Книга - The Spaniard’s Innocent Maiden

The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden
Greta Gilbert


The conquistador’s true treasure…Benicio Villafuerte is sailing to the New World to seek his fortune. But his treasure map is impossible to decipher. He needs a guide, and discovering an innocent native woman in trouble is his perfect opportunity. He’ll buy her freedom if she’ll help him on his hunt…Tula never imagined the adventurer Benicio would take her on—but when their dangerous days explode into sensuous nights she is brought to life. And soon she embarks on her own quest…to capture the conquistador’s heart!







The conquistador’s true treasure...

Benicio Villafuerte sailed to the New World to seek his fortune. But his treasure map is impossible to decipher. He needs a guide, and discovering an innocent native woman in trouble is the perfect opportunity. He’ll buy her freedom if she’ll help him on his hunt...

Tula never imagined the adventure Benicio would take her on—for when their dangerous days explode into sensuous nights, she is brought to life. And soon she embarks on her own quest...to capture the conquistador’s heart!


Benicio’s heart hammered. The woman in white was so close to him, yet so completely out of his reach.

The newly elected alcalde of Vera Cruz, Alonso de Grado, stood and selected the woman in orange, bending to his knee and bowing, then escorting the young woman back to the table. Others were not so polite. Pilot Diego Cermeño took the girl in green by the elbow. Sailor Gonzalo de Umbria merely gestured to the girl in red. Then it was Benicio’s turn.

There was only one thing to be done. Benicio reached into his boot. Then he stood and walked to the head of the table. He placed the diamond and jadestone ring before Cortés.

A curious grin spread across Cortés’s face. ‘How came you by this magnificent piece?’

‘I found it in a stream near the fields of Potonchan,’ Benicio lied. ‘I have very sharp eyes.’

‘I will accept it as compensation for the woman in white,’ Cortés said.


Author Note (#ulink_cf058ace-ff26-5fc5-b389-5aa9520107e1)

This is a story of a clash of cultures and also of their fusion. It takes place during one of the cruellest, most astonishing periods in world history: Cortés’s conquest of the Aztecs, beginning in 1519.

At the time the Aztecs—or Mexica—ruled Mexico from their capital of Tenochtitlan, one of the largest and most advanced cities in the world. The Mexica were the Romans of Mesoamerica: their ever-expanding empire covered eighty thousand miles, and they exacted tribute from some six million souls—including the Totonacs.

The heroine of this story is a Totonac woman. She participates in the fateful alliance of the Totonacs and Spanish against the Mexica, but slowly realises that the Spanish are becoming her new oppressors. For her, the only hope for freedom lies in the mysterious lands of the Maya.

Often called the Greeks of Mesoamerica, the Maya lived amidst the ruins of their ancient civilisation. Culturally advanced, but geographically isolated, they were never conquered by the Mexica and evaded Spanish rule until 1697. In some respects they evade it still.

Everywhere the descendants of the Conquest live on. I have tried to present this part of their history as knowledgeably and respectfully as possible.

Thank you for reading!


The Spaniard’s Innocent Maiden

Greta Gilbert






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


GRETA GILBERT’s passion for ancient history began with a teenage crush on Indiana Jones. As an adult she landed a dream job at National Geographic Learning, where her colleagues—former archaeologists—helped her learn to keep her facts straight. Now she lives in South Baja, Mexico, where she continues to study the ancients. She is especially intrigued by ancient mysteries, and always keeps a little Indiana Jones inside her heart.

Books by Greta Gilbert

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

Enslaved by the Desert Trader

The Spaniard’s Innocent Maiden

Mills & Boon Historical Undone! eBook

Mastered by Her Slave

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


For my mom: friend, editor, counsellor, muse,

cheerleader, champion, sage, sag wagon,

overflowing fountain of love.


Contents

Cover (#ud99361df-5a80-5a3b-a7d1-1ead6650dc01)

Back Cover Text (#uc48bf52b-4027-5325-9d68-aab54a4eb837)

Introduction (#u3b59cbbc-14b0-5625-94f2-230c24b462ed)

Author Note (#ulink_4f6078cc-a7ae-5c75-811b-ed9f50a7763c)

Title Page (#u9caf7dd3-3bad-552d-81e6-69346cf475b7)

About the Author (#u26121b2f-9ff8-5bc6-9596-3f63f8c87389)

Dedication (#u4e3afb54-f8e4-5d00-8c53-0ada4213ddc0)

Prologue (#ulink_bb1d08b8-d60d-55d0-8070-c7d3e241fc02)

Chapter One (#ulink_d160a451-aece-5bb0-95e2-0f81a05312f7)

Chapter Two (#ulink_85c5c06e-c710-5d2b-935a-0a681322865a)

Chapter Three (#ulink_04ce7ca8-96cc-5354-ae2c-f62ef6987fab)

Chapter Four (#ulink_edaed7cf-28c1-513b-9e73-8742b1e4d2ed)

Chapter Five (#ulink_48482c86-2a41-59d9-b2cc-9fa103077d57)

Chapter Six (#ulink_185d129d-05c7-5697-8d04-a2ce32d58b61)

Chapter Seven (#ulink_9ebc3ce5-17ac-54c0-8265-5f3fcfdeb3f8)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue (#ulink_83b2412b-5367-5c64-9109-4dcc0db00fbb)

Seville, Spain—March 1517

Carlos dropped to his knee in the crowded marketplace, swept off his feathered hat and asked Luisa Valentina Altamirano if she would do him the honour of becoming his wife. A small stray dog, who had reluctantly agreed to play the role of Luisa, whined mournfully.

‘Release her,’ Carlos told his brother, Benicio. ‘She has made me into a fool.’

‘Indeed she has,’ agreed Benicio, releasing the scruffy canine, who took a direct route to a nearby butcher’s stall.

‘I need a more intelligent understudy,’ Carlos said, stroking his nascent beard, ‘one who will appreciate my poetry.’ Carlos eyed Benicio steadily.

‘Not I,’ Benicio protested, holding up his book of formulas. ‘I am a man of science. I am unqualified to assess your effusions of love.’

That was not entirely true. Cursed with the double-edged sword of male beauty, Benicio had had a stream of love interests over the years—women attracted by his piercing blue eyes and towering figure, which he had been told he moved with a remarkable grace. There was only one woman, however, whom Benicio had ever loved and she was about to receive a proposal of marriage from his younger brother Carlos.

‘If you will not play the role of Luisa, then I will ask Armando to do it,’ said Carlos, beckoning to their portly older brother, ‘though he is less suited to it.’

Benicio scoffed. ‘Armando is perfectly suited,’ he said. ‘Just look at how he preens before that hatters’ mirror.’ As Benicio and Carlos laughed mockingly at their older brother, Benicio slid a glance to the avenue that led into Seville’s bustling Plaza del Triunfo. Any moment, Luisa’s painted carriage would appear and La Belleza herself would disembark in a flutter of skirts and ribbons.

Benicio was already steeling himself against that moment, for he held a secret that even his brothers did not know. Only two months past, he had made his own proposal of marriage to Luisa and had not yet received her answer.

Tranquilo, he told himself, continuing to laugh rather too gaily. Why was he finding it so hard to control his nerves? He had known Luisa since childhood, after all. For most of their lives, they had been the best of friends. There was no reason for his heart to be racing as it was, or for the sweat to be surging beneath his chemise in a soaking torrent.

She had had the same effect on him the evening of the Feast of the Epiphany, when he had urged her to marry him. But she had only stared at him with those lovely green eyes, pondering something. What had it been?

‘I have returned,’ said Armando, rejoining them. ‘Why do you stare at me so piteously?’

‘You have been selected to hear Carlos’s proposal,’ explained Benicio.

Before Armando could protest, Carlos had dropped to his knee once again and was sputtering some muck about the colour of the rose in the light of dawn after the first rain. Undaunted, Armando embraced his role as Luisa and was soon heaving a false bosom and feigning a maiden’s tears. Benicio erupted in riotous laughter.

‘Knaves!’ shouted Carlos. But his sour expression quickly turned sweet, as his gaze travelled beyond his two brothers to a vision just behind them.

‘Dearest friends, what merriment have I missed?’ trilled a delicate, familiar voice.

Benicio and Armando turned. It was none other than Luisa. She had sneaked up on them with fox-like stealth. Benicio felt a rush of blood to his cheeks.

‘Carlos, what wretched errand do your brothers demand that requires you to kneel before them so deferentially?’ She offered her hand to Carlos to kiss, which he did for many long seconds. ‘And, Benicio, you are as red as a cock’s comb. Are your humours out of balance?’

She slid Benicio a playful grin, and his heart flickered. Had she just teased him? Searching for confirmation, his eyes stumbled upon her lips—two large, luscious impediments to his otherwise rational thoughts.

‘Benicio?’ Luisa asked again, her voice leaking concern.

She wore her curly hair pinned up, almost the same as when they were children, with two gentle ringlets framing her round face. As she spoke, they seemed to bounce in rhythm with Benicio’s racing heartbeats. ‘Tell me now,’ she demanded. ‘What are you three devils about?’

‘We were just...practising,’ said Carlos.

‘Practising?’

Carlos opened his mouth once again, but no sound emerged. Benicio stepped forward. ‘It was nothing—a scene from an old book. We had not anticipated its comedic effects. What a lovely summer day, is it not?’

‘Which book?’ asked Luisa. ‘Perhaps I know it.’

‘Ah,’ Carlos stumbled. ‘Ah...’

‘Ah... Amadís de Gaula,’ Benicio finished.

‘Amadís de Gaula!’ Luisa exclaimed. ‘Which scene?’

Now Benicio was in a tangle, for in truth he had laboured most of his life in order to avoid reading the ever-popular Amadís de Gaula. ‘It was the scene in which Amadís the Brave battles the terrible...’ Benicio paused, for he had forgotten the name of the monster.

‘The terrible monster Endriago?’ said Luisa, her green eyes glinting.

‘Indeed!’ cried Benicio. ‘I was playing Amadís, of course, and Armando was playing...’

‘His assistant Gandolin?’

‘Yes, yes! And Carlos was playing...’

‘The beautiful Oriana?’

‘Exactamente!’ Benicio exclaimed. ‘And that is why we were laughing, for Carlos—I mean, Oriana—was pronouncing her undying love for Amadís with the conviction of a practised thespian.’

Carlos was now smiling at Benicio with something like a monstrous rage beneath his grin.

Luisa smoothed her voluminous dress. ‘My dear Benicio, in all the years we have known each other, you continue to surprise me. I had no idea you were such an avid student of our beloved Castilian literature.’

