Tied hand and foot on the floor of the senate, Mamexi and Teuch, the two Totonac emissaries, shuffled uncomfortably. Town chiefs with a few grey hairs, they were vassals of fat Tlacoch of Cempoala, whose name they’d waved about like a charm. They’d clearly not expected to be taken prisoner and beaten bloody when they’d turned up in Tlascala late that afternoon after a hard trek of a day and a half from Xocotlan. Mamexi was so upset he was sobbing like a baby, with tears running down his face and snot dribbling from his nose.
‘I propose a more temperate course,’ said Shikotenka’s wizened father, known to one and all – for the avoidance of confusion – as Shikotenka the Elder. ‘The white men claim they want peace with us; in fact they claim they want to help us in our … ’ He paused and looked at the Totonacs: ‘How did the leader of the white men put it?’ he asked.
Mamexi, who had the big ears and narrow chin of a climbing rat, was too distressed to speak, but Teuch, stolid and practical, had a better grip on himself. ‘The lord Cortés,’ he stammered, ‘bade us tell you he comes to help Tlascala in her heroic struggle against the tyrant Moctezuma.’
‘There’s nothing in that I find offensive,’ said the elderly chief. ‘I say we welcome this Cortés and learn more.’
‘We don’t need his help, father,’ said Shikotenka, ‘and besides, I don’t believe his sweet words. My spies have watched the strangers since they first made camp on the sands near Cuetlaxtlan—’
‘Where you rashly picked a fight with them,’ interrupted Shikotenka the Elder, ‘and your friend Acolmiztli was killed. It’s since then you’ve borne a grudge against these strangers. Try to set your personal feelings aside, and choose only a policy in the best interests of Tlascala.’
‘I am doing so, father, and I repeat that we have watched the white-skins closely since Cuetlaxtlan. Our spies followed them when they moved to Cempoala and Huitztlan, and now we see them in Xocotlan. They’ve been served by the Mexica and their slaves the Totonacs all the way, and they’ve received three top-rank embassies from Tenochtitlan, one of which included Prince Guatemoc. Now the white men gather their strength in Xocotlan, close to our border, where they’re treated as honoured guests on the orders of Moctezuma himself. It makes no sense for them to be there, enjoying the tyrant’s hospitality, unmolested by his garrison, if they’ve really come to aid our struggle against him. Surely the opposite is true? Surely they’ve come to aid Moctezuma against us?’
‘The lord Cortés is very cunning, sire,’ Teuch dared to interrupt, ‘but we have learnt to trust him. He means to destroy Moctezuma.’
‘Which he’s going to do with things like this?’ sneered Shikotenka, picking up the long, gleaming metal knife that the emissaries had brought as a present, together with a strange kind of bow with a string that was stretched so tight it couldn’t be drawn.
‘These and other things, lord. The things they call “guns”, from which thunder and lightning blast forth to kill their enemies.’
‘Some say these “guns” are fire-serpents,’ offered venerable Maxixcatzin, who served as deputy to both Shikotenkas. ‘I’m told they killed thousands of the Maya with them at Potonchan.’
‘And we’ve seen they ride on the backs of deer and wear metal armour,’ added Tree. Although he’d recovered from the wounds he’d received months before in the fight on the beach at Cuetlaxtlan, he bore, as a memento of that night, a hideous, jagged scar down the left side of his face. ‘Some say they are tueles.’ He stuck out a large bare foot and gave Mamexi a shove. ‘What say you, Totonacs? Are these strangers tueles?’
Again it was Teuch who did the talking: ‘Truly they are tueles, lord. They are the tueles who captured the great Moctezuma’s tax gatherers and ordered that no one in the hills and cities of the Totonacs should pay tribute or send sacrifices to the Mexica again. They are the tueles who threw our tueles out of our temples and put their own in. They are the tueles who conquered the people of Potonchan and Cintla. They have great strength, these tueles. None may stand against them.’
