Benicio took a tamale from the platter, then helped himself to another. He was ravenously hungry and the Totonac Chief and his advisors had encouraged the Spanish sailors to eat their fill. They were allies of the Totonacs now and had been for many weeks. Captain Cortés and the great, fat Totonac Chief had made it so.
Benicio peered down the length of the wooden table at the other Spaniards who had been invited to the banquet—eight work-weary men spearing the guava and zapote fruits, reaching hungrily for the roasted turkey and tortoise meat, and swilling the exotic cacao beverage as if it were the finest wine.
At least he was not alone in his hunger. He reached for a papaya spear and let its sweetness fill his senses, remembering the day he had watched Luisa do the same. Since then, he could not seem to get enough of the delicious fruit. And after a long day labouring to construct the first building of their new colonial settlement, Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, the papaya tasted especially sweet.
‘Soon we will have a proper church,’ Cortés was saying from the head of the table. ‘A place to start converting these pagan heathens.’ The Captain smiled politely across the table at the fat Chief, as if he had just paid him some gentle compliment.
If only the Chief knew the extent of Cortés’s treachery. Just a few days before, Cortés had convinced the Totonacs to take five Mexica Tribute Takers prisoner. The Totonacs had protested at first, knowing that such an abduction would be perceived by Montezuma and the Mexica as an act of war. ‘We shall triumph against the Mexica together,’ Cortés had argued and finally persuaded them to do his bidding. The Totonacs had seized the Takers and imprisoned them.
The next night, under cover of darkness, Cortés freed the captured Takers and gave them a message for Emperor Montezuma: Captain Cortés has freed us from the Totonac traitors. Cortés is still our friend.
It was a brilliant ploy, for Cortés had demonstrated his commitment to the Totonac rebellion while remaining in the good graces of Montezuma. Benicio could only hope that Cortés had engineered such a betrayal in order to avoid sending the Spanish sailors to war.
He bit into another papaya spear, but it had lost its sweetness. What on earth was he doing here? He had his diamond prize. Why did he not simply abandon this company of devils?
Benicio watched several young women walk up and down the length of the banquet table, refilling the men’s water goblets, replenishing foods, and clearing plates. Unlike many of his compatriots, Benicio took care not to leer at the comely young Totonac maidens. Still, he found himself searching their faces, hoping to find his thief among them.
She was why he stayed—or rather, the knowledge she carried. She was one of two other people in the world—himself and Rogelio—who had seen the treasure map. But she was more fortunate than both Rogelio and Benicio combined, because she recognised the configuration that had been depicted on that thin swatch of cloth. ‘Tenochtitlan,’ she had said.
She knew where the treasure was hidden.
Demonios. She was probably already camped outside the Mexica capital city with her husband or lover, making some daring plan to extract the treasure. He might have believed any other woman incapable of such boldness, but this woman was different. She was the kind of woman who would steal the gold right out of a man’s mouth.
He had been a fool to show her the map. Why, then, had he done it? Perhaps he sensed in her some deep curiosity—the kind required to solve puzzles. It had certainly taken her little time to solve his.
Tenochtitlan. Her big eyes had flashed as the difficult name flitted off her tongue. She had slanted him a knowing grin, as if she also knew exactly which parts of the Mexica capital city were being depicted. He had managed to take back his ring from her, yes, but he had given her something infinitely more valuable: his secret.
‘Would you pass the octli, friend?’ asked Rogelio, his voice syrupy sweet. He had taken the seat beside Benicio and little wonder. After Benicio had rejoined Cortés’s company, Rogelio had become like a fly Benicio could not manage to swat away. He hovered near Benicio always, studying him, as if any moment Benicio might reveal where he had hidden the priest’s precious ring. Benicio placed the pitcher of octli squarely before Rogelio, but did not offer to pour. Rogelio made a scolding sound, then poured most of the alcoholic liquid into his cup. He swilled it down in a single draught and let out a long, satisfied belch. A young Totonac woman ambled over to refill the pitcher, but before she could complete her task, Rogelio had pulled her on to his lap.
The woman smiled tightly, trying to appear friendly, while he groped clumsily at her breasts. Encouraged by several of the other men, Rogelio held the pitcher to the young woman’s mouth and forced her to swallow a long draught of the milky beverage.
