Читать книгу The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden - Greta Gilbert - Страница 15

Chapter Six

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.