Free Feathered Serpent by Colin Falconer Page B

boys brush the insects aside from his face with feather fans while two priests walk ahead bearing braziers of copal incense. Behind him come the owl men, in their feathered cloaks and beaked helmets, skulls and human bones tagged to their cloaks. They scream like shrikes, and blow clouds of coloured smoke from clay censers.
    “Who are they?” Aguilar whispers to me, clearly alarmed.
    “Sorcerers. They are here to break the power of our great lord with their spells.”
    A sharp intake of breath, and Aguilar turns pale. “Witchcraft!” he mutters and makes the sign of the cross.
    Feathered Serpent receives them under the palms, seated on a heavy oak chair inlaid with turquoise. At my suggestion he again wears the black velvet suit and soft black cap with green plume he wore on the occasion of his last meeting with Tendile.
    Tendile kisses the ground and puts a finger to his lips. Then his priests step forward and walk around Feathered Serpent and his retinue, fumigating them with incense. When it is done, Tendile announces to me: “I bring words of greeting and friendship to Malintzin from Revered Speaker.”
    I relay this greeting to Aguilar who pronounces 'Malintzin' as "Malinche".
    “Revered Speaker has asked me to give Malintzin these gifts as a token of his friendship.”
    I realise what he is about to do. It is more, much more, than I had dared to hope. I turn to Aguilar. “Will you respectfully ask the great lord if he will stand? These men wish to dress him in ceremonial robes.”
    Aguilar can only frown. “To what purpose?”
    “Will you do as I say!”
    Aguilar’s eyes go wide. He would like to whip me for my insolence. But what can he do at such a moment? He must pass on what I have said. Feathered Serpent gets to his feet.
    The Mexica lords step forward and knot a beautiful feathered cape at his shoulder, then place a collar of jade and gold in the shape of a serpent around his neck. Other lords bend down to put anklets of gold and silver on his legs. They give him a shield worked entirely from brilliant green quetzal feathers and place a mitre of tiger skin on his head.
    Finally Tendile himself produces a mask of turquoise mosaic, with gold fangs and a crossband of quetzal plumes, which he places on Feathered Serpent’s head. It is the official regalia of a high priest of Quetzalcóatl, and so, by extension, the garb of the god himself. Motecuhzoma has just publicly recognised my lord as the incarnation of the god. He believes also.
    The other thunder gods and their moles look on, bemused.
    I had supposed that my lord would surely be moved at recognising his very own emblems, but to my dismay he immediately removes his garments and drops them at his feet, as if they are an impediment to him. He resumes his seat on his makeshift throne and barks a command at Aguilar.
    “My lord Cortés wishes to know what else they have brought,” Aguilar says to me.
    I try to hide my confusion. Is it possible that Feathered Serpent is trying to hide his own identity? But to what purpose?
    I turn to Tendile, who is as bemused as I. “Feathered Serpent wishes to see your other gifts.”
    “We have brought provisions for himself and his companions.”
    A line of slaves are waiting his command. They carry heavy baskets of food which they lay on mats on the ground; guavas, avocados and hog plums, panniers of eggs and roasted turkeys and toasted maize cakes.
    All the food has been liberally sprinkled with a sauce made from human blood. I can smell it.
    I hold my breath as one of the thunder gods, the one with the golden hair, steps forward and tears a joint from one of the turkeys. He holds it to his nose and sniffs, his face wrinkling in disgust. He throws the meat into the dirt.
    There is a deathly silence, all the other thunder gods watching Feathered Serpent, waiting to see what he will do. I hold my breath. This is the moment when he will prove his identity to all, if he acts correctly.
    He speaks softly to Aguilar,