Benicio cringed. The men knew that the ceremonial drink was reserved for Totonac elders, priests and honoured guests. Women were only allowed to consume octli on feast days and on special occasions like weddings. The young woman’s forced draught was followed by a fit of coughs. Before she could catch her breath, Rogelio kissed her violently.
‘Stop it, idiota!’ snarled Benicio. ‘You harm her.’
Rogelio grinned crookedly, continuing to grope, then released her to a cacophony of cheers.
The Totonac Chief had asked Cortés to invite his eight ‘most deserving’ men to this banquet. Instead of his highest-ranking officers, however, Cortés had chosen this motley crew, which included Rogelio and several other ruffians who tended to cause chaos in the ranks. Cortés had also invited a few men like Benicio, who were well respected but known to disagree with Cortés’s methods.
That was Cortés’s genius, thought Benicio. He had invited the biggest troublemakers and the likeliest mutineers to be placated by the hospitality of others.
Now Cortés stood to address his host. ‘I would like to thank Chief Tlacochcalcatl of the mighty nation of the Totonacs for his generous hospitality,’ began Cortés.
On his left, a Spanish priest by the name of Aguilar jumped to his feet. Aguilar and a man named Guerrero had been shipwrecked in Maya territory long ago. When he had heard of Cortés’s arrival on the coast, Aguilar had sought him. Guerrero, however, would not come. Amazingly, he had found a Maya wife and an adoptive tribe and was making a family somewhere deep in the jungle.
Now Aguilar translated Cortés’s words into Maya, then nodded to a beautiful native woman called Malinali, who translated his Maya words into Nahuatl.
The chain of translation complete, the Totonac Chief nodded in understanding.
It was a slow tedious process, and the Totonac councilmen seated near Cortés passed a tobacco pipe between them. A small dog hovered in the doorway, its eager tail thumping the ground. Outside, Benicio heard the shrieks of monkeys accompanied by a symphony of birds. He smelled flowers on the warm breeze. For a suspended moment, he entertained an unfamiliar feeling of contentment. He imagined that he was Guerrero and that this rich, colourful new world had everything he needed.
Cortés continued, ‘As you know, venerable Chief, my men and I suffer from a peculiar disease of the heart.’
As the translated words reached the Chief’s ears, he lifted his chin in interest.
‘It is a disease,’ Cortés continued, ‘that can only be cured with gold.’
The Chief sighed. ‘We are aware of the Spaniards’ interest in that rare metal,’ the Chief responded gruffly, for he had been conspicuously unable to supply the Spanish with much of it.
‘We have received many gifts of gold from your overlord Montezuma,’ said Cortés, ‘and have heard of the wealth of the Mexica capital. We are aggrieved, however, that Montezuma and the Mexica keep our friends the Totonacs as vassals. Therefore, we shall rest ourselves until such time as we have recovered our strength for a march with the Totonacs on Tenochtitlan.’
Benicio sat up. Had he heard correctly? Cortés meant to march on Tenochtitlan? Benicio’s heart began to beat, though he told himself that it could be another bluff. Montezuma’s emissaries had paid Cortés handsomely to return to Cuba. Did Cortés really mean to march into the heart of the Mexican Empire?
‘The Totonacs are grateful for the friendship of the Spaniards,’ said the Totonac Chief. ‘And we welcome their aid in overcoming our Mexica oppressors. But we urge Captain Cortés to act more quickly. The Mexica have taken forty of our young nobles to Tenochtitlan for sacrifice. We entreat the Spaniards to join with us now on a mission to get them back.’
Cortés smiled even before the Chief’s words had been completely translated. It was as if he had planted his own intentions inside the fat chief’s mind.
Benicio did not know how to feel. It seemed that his fondest wish had just come true. The Spanish company would march to Tenochtitlan, where the map showed his golden treasure was buried. But Cortés’s intentions remained unclear. Did he plan to demand justice for the Totonacs, or did he have some other end in mind?
‘Are there others who will join us against the Mexica?’ Cortés asked.
‘The Tlaxcalans of the high mountains will surely join us,’ said the Chief. ‘They have never succumbed to the Mexica, though they live only a two days’ journey from the capital.’
‘The Tlaxcalans, eh?’ said Cortés. ‘Can you guarantee their support?’
The Chief hesitated. ‘I cannot. But we the Totonacs shall support you in any way we can. And to encourage your quick action, I wish to bestow upon you the most precious gifts that the Totonacs have to give. Let them be a symbol of the alliance between our peoples. Let them inspire you to our cause.’