Tenochtitlan, Capital of the Empire of the
Mexica—November 8th, 1519
It is so close, Benicio thought, feeling the itch of mutiny beneath his skin. He saw the twin platforms of the Templo Mayor looming in the distance, towering over the great floating city of Tenochtitlan. He had finally arrived. Somewhere inside that holy building, the treasure awaited him.
It had taken the Spanish–Totonac–Tlaxcalan company all morning to make its way down the long wooden bridge linking the capital of the Mexica Empire with the world beyond. Now they stood at the gates of the city they knew Cortés secretly meant to conquer, wondering whether they would be welcomed or slaughtered.
Montezuma II, the Emperor of the Mexica, stepped from his bejewelled litter in sandals stitched with gold. A giant man wearing the head of a black jaguar came forward and draped a massive feather headdress about the monarch’s broad shoulders.
With the splendid cloak in place, Montezuma seemed to rise above everyone in his company and when Cortés dismounted his horse and stepped forward, he was dwarfed by the strong, stoic priest–King.
Cortés moved to embrace Montezuma, but he was stopped by the emperor’s attendants. Unfazed, Cortés held out his hand. The Emperor acknowledged the proffered hand, but did not take it. He whispered something to one of his advisors, who motioned to Cortés’s ring, then gently took Cortés’s hand and held it up for the monarch to study. Montezuma marvelled at the ring for several moments and Benicio had the profound sense that the fate of the world was being written, as well as something of his own.
He wished Tula were here, by his side, witnessing the culmination of their difficult journey. Surely she would be placing some enchantress’s spell on Montezuma, the man who had ordered the sacrifice of so many Totonacs, and would be glaring at him with eyes full of scorn. Soon, however, her curiosity would take over and she would become fascinated with the history being written before her eyes.
Cortés made bold to present a necklace of pearls to Montezuma, who reciprocated with two necklaces of his own. Benicio saw a sly smile cross Cortés’s lips as his new friend Montezuma made a welcome gesture. Come, friend, and see my beautiful city, he seemed to be saying to Cortés. And so it was that Montezuma invited the Spanish–Totonac–Tlaxcalan army into his great city, and the world would never be the same.
If Tlaxcala was a church and Cholula a cathedral, then Tenochtitlan was the Vatican itself. Benicio could scarcely believe his eyes as they travelled past garden islands bursting with vegetables and crops, permanently watered by the very lake that surrounded them. But the agricultural wonders were just a start. With its endless gathering halls, schools and tlachtli courts, its coddled gardens, pristine parks and even a menagerie featuring animals of every shape and colour, Tenochtitlan seemed to shout out its greatness to all who would listen.
Benicio was listening. Against his captain’s commands, he smiled and waved at the jubilant children and the throngs of boatmen, who followed in canals that paralleled the roads, just as they did in Venice.
Soon, the holy precinct of Tenochtitlan rose up around them in a fluorescence of shapes and colours. At its heart was a large plaza that appeared to be perfectly aligned to the four directions, with sets of pyramids to mark each. At the plaza’s head rose the tallest and most magnificent edifice of them all—the double pyramid that the Spanish called the Templo Mayor.
‘There it is, Tula,’ Benicio muttered to himself. ‘Perhaps your sister is inside somewhere.’
The Spaniards were quartered in the grand palace of Montezuma’s late father, which lay but a few hundred paces to the north of the Templo Mayor itself. The rooms were luxurious and comfortable, with lavish wooden furniture and bed mats stuffed with duck feathers.
Still, sleep eluded Benicio that night. He knew that Tula’s sister and the other captives were being kept somewhere near, he just did not know where. Nor had Rogelio told Benicio where the treasure lay, saying only that he would tell him when the time was right. Benicio could not wait any longer. He did not want to be in Tenochtitlan when Cortés unleashed his cannons.
Benicio pulled on his boots and padded quietly down the tile hallway. When he pushed open the door, he gasped in surprise. Tenochtitlan’s holy precinct spread before him, awash in moonlight. The full moon must have risen sometime after dark, for now it glowed at the top of the sky, illuminating everything.
Benicio wandered across the plaza, not surprised to find himself standing at the foot of the Templo Mayor. There was not a trace of blood upon its steep steps and Benicio wondered if they had been washed in anticipation of the Spanish arrival. The glowing white structure did not seem ominous, as Benicio had feared, but beautiful and holy. It beckoned him and he began to climb.
For the first time since he had touched the shores of this new world, he was doing something he truly wished to do. He lunged up the stone steps, huffing his breaths. Was he mad, or did the moon seem closer already?
He wondered if Tula was looking up at it, too.
Benicio arrived upon the large platform at the top of the pyramid, panting and spent. He was rewarded with the most beautiful view he had ever beheld. Tenochtitlan, surely the greatest city in the world, slept beneath the moon. There was no movement in the streets or canals, and the limewashed buildings seemed to bask in the otherworldly light. Beyond the city, the inky waters of Lake Texcoco spread out like a dark skirt.
Like Tula’s skirt, he thought. He wondered where Tula was right now. Did she still cringe at the memory of his cruelty to her? Or had it faded with time, as the blood upon the map Benicio carried?
Over the past several years, Benicio had filled his heart with many regrets about the things he had done. Strangely, none stung so sharply as the wrong he had done to her that day by the river. And as hard as he had tried to forget Tula, she always sneaked into his thoughts. Just like a thief.
Benicio stared out at the moonstruck city for many long moments. He had known her for but a short time, but it was as if he had known her for much longer. And now, he missed her. God, how he missed her. His thief. His ally. His Tula.
Was he mad, or was the sky already beginning to change? He thought he could see the faint brush of light marking the beginning of the sunrise and it occurred to him that if he was facing east, it meant the Templo Mayor was the westernmost temple in Tenochtitlan.
That was strange. The Maya priest’s map showed that the Templo Mayor lay in the north, not the west. Perhaps the old priest had not oriented the map to the true directions. Surely that was the case. If Benicio had been trying to draw a map on his own deathbed, he probably would have made the same error.
He peered behind him at the expansive platform that held the two sacred temples: on the left, the temple dedicated to the Rain God, Tlaloc; on the right, the temple dedicated to the Sun God, Huitzilopochtli. By day Benicio had observed the temples’ distinguishing colours: for Tlaloc, dark blue, like the water; for Huitzilopochtli, yellow-red, like the rising sun.
He stood on Tlaloc’s side of the platform and far from the terrifying rack of skulls on Huitzilopochtli’s side. Between the two temples was a menacing empty table that stood at waist height and stretched the length of a person. Benicio shivered, imagining the doomed souls who awaited their deaths in this terrible place.
The air stirred somewhere close, tickling the hairs on his chest. Perhaps the Wind God Quetzalcoatl was telling him that it was time to go. He stepped close to the edge of the steep steps and took one last look at the moon.
‘Goodnight, Tula,’ he said.
A familiar voice rose up from below the pyramid’s edge.
‘Goodnight, Benicio.’