It would be reasonable to suppose that Cortés, on reflection, felt qualms at the imprudence of his behaviour at the temple. It had been much more offensive than he had originally intended. He had incensed the priesthood, and thereby weakened Montezuma’s authority, the maintenance of which was a prime necessity. But he does not seem to have realized that he had gone too far. It was as though he were satisfied that the Cross and the Virgin, now standing over against the Devil’s impersonations, would confound them and render impotent their ministers.
If this was his anticipation, he had miscalculated. Bernal writes that shortly afterwards the priests reported to Montezuma that the Smoking Mirror had ordered all the Spaniards to be killed. If their order were not obeyed, they would forsake the city.
On getting this message, which presumably came from the Chief Priest, the second member of the Council, who had so far supported him, Montezuma was brought face to face with his dilemma. If he disobeyed the gods and they abandoned Mexico, the cosmic order, which it was the sole object of the religion to maintain, would be disrupted. Without the Humming Bird, the god of war, victims could not be procured. If Tlaloc absented himself, it would not rain. If Xipe departed, the maize would not sprout. If Tonatiuh went elsewhere, the sun would not rise. Such a general strike of the forces of nature would be the end of Mexico, the end of the world. On the other hand, for him to give the order for his army to destroy Quetzalcoatl along with his followers would be to commit sacrilege against the Eastern Quarter of the sky, against the Morning Star, the harbinger of dawn, and against the Wind, who swept the road for the rain clouds. That the gods might lay this duty upon him or in default themselves destroy Quetzalcoatl, thereafter punishing him and his people for disobedience, had been the terror haunting him from the beginning.
But now it occurred to him that the middle course which he had kept throughout might still avert complete disaster. The situation, discreetly handled, might even turn to his advantage. If he used it to achieve what he had always striven for, though latterly with diminishing hope, namely Quetzalcoatl’s departure, the gods would waive their order to kill him and the crisis would be over.
He sent an urgent message to Cortés asking him to call. There may have been rumours of unrest in the city, for Cortés, on receiving the summons, hastened over to the royal apartments. Montezuma came to the point at once. ‘I am deeply distressed to have to inform you,’ he said, ‘that the gods have ordered me to make war on you. On thinking it over I have come to the conclusion that the best course for you all is to leave the city at once before the attack begins. It is a question of your lives. Nothing else can save them.
On hearing these words, says Bernal, ‘Cortés was a good deal disquieted. And that was not to be wondered at. The warning had come so suddenly and had been uttered with such insistence on our danger.’ But it was not Cortés’ nature to be upset for long, and he collected himself in a moment. The greater the danger, the cooler he always grew, and the more resourceful and the craftier. He began his reply by thanking Montezuma sincerely for the warning and advice. Then, his voice changing, he said he would gladly take the advice and go, were he not troubled by two difficulties. ‘For one thing,’ he said, ‘I have no ships to sail away in; for another, you would have to come with us, for our Emperor would want to see you.’ This last, no doubt, was a bit of bluff, which, if it frightened Montezuma, would make him more amenable. It did frighten him. He apparently accepted it as a mandate which he would have to obey, and was very cast down, though he could not have been carried away against his will. Was it, as before, that he dared not disobey the god except in those cases where disobedience would have embroiled him fatally with the other gods? Or was it that in crediting Cortés with godhead, he credited him also with a reserve of magical power, which in certain conjunctions of time, place and direction would have the force of an enchantment? The magical system of the Mexicans was very intricate, far more so than would suggest the simplifications which for clarity’s sake I have been obliged to employ. Every moment of their lives was governed by its rules. Montezuma may have worked out the magical equation which represented his relation to Cortés and have deduced conclusions from it that applied to this occasion. That there should be such difficulty in explaining so comparatively minor a point shows how little we can penetrate into the maze of his thoughts.
Though Cortés had scored a point and saved his face, the danger was very real. He went on to say that though for want of ships he could not go at once, he would send orders to the garrison at Vera Cruz to have three ships built. Montezuma was relieved to hear this and said he would supply carpenters to help the shipwrights. ‘They shall be instructed,’ he said, ‘to hurry and not waste time in talk. Meanwhile I will command the priests and military not to stir up disturbances in the city and direct that the gods be appeased with sacrifices.’ And added: ‘Though not of human beings.’
That Cortés intended to leave when the ships were ready need not be assumed. Their building was both a precaution and a way of gaining time.
The Spaniards now passed through an anxious week or so. Bernal writes: ‘We all went about in low spirits, fearing that at any moment they might attack us. Our friends from Tlaxcala and Doña Marina also told the Captain that an attack was probable, and Orteguilla, Montezuma’s page, was always in tears. Neither by day nor night did we ever take off our arms or gorgets or leggings, and we slept in them. Maybe some will ask what the beds were like. They were nothing but a little straw and a mat.’
The thought of these exciting days sets him talking of himself, a thing he rarely does, which is a pity, for he was a delightful character. ‘I want to say, though not with the intention of boasting about it, that I grew so accustomed to sleeping fully dressed and on a mat, that after the conquest I kept to the habit and I slept better thus than if properly in bed. There is another thing, too, I must mention. I am only able to sleep for a short time of a night, and have to get up and look at the heavens and the stars, and walk about for a time in the dew. This I do without putting a cap or handkerchief on my head. I am so used to it that, thank God, it does me no harm. But I must stop talking like this, for I am wandering from my story.’