gold.”
There is another excited exchange between the Totonacs. Then one of them, an old man, points to the feather work pectoral that I have around my neck, something I salvaged from under the feet of the my lord’s moles the day Lord Tendile presented the golden wheel.
“My uncle wishes to know where you obtained this beautiful piece of feather work.”
“It was part of their tribute.”
The old man looks stricken.
“My cousin wore something like this when he was taken by Motecuhzoma’s tax gatherers last year,” the boy explains.
Aguilar shakes me roughly by the arm. I swear, if this brute ever touches me like this again, I will take a knife and cut out his heart myself.
“What’s going on?” he demands of me.
“They are explaining to me how the Mexica steal their children for sacrifice.”
Aguilar makes the sign of the Cross and conveys this information to Feathered Serpent. He is customarily stern, but for a moment I see something else in his face, a flicker of excitement perhaps. Our eyes meet and there is conspiracy between us; Aguilar does not exist for a moment, or any of the others. His glance lingers on me, like a lover’s.
Aguilar coughs, to remind us of his presence. My lord murmurs something.
“My lord Cortés wants to know if the Mexica have many enemies inside their federation.”
Why is he asking me this? He already knows the answer to such a question. Why else would he be here? “The whole world hates the Mexica. Everyone knows that.”
The Totonacs are growing impatient with us. “Will these teules visit us at Cempoallan?” the boy asks me. “It is only a day’s journey to the north.”
I relay the request to Aguilar, who in turn passes it on to Feathered Serpent. My lord seems not to be listening, his eyes fixed on some faraway time. He is seeing the future, I realise, and a chill passes through me.
Finally he speaks softly to Aguilar, who appears to hesitate, then gives me a look I cannot fathom. “He wants to know if you, too, hate the Mexica.”
“He is my country now.”
“That was not his question.”
“Just tell him what I said.”
I receive a hateful look from him. Oh, he is so easy to read, this priest, this hater of women. But he does as I tell him, and I see Feathered Serpent smile and I know he has translated my words precisely. Aguilar is too ingenuous to lie.
Feathered Serpent murmurs something else and gives me one last, appraising look before he turns and walks away.
“What did he say?”
“He praised you,” Aguilar tells me.
“In what way?”
“Vanity is the enemy of the soul. You have been baptised into the faith and you should practise modesty. Tell these Indians my lord Cortés will be delighted to visit them. We will leave tomorrow. That is all.”
Chapter S eventeen
Benítez opened his eyes. His mouth was dry and foul, and there was a dull pain behind his eyes. He stared at the dark thatch of the roof, heard the sonorous murmur of flies, recoiled at the rank smell of sweat and putrefaction and wood smoke.
How long had he been lying here?
Rain Flower dipped a piece of rag into a gourd of water, and wiped his forehead. She spoke some words he could not understand.
Norte’s face thrust itself into his vision. “She asks if you are feeling better.”
Benítez tried to sit up but he was too weak. The room swam in and out of focus. He thought he was going to retch.
“Don’t try to move. You must rest.”
Benítez wanted to speak but his tongue felt as if it were twice its size. Rain Flower held the wet cloth to his lips and he sucked gratefully at the cool water, like a baby at a mother’s breast. “Have I ... been ill?” he managed.
“You had the marsh fever,” Norte said. “You came close to death. The whole world was about to grieve for one less Spaniard.”
Benítez looked up at Rain Flower. He wondered how long she had been there with him. He could not understand why she might take it upon herself to nurse
There is another excited exchange between the Totonacs. Then one of them, an old man, points to the feather work pectoral that I have around my neck, something I salvaged from under the feet of the my lord’s moles the day Lord Tendile presented the golden wheel.
“My uncle wishes to know where you obtained this beautiful piece of feather work.”
“It was part of their tribute.”
The old man looks stricken.
“My cousin wore something like this when he was taken by Motecuhzoma’s tax gatherers last year,” the boy explains.
Aguilar shakes me roughly by the arm. I swear, if this brute ever touches me like this again, I will take a knife and cut out his heart myself.
“What’s going on?” he demands of me.
“They are explaining to me how the Mexica steal their children for sacrifice.”
Aguilar makes the sign of the Cross and conveys this information to Feathered Serpent. He is customarily stern, but for a moment I see something else in his face, a flicker of excitement perhaps. Our eyes meet and there is conspiracy between us; Aguilar does not exist for a moment, or any of the others. His glance lingers on me, like a lover’s.
Aguilar coughs, to remind us of his presence. My lord murmurs something.
“My lord Cortés wants to know if the Mexica have many enemies inside their federation.”
Why is he asking me this? He already knows the answer to such a question. Why else would he be here? “The whole world hates the Mexica. Everyone knows that.”
The Totonacs are growing impatient with us. “Will these teules visit us at Cempoallan?” the boy asks me. “It is only a day’s journey to the north.”
I relay the request to Aguilar, who in turn passes it on to Feathered Serpent. My lord seems not to be listening, his eyes fixed on some faraway time. He is seeing the future, I realise, and a chill passes through me.
Finally he speaks softly to Aguilar, who appears to hesitate, then gives me a look I cannot fathom. “He wants to know if you, too, hate the Mexica.”
“He is my country now.”
“That was not his question.”
“Just tell him what I said.”
I receive a hateful look from him. Oh, he is so easy to read, this priest, this hater of women. But he does as I tell him, and I see Feathered Serpent smile and I know he has translated my words precisely. Aguilar is too ingenuous to lie.
Feathered Serpent murmurs something else and gives me one last, appraising look before he turns and walks away.
“What did he say?”
“He praised you,” Aguilar tells me.
“In what way?”
“Vanity is the enemy of the soul. You have been baptised into the faith and you should practise modesty. Tell these Indians my lord Cortés will be delighted to visit them. We will leave tomorrow. That is all.”
Chapter S eventeen
Benítez opened his eyes. His mouth was dry and foul, and there was a dull pain behind his eyes. He stared at the dark thatch of the roof, heard the sonorous murmur of flies, recoiled at the rank smell of sweat and putrefaction and wood smoke.
How long had he been lying here?
Rain Flower dipped a piece of rag into a gourd of water, and wiped his forehead. She spoke some words he could not understand.
Norte’s face thrust itself into his vision. “She asks if you are feeling better.”
Benítez tried to sit up but he was too weak. The room swam in and out of focus. He thought he was going to retch.
“Don’t try to move. You must rest.”
Benítez wanted to speak but his tongue felt as if it were twice its size. Rain Flower held the wet cloth to his lips and he sucked gratefully at the cool water, like a baby at a mother’s breast. “Have I ... been ill?” he managed.
“You had the marsh fever,” Norte said. “You came close to death. The whole world was about to grieve for one less Spaniard.”
Benítez looked up at Rain Flower. He wondered how long she had been there with him. He could not understand why she might take it upon herself to nurse
Similar Books