Her admiring smile had produced two perfect dimples at the edges of her round cheeks, causing Benicio’s insides to rollick unbidden. ‘Indeed, I am very fond of Amadís,’ lied Benicio. ‘The chivalric romances have been an integral part of my university studies.’

‘Ah, the university,’ Luisa said and her dimples disappeared. ‘You are still at the university?’

‘I am.’

Why had she asked that question? He had told her as much the evening he had presented his suit. He had also explained the professorship he planned to seek and the life he would be able to provide her as an academic—a humble life, but one full of love and wonder.

‘Remind me when we part,’ she said, ‘I have a gift for you.’

‘A gift?’ Benicio sputtered. If joy were made of water, then he was surely drowning. ‘I will most certainly remind you, mi bella dama,’ he said. He slipped her a devilish grin and watched with satisfaction as she swallowed hard.

Then, with the practised diplomacy of the most sought-after young lady in all of Seville, Luisa turned her attention back to Benicio’s brothers. ‘Of course, we will not soon be parting, not if my dearest childhood friends will walk with me a while?’

She nodded at her wary driver, then wove her hands beneath Carlos’s and Armando’s arms. ‘Tell me, when was the last time we were all together?’ And with that, the three began to stroll.

‘We came to your family’s latifundia for the Feast of the Epiphany two months past,’ noted Armando.

‘Ah! I remember! What a wonderful celebration, was it not?’

She stole another glance at Benicio. ‘And since then, caballeros, what news of your lives?’

Carlos spoke first. ‘I have been accepted into the Order of Santiago. I am apprenticed to become a knight.’

Benicio smiled to himself. After the Reconquista of Spain by the Christians, Queen Isabella had fleeced the Orders of their dominion. The world had changed and knighthood was no longer anything to brag about.

Still, Luisa was staring up at Carlos as if he had just hung the moon. ‘Is it not very dangerous? To command a horse in battle?’ she asked.

‘Any equestrian pursuit carries some measure of danger, my lady. But it is worth it to serve in Christ’s army.’

‘Though the bloody Crusades are indeed a thing of the past,’ Benicio pointed out, feeling a twinge of jealousy. ‘Was it not Aristotle who wrote that the best men behave moderately?’

‘Easily said by a man who rides atop a wooden desk instead of a horse,’ countered Carlos.

Thankfully, Luisa had become distracted by the shimmer of a fine fabric being displayed at a nearby stall.

‘What have we here?’ she asked. A Moorish man was unfurling a bolt of red silk. Luisa touched the fabric to her cheek. ‘My father can no longer indulge me such extravagances. He has lately lost much land to the Ponce de Leon clan in court. Have you not heard of it?’

‘A terrible injustice,’ said Armando, getting Luisa’s attention.

‘But do tell me of your life, Armando,’ urged Luisa, sauntering on. ‘I assume you are training with your father to take over your family’s estate?’

‘No, I have enlisted in the Tercios Regiment.’

Now Luisa halted her stroll. ‘But you are your father’s first son. Why would you risk your life in battle?’

‘To bring glory to my family and to Spain.’

If Carlos had hung the moon with his news of a future knighthood, then surely Armando had lit the sun. ‘You do your country proud,’ Luisa said, staring at Armando as if he were Amadís himself.

‘Would you look at that strange fruit over there?’ Benicio cried suddenly. Across the plaza, a young man was describing a misshapen melon to a crowd of onlookers.

‘We must examine it immediately!’ Carlos seconded.

Benicio and Carlos hurried Luisa and Armando across the plaza.

‘The papaya is not what it appears to be,’ the young man was saying.

‘How much?’ Benicio interrupted, desperate for anything to help him regain Luisa’s attention.

‘Ah...half a real.’

Benicio slapped his half-real into the young man’s hand, pulled a papaya from the bin and sliced his pocket knife through it to produce a bite-sized cube. ‘Sweet fruit for a sweet woman,’ he said, holding the cube to Luisa’s lips.

Luisa opened her mouth and the four young men watched reverently as she chewed. She gave a lusty swallow, then her review: ‘Absolutely delicious. Thank you, Señor.’

‘I am Rogelio,’ the young man said, bowing low.

‘Rogelio, it is your job to sell, not to woo young women!’ A grizzled old man appeared and, noticing Luisa, he stepped towards her. ‘Well, hello, my dear.’

Benicio jumped protectively in front of Luisa and the old man was left to survey Benicio instead. ‘You have a commanding stature, young man,’ he said with surprise. ‘Tall but strong, and with a long reach.’

‘And you have an aggressive manner, Señor,’ Benicio growled.

The man snarled, then cheered. ‘But coming from one so well made, I shall take it as a compliment!’ He held out his hand. ‘I am Vicente Yáñez Pinzón, former captain of the Niña.’

‘You sailed with Colón?’ asked Benicio incredulously.

‘I did, rest his soul.’ The old conquistador crossed himself mockingly. He studied Benicio’s arms. ‘I am in search of strong, able-bodied young men who would like to bring riches to the Kingdom of Spain,’ he said. ‘You, Señor, have the stature and reach of a fine rigger. Why not serve your country and get rich? There is more to be had in the New World than simply fruits.’

‘Thank you, Capitan Pinzón, but I serve Spain with the fruits of my mind.’ Benicio caught Luisa’s hand and they started back across the plaza with Armando and Carlos following behind.

As they walked, Benicio reminded himself that he was happy. Luisa’s hand was in his, after all, and she had not yet refused him. Still, a pall seemed to have been cast upon the day—an invisible foreboding that even the bright spring sun seemed unable to defeat.

‘It is no small thing,’ said Luisa, ‘to be invited to the West Indies. I have heard that men pay twelve ducados or more for the passage. And you have just been invited to make it at no cost.’ She peered up at him curiously, then pulled her hand free of his. ‘Well, look at us, gentlemen! We have returned to where we began.’

Indeed they had. There was Luisa’s driver waiting beside her carriage. The baker had sold his loaves, the fishmonger his fish and even the nearby butcher’s stall was almost empty of its offerings. ‘Look at that adorable little dog,’ Luisa said, pointing unknowingly at her failed understudy, who was lingering at the butcher’s stall. ‘She appears to be trying to choose between sausages.’

Benicio gave an ironic chuckle, though his brothers did not appear to understand the joke. Suddenly, the chimes of the noonday bells commenced. Benicio bowed his head, though he could not remember a word of the Sext hour prayer.

As he pretended to pray, he told himself not to be a fool. Women were capricious and nothing could be relied upon but the stars in the sky. Still no matter how many pretty young ladies batted their eyes at him, Benicio could think only of Luisa.

He was so consumed with thoughts of her that he did not even notice the conclusion of the bells. Nor did he perceive the quickening of Carlos’s breaths, or how his younger brother fumbled in the pocket of his jerkin. Before Benicio could do anything to stop him, Carlos had dropped to his knees before Luisa, removed his hat to the ground and was holding up a tiny silver ring.

‘Dear Luisa,’ he began, ‘my aromatic rose, every day you grow more...fragrant. The rain, the mist, the abundant dew...’

Overcome by nerves, Carlos shouted his professions, drawing a small crowd. ‘The light of dawn, the rosy glow of morning, your eyes, your lips, your beautiful...teeth. My dear...aromatic Luisa... Can I be your husband?’

There were a few giggles among the crowd. Then a terrible silence descended.

A lonely breeze blew past, tousling Luisa’s curls. ‘Oh, Carlos, do stand,’ she cried at last. She reached out her arms and lifted him to his feet.

‘I am honoured that you would ask me to be your wife,’ continued Luisa, ‘but I cannot accept your proposal.’

‘You...what?’

‘You are a fine young man, but I cannot become your wife.’

‘But our engagement can last as long as necessary,’ argued Carlos. ‘I am well into my apprenticeship at the Casa de Contratación. My knighthood shall be granted in only four short years.’

Carlos looked around desperately, as if searching for something to cushion the fall of his breaking heart. ‘Is it my physical form that does not appeal? I know that I am not handsome like Benicio, nor am I strong like Armando, but I—’

‘My dear friend, it is nothing to do with your physical form. I must consider the interests of my family. I am my father’s only daughter and you are...’

‘A second son,’ Carlos finished.

And there it was.

Carlos, like Benicio, had been born into that particular class of Castilian nobles whose names were respected, whose education was complete, but whose wealth, in the end, would have to be earned—the second sons.

Luisa placed a single kiss upon Carlos’s cheek. ‘I shall treasure your friendship always.’

Carlos dusted off his hat and placed it back on his head. ‘And I yours, my lady,’ he managed. ‘But this is not the end.’ He turned towards the cathedral.

Luisa sighed. ‘I think it is time to go,’ she said.

‘I shall accompany you to your carriage,’ said Benicio. ‘I believe you have something for me in it?’

‘Ah, yes—the gift!’

‘I believe I will join you,’ said Armando.

When they arrived at the carriage, Luisa retrieved a thin leather-covered tome and presented it to Benicio. ‘I have been meaning to give this to you for some time.’

Benicio’s eyes slid down her creamy neck, catapulted off her glorious bosom and finally settled upon the small book lying in her hands. ‘Amadís de Gaula?’

‘Did you not say that you were especially fond of it?’

‘I will savour the insights that lie upon each page of this magnificent work,’ Benicio said, bowing low.

‘Indeed he will,’ added Armando, ‘for he spends his days amassing knowledge, not glory or fortune.’

Luisa turned to Armando. ‘I shall await your swift return from service.’ Then she kissed him on the cheek. ‘Godspeed, noble warrior of Spain.’

‘I shall not return unless I have acquired wealth worthy of a marquesa,’ Armando proclaimed.

That was when Benicio saw it. There, beneath her practised expression—the flame of her life’s ambition: marquesa.

Benicio helped her into the carriage. ‘Enjoy the book, Benicio. Every page of it.’

She measured her nods equally between the two brothers as the small painted chariot moved away. Benicio and Armando were left staring into each other’s eyes.

The world seemed to press at Benicio’s sides. ‘I think I shall walk on my own for a while,’ Benicio told Armando and, without waiting for an answer, he turned and made long strides back across the plaza.

While he walked, he opened the book, flipped through its pages, and spotted a piece of paper wedged therein. He caught his breath as he beheld the image it contained—a charcoal sketch of a woman so beautiful she could not have been real. Her face was turned away from the artist, revealing her rounded profile, her long, beautiful neck, and a cascade of curls. A lump came into Benicio’s throat. It was a sketch of Luisa. He flipped the sketch over to discover a note written in her elegant, looping script:

My Dear Benicio,

I love you, but I must take care to marry well. Seek a fortune. I will wait for you as long as I can.

Your Luisa

Benicio’s heart overflowed. There it was, written in her own hand: her answer to his proposal. She loved him as he loved her. She would wait for him and become his wife. All she required was a bit of wealth, to keep her in the lifestyle she wanted. The lifestyle she deserved.

