The Spaniard's Innocent Maiden

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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.