and had been in on the plot to displace her five years before. But the kitchen adjoined the dining chamber and the two men talked loudly enough for her to eavesdrop their conversation even when she wasn’t shuffling in and out with their dinner dishes.
It seemed the white strangers – the companions of Quetzalcoatl as it was Malinal’s habit to think of them – had resoundingly defeated Muluc’s forces in Potonchan. But in the time bought by the negotiating and fighting there, Ah Kinchil had called in tens of thousands of additional warriors from Cintla, Xicalango and other neighbouring towns. As a result, a new force, a truly exceptional force of more than forty thousand men, was now mobilised and stood ready for battle. ‘With such numbers,’ Muluc crowed, ‘we will devour them.’
‘So long,’ Ah Kinchil corrected him, ‘as they are not gods.’
‘They are not gods!’
‘Yet their weapons seem not of this world, Muluc,’ the old chief said in a voice dry as bones. ‘I have been hearing accounts all day of what they did to the men you left in Potonchan after you yourself fled.’
‘I did not “flee”, uncle!’ Muluc blustered. ‘I fought hard and remained in the field until the end.’
Ah Kinchil waved a hand as though dismissing him. ‘I am told they have fire serpents,’ he continued, ‘that spit flame killing hundreds at a single blast. I am told ferocious beasts whose skin cannot be pierced by arrows obey their commands and tear out the throats and bellies of our warriors. I am told these white men – or gods – are themselves impervious to our weapons and cannot be killed. Is none of this true?’
‘They have powerful weapons, that much is true, but we have known since last year they are men who can be killed, just as we can be killed, and their weapons are of this world though made with great skill and cunning. We defeated them before and we can defeat them again!’
‘You defeated them before but it seems these new ones are more dangerous even than their predecessors. If you are mistaken about their powers it could cost us dear.’
Malinal, who was bringing a steaming bowl of chocolate to the table, saw a glint of triumph in Muluc’s eye. The evil toad, she realised, had something up his sleeve. ‘I am not mistaken, uncle,’ he said. ‘Last year when the white men came to Potonchan they captured one of our warriors and carried him away in their boats to certain islands they have occupied that lie far off our shores.’
‘Islands?’ Ah Kinchil seemed almost offended. ‘I know of no white men living on our islands.’
‘I don’t speak of the nearby islands we can reach in our canoes, uncle. I speak of the faraway islands of legend where th
e people called Taino and Arawak are said to live. It seems the legends are true, for the white men found those islands twenty years ago. First they destroyed the Taino and the Arawak and seized their lands, then they brought in countless settlers from their own even more distant country far off across the great ocean, and now they’ve come here intending to inflict the same doom on us.’
‘I don’t understand how you can know this.’ Ah Kinchil sounded peevish but also, Malinal thought, afraid.
Looking repulsively pleased with himself, Muluc clapped his hands, the outer doors opened and a short man of middle years with a pronounced stoop, long unbraided hair and crossed eyes entered the chamber, made the obeisances appropriate to great lords, and came padding barefoot across the floor. ‘This is the warrior the white men stole from us last year,’ Muluc announced proudly. ‘His name is Cit Bolon Tun.’
‘He doesn’t look like much of a warrior,’ Ah Kinchil said.
‘Perhaps not, uncle; but with respect that is not my point.’
‘Well, what is your point then?’
Muluc sighed. ‘My point is that Cit Bolon Tun has spent many months living with the white men! They taught him their language, always intending to use him to communicate their wishes to us. They kept him under guard, but this afternoon in the confusion of battle he escaped and returned to our side. It is because of what he has told me about them that I know these white men are not gods. I ask you to hear him.’
Now it was Ah Kinchil’s turn to sigh. ‘Nephew,’ he said, ‘I am confused … In all your reports about the white men before tonight, you have said that one of them is a fluent speaker of our language and that it is through him you talk to their chief. Now suddenly you present this Cit Bolon whatshisname to me and say that he is their interpreter. Which is true?’
‘Both statements are true, lord,’ interrupted Cit Bolon Tun, making further obeisances. ‘The white men did kidnap me when they came here last year. They did take me back to the islands they have seized from the Taino and the Arawak. They did attempt to teach me their horrible language. And they did bring me to serve as their interpreter. But on their way here they heard that one of their own, a man named Aguilar, was living amongst the Yucatec Maya …’
‘How can that be?’ asked Ah Kinchil.
‘Eight years ago a boat of theirs sank in the great ocean and this Aguilar was washed up on the northern shores of the Yucatán. He became the prisoner of Acquincuz, the lord of a small town, who kept him as a slave. The Spaniards – that is the name by which the white men are called – heard of this and sent some of their soldiers to seize Aguilar from Acquincuz. They succeeded and he became their interpreter, displacing me. When we came finally to Potonchan I sought the first opportunity to escape, took off the Spanish clothes they made me wear and hung them in a tree, fled away naked and sought sanctuary with Lord Muluc …’
‘I see,’ said Ah Kinchil, rubbing his chin, ‘I see.’ His rheumy eyes were fixed on Cit Bolon Tun. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘tell me about these Spaniards.’
‘That thing Muñoz said about me …’ Melchior’s voice was so low as to be barely audible, even to Pepillo who stood right by his side.
‘He was lying!’ Pepillo whispered. ‘I know he was lying …’
Another long silence from Melchior and then: ‘Well, no … he wasn’t. Not exactly. That’s what I want to tell you.’
You may want to tell me, Pepillo thought, but I’m not sure I want to hear. ‘We don’t need to talk about this,’ he said. ‘We don’t need to talk about Muñoz! He was evil but he’s dead and he’ll never hurt anyone again.’
