The Discovery of Chocolate
A Novel

JAMES RUNCIE

Dedication

for Marilyn

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

I

Although it is true that I have been considered lunatic on many occasions in the last five hundred years, it must be stated, at the very beginning of this sad and extraordinary tale, that I have been most grievously misunderstood. The elixir of life was drunk in all innocence and my dog had nothing to do with it.

Let me explain.

Having once embarked on a precarious and often dangerous quest, I have now been condemned to roam the world, unable to die. I have lost all trace of my friends and family and have been separated from the only woman that I have ever loved. And although it might seem a blessing to be given the possibility of eternal life and to taste its delights without end, taking pleasure where one will and living without judgement or morality, it is, in fact, an existence of unremitting purgatory. I cannot believe that this has happened to me and have only decided to tell my story so that others who might seek to cheat death and live such a life should be alert to its dangers.

My troubles began at the age of twenty when I, Diego de Godoy, notary to the Emperor Charles V, first crossed the Atlantic as a young man in search of fame and fortune. The year was fifteen hundred and eighteen.

Of course it was all for love.

Isabella de Quintallina, a lady of sixteen years who lived, like me, in Seville, had taken possession of my soul. Although our temperaments seemed ideally suited, my lack of noble birth put me at a considerable disadvantage, and, after six months of prolonged and ardent courtship, I began to doubt if I could ever win her love. I was further dismayed when Isabella set me the following challenge.

If we were to be joined in matrimony, I would have to hazard everything I owned – all my prospects, all my safety and all my future – on one bold venture. She asked me to travel with the conquistadors, and return, not only with the gold and riches on which our future life together would depend, but also with a gift which no man or woman had ever received before, a true and secret treasure which only we would share. Isabella had heard that in the New World gold and silver could be plucked from the earth in abundance. Pepper, nutmegs and cloves could be harvested in all seasons; cinnamon had been found within the bark of a tree; and strange insects could render up vibrant tints to dye her silks the deepest scarlet. She was convinced that I would be able to find a love token that was both spectacular and unique, and would wait for me for two years, suffering the attentions of no other man, until the arrival of her eighteenth birthday. Succeed, and Isabella vowed the world would be mine; if I failed, however, she would have no choice but to seek the hand of another and never look upon me again.

Two years! This was more than all the time in which we had known one another.

Despair entered the very fabric of my being, and I do not think that I had ever felt so alone. My sweet mother had died when I was an infant, and my poor blind father was too distressed to counsel me, terrified that I would never return from such a journey.

But there was no choice.

I must live or die for love.

After presenting me with her portrait in a miniature silver case, Isabella took pity on my plight and gave me her pet greyhound to act as a companion on the long voyage ahead. Tears welled up in her eyes, the hound whimpered in accompaniment, and my beloved implored me to see the sacrifice she had made, asking me to believe that such generosity surely proved her love, since there was nothing she valued more in the world than Pedro’s devoted and unquestioning loyalty.

This was extremely awkward because, in truth, I did not actually want the dog. I have always detested the manner in which such animals fawn upon their owners, bite the heels of strangers, soil gardens, and rut at the most inopportune moments. But this young puppy was forced into my arms without any suspicion that he might be the last thing in the world that I required. In short, I was landed with him, and could only declare that he was indeed the true testament of her love, and that I would endeavour to return with an equivalent prize.

And so, after a tearful and prolonged farewell with my father, I took my leave. Isabella threw herself into my arms, pressing her breasts against my chest, her blonde ringlets falling on my shoulders, and then watched from the quayside as I boarded the caravel Santa Gertrudis. Great cries of ‘A Dios, a Dios’ rose from the ship, and the crowds called out, ‘Buen viaje, buen viaje’. Slowly, and with a terrible inevitability, the ship pulled away and the sight of my beloved began to recede into the distance. It was as if we were being stretched apart from each other for ever. I clasped Isabella’s portrait to my bosom and felt a great weight behind my eyes as the tears welled up. All that had previously defined me was swept away by the journey down the Guadalquivir River and out to sea towards the Americas.

I had never before contemplated the life of a sailor, and the inconstancy of the voyage disheartened me, for there was not a moment when our ship was still or we could be at peace. The calm seas which we met at the outset of the journey were interrupted by unwelcome and intemperate gusts of wind, and strange currents pulled the ship in directions in which we had not meant to travel. The nights were filled with the fearsome sounds of dragging, moaning and creaking, deep in the hull. Horses neighed below, pigs moved amidst the straw, and rats scuttled past us as we cleaned cannon, arranged sails, and washed down the deck.