Benicio looked up and saw the old captain, still there, still waiting at the other end of the plaza. He might have been the Devil himself, considering whether or not to take Benicio’s soul.

Benicio began to walk towards him, letting his book of formulas drop upon the ground. Benicio was a man, after all, and the purpose of a man was not to sit at a desk, but to seek a fortune. To make himself worthy of the woman he loved.

Luisa, I promise, he murmured.

He caught the captain’s eye. The old man flashed Benicio a knowing grin.


Chapter One (#ulink_46cea795-fa45-5da1-803b-1686b49e76aa)

Cempoala City, Totonac Territory,

Mexican Empire—March 1519

Tula was not afraid of the dark. She was not afraid of the spirits that lurked in the shadows, whispering their complaints. The darkness was good; it concealed her. It wrapped around her like a magic cloak, letting her pass unseen to the places where she kept her secrets.

Even now, as she walked softly between the mats of her sleeping family members, she felt no need for the aid of light. The warmth of their breath told her where to place her feet and she could feel the fresh air that seeped through the front doorway, beckoning her.

She pushed open the thin wooden door and closed it gently behind her, stepping out into Cempoala’s central plaza. She scanned the sprawling space for movement. Not a single living thing stirred beneath the moonless sky and the darkness of night greeted her like a trusted friend. No, Tula did not fear the dark.

What Tula feared was the colour black. Black was the colour of the Tribute Takers’ hair. They wore it pulled back, tight to their skulls, and trapped it in buns at the bases of their necks. They lived in a great floating city high in the mountains, where their leader, Montezuma, whispered to the gods.

Black was the colour of the ink on the scrolls the Takers carried—long lists noting the tribute the Totonac people were required to provide every eighty days: four pots of vanilla, twenty-eight bins of maize, twenty-one bins of smoked fish, two thousand feathers, four thousand cotton cloaks.

Black was the colour of the mushrooms the Takers ate—mushrooms that gave them visions of the end of the world. A menace from the heavens was coming, they told the Totonacs, and it could only be prevented with the blood of sacrifice.

Totonac blood.

Tula walked around her stone house and into the garden behind it. She dug beneath the tomato plants and found her stash of spears and arrows. Digging deeper, she seized her atlatl, which would send those arrows to their marks. She had killed so many creatures in her lifetime—far too many than was good or right. But the Takers demanded meat, more and more of it, and the Takers had to be fed. She ran her finger softly across the sharp, obsidian blades.

They, too, were black.

‘Daughter?’ whispered her father’s voice.

‘Father?’

The shadowy figure of her father appeared in the back doorway. ‘Why do you rise in the useless hours? Where do you go?’

‘I go to catch the fish, Father, and the birds. Coalingas and macaws. Perhaps even a quetzal.’

‘Nahuatl. Speak to me in Nahuatl.’

Tula sighed. ‘I go to find the...the...swimming creatures...’ she faltered ‘...and the flying creatures.’ Of all the languages her father had taught her, Tula liked Nahuatl the least. It was the language of the Mexica, the language of their oppressors, yet her father would not speak to her in any other tongue.

‘Why do you not wait for the Sun God to be reborn?’ he asked her, pointing at the eastern horizon.

‘I do not wait because the swimmers do not wait,’ she lied.

‘You rush to find fish, but you delay finding a husband.’

‘Why seek a husband if he is doomed to die?’ She bit her tongue. She had spoken too quickly and too loudly. Her father bent his neck inside the house, listening for her elder sister, Pulhko, who slept lightly and without rest. Satisfied with the unbroken peace, he shook his head. ‘Your sister Pulhko will remarry as soon as she is well,’ said her father.

But she will never be well, thought Tula, saying nothing.

‘And your sister Xanca seeks a husband already.’

‘Xanca is young and her head is full of colours. She knows little of the cruelty of the world.’

Her father did not respond and she knew that it was because he agreed. Xanca was not old enough to remember when Pulhko’s husband and two boys were taken. Nor had Xanca been instructed in the history of the world, as Tula had been. As a result, Xanca’s spirit remained light. Too light, perhaps.

‘Your husband is your protection,’ her father said finally. ‘As long as you are unmarried, you are exposed.’

‘We are all exposed. Marriage matters little.’

Now he whispered, ‘The Takers have asked our Chief to provide women for the festival of the fifteenth month. They seek noble young women, Tula,’ he said significantly. ‘Women without carnal knowledge.’

Women like me, Tula thought. ‘If they come for me, Father, they will not find me.’

‘The Takers are everywhere. They will find you.’

‘I am slippery like a fish,’ she said in Totonac.

‘You must marry.’

‘Pulkho was married. Now look at all she has lost. I will not follow a path that leads only to blackness.’ A lump of anguish plugged Tula’s throat.

‘I cannot protect you always, Daughter. If you do not marry, you will be taken. Then, it will not matter that you speak their language, or that you know the history of the world, or that you are slippery like a fish. You will suffer the flowery—’

‘The place of fish is four hours’ journey,’ Tula interrupted.

Tula’s father sighed. ‘There are fishing grounds much closer to Cempoala. Why must you travel so far away?’

‘Where I go, there are so many fish that you can walk upon their backs!’ said Tula, hoping that exaggeration would help conceal the lie she told. ‘In a single day, I can obtain our family’s entire contribution.’

She knew he could not argue with her. Their family’s share of tribute was fixed—there was nothing to do but make and gather it each cycle and be done.

‘I will return late tonight with my basket overflowing,’ Tula assured him.

‘Be safe,’ he whispered.

‘I will, Father,’ she replied. She pointed to where her atlatl poked out of her basket. ‘You taught me how.’ She blew him a kiss and set off across the plaza.

Yes, Tula loved the dark, for lying to her father was much easier in it.


Chapter Two (#ulink_4e4055b0-2cf0-58de-b44e-110b4e8b1775)

Benicio lay on the scorched maize field, covered in blood. He stared up at the pale blue sky, trying to picture the stars. He had come to the Island of the Yucatan to take part in trade, not war. He had brought glass beads and fine mirrors and the hope that he might still fulfil the promise he had made to Luisa that day two long years ago: to find treasure.

Now a thousand Maya warriors lay all around him, slaughtered. They had not been his enemies. They had merely been defending their lands from men like him—strange, bearded thieves who had floated upriver on their temples of deceit.

That was what the Maya emissaries had called the Spanish brigantines—floating temples. They did not have a word for sailing ships in their language, nor did they have a word for the Spaniards themselves, so they called them bearded gods. If they had only known that Captain Cortés and his men were much more like bearded devils.

Benicio pulled off his helmet and unbuckled his chest plate. It had been so very hot inside his shell of steel, even in the depths of the night. It was a relief to finally be free of it. Above, the first rays of sun stretched into the sky, illuminating the gory scene. Not a single body stirred.

The Maya of the city of Potonchan had politely asked Cortés to leave, but El Capitán would not listen. Instead, he had told the Maya emissaries the same thing he had told Benicio and his five hundred other conscripts as they set out from Cuba: that they were on a mission of trade and discovery.

Benicio should have known better than to believe the bellicose Captain Cortés, who had filled their ships with more gunpowder than goods. Even the small brigantine for which Benicio served as navigator had been fitted with deadly falconets, though Benicio had managed not to notice them.

Nor did he bother to translate the banner that flew atop Cortés’s flagship, though he had spent years studying Latin: Amici, sequamur crucem et, si nos fidem habemus, vere in hoc signo vincemus. Friends, let us follow the cross and, if we have faith, let us conquer under this banner.

Benicio had ignored all of it. He was willing to overlook anything, it seemed, for the hope of finding gold. ‘Gold is nothing to the naturales of Yucatan Island,’ Cortés had assured his conscripts. ‘They trade it for beads and trinkets. It will be no effort for each of us to obtain a treasure fit for a king.’

Or a marquesa, Benicio had thought.

Had hoped.

What Cortés had not mentioned was that when the beads and trinkets failed, the men would have to fight. And kill.

The flies were descending in droves, creating a black frenzy of movement above the once-verdant field of maize. Benicio knew that the remaining Maya soldiers would soon arrive to collect their dead. When they did, they would discover Benicio and kill him. If not, the desiccating heat of the sun eventually would.

It would be a fitting end. The sun, which Benicio had so ardently believed to be the centre of the universe, would finally snuff out his life. He had been so very proud of all his book-learned knowledge, yet so very naive. To think he could simply sail to this new world, extract his treasure, and return to wed the woman he loved. That it would be that easy. That there would be no cost.

He pictured Luisa’s face, as he always did when his heart filled with despair. Round cheeks. Dancing curls. Dimples. She remained in his memory exactly as she had been that day in the Plaza del Triunfo, her sparkling green eyes gazing up at him in admiration, as if she beheld some errant knight.

Forgive me, Luisa. I have failed you. He closed his eyes and waited for his death to come.

But instead of death came the sound of rioting birds and a familiar voice tumbling across the field. ‘Stop, savage! Give it to me!’

Benicio sat up to behold a vision of feathers and light. The mid-morning sun was shining behind the figure of a giant bird. The bird flapped its massive wings, but it did not fly. Instead, it ran towards Benicio at great speed.

Benicio blinked, realising that he beheld not a bird, but a man covered in feathers. They wrapped around him like a heavy cloak, slowing him as he attempted to escape his pursuer.

‘Give me the ring!’ the voice shouted behind the man and Benicio lay back, playing dead. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large Spaniard throw off his breastplates and overtake the feathered warrior, pinning him to the ground near Benicio.

The Spaniard cursed and spat, unsheathing his hand blade. ‘Give it to me!’ he commanded. ‘Or I will take another finger!’ The feathered warrior babbled helplessly in his language, covering his face with bloody hands. The Spaniard threw off his steel helmet in frustration, revealing a shock of red hair and a face so familiar that Benicio gasped.

It was none other than Rogelio—the young man Benicio had met that day in the Plaza del Triunfo. They had crossed the ocean together in the company of Captain Pinzón, but when they had reached the Island of Hispañola, they had parted ways. Benicio had not seen the lithe, handsome papaya pedlar since.

Now Rogelio was no longer lithe, nor in any way handsome. A ghastly red scar traversed his haggard face and Benicio could see that he had grown corpulent and soft beneath the Toledo steel that protected him.

Rogelio held the Maya man’s bloody hand upon the ground, threatening to sever another finger. Had Rogelio lost his mind? Benicio crawled closer.

The Maya man was painted from head to toe in thick stripes of ochre and white. There were grey hairs sprouting from beneath his headdress and skin hung loosely from his bones. Benicio guessed he was a religious figure—perhaps some kind of priest. His strange, plaintive speech was incomprehensible, but it was clear he was begging for mercy.