Melchior’s face shone in the moonlight and he shook his head as though denying something. ‘The fact is,’ he continued, ‘the bastard was telling the truth. He did have me. But it wasn’t for pay, like he pretended. It wasn’t for a peso!’ A great sob heaved in his chest and he struggled for a moment to stifle it. ‘They beat me half senseless,’ he said finally, ‘and then they both had me.’
Pepillo’s face was suddenly burning and his head reeled. What in heaven was Melchior telling him. ‘They?’ he asked. ‘Who were they?’
‘Why Muñoz and his page, of course, the devil. His name was Angel! Can you believe that? He was a year older than me. Bigger too. Muñoz had corrupted him and they worked together, hunting down Indian boys for the Inquisitor’s pleasure. They kept after me – after my arse – but I always managed to give them the slip. Then the Maya killed seventy of Córdoba’s men here in Potonchan. That was Muñoz’s fault, too, burning “lapsed converts”. Poor souls! How could they have been converted to anything when he could only speak to them in signs? And if not truly converted, then how could they be said to have lapsed? He pushed these people to the limit in his zeal for God, so no wonder they attacked us in the end. There were barely enough of us left alive to sail the fleet back, and most too sick or injured to notice what was happening with the high and mighty Inquisitor and his rat-faced bastard page. We were eighteen days at sea, long enough for mischief to be done. One night, when no one was looking, they dragged me into his cabin, beat me until I could not stand and held me down over his table. That was how Muñoz had me! And when he was done Angel had me too.’
Pepillo felt a great ache of compassion. ‘Oh Melchior,’ he said. ‘Now I understand! No wonder you hated Muñoz so …’ Without thinking he reached out to touch his friend’s arm.
‘Wait!’ Melchior said, shrugging him off. ‘I don’t want your pity and there’s more to tell. After they raped me I wanted revenge and I swore, Pepillo, I swore to everything that’s holy, that I would kill them both or die in the attempt. Two nights later – we were far out to sea – I found Angel on his own on the aftcastle. We struggled but my anger made me strong and I threw him overboard. No one saw it happen, just as no one saw what happened to me.’
Pepillo gasped. ‘But you told me … You said—’
‘That Muñoz had killed his page? Yes, when Angel disappeared that’s what everyone on the expedition believed and I saw no need to correct them. But they were wrong! I was the one who killed him, and proud of it too! As for Muñoz, I didn’t get the chance on the rest of that voyage and I thought I might have to wait years before fate crossed my path with his again. So when I heard he’d been appointed Inquisitor to this expedition, I couldn’t believe my luck …’
Pepillo was thinking things over, vividly reliving the events of the past weeks. The way that Muñoz had behaved, the way Melchior had so obviously hated him, the way he himself had been drawn into the plot to kill the Inquisitor, all made perfect sense in the light of what he now knew.
‘Well,’ said Melchior, as the brigantine slowed and the lantern-lit waterfront of Potonchan loomed ahead on the bank of the dark river, ‘I’ve given you the truth. I owed you that after nearly getting you killed. I won’t blame you if you think the less of me.’
‘I don’t think the less of you,’ Pepillo said. ‘I think you’re brave and you’ve righted an injustice and I’m proud to count you as my friend.’ He hesitated, turned his gaze to the great dark shape of Molinero standing quietly nearby and added: ‘You did nearly get me killed, though – so the least you can do is teach me how to ride a horse.’
Eavesdropping from the kitchen, Malinal heard almost every word of Cit Bolon Tun’s story.
She found herself rebelling against it and at the same time was persuaded by it.
Perhaps, she supposed, even though she had always doubted, this was because some other part of her – the part still deeply connected to Tozi – did very much want to believe that these white men, these ‘Spaniards’, were indeed the companions of Quetzalcoatl, returning to right all the injustices of the world, and that perhaps their leader could even be Quetzalcoatl himself.
Her mind was in flux on the matter. First she had joyfully abandoned her doubts when she recognised the hand of the gods in bringing her back to Potonchan at the exact moment of the strangers’ own return. But now, as she listened to what Cit Bolon Tu
n had to say, all her scepticism flooded in on her again with renewed force. This was because the men he described were undoubtedly men, not gods, who had taken him to their island where he saw many strange and wondrous things that were, nonetheless, quite clearly the work of men – very clever men, very cunning men, but certainly not gods. And when Cit Bolon Tun related how these strange-looking white men had seized that island twenty years before from its native inhabitants, a people known in the legends of the Maya as the Taino and seemingly still called that today, her blood ran cold – for rather than bringing peace, harmony and progress with them, the ‘Spaniards’ had inflicted terrible massacres and tortures upon the Taino, burnt them to death in fires, stolen all their lands and all their possessions, and for the most part obliterated them from the earth, except for a few survivors whom they kept as slaves.
She did not think Cit Bolon Tun was lying about any of this. His words had the ring of authentic experience and truth.
Moreover the powerful, remarkable, incredibly dangerous weapons of the ‘Spaniards’ were just that – weapons, made by human artifice – and not godlike devices endowed with unknowable supernatural properties. The shining ‘skin’ that the stone-tipped spears and arrows of the Maya could not penetrate was nothing more than armour! There was nothing godlike about it, and without it, or if struck in vulnerable, unprotected parts of their bodies, the white men could be killed like any other men. Both the Maya and the Mexica used armour made of padded cotton, so there should be no surprise or awe here. The only difference was that the Spaniards’ armour was better, harder, stronger because it was made of metal. It was not even as though the Maya and the Mexica did not know of metals, because they did, and boasted skilled workers in soft copper and bronze. It was just that the metallurgy of the white men was far more advanced than theirs and extended to exceptionally hard and durable metals called iron and steel, which their clever artificers were able to fashion not only into armour but also into axes, spear-tips, arrowheads, daggers and the terrible long knives they called ‘swords’.