But after we had passed Las Islas Canarias we found calm seas and winds in our favour. We sailed as on a river of fresh water, taking much delight in fishing for the glittering dorado that we ate each evening. Pedro ran upon the deck, and even on one occasion swam in the sea, the sailors cheering his adventure, until he lost his confidence and required rescue. Of course it fell to me, as his new owner, to dive in and save him. I dared not think how many fathoms deep the ocean ran beneath us and I was nearly drowned bringing him back on board. But my act of mercy only served to make the hound love me all the more, and I found his dogged devotion so all-encompassing that I believed that I would never enjoy a moment alone for the rest of my life.

He was a permanent reminder of Isabella, to whom all thoughts returned, like doves at nightfall. Each evening I lay on my hammock with her portrait in my hand and Pedro asleep at my feet, dreaming of the nights that I would one day spend with my beloved rather than her accursed dog. Even in the daytime I found myself quite lost in the memory of her beauty, and I was reprimanded that I should concentrate on my tasks and become more of a man and less of a dreamer.

I steeled myself to concentrate on my duties, but was surprised to find that all seamen were expected to sew. Although this seemed an effeminate occupation, it was taken extremely seriously, and I discovered that the neatest hem-stitchers were even given extra rations, the task of patching and making sails being considered so vital to the success of our endeavours. I was detailed to pick old rope apart and then re-use it to make ladders, or ratlines, by which our men were able to scramble to points aloft. I subsequently found myself spending many hours on deck involved in their construction, proving so adept at the task that I was soon promoted to making lanyards and shroud stays.

After seven weeks, we landed in Cuba.

It was the feast of the Epiphany, fifteen hundred and nineteen. I had expected it to be winter, but the air was filled with the sweet scents of tamarind and jacaranda, hibiscus and bougainvillea. This was, indeed, a New World.

At noon the next day we met the Governor of the islands, Diego de Velázquez, who had been in these lands some five years. He bid us welcome and informed us that our arrival was timely: there was an expedition underway to discover new territories a few weeks hence, led by one Hernán Cortés.

Of good stature, broad-shouldered and deep-chested, with fair, almost reddish hair, worn long and with a beard, Cortés possessed neither patience nor self-doubt. He determined to use my skills as a notary, and asked me to record every detail of his journey to the Americas, issuing declarations, recording confessions and sending accurate relaciones back to Spain. I would also be called upon to write out and proclaim new oaths of allegiance to Queen Doña Juana and her son, the Emperor Charles V, made by the caciques, or leaders, of the realms that we would surely conquer.

And so it was that on the tenth of February fifteen hundred and nineteen, just after Mass, I, Diego de Godoy, and my over-eager dog, Pedro the greyhound, boarded the lateen-rigged caravel San Sebastián and began to sail along the coast of Yucatán in the company of ten other ships under the leadership of the aforementioned Cortés. Diego de Velázquez attempted to recall us from the journey at the very last minute, questioning the legitimate authority of Cortés to colonise further lands without the consent of His Majesty, but our General was in no mood to turn back. The adventure had begun, and I now found myself in the company of friends upon whose abilities my life would come to depend: Antonio de Villaroel, the standard-bearer; Anton de Alaminos, the pilot; Aguilar, the interpreter; Maestre Juan, the surgeon; Andres Nuñez, the boat-builder; Alonso Yañez, the carpenter; together with some thirty-two crossbowmen, thirteen musketeers, ten gunners, six harquebusiers, two blacksmiths, and, to keep us hearty, Ortiz, the musician, and Juan, the harpist, from Valencia.

Hernán Cortés may have been an irascible commander, quick to find fault with people in his charge, but his ways were softened by his devoted companion Doña Marina, the daughter of a Mexican cacique, whom he had been given in the province of Tabasco. A most comely woman, with long dark hair, golden skin and deep brown eyes, Doña Marina had a natural authority. She also seemed unwilling to wear a corset, preferring loose and revealing clothing which fell easily from her body, exposing areas of soft and rounded flesh that were the very essence of temptation. She possessed the most sensual of walks: lilting and slow, with her body arched back and her breasts held high, as if she was quite accustomed to being the most beautiful person wherever she went.

I must confess that I found her disarmingly attractive, and soon could not stop myself thinking about her. Courteous and calm, Doña Marina was someone I needed to befriend, since she and Aguilar were the only people who could speak the native tongue of Nahuatl, and I was certain that I would need her aid if I was to fulfil my quest.