Shikotenka had suddenly had enough of this womanish gabble. What his father said was true. He’d hated the white-skins with a passion since the one with golden hair had killed Acolmiztli on the beach at Cuetlaxtlan and now, the more he heard about them, the less he liked them. They were not tueles! They were invaders, intruders, interlopers. They had no right to be here, riding in their metal armour on the backs of deer, deploying fearsome unknown weapons, double-dealing with the Mexica and bullying and commanding the other peoples of this land. He ran his thumb down the edge of the long metal knife – as long as a man’s leg, sharp as obsidian, heavy and horribly strong. Residing within it was a cold, lurking power, like some deadly serpent; the power that had gutted and skewered his friend Acolmiztli and drowned him in his own blood.
Out of nowhere, an awful premonition shook Shikotenka. These strangers were indeed here to destroy Moctezuma, as they had already boasted they would, but they would not be content with that. Unless they were stopped, and stopped now, they would sweep over the whole land and destroy everyone else as well. The Maya, the Totonacs, the Tlascalans, the Huexotzincos, the Texcocans, the Tacubans, the Otomies, even the Chichemecs in their remote deserts – all would fall, all would be made slaves, all would be humbled, never to rise again. As the stated target of the strangers’ relentless advance, and as the greatest power in Mexico, it was Moctezuma – surely above all others? – who had the responsibility to confront them and drive them out; but instead of fighting them, the cowardly fool had befriended them, sent them rich gifts, sent his nephew Guatemoc as his ambassador to them, and obliged his vassals to provide them with warriors and bearers.
Shikotenka realised that at some point in the past few moments he’d made his decision, and now neither his father, nor his deputy Maxixcatzin, nor any of the other senators were going to talk him out of it. He got to his feet and prowled around the cowering emissaries. ‘You came here with lies and falsehoods from that traitor Moctezuma,’ he roared. ‘And you tell us no one can stand against those you name tueles. But we Tlascalans will stand! We’re going to kill your so-called tueles and eat their flesh. Then we’ll see whether they’re as strong as you say.’
Following his spectacular victory over the Mexica six months before – and it had been his victory, since he’d planned it, prepared it, carried out the decisive raid and bested, though unfortunately not killed, Guatemoc in a knife fight – Shikotenka’s status had never been higher. He was a king and the son of a king, but while his ancient father still ruled supreme in civil matters, in matters of commerce and business, in matters of law, custom and religion, the fact was that he, Shikotenka the Younger, was the battle-king of the Tlascalans and his word carried the greatest weight when it came to war.
‘The white-skins are not tueles but men,’ he said, turning on the balls of his feet, looking round the benches and addressing every one of the thirty senators. ‘I know because I have fought with them; so too has Tree, so too Chipahua, so too Ilhuicamina, and we all say they are men, and it is as men, not gods, that they are dangerous – a powerful military force supported by the vassals of our sworn enemy. I say we cannot and must not welcome them. I say the only honourable course of action open to us is to fight them to the death if they take even a single step onto our land.’
As Shikotenka had expected, Tree, Ilhuicamina and Chipahua immediately seconded him. All three of them had been injured fighting the white-skinned warrior on the beach at Cuetlaxtlan, and Tree and Ilhuicamina had only recently recovered their full faculties after resting long in the infirmary. They knew in the most direct and immediate way possible how dangerous the white-skins were, and their word carried weight with the senators who one by one cast their votes in support. Shikotenka’s father was the last to agree to war in the event that the strangers crossed the Tlascalan border. ‘My young son,’ he said, deliberately echoing the words of his famous song, ‘you leader of men. I will not stand in your way but I fear this is a decision
you may come to regret. You are brash and full of confidence now, but tell me, if you lose on the battlefield, what then do you propose?’
‘We are Tlascalans, fighting for our homeland. We will not lose.’
‘But even so, if these white men defeat you, what will you do?’
‘What would you wish me to do, father?’
‘You must take it as a sign from the gods that the cause of the white men is just, and if they truly mean to march against Moctezuma, then you must march at their side.’
Shikotenka smiled. ‘I accept, father … but we will not lose!’
‘And in the meantime, what shall we do with these Totonacs?’ The question came from Maxixcatzin, who was pointing his staff of office at the two bound emissaries on the floor.