‘Where is it?’ Rogelio shouted and dealt the old man a blow to the face. The man fell backwards and Rogelio ripped what appeared to be a golden necklace from his neck. ‘Where is the ring?’ Rogelio raised his blade squarely over the man’s heart.

‘Stop!’ Benicio cried. He dived at Rogelio from behind and thrust him upon the ground. ‘Have mercy, Rogelio. The battle is over.’

Benicio rolled Rogelio on to his back, keeping him pinned. Rogelio smiled at Benicio in a moment of recognition. ‘Yes, Brother, and now it is time for plunder,’ he said. He thrust his knee upwards, sending a gut-splitting blow through Benicio’s loins.

In the meantime, the priest had staggered to his feet and was attempting to run away. Rogelio lunged and caught him, slashing a blade across the priest’s chest and wrestling him to the ground.

Recovering his senses, Benicio pulled Rogelio off the injured priest once again. ‘Cease!’ Benicio commanded and he smashed his head against Rogelio’s, knocking him senseless. He thrust Rogelio’s heavy body to the side.

The priest was writhing on the ground, trying to sit up. The gash that Rogelio had drawn across the holy man’s body had reached the base of his throat, and blood spilled on to his painted chest.

Benicio searched for something to stop the flow of blood, seizing upon a large piece of cloth hanging from Rogelio’s belt. Benicio folded the cloth and moved to place it upon the wound, but the priest flinched and tried to move himself away.

‘Ma tu’ub,’ he coughed, pointing to the cloth and shaking his head in warning. ‘Ma tu’ub.’

He seemed strangely concerned with the cloth Benicio had taken, so Benicio set it aside and ripped off his own shirt sleeve. The priest made no protest as Benicio helped him to a sitting position, then stuffed the ripped sleeve into his wound, trying to stop the bleeding. Benicio ripped his other sleeve and tied it around the priest’s neck, securing the first cloth in place. Still, the bleeding would not stop.

‘Be at peace, Father,’ Benicio said soothingly, for he feared the old man did not have long. The priest peered at the ground where the first bloody cloth lay. Benicio shook the cloth clean, then opened it to reveal a strange geometrical design traced in blood.

‘Ma tu’ub,’ the priest repeated, nodding at the cloth. He pointed at the centre dot with the stub of his finger, then cringed with pain and returned the bloody limb to his fist. He nodded coaxingly at Benicio. ‘Ma tu’ub.’

Benicio nodded worriedly, placing the cloth to the side. He arranged the man’s headdress beneath him and smoothed its feathers, fanning them outward in a halo of green, red, and white. Then he helped the old man backwards, wedging a clod of grass beneath his head like a pillow. ‘Rest now, holy soul,’ Benicio whispered.

A look of soft gratitude came over the priest’s weathered face. He nodded at Benicio again, then opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue. Upon it Benicio beheld the largest, most beautiful ring he had ever seen.

Benicio stared at the sparkling jewel in amazement—a thick, round jadestone surrounded by many large diamonds.

The holy man plucked the ring from his tongue and held it out to Benicio, urging him to take it. ‘Ma tu’ub.’

Benicio folded his hand over the priest’s. Certainly the old man had lost his wits. ‘Ma tu’ub,’ the priest muttered a final time, and the life went out of him. The ring tumbled to the ground.

‘Ma tu’ub, holy one,’ Benicio repeated. ‘Ma tu’ub.’

The morning sun passed behind a cloud and the cacophony of birds ceased. All the world went still and Benicio had the overwhelming sensation that it had just lost an important soul. He placed the priest’s arms across his chest and closed his eyelids. For some unknown reason, Benicio was overcome with grief.

Benicio reached for the cloth lying at his feet and studied its strange design: a diamond with circles around each of its four points. In the centre of the diamond was a small dot the size of a man’s fingertip. Benicio pictured the priest pressing his bloody finger on that spot, fearing for his life, while Rogelio threatened to take another finger. But why? What important thing did this cluster of shapes represent?

Perhaps it was some kind of map. Some of Cortés’s men whispered of a city of gold hidden deep in the jungle. Benicio had always believed the rumours to be nonsense—the wishful thinking of desperate men. Still, the priest had pointed at the map, then urged Benicio to take the golden ring.

The golden ring! Benicio stuffed the cloth into the side of his boot and spotted the shiny object where the priest had dropped it on to the ground.

He grasped the ring and studied it in his palm. No wonder Rogelio had pursued the priest so relentlessly. The figure of a feathered dragon, wrought in gold, overlaid the jadestone’s polished façade. The detail of the figure was beyond anything Benicio had ever seen and he wondered if some unknown god had not fashioned it.

But it was not the detail that made Benicio’s heart begin to race, it was the dozen large diamonds that lined the ring’s perimeter, framing the golden dragon in a glitter of light. The diamonds were larger than any single diamond Benicio had ever seen. He knew that he held a treasure truly fit for a king.

A sneaking joy bubbled within him. He could not believe his good fortune. He swelled inside as he imagined returning to Spain and presenting the prize to King Charles himself.

‘How may I compensate you for such a gift?’ the King would ask him and Benicio would humbly request a small allotment of land, a place where he might run cattle and plant orchards and keep his noble wife in the way of life she deserved.

And thus it would be done. A dream that he had all but abandoned, suddenly fulfilled.

How strange and unpredictable life was.

Where had he put his breastplates? Ah, there they were, just a few paces away. Steel armour was highly valued among the people of the West Indies and could be traded for essentials like food and transport. And where was his book? Where was Amadís? He touched his chest. There it was—right where he always kept it, covering his heart.

He heard a sudden rustle of maize leaves upon the ground. Sensing danger, he popped the ring into his mouth and threaded his tongue through its golden hoop. He turned to behold Rogelio, who remained where he had fallen not three paces away. His eyes sparkled with greed.

He had witnessed everything.

Benicio jumped to his feet and secured his armour. He found the place on the horizon where the sun had risen. He would only need to make his way west, to the coast. There he would find one of the friendly coastal villages. Surely there would be some native man willing to trade his canoe and some supplies for the shiny armour Benicio now wore.

It would be a fast journey across the short stretch of ocean that separated Cuba from this strange island, if an island it was. He would arrive upon Cuba and seek passage to Hispañola, where he would board the next ship returning to Spain. There, he would present his precious ring to King Charles and come what may.

Rogelio was struggling to his feet. He eyed Benicio with a simmering rage, then lunged towards him.

But Benicio would not be caught. His future was in reach. It glittered like diamonds, like Luisa’s green eyes in the noonday sun. He stretched out his long legs and broke into a run. All he needed to do now was reach the coast.

‘Luisa,’ he breathed. ‘I’m coming home.’


Chapter Three (#ulink_9cc6412b-9f05-58d9-a1ea-ae75c3553e32)

When Tula reached the coast, the day was still new. The Sun God glowed white in his victory over the night. She was glad to see that the remote beach remained empty, its quiet cove still untroubled by the wind. She had planned her visit for this day because she knew that Goddess of the Sea would be asleep, her blue waters rolled up like a blanket. The moon charts said it would be so.

Tula retrieved a single spear from her basket. She told herself that she was not lying to her father. Not really. She was simply waiting until the time was right to make her secret known. ‘Within each thing exists its opposite,’ her father always told her. She knew that all her people would soon know the mystery she held inside her heart.

But for now, it was only hers.

She pulled off her shawl and skirt and stuffed them away inside her basket. She placed her belongings at the edge of the jungle, tightening her loincloth as she skipped bare-breasted down the beach.

She felt like a child misbehaving. It gave Tula such a thrill to step out on to her empty beach alone, as if she were the only person in this crowded world. She savoured the moment, knowing that it would not endure.

Her father, who sat upon the Totonac Council of Elders, would be obliged to tell the Totonac Chief of Tula’s discovery. When her secret became known, Totonac nobles would be swarming this beach like fire ants. Tula did not pretend to understand the affairs of the men who ruled the Totonac nation, but she knew well enough that she had found something important.

She also knew that if there was treasure to be had, she wanted to find it first.

She stepped into the clear blue water, sending a prayer to God of the Hunt, Mixcoatl, to help her find treasure in the form of gold. The strange yellow metal was so very rare and to Tula’s mind held little practical use. But the Mexica Takers would accept it in place of many cloaks, and if she could obtain even just a small amount she knew she could bring great relief to her family.

She gripped her spear and peered into the underwater world. It was more likely that she would find a fish. Over the past few cycles of the sun, she had become an excellent fisher, though she would never let the fault of pride weight her steps. Her people believed that fish had once been human and she entered their blue-green realm with humility and reverence.

‘Forgive me, fishes,’ she intoned, letting the water of the Endless Sea pool around her knees. She spied the black spots of a mature jaguar fish, a Totonac delicacy.

With a quick downward thrust, she impaled the magnificent swimmer, then finished its life with her blade. ‘I am humble,’ she whispered to Mixcoatl. With a great heave, she tossed her family’s dinner on to the shore.

She journeyed deeper into the water, stepping past a group of boulders and sighting a polished tree trunk protruding from the depths. She sucked in a breath, then slipped beneath the water.

She followed the tree trunk downwards, kicking past where the seafloor made a short drop, until she reached the hulking wooden temple.

This was her secret, her true quarry. She had discovered the submerged structure half a moon ago in search of new fishing grounds. She suspected it belonged to the bearded god Grijalva, who had journeyed through the Totonac waters many cycles past. He had forged a friendship with the Totonac Chief and the Council of Elders, but he had said nothing about sacrificing a floating temple in this quiet cove.

Though clearly it was a sacrifice—a worthy gift for any god. And today, with the water so clear, she could see the details, including the finely carved rungs of the large calendar wheel, which perched on its central platform.

She envisioned the bearded gods consulting the wheel as they journeyed from their homeland. If temples like this could split the seas, Tula thought, then the world was wider and more varied than ever she could have dreamed.

But she could not allow herself to think of such things now. There was only so much breath inside her and scavenging work to be done. She propelled herself to the main platform and tugged futilely at a thick metal handle she found there. A nearby iron hook proved even less yielding. The last time she had visited the ghostly temple, she had cut a length from one of the thick ropes that floated around the central trunk. Her store of breath quickly decreasing, she decided to simply cut herself another strand.

She propelled herself to the surface to take another breath, then hurried back to cut the rope. As she worked, she gazed down the length of the structure and noticed that something had changed. The last time she had visited, there had been another large tree trunk further down the deck. But that second trunk no longer stood upright: it had fallen on to the sand.

Abandoning her work on the rope, Tula pushed to the surface once again and took another large breath. Her chest full of air, she propelled herself to the site of the collapse.

As she neared, she saw that the falling trunk had ripped the planks that had been fixed beneath it, creating an opening in the central platform. The light of mid-morning was now shining perfectly down into that opening, illuminating the mysterious space below. Her heart beating wildly, Tula followed that shaft of light like a path.

Soon she found herself inside a small chamber. There were large wooden crates piled everywhere, some with blurry symbols painted upon their sides. Several chairs floated against the ceiling, but a small table remained fixed to the floor, its single support thick with barnacles. The room was so littered with debris that it was difficult to discern the purpose of it, but Tula guessed that she was in a place where the bearded gods had prepared their food.

She could not believe her good fortune. She wanted to gather all of its strange objects and rush back to her home, where she would spill them before her father and sisters and watch their faces light up with awe. But already her breath was running low. She reminded herself to stay calm. She had plenty of time to make the many dives needed to gather up this trove of treasure.

She turned to begin her ascent, then spotted the glint of an object beneath a fallen plank—a metal object. She bent to lift the plank but couldn’t move it. To create resistance, she squeezed her foot inside a small hole in the ceiling of the space. The foothold steadied her and she grasped the object in her hand.

Her chest convulsed. She was dangerously out of breath. With the object now in hand, she tugged her wedged foot, but it would not come free. She gulped, sucking in a breath of water and expelling it with a gagging cough that only caused her to take in more water. She filled with a sudden dread. She wiggled her foot again, feeling the planks pinch her skin.

She was drowning.

Suddenly, an image of the flyers came to her mind. The brave Totonac pole flyers swam like Tula, but in the air. Every sun cycle, they would climb to the top of a tall pole, strap their ankles to long ropes, and face possible death as they twirled to the ground like the Sun God’s rays.

Now Tula imagined she was flying through the air like a pole flyer, only she was much higher above the land. She stared down and saw her city like a tiny dot amidst the jungle. To the east was the Endless Sea, that vast, watery realm that led to the first level of the Underworld. To the north was the Great Desolation, where the wandering tribes lived and died. To the west were the Fiery Mountains, and beyond them Tenochtitlan, where the terrible Emperor Montezuma ruled from his throne of gold. Only to the south, where the green jungle stretched into infinity, did people still live free. In the land of the Maya.

Tula twirled her body around to look south. Suddenly, her foot came free.

She darted upwards, breaking the surface in a storm of coughs. Water spewed from her chest in a dozen violent spurts and she could hardly move her limbs for the exhaustion she felt. But she was alive, thank the gods. She pulled herself on to the flattest of the nearby boulders, then closed her eyes and lost her awareness.

* * *

When she finally regained her senses, she could see that much time had passed. The Sun God’s battle with the Women Warrior spirits had already begun and, as they pulled him towards the western horizon, long shadows reached across the beach.

Tula was amazed to discover that she still gripped it in her hand—the object that had almost taken her life. She held it up against the sky, studying it. It was not gold, but silver. Its single shaft was as long as her hand and terminated in a thumb-sized concavity from which extended three equidistant prongs. It appeared to be the specially designed tip of a deadly spear.

Tula compared it against the tip of her own spear and tried to imagine the kind of animal the object might be designed to kill. She pictured a tiny, three-headed beast that scuttled about in some distant jungle. Or perhaps its three prongs were designed to prick a special kind of fish?

She resolved to show the object to her father, whom she was certain would be able to present it to the Mexica Takers in place of many cloaks. ‘I am humble,’ she whispered to the gods, marvelling at how perfectly the small weapon fit into her hand.

Lost in admiration of her prize, Tula did not notice the sound of the men’s voices until they were very close. She slid into the water behind the largest boulder just as the bearded gods exploded on to the sand.


Chapter Four (#ulink_c3245c9b-d399-5575-9604-daed5939b4e2)

There were two of them: a fleshy, naked-chested god with hair the colour of flames and a tall, muscular god clad in a sleeveless hide wrap. The red god shouted at the tall god and chased him some distance down the beach.

Tula peeked out from behind her boulder. Had a new army of bearded gods arrived in Totonac territory? But how? The Totonac kept close watch along their coasts. There had been no sign of any bearded gods for many cycles. Besides, the bearded gods came from the sea on floating temples, not staggering half-naked from the depths of the jungle.

Tula snuck out of the water and dashed across the beach, leaving the jaguar fish as an offering to Mixcoatl. She slipped back into her skirt and blouse, placed her weapons inside her basket and stole closer to the two gods, keeping herself hidden amidst the tangle of trees and vines at the edge of the jungle.

She knew it was foolish to approach them, but her curiosity blazed. She had heard tales of the battles between gods—if gods these were. The God of the Morning Star and the God of Earth had fought together long ago, much like these two were doing, producing the Fifth World—the world in which she now lived. In her studies, Tula had learned that the Fifth World was soon to come to an end. Was this contest a harbinger of the new world to come?

The two rolled over and under one another, fighting for supremacy. The red god punched the tall god in the face, then groped at the tall god’s mouth. But the tall god, whose muscular arms Tula could see even at this distance, thrust a punch upwards into the red god’s stomach.

The red god tumbled on to the sand, coughing. The tall god placed his fingers upon his nose and bent over in agony. It was enough time for the red god to take hold of a silvery dagger and place it against the tall god’s neck.

The tall god stood still while the red god shouted menacing words in a strange, rolling tongue. He seemed to be demanding the answer to some question he had posed. The tall god did not respond. Instead, he held his mouth tightly shut.

Enraged, the red god plunged his knife into the tall god’s chest and the tall god fell backwards on to the sand.

Tula shrieked.

She slapped her hand over her own mouth, shocked by the noise that had come out of it.

Meanwhile, the red god had jumped to his feet and was peering into the jungle. Tula cowered behind a rubber tree. Why had she made such a noise? She had revealed herself for certain. She could not see him, but she began to hear his footfalls. He was coming towards her.

Shaking in fear, Tula pulled her atlatl and a single arrow from her basket, though she knew that it was useless to try to kill a god. If he was a god, then her only chance against him was the aid of another god. She braved a quick glance at the tall god, who remained motionless on the beach. She would receive no heavenly help from him, it seemed.

The red god’s footfalls grew louder. Closer. If she could create an illusion, perhaps she might confuse the red god enough for him to cease his approach. She gave a high-pitched battle cry, then a low-pitched one, then sent her first arrow flying. The red god swerved behind a tree, but he was not quick enough. The arrow’s jagged point grazed past his leg, ripping the tight cloth he wore.

Fuming, he ran towards her, his knife held high. There was nothing she could do but step out from behind her tree and launch her second arrow.

It was even better aimed than the first. It caught in the sleeve of his wrap, sending him backwards on to the ground. She had not injured him, but she had grounded him well.

Tula scanned the forest floor, finding several fine, fist-sized stones. She threw them at him, one after another, darting among the trees to make it seem as if the stones were coming from many different directions. She needed him to believe that an army lurked amongst the trees, ready to strike.

He shouted angrily, struggling to stand above the cloud of dirt and debris that she was kicking up all around. Just as he was finding his balance, Tula fixed the peg of the atlatl into the notch of an arrow and launched it. It stuck him directly in the thigh.

He howled in agony and his blazing eyes found hers. His blade in hand, he staggered to his feet. She loosed her final stone.

It hit him in the head and sent him to the ground where he remained motionless.

Tula stood in stunned silence. Had she just defeated a god? Impossible. Gods could not be defeated by humans.

At least, that was what her father had taught her. When she had asked him how he knew that Grijalva and his men were gods, he had told her that the bearded ones did not abide by the sacred law.

‘Which law?’ Tula had asked.

‘The law between gods and humans.’

‘They do not make sacrifices to the gods and for that reason you believe them to be gods?’ Tula frowned.

‘Either that, my dear Tula, or they are most certainly doomed.’

Tula wondered which was true. Were these bearded ones verily gods? Or were they merely strange, warlike men doomed to die?

The other god was still lying on the beach. If he was truly a god, then he was not dead and it was possible that he could help protect her against the red god, who would be returning to his senses soon.

She rushed from the jungle and on to the beach, trying to think of a way to rouse the tall god. When the god Grijalva had visited, he and his crew had remained inside their floating temples, revealing little but their love of gold and their devotion to the strange, naked spirit they called Cristo.

‘Cristo,’ Tula said tentatively, hoping the word held some kind of magic. But the tall god did not respond. She stared down at his face. It was so very pale, like the inside of a chayohtli fruit. He was like a beast, in truth, his wiry brown hairs growing all around his large face and down past his chin. Crude, thick bushes of it grew over his eyes and tangled around his ears.

Tula took a deep breath. Within each thing exists its opposite, she told herself.

She looked closer. Beneath his moustache, his lips were red and plump, and appeared almost soft. The skin of his high cheekbones was clean and smooth, as if it might be pleasurable to touch. She wondered about his eyes. Were they blue like the sea? She hoped not. Many of the god Grijalva’s men had such eyes and it meant that their souls had deserted them.

‘Cristo,’ she said again, but the god did not stir. Perhaps he was dead.

But gods did not die.

Tula bent to her knees and studied his face more closely. His nose was like a coati’s—long and strong and prominent. It was bent to the side slightly, and a small trickle of blood flowed out of it.

But gods did not bleed.

She wondered if his mouth held teeth or fangs. She let her finger graze across his lips. They were soft and slightly moist. She gently traced their contours, feeling an unusual thrill.

Man or god, he was fascinating.

She tilted his lower jaw downwards and peered into his mouth. Not fangs—he had teeth. They were the imperfect, slightly yellowed teeth of one who had seen much of life and the set was not even complete. Tula suppressed a smile. If a god, he was quite a besieged one.

The Sun God was nearing his defeat. His last rays shot across the sky, illuminating the man’s large pink tongue. She peered deeper into his mouth. For the second time that day, she noticed the glint of metal. It was O-shaped, like a ring. A gold ring. The god’s tongue squeezed through it like a finger.

Tula knew that the bearded gods hungered for gold, but she had no idea that they actually consumed the yellow metal.

Tula looked closer and saw that the ring was the perch for a large gemstone of some kind. Its wide circular base extended across the roof of the god’s mouth, stirring her imagination. Maybe it was a moonstone, or even a precious jade. Tula reached for the gem, but his mouth closed suddenly.

Tula jumped backwards. The man’s eyes remained shut, but Tula was unnerved. She heard a rustling sound at the edge of the jungle. As she squinted for a better view, she saw that it was just a monkey swinging between tree branches. Still, she knew the red god would be returning to his senses soon.

‘Ooa-k-k-k,’ the monkey croaked, as if in warning. But now Tula did not want to leave without the ring. To return to her family and community with such a treasure was beyond her wildest hopes. The Mexica Tribute Takers would certainly accept the heavy prize in place of much food and many cloaks’ worth of tribute. She remembered what her father had told her about the upcoming festival of the fifteenth month. Perhaps the Takers would accept this jewel in place of Tula herself.

She tried to open his mouth again, but he held it shut. His eyes remained tightly closed and they danced beneath his lids, as if he was living inside some important dream. Clearly he was not dead, just asleep. If only she could somehow enter his dream and coax him into opening his mouth. But how to enter the dream of a god?

On impulse, she placed her lips upon his.

She pressed down softly, hoping that he would imagine some beautiful goddess kissing him and open his mouth just enough for her to retrieve the gem. She moved her lips gently against his and, amazingly, he began to move his lips in response.

Her deception was working—it seemed that he had accepted her into his dream. Softly, she let her tongue slide into his mouth. It touched the hoop of the ring, which remained wrapped around his tongue. She tried to coax it free with her own tongue, but it was so tightly wedged against the roof of his mouth that it would not move. It was several moments before she realised that the tiny hairs upon her arms were standing on end.

She shivered, though it was not cold, and breathed in his musky scent.

This was not her first kiss—if a kiss it was. As a younger woman, she had participated in her share of maize festivals and there had always been plenty of young men eager to join lips with her among the stalks.

That was before the Mexica Tribute Takers had taken her older sister’s husband and two boys, when life was still joyous and full of possibility.

After Pulkho’s family was taken, the idea of closeness with a man had become terrifying to Tula. Why enter into the sacred union if it could so easily be destroyed? Tula had stopped going to the maize festivals, and had determined never to get close to any man. There was simply too great a danger of losing him.

This was different, of course. This kiss had nothing to do with closeness and everything to do with theft. The excitement she felt was not the excitement a woman felt for a man: It was merely the danger of the situation mixed with the possibility of success.

She lay her tongue atop his, squeezing it into the ring, such that their tongues twisted together in the small space.

Slowly, steadily, she coaxed the heavy prize into her own mouth.

She felt a rush of triumph as she hovered over him, threading her own tongue through the golden ring. She was so proud of herself that she hardly noticed when his lips reconnected with hers and his tongue began to move inside her mouth.

He was kissing her back. Tula’s heart began to pound, and a different kind of shiver ripped through her body. His lips pressed firmly against hers. She tried to pull away, but she couldn’t. He wrapped his arm around her back and pulled her against him, keeping her body pinned against his so firmly that she could scarcely breathe. His chest was hard, as if padded with some invisible armour. But his kisses were soft and tender, and his eyes remained closed.

‘Luisa,’ he whispered.


Chapter Five (#ulink_a43c83cd-d314-5793-92f4-0a602acbc61f)

Luisa, his dear Luisa. Here she was, at last in his arms. He could feel the warmth of her breath, the softness of her skin. He could even sense her desire—how she drew in the scent of him, how she thrilled and shivered at his touch. She still wanted him, even after two long years. And he wanted her—Diós, how he wanted her. She was all that mattered, all that would ever matter. She was the only good thing in his despicable life.

He pulled her against him and heard her sigh, and it was all the permission he needed to shower her with his kisses. He started with her cheeks, which tasted salty and fecund, as if she had swum all the way across the ocean to be with him. He ran his fingers through her damp hair, which she had allowed to grow long and straight. Perhaps she had ceased to cut it the day they parted, just as he had done with his beard.

Keeping his eyes closed, he kissed beneath her jaw, then down her long, elegant neck. ‘Mi amor, how I have missed you,’ he said.

Gently, he cradled her breasts, which were swaddled in some soft, vaguely damp textile. How many times had he thought of placing his palms upon the small rises, which were as tender as ripe pears? How perfectly they fitted there now.

Ay, lusty Luisa.

He let his tongue explore her neck’s soft chalice, feeling a tingling warmth rising through his body. There had been others before Luisa—silly, fatuous women who had chosen him for what he appeared to be, not who he was. Only Luisa knew who he was. She had known him since he was a boy and he felt certain she could see into his heart.

Now her chest heaved with her emotion and it was all he needed to know that she felt as he did.

‘It has been...difficult,’ he confessed, keeping his eyes closed. ‘I think of you every day.’ He kissed her shoulders, which smelled vaguely of the briny air. ‘This new world...so much...misery.’

That was all he would say. He would not tell her about the things he had seen, the things he had done. He would not sully her view of him, or shatter her illusions by admitting that there had been many times since they’d parted that he had wished himself dead.

Though perhaps he was dead now. If so, then he thanked Diós, for surely he had made it to Heaven. Here it did not matter that he would inherit nothing but his bootstraps. All that mattered was his love, which was truer than the stars, and burned more brightly than the sun.

He plunged his tongue into her mouth. But instead of soft wetness, he felt only a smooth, hard stone.

Then Luisa released a frightful yelp.

Benicio opened his eyes to behold a strange, big-eyed woman staring back at him. He might have believed her a ghost, were it not for the deep honey hue of her skin, the wind of her breath and the large jade and diamond ring resting upon her tongue.

His jade and diamond ring.

‘Bruja!’ he cried. Witch!

The woman jumped backwards in the sand.

‘Give it to me!’ he shouted. In a blur of motion, he leaned forward and cupped her jaw, forcing open her mouth. Then he plucked the large jewel right off her tongue.

He felt a sudden, piercing ache behind his ribs. He careened backwards in pain, his head swimming. In that instant, it all came back to him—the battle, the priest, the ring, the thrust of Rogelio’s blade as it plunged through his chest.

He sat up and peered down at his jerkin, half-expecting to see a spreading bloodstain. But the leather garment was spotless. The only evidence of the stabbing was a coin-sized hole in the pocket that covered his heart.

Benicio struggled to right his thoughts, wondering why he was not dead. Rogelio had chased him relentlessly into the night. By daybreak, Benicio thought he had lost the greedy villain, but Rogelio had burst from the jungle with the first rays of sun.

It was at that moment Benicio had realised the reason for Rogelio’s speed: he had abandoned his heavy armour. Wearing nothing but his woollen hose and leather boots, Rogelio had easily caught up to Benicio. When Benicio finally decided to abandon the weight of his own armour, they had already reached the coast.

‘Where is the ring?’ Rogelio had demanded, pinning Benicio upon the beach.

But Benicio had refused to open his mouth.

‘And where is the map?’ Rogelio had added, searching the pockets of Benicio’s jerkin. Benicio had only blinked mindlessly. ‘Do not play a fool,’ Rogelio had sneered. ‘Where is the map to the Maya treasure?’

And thus Rogelio had given away the secret. It was a treasure map that Benicio carried, just as he suspected.

Benicio looked around now, confused. After such a tireless chase, and after plunging his very knife into Benicio’s chest, Rogelio had all but abandoned Benicio, and without taking the ring that he had chased him all night to obtain. Something was amiss, but Benicio could not determine what.

Benicio studied his would-be bandit. Her wet black hair hung in ropes about her breasts, which were covered by a damp yellow shawl that betrayed the shadow of two small nipples.

Benicio felt his desire tighten against his will. If not a witch, then surely she was a siren of the sea, for her lips were pink like coral and her eyes were dark, watery maelstroms. When he finally wrenched his gaze from the pools of her eyes, he took in her whole face. Her cheeks were high, her nose straight and long and her steep, angled eyebrows tilted like twin arrows. She was at once lovely and fearsome, and he felt strangely helpless in the grip of her ancient beauty.

‘Leave!’ he shouted, but she only stared at him with those unfathomable eyes. Perhaps she was casting a terrible enchantress’s spell upon him—some witch’s curse that would see his golden prize back inside her mouth once again. And where, oh, where had Rogelio got to? Had she cast her enchantress’s spell upon him, as well?

She squared her shoulders to Benicio and he observed that she was quite small, but with all the fascinating dips and curves of a woman. She straightened herself upon her knees, as if to make herself seem larger. But her fearsome posture only served to display her lovely long neck, reminding him that just moments ago, his lips had been upon it. His mouth grew wet with an unsavoury lust. Surely she was an enchantress, for only enchantresses were this beautiful and corrupt.

‘Leave me in peace,’ he entreated, feeling exhaustion overtake him. Even if she did not understand his language, surely she could understand his tone? ‘Now,’ he commanded weakly, but the enchantress would not move. Instead, she seemed to grow in stature as she loomed over his prone body.

He gripped the ring tightly in his fist. The sun beat down from above and a menacing chorus of cicadas rose from the jungle. Surely this was part of her enchantment—to paralyze him beneath her sorceress’s gaze until he all but begged her to take the ring. Or perhaps her beauty was just a trick of his mind—some sweet illusion to help him cope with his own slow death.

He reached beneath his jerkin, expecting to discover a bloody wound. Instead, he found a stiff, leathery object. He gasped, letting his fingers caress the brick of pages. Ah! It had not been fortune, but irony that had kept him from extinction: It was the pages of Amadís de Gaula that had protected him from Rogelio’s blow.

He gave a thunderous laugh. Since the day Luisa had given it to him, he had always kept the slim volume close to his heart. Now he saw that the cover had been completely penetrated by Rogelio’s blade, as had many of the pages. But the tales of chivalry had not been fully impaled and had literally saved his life.

And now it appeared that the book was also saving him from the enchantress, for she had turned her attention away from him and towards its battered cover.

‘You have never seen a book, have you?’ Benicio asked, seizing upon a possible advantage. Perhaps if he shared it with her she would reciprocate somehow? If only he could signal to her that he was in need of a sturdy canoe.

He laughed again, for the thought struck him as absurd. Here he was at the far ends of the earth, looking to hire a canoe! Still, he could not give up hope of finding passage back to Spain. And for that, he needed all the friends he could find.

He handed the book to the woman. She paged through the text with familiarity, as if she had handled many books before this one. She placed her finger in the hole that had been created by Rogelio’s blade, then shook her head in bemused disbelief. She returned the book to him and, though they had exchanged not a single word, he was left with the uncanny feeling that that they had just had a conversation.

Now the woman fixed her gaze upon his beard. ‘This?’ he asked, touching the whiskers he had been growing since the day his ship had sailed from Seville. ‘You want to touch it?’

She nodded shyly.

If he indulged her this wish, perhaps she could help him with his own? Surely her tribe lived somewhere close. He did not trust her, but that did not mean he could not profit from her knowledge. He nodded and she reached out her hand and stroked his long whiskers.

She laughed softly as she tugged at the hairs, as if trying to ensure they were real. She tugged again and again. She tugged again, a bit too hard, and he caught her by the wrist.

She narrowed her big brown eyes and her smile was full of mischief.

A flood of lust ripped through his body. He wanted to kiss her again, he realised. And that was not all. Hijo de la... He released her wrist as if it were a burning coal.

No, he would not do that. He might have been a lonely, world-weary wretch, but there were some lines he did not cross. Seducing island women was one of them—whatever island this was. Even if Luisa were not waiting for him back in Spain, he still would not prey upon the innocence of this local woman or any other. It sickened him that many of his compatriots seemed to make careers out of doing just that.

Though as he stared at her lips—still red with the evidence of the kiss they had shared—he found it very difficult to think about anything but how much he wanted to feel them again, this time in full possession of his senses. He watched her gaze slide down to his own parted lips and for a moment it seemed she was seducing him.

He sat deadly still, fighting his desire for her. He reminded himself of Luisa, his one true love, waiting for him back in Spain. He would not betray her. He was responding to the lovely, sensual woman before him as any man would. But it was a response of the body, not of the heart, and it would pass.

As if in apology, she smoothed his beard with her fingers. She scooted closer, her eyes fixing again upon his lips. Would she ask to touch those, too? Part of him prayed for it.

Another part of him demanded that he come to his senses. The first Spaniard to come to these shores—a man by the name of Córdoba—had lost half his crew to a local tribe. And the explorer Grijalva who had come after Córdoba had spoken of highly advanced, warlike peoples living in every corner of this strange land.

And now Cortés had learned that there were not only Maya living in this land, but dozens of other peoples, all with their own languages and customs, all living beneath the heel of some powerful tribe called the Mexica. This sensual enchantress probably had an entire army of strange men behind her, watching from the jungle, waiting to strike.

Gently, she pressed her lips to his. He did not respond. He refused to respond, though Diós Santo, her lips were so soft. He stayed perfectly still, concentrating on the rhythmic sound of the waves, trying to remember all of the reasons why he was an honourable man.

His reticence seemed only to spur her. She kissed him with a maddening gentleness, placing small, soft pecks along the length of his bottom lip. She tasted of herbs and strange fruits, and as she placed her whole mouth on his, he found himself wishing to consume her.

He was angry at her for trusting him, for kissing him so brazenly, for flitting about his lips as if she were some bustling bird. Was this some kind of game to her? Some trifling amusement that sirens and witches played? She knew not what she was teasing awake in him.

She probed her tongue deeper into his mouth and he imagined pushing her upon the sand, ripping off her shawl and yanking up her skirt. His need throbbed powerfully beneath his breeches. He should just take her, hard and fast—give her what she so thoughtlessly asked for and show her the error of it.

No. He could not allow himself to think of such things. He was a good man. An honourable man. He would not do what his basest longings demanded. He was so caught up in resisting his desire that he did not even notice her small, stealthy fingers stealing into his pocket.


Chapter Six (#ulink_97f3a08f-d07d-5f7b-bf5c-ad7e34a5d670)

She darted among the trees, changing directions to confuse his path. She had not wanted to deceive him, but she had had no choice. Treasure was treasure and a ring that big and beautiful could be presented to the Mexica in place of an entire cycle’s worth of her family’s tribute.

It was not just a pretty jewel: it was rest for her older sister’s hands, twisted from so many hours of weaving. It was relief for her younger sister’s shoulders, which had swelled like a man’s with so much grinding of maize.

For her father, it represented nothing less than time—time to commit to training the secret army of Totonac warriors, so that when the moment came to throw off their Mexica overlords the Totonacs would be ready.

She gripped the ring more tightly, then realised that she should simply place it on her finger. The heavy gem glided easily on to her thumb and she closed her fingers around it.

Treasure was treasure. She did not like that she’d had to deceive him, just as she did not like to spend her afternoons killing large numbers of birds and fish. It was a necessary evil and something impossible to explain to him. Not now, anyway. Now she could only run as fast as possible out of his reach.

Though that was proving unexpectedly difficult to do. He was surprisingly fast and agile for so large a man. While she leaped over logs and disappeared behind bushes, he followed her steadily, like a jaguar chasing a deer. She wondered if his speed was motivated by something beyond greed. Vengeance, perhaps.

Or perhaps lust. When she had placed her mouth upon his that second time, she’d had to fight to retain her wits. His lips were so large and soft beneath the wiry hairs of his moustache, like doorways to some dangerous, hidden depths. Go ahead, he seemed to dare her, kiss me. See what will happen. Yet he had refused to kiss her back. It was that icy self-possession that had scared her the most, for she knew that beneath his self-control was a man who cared nothing for her.

Still, her risky diversion had worked. She had repossessed the ring and that was all that mattered.

Yet there he was, still following her. His unruly hair flew behind him in long, unkempt locks. His prominent nose remained slightly bent, as if it had been broken. And while he was the largest, strongest male she had ever beheld, his clothes were ragged and seemed unsuited to his muscular body. He was not divinely beautiful, as a god, but world-worn and imperfect, as a man.

If she had had any doubts about his mortality, they had disappeared when he had revealed the object that had saved his life. A codex! She had read many codices in her studies. They usually contained beautiful, colourful pictures of the gods and elaborate illustrations of the history of the world.

The bearded man’s codex contained not a single beautiful picture. Instead, it was full of symbols that looked like the corpses of tiny ants. But while the pages themselves clearly did not contain any useful information, they did perform a life-saving function: They had blocked the sting of the blade that would have punctured his heart.

No, he was not immortal, just fortunate—though the ease with which he followed her was making her reconsider his immortality once again. Even in his battle-weary state, his legs were as strong as a stag’s. She splashed across a small stream, then heard not a splatter as he leapt over it entirely, gaining ground. He was going to overtake her soon. After deceiving him as she had, only the gods knew what he planned to do to her when he caught her.

Then she had an idea. She was nearing the limits of Cempoala. She knew that maize and cotton fields had been planted in this area to help meet her city’s tribute requirements to the Mexica. If she remembered correctly, there was a large maize field somewhere after the stream she had just crossed. She ran due east, praying she would find the maize plantation where she supposed it would be.

Then, like a granted wish, there it was—a vast plantation of head-high maize. She slipped into the rows at the corner of the field and held herself still. In seconds, he arrived at the field’s edge and let out a great, bellowing laugh. In the heartfelt burst she heard resignation and what she thought was a twinge of respect. She had bested him.

He broke into an angry run. She could hear his heavy footfalls and the loud cracking and bowing of the stalks beneath his feet. What a fool he was! With each angry exertion, he signalled his location.

All she had to do now was listen for his movements and adjust her own location accordingly. Night would fall soon and her friend the darkness would keep her concealed as she slunk out of the field and made her way home.

The same thought must have occurred to the man’s mind, however, for in that very instant, he halted his search. She listened closely and thought she heard him march back across the same path he had forged.

Immediately she realised her error. She ran towards the edge of the field, but it was too late. She looked up, and there he was, looking down at her from the rosewood tree that towered over the field. He dropped with puma-like stealth from its high branches and was soon charging towards her.

There was nothing to do but run. His footfalls grew louder behind her and she felt tears come to her eyes as she imagined what he might do to her after he repossessed his ring. When he had grabbed her wrist, she had sensed his capacity for violence and she feared that she had now pushed him over the edge.

But, suddenly, it was she who was falling over the edge. It was as if the very earth had opened up to consume her and her heart leapt into her throat as she accelerated towards a certain, crushing death. Down, down she fell, kicking the air in terror as she careened into a dark chasm.

Then—splash. Not rock, but water broke her fall. Sweet, cool water—a pool without bottom. She held her breath as she plunged through the inky depths, letting her momentum slow. Instinctively, she began kicking.

She kicked and kicked, propelling herself upwards towards the murky light until she burst to the surface. She was exhausted, confused, terrified and never happier to be alive.

She had fallen into a cenote. The sunken, freshwater ponds were rare in Totonac territory and the Totonac priests kept their locations secret. Still, Tula had come across several on her journeys to the ocean and had always stopped to give thanks to the old gods that lurked in their mysterious depths.

‘I am humble,’ she sputtered now, to any god who would listen. It was her third encounter with death in only a few hours and she could not believe her good fortune. She looked inside her fist. She had even retained her golden prize.

But not for long.

Suddenly, the bearded man surged to the surface next to her, sending a wave of water splashing against the high walls. He had fallen into the cenote beside her and, when he saw her treading the water near him, he swam towards her with cold, terrifying purpose.

She glanced up at the high walls that surrounded them. They were made of smooth rock and were uniformly bare, save for a small cluster of roots that dangled over the edge, totally out of reach.

There was no escape.

He made no loud demands, no violent movements. He simply opened her fist and pulled the ring gently off her thumb. He slipped the golden prize on to his little finger, then narrowed his eyes at her.

She trod water to a dry, rocky area at the edge of the pool, trying not to reveal her fear. Then she lifted herself on to a boulder and pulled her legs up against her chest.

He was like a crocodile in the black water, his large muscular limbs making slow, menacing strokes towards where she sat. He hoisted himself up on to the rock beside her and she readied herself to make another deep dive.

He made no movements towards her, however. Instead, he placed his feet in the water and looked out over the pool. She saw him steal a glance at her legs, aware that the yellow fabric of her skirt clung to them.

She felt a strange thrill travel through her, followed by a withering dread. The light of day was fading fast. In a short time, they would not be able to see anything at all. The distance between the pool and the jungle floor was greater than the height of a house. No man—or woman—could bridge it alone.

But Tula had to try. She could not remain here alone with him. Even if she shouted loudly for help, nobody would be travelling in this part of the jungle at this time of day. If she did not escape now, she would have to pass the night with him.

She stood upon one of the rocks and jumped, uselessly attempting to grasp the cluster of zapote roots hanging down from above. She scraped the walls, struggling to find a toehold to sustain her weight. She collapsed back on to the rock in frustration.

They sat together in silence for what seemed an eternity. She knew that at any moment he could simply hold her under the water, or smash her head in anger upon the rocks.

Or worse. Much, much worse.

Surely he considered it. She had humiliated him, after all. She had used her womanliness to distract him so that she could once again steal his ring. It was a shameful thing, what she had done. A dishonourable thing. A Totonac man would be justified in seeking punishment for such an act. Any man would be within his rights to pierce her with cactus spines, or force her to breathe in the smoke of burning chilli, or worse.

Still, something inside her—something she did not understand—went to him.

He was so unusual for a man—so large and pale compared to the men of her tribe and so gracelessly unadorned. His body was vigorous and immensely strong, yet his eyes were an ethereal, otherworldly blue. It did not seem as though his spirit had deserted him, however. Instead it seemed as if a kind of sky spirit dwelt within him. She wondered if he was some kind of a shaman, though she hoped he could not hear her thoughts. She did not want him to know that despite his uncivilised appearance, she had enjoyed kissing him.