Sailing off the coast of Cempaola, we were greeted in a friendly fashion by some forty Indians in large dugout canoes. They had pierced holes in their lips and ears, and had inserted either pieces of gold or lapis. This jewellery glinted in the light, and both their nakedness and their beauty amazed me. They shouted, ‘Lope luzio, Lope luzio,’ and pulled up alongside our ships, offering fine cotton garments, war clubs, axes and necklaces. As they prepared to climb aboard, one of them stumbled and let fall from his pack into the sea a handful of what appeared to be dried brown almonds, and became much distressed. Nobody could see clearly what these articles were, but others began to check that they had not done the same, looking about their bodies for these strange dark objects, and counting them in their hands. The leader of the sailors then climbed aboard with several of his officials, and began to point at the land ahead, as if encouraging our men to go there. After weighing anchor, our camp was established on the shore, while I proceeded with Cortés and thirty soldiers to meet the local cacique, and to begin my written record of our adventures.

The chieftain at Cempaola was the fattest person I had ever seen. He was bare-chested, and an enormous expanse of flesh hung over his skirt and sandals, as if he were nothing less than a man mountain of lard and gold. Making a deep bow to Cortés, he then ordered that a petaca, or chest, filled with beautiful and richly worked golden objects – necklaces, bracelets, rings, cloaks and skirts – be placed before us. No one had ever seen such treasure before; there were mirrors set with garnets, bracelets of lapis, a helmet of stained mosaic and a maniple of wolfskin. The chest alone would surely have made a man’s fortune, but we were careful to seem unmoved by our first true glimpse of undreamed wealth. The cacique then unfurled ten bales of the purest white linen, embroidered with gold feathers. I immediately thought that this could have made the most glorious gown for Isabella and would have delved into my knapsack to offer my paltry goods in exchange had I been a more esteemed member of the party. But Cortés had forbidden any of us to converse with the cacique. He alone was to be the Master of Ceremonies, producing clear, green and twisted Spanish beads, as well as two exquisite holland shirts and a long-piled Flemish hat in return for these new treasures.

The citizens of Cempaola were amazed both by our armour and by our appearance, and now asked if we had come from the east, since, according to their religion, the god of the fifth sun was expected at any moment. Perhaps we were angels, or divine messengers?

Cortés now began to tell the Cempaolans of our Christian belief. He explained that they must accept our faith and cleanse their souls of sin, trusting in the promises of our Saviour, Jesus Christ, who had been sent by God to redeem us from death and grant us eternal life.

Bartolomé de Olmedo, the Mercedarian friar, now ordered that the whole town should take part in a Mass of Thanksgiving. The Cempaolans were given new Spanish names after the saints of our Church and christened in an enormous candle-lit ceremony. Eight Indian girls were then presented to the captains of our ships, who took them away for an altogether different kind of baptism.

One of the girls walked up to me and touched my beard (which I had grown in an attempt to look swarthy). She wore a short skirt, but her chest was naked, and as she caressed my face I looked down and saw how close her breasts were to my bare arms. They seemed so full and round, so perfect and inviting, that I could only just restrain myself from touching them. I had always assumed that my thoughts of Isabella would remain pure and in the forefront of my mind and was somewhat surprised that, at the first sight of such beautiful women, I should find myself becoming so swiftly overcome by passion. Perhaps I had little resistance to beauty, and fidelity might not be one of my strongest characteristics?

I sought out our friar, and confessed that my thoughts had become lustful and depraved. Although I was pledged to Isabella, it was difficult to love faithfully when I could no longer see the object of my heart’s desire.

The friar answered that such ardent yearning for that which we cannot see should be redirected towards the love and promise of eternity offered by our Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. I must stand firm and reject the snares of the devil.

This was difficult, because at that moment a group of naked Indian women began to play a game of leapfrog outside our camp.

‘You see?’ I cried. ‘How can anyone avoid the temptation of such flesh?’

‘One must not think of these things,’ the friar answered firmly, placing his hands together inside his cloak.

‘But what can I do to assuage my lustful thoughts?’ I asked.

‘Think of St Agatha, who lost her breasts for our Lord.’

I suddenly remembered a painting I had seen in Seville of a dark-haired woman holding a tray of pears. That was what they were.

‘You must have thought about St Agatha a very great deal,’ I observed.

‘Do not torment me,’ the priest replied distractedly, fumbling under his cloak. ‘It is a daily agony.’

Perhaps he had a persistent itch, or was cleaning his dagger?