‘Hold them in the fattening pen while I ready the army,’ Shikotenka replied. ‘We’ll sacrifice them and eat their flesh with chillies before we depart.’
A loud wail from Mamexi was cut short as Tree’s foot slammed into his belly. ‘Any more of that snivelling,’ the big Tlascalan told him, ‘and I’ll sacrifice you now.’
* * *
‘I hate it here!’ said Pepillo.
It was Friday 27 August, their fourth day in Xocotlan, and he was exploring the town with Malinal, Melchior prowling by their side with his hackles raised. They were in a great square, which had a small pyramid topped by a temple on its north side, and three other temples at ground level on its east, west and south sides. In front of the pyramid steps, and in front of each of the temples, were huge piles of human skulls, so neatly arranged they could be counted. Pepillo was good with numbers and volumes and he reckoned that the four piles, added together, contained more than a hundred thousand skulls.
There were in addition other grisly collections of human remains – a heap of femurs and a macabre display of skulls and bones, some with flesh still attached, strung between wooden posts and guarded by three filthy priests whose long hair was matted with dried blood.
‘Why do they do this?’ Pepillo asked, feeling sick.
‘It’s the same throughout Mexico,’ Malinal replied. ‘Everywhere the same. Our gods are demons and they’ve got inside our minds and driven us mad, making us murder each other in their name. That’s why Cortés has been sent to us, to stop all this.’
* * *
After the debacle of the summer solstice celebrations, Moctezuma had at once summoned Acopol from his work in Cholula and demanded an explanation from him, but the sorcerer had seemed unconcerned. ‘Stay in your palace, Lord Speaker,’ he’d said. ‘You will be safe from the witch here. Venture no more beyond these walls until I discover her hiding place and kill her.’ Acopol had then gone sniffing around the palace, indeed around the whole of the sacred precinct, even venturing up the great pyramid to the temple of Hummingbird, but had found no trace of her. Next he’d walked the streets of Tenochtitlan for three days, only to report at the end of his investigations that the witch was not in the city. ‘It seems, sire,’ he suggested, ‘that after her attack on you at Teotihuacan, she did not return here.’
‘Then where has she gone?’ Moctezuma snapped.
Acopol shrugged: ‘My powers are great, Lord Speaker, and they come from the god himself, but even I cannot search the whole world for this witch child. When she returns I will find her. Until then, I charge you to remain here, where my warding spells will protect you, while I complete the great task that the god has honoured me with in Cholula. What I have set in motion in that city will ensure the total destruction of the white-skins, but I rely entirely on you and your ministers to lure them there.’
‘I have already invited them to come to Tenochtitlan,’ Moctezuma said. ‘I have offered them guides and the most direct road passes through Cholula, but we cannot force them to take it.’
The expression in Acopol’s eyes had frozen Moctezuma to the bone. ‘They must take it,’ he’d said in the most sinister of tones, ‘and they must come through Cholula, for if they fail to do so, then the wishes of the god cannot be fulfilled … ’
And now, some sixty days later, the very problem Moctezuma had foreseen had come to pass. As he knew from the daily reports brought from his spies by teams of relay runners, the tueles had left a force to guard the town they had built for themselves on the coast, and had ventured into the interior, spurning all offers of guides and the fast, direct road that would have taken them through Cholula, and choosing instead to travel by a tortuous and difficult mountain route. In due course, this route had brought them to the Mexica stronghold Xocotlan, ruled for Moctezuma by his vassal Olintecle, and there they had taken up residence, enjoying the lavish hospitality and gifts that he had ordered Olintecle to provide to them. From Xocotlan it was an easy march to Cholula, but alarming reports from the spies had indicated this was not what the tueles intended to do. Instead it seemed they planned to make a diversion into the lands of the hated Tlascalans.
The prospect of an alliance between the Tlascalans and the tueles froze Moctezuma’s blood, so he had sent urgent word to Olintecle to dissuade them from this course of action, and now sat brooding in his palace, waiting to discover what the outcome would be.
* * *
Allowing a minimum of a day and a half journey time each way, and a day for deliberations, Mamexi and Teuch should have been back in Xocotlan by Saturday 28 August, but when they failed to appear, Cortés called his captains together and gave orders for the army to make ready to depart for Tlascala in two days’ time on the morning of Monday 30 August. Getting wind of this, Olintecle came to him and urged him through Malinal not to go to Tlascala under any circumstances – for the Tlascalans were the enemies of Moctezuma. In his opinion they had already killed Mamexi and Teuch and now, forewarned, would certainly be preparing to attack Cortés. It would be much better, the chief suggested, for the Spaniards to avoid Tlascalan territory entirely and go by way of the city of Cholula, whose people were closely allied to the Mexica and would welcome them.
Speaking through Malinal, assisted in the translation by Pepillo, who improved and smoothed out her Castilian, Meco put the opposite point of view. ‘Don’t risk it,’ he advised. ‘The Cholulans are treacherous and Moctezuma has a large garrison in their town, much larger than here at Xocotlan, while the Tlascalans have always fought to keep their independence. They’re frank and fearless and they’re our friends. Mamexi and Teuch have simply lost their way and we’ll see them soon enough. To change your plans now, Lord Cortés, will make you look weak. We must go through Tlascala.’
‘What do you think?’ Cortés asked Malinal later that night when they were alone.
‘Same like I told you before. Tlascalans are – ’ she sought for the word – ‘unpredictable. Meco rely too much on Totonacs’ friendship with them.’
‘And Cholula?’
‘It sound like twisted scheme of Moctezuma. Maybe some test. Cholula is sacred to god Quetzalcoatl, who he fears you are. Maybe he want see what happen when you go there. Maybe he hope his god Hummingbird send him sign so he know what to do next.’
Again Cortés was reminded of his dream of Saint Peter, in which the Holy Father had promised him a great victory at Cholula. It was intriguing to learn now from Malinal that this city was sacred to Quetzalcoatl. ‘Could the Cholulans be potential allies for us?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think so. They Moctezuma’s – how you say? – lapdogs. Too afraid of him to be your allies, but the Tlascalans, maybe. Who knows? They crazy people. They might fight you or they might join you.’
‘God, Saint Peter and my clever Malinal always guide me honestly,’ said Cortés as he drew her close. He was more determined than ever to visit Cholula, but equally certain he was right to pay a visit to the Tlascalans first.
* * *
‘Husband, show mercy,’ said Xilonen. ‘You have many faults but you are not a bully.’
They had made love in the garden on the palace roof and now lay side by side within their private bower, gazing up through the lea
ves at the vast star-strewn depths of the night sky. Xilonen crooked one long, naked leg, lightly sheened with sweat despite the chill in the air, and rested her knee on Shikotenka’s scarred belly. ‘I beg you, husband, let them go. The Totonacs may be weak but they have never been our enemies. You’ve already had their envoys in prison for three days, but to sacrifice them because you don’t like the message they bring is unworthy of you. I would expect such an act of Moctezuma. Don’t demean yourself by stooping to his level.’
Shikotenka sighed. He was always at his most susceptible to his wife’s gentle persuasion when she had satisfied him so completely. ‘Why shouldn’t I sacrifice them?’ he complained. ‘They came here with treachery in mind—’
‘What treachery?’ She sounded scornful. ‘They offered you an alliance, not poison.’
‘The offer itself was the poison – to make us trust the very thing we should most suspect.’
‘Pah!’ Xilonen rolled fully on top of him. ‘Too much suspicion!’ He felt the pressure of her full breasts and her firm thighs. She supported herself on her hands and he saw the glint of her dark eyes as she gazed down at him. ‘Let those poor men go,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a small thing. Do it for me. The gods will bless you.’
‘Now you’re bringing the gods into it!’
‘Whatever works. I want you to let them go.’
For the first time, Shikotenka found himself giving serious thought to the possibility. Nothing would be gained by sacrificing the emissaries, but perhaps some good might come from freeing them. ‘Very well,’ he said to Xilonen, ‘if it pleases you I will release them. It seems I can refuse you nothing.’
‘In that case, may I ask your attention for one more matter?’