Had enjoyed it very much.

If only she could speak his tongue, she would explain to him about her family and her circumstances and how very sorry she was for stealing his golden prize—twice. Treasure was treasure and surely he could understand that she’d done what she’d had to do to help her family survive?

She stared at the zapote roots once again. He was so very tall. If she could just stand upon his shoulders, she might be able to reach them.

He looked into her eyes, as if he was having the same thought. His face was chiselled and balanced, with prominent cheekbones and a heavy brow that he lifted slightly to an unnerving effect. And his nose was...broken.

‘Your nose,’ she said, pointing at the bent bone.

He lifted his hand and gently traced the length of it, cringing as he travelled past the abrupt bend.

‘If you do not bend it back, it will heal that way,’ she said in her language, hoping he might glean her meaning.

He shook his head, but she could not tell if it was because he did not understand her, or if he simply did not wish to listen. He stared at the quiet pool.

‘Taak’in,’ he said finally.

She could not believe her ears. ‘You speak the Maya tongue?’ she asked in that language.

‘Taak’in,’ he repeated, clearly not understanding her question.

‘Taak’in,’ she said and pointed to his little finger. Surely he knew the word he spoke was the Maya name for gold?

‘Taak’in?’ he asked, holding up his finger.

She nodded, studying the enormous diamond-framed jadestone that could have been hers. Upon it was a gilded etching of the Feathered Serpent God, Quetzalcoatl. It was the finest such etching that she had ever seen.

Benicio pointed to the jadestone. ‘Taak’in?’ he asked.

She shook her head. No, no, no. He turned the ring upside down and pointed to its golden base. ‘Taak’in?’ he asked again.

She nodded. Yes, yes, that is gold.

He appeared to strike upon an idea. He pulled a cloth out from between his boots and stretched it on the boulder between them. The cloth appeared to be a kind of canvas for a drawing of a large tilted square. Around each of the square’s four points was a small circle. A single, finger-sized dot decorated its centre. The man pointed to the dot.

‘Taak’in?’ he asked.

The man spoke in puzzles. Why did he give the name of gold to a simple dot painted on a piece of cloth? Perhaps the drawing was a form of picture writing—a symbol signifying gold. Like all high-born Totonacs, Tula had learned picture writing as a child, though this shape did not resemble any character that she had ever learned.

He continued to point to the dot, as if that point were somehow more important than the others—a special location of sorts.

She felt a wave of recognition. She was not looking at picture writing. She was looking at a map—and a familiar one at that. She needed to be careful, however. She did not know this man’s intentions and the place being depicted was beyond sacred. Still, she needed his help to escape the cenote.

‘Tenochtitlan,’ she lied.

‘Tenoch-it-lan?’ he repeated, pronouncing the name incorrectly.

She suppressed a laugh. He could not even say the name of the Mexica capital, the largest and most powerful city in the entire world. She knew that he had come from far away, but surely he had at least a basic knowledge of the world?

‘Tenoch-tit-lan,’ she said again slowly, emphasising the middle of the word.

‘Tenoch-it-lan,’ he said, incorrectly, and Tula flashed him a smile full of pity.

Returning her attention to the map, she became more certain of what she saw. Her own father had drawn this map for her as part of a history lesson long ago. But if there was gold to be had in the place represented on the cloth, it belonged to the Totonacs, not the bearded ones.

‘Tenoch-it-lan?’ he repeated. He pointed in all different directions and then made a confused expression, and she understood that he was asking her where Tenochtitlan was.

Tula pointed west. She had never visited the Mexica capital herself, but her father had journeyed there once as a boy. He had explained that the clever Mexica had built their city on an island in the middle of a great freshwater lake high in the western mountains.

Each year the Mexica made their island bigger by bringing in earth on three long wooden bridges that connected the island to the shore. They piled the earth to create islands, which were separated by canals that led to the heart of the city, a central plaza with so many palaces and temples that one could walk among them, Tula’s father had told her, and easily become lost.

At the head of Tenochtitlan’s plaza were its most important structures, which had been arranged to correspond with the four sacred directions. To the east was the tzompantli, the haunting skull rack. To the north was a set of pyramids dedicated to the gods of agriculture and flowers. To the south, another set of pyramids rose to revere the earth gods and gods of vanquished cities. To the west lay the largest, most imposing temple of them all—the double pyramid dedicated to the Rain God, Tlaloc, and to the Sun God, Huitzilopochtli.

All Totonacs knew of the great double temple, for at its apex was the altar stone where so many of their loved ones had met their deaths. Tula shook her head. It was uncanny how well the map seemed to represent the sacred centre of Tenochtitlan, though she was certain it did not.

‘Tenoch-it-lan?’ the man repeated and there was so much hope in his voice.

‘Tenochtitlan,’ she said with certainty, trying to mask her deception. If she could make him believe that the map depicted the sacred centre of Tenochtitlan, then she could keep him from where the gold was really hidden.

She glanced at the man’s legs. Their thick contoured muscles suggested a deep well of physical strength. With those mighty legs, he could easily hoist her on his shoulders where she could stand and reach the roots. All he seemed to lack was the will to do it. She needed to motivate him somehow and to make him trust her.

She pointed at his nose. ‘I know someone who can help you,’ she said in her language, then pointed up at the jungle. But you have to get me out of this cenote.

He shook his head sternly and pointed at the map. Do not tell anyone, he seemed to be saying. His eyes narrowed and he watched her for a sign of understanding. She knew he would not help her reach the roots without it.

She nodded. Yes, she would keep his secret—that his treasure map depicted the sacred centre of Tenochtitlan—for his secret was a lie.

What she would not do was explain how her family had suffered, how they continued to suffer beneath the heel of the Mexica and how she would do anything for them. And it was not simply her family. With enough treasure, the Totonacs could free themselves of their tribute obligations for a long time—perhaps for ever.

‘I will keep your secret,’ she said in her language and he seemed satisfied. He removed his codex from beneath his leather vest and placed the folded map between its damp pages. Returning the codex to its place beneath his vest, he pulled his legs beneath him in a squatting position, his palms upon the ground.

He pointed to her legs, then to the back of his neck, then stared downwards, waiting.

She had no reason to trust him, but she did not have a choice. She moved behind him, placing each of her legs upon his shoulders and crouching over his head for balance.

As he stood, she squeezed her legs around his neck and her fingers clung to the hard line of his jaw as he bore her upwards. He gripped her lower legs, steadying her, and she gripped his head without thinking. His hair was surprisingly soft.

He moved closer towards the wall of the cenote, then paused. He asked her a question in his language. Though she did not understand his words, she could guess what he was asking. Would she come back for him?

Yes, yes, of course she would return for him, she said in her language, trying to sound certain. Tomorrow morning. She would bring a rope.

She felt his body stiffen. In an instant, he had pulled her from her perch and was holding her in his arms like a small child. She stared up at him, her back supported by his massive arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around his neck. Terror shot through her as she realised that in any moment, he could simply drop her upon the ground and snuff out her life.

He repeated his question, staring into her eyes with cold intensity.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said, nodding. ‘I will return. I promise.’

He caught her glancing up at the roots just beyond his head. He narrowed his eyes once again. He did not believe her. And why should he? She had betrayed him twice already. Besides, she had no reason to return for him and he knew it.

How could she reassure him that helping her escape was the right thing to do? Another kiss? No, a kiss would merely remind him of her treachery.

She needed to give him something real—something to convince him that she would return. She pulled the silver spear from beneath her cloth belt and offered it to him with both hands, like a gift. He looked at it closely, then laughed.

She felt the heat of anger rising in her cheeks. He found her offering funny? She stuffed the object back beneath her belt, fearing that now he would never let her go. She would spend her last breaths inside this bottomless pit with a man who had every reason to do her harm.

Now he was nodding at her and glancing at her waist. No. Not that. Please, not that. She began to sweat, though the air was cool. Mixcoatl, help me, she begged in silence. The man stopped nodding and fixed his gaze on the exact place beneath her belt where she had stuffed the shiny spear. Perhaps she had only misunderstood him, for it seemed he wished to see the spear again. She removed the silver spear and, following his brief nod towards the rocks, she dropped it among them.

Seemingly satisfied, he hoisted her back up over his shoulders and edged towards the wall of the cenote, just below the roots. Tula let out a long sigh of relief. She bent her legs and pressed her feet against his chest, scrambling to a standing position. For a moment, his hands rested atop her feet, holding them down. It was as if he wished to remind her of her promise.

Just as quickly, he released them and she clambered up the roots and stood at the cenote’s rim.

‘I promise,’ she repeated in Totonac, though she knew he doubted her. In truth, she doubted herself. To save this man would mean to take responsibility for him and she did not trust him.

She admitted that she was drawn to him—inexplicably so—and that she had enjoyed the feel of his lips upon hers. But she had always been drawn to unusual things—often to her disadvantage. This man was no history codice or quetzal bird or temple beneath the waves. He was a person, with his own needs and purposes.

Perhaps he had come with an army that meant to harm the Totonacs. Besides, if there was a treasure to be had, then it should be her people, not his, who should benefit from it.

Still, she knew she would return for him. His map was poorly drawn. It was uncertain whether it really led to treasure. The only thing for certain was the ring he wore upon his finger, and she was determined to steal it back. Her heart squeezed, for she knew that she would betray him for a third time, this fascinating savage from across the sea.

Yes, she would return for him. It was a cruel, merciless world and treasure was treasure.


Chapter Seven (#ulink_938e040e-51da-51c0-a35d-159d682bc269)

Benicio stared up at his sparkling mistress, amazed. Here he was, at the far ends of the earth, stuck in a hole so dark and deep that it might as well have been a grave. Yet the planet Venus had found him. Benicio gave a gentleman’s bow to her, flickering above him in her luminous splendour. Surely this was a good omen. It signalled that the beautiful woman he had just sent on her way would return for him.

She would return, would she not? He had her fork, after all—a silver fork that she valued highly enough to conceal beneath her belt. The fork itself was yet another good omen. If the natives of this island had silver forks, it meant that they had silver mines. If they had silver mines, then they had gold mines and if they had gold mines, then surely they had hordes of golden treasure, just waiting to be found.

Benicio studied the fork’s elegant surface, amazed that the people of this distant land should fashion cutlery so similar to the cutlery of Spain. He rubbed his hungry belly. If only he had a bit of chorizo to eat with it.

It would be the second day in a row he had gone without food, though at least he had the fresh water of the pool to drink. He crouched on the rock and lifted several handfuls to his lips. It tasted good. Sweet, even. What a strange, remarkable place this was. It was as if a giant had shoved his spade into earth and created a massive well from which to drink at his whim.





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