‘What must we do?’ I asked.

‘Look to the Lord,’ the friar replied, his voice rising in pitch. ‘Only look to the Lord.’

His face was red; his eyes had a faraway look.

Then he gasped.

The man was of no help at all.

I decided to go in search of Pedro for consolation. That was the point of a dog, I had always been told. They offered unquestioning loyalty.

After calling his name several times, I found myself in a small turkey farm. By its side, penned in a small area, were several hairless dogs. Pedro spent a short time snapping and biting at their heels, and then selected a companion for what can only be described as a prolonged act of mating.

All those around me were now involved in acts of lust and bestiality. Was I the only man who had resolved to keep himself pure for his beloved?

After several days we moved on towards the town of Tlaxcala. These people had heard that we were on the march, and it soon became clear that they would not be so easily convinced of our divine status. They had vowed to put our mortality to an immediate test by killing as many of us as possible, their leader Xicotenga informing us that his idea of peace would be to eat our flesh and drink our blood.

We were savagely attacked, and a bloody battle ensued. Pedro was terrified by the noise and I had never seen such slaughter. Our forces only just managed to hold to our formation in the face of some forty thousand warriors. If we had not possessed gunpowder I am sure that we would have been defeated.

Cortés then dispatched messengers to ask for safe passage through their country, and threatened that if they did not agree to this we would be forced to kill all of their people. Exhausted by our bravery, and fearing a further attack, the Tlaxcalans finally surrendered. They bowed their heads, prostrated themselves before Cortés, and begged forgiveness.

That night we attended a great banquet of turkey and maize cakes, cherries, oranges, mangoes and pineapple, served by the most comely women. After the meal the Tlaxcalans proceeded to display their treasures, some of which would be gifts, some of which we must trade. There were feather mantles, obsidian mirrors, silver medallions, and decorated purses I know Isabella would have treasured; gold saltcellars, gilded beads, wooden scissors, sewing needles, strings, combs, coats, capes and dresses. There were two small alabaster vessels filled with stones that must have been worth two thousand ducats, together with gilded masks, earrings, bracelets, necklaces and pendants.

Yet still I saw nothing that was sufficiently unique to secure my love.

At the end of the ceremonies Chief Xicotenga said to Cortés: ‘This is my daughter. She is unmarried and a virgin. You must take her and her friends as your wives. For you are so good and brave that we wish to be your brothers.’

Cortés replied that he was flattered by the gift, but that he would be unable to partake of such hospitality since he was already married and it was not his custom to marry more than one woman.

Then he looked at me.

This was, indeed, a beautiful girl. I realised that the longer we stayed here the harder I would find it to resist such attractions. It was already difficult to recall Isabella’s voice, the fall of her hair, the light in her eyes, or the manner in which she walked. It was as if she only existed in her portrait, whereas these women were vibrant and alive, singing into the night sky, building fires, carrying water, and laughing gaily.

It had been so long since I had heard a woman laugh.

Cortés brought the woman over to me. ‘Take her,’ he ordered.

I could not believe it. These people were so keen to give away their women. Surely this could not be right? How could I remain faithful now?

I looked at Doña Marina.

‘Do as he says,’ she said.

‘But Isabella …’ I pleaded, ‘my betrothed …’

‘You will be the better prepared to love her …’ she continued, ‘and no one need know.’

The girl led me into a small dark room with a low bed. A fire burned in the corner, and rose petals lay strewn around the floor.

She took off her skirt and lay down on the bed, motioning me to do likewise.

I did not know what to do, but began to remove my doublet. The girl pulled at my breeches and removed my stockings.

Then she placed her naked body against me.

As she pressed her lips to mine, and I could feel her breasts against my skin, my body surged with excitement. She pulled me down towards her. Her nipples hardened into sharp tips, and she began to move underneath me, pulling me inside her. I was unsure what to do, being, I must confess, a virgin, but let her rock me back and forth. I closed my eyes, imagining that she was Isabella, but then opened them again to look at the rise and fall of her breasts. Her eyes widened and she pushed me deep inside her. Within seconds I was brought to the peak of excitement and exploded like cannon shot. It seemed that we could not be more fully conjoined, our sweat and flesh mingling as one body. For a few minutes we lay panting to regain our breath, until the girl pushed me away from her, put on her skirt, and left the room.

It was over.

I was no longer a youth but a man.

Pedro trotted in through the now open doorway. He sniffed at me, rather contemptuously I thought, and then lay down as if to sleep. I began to dress, and made ready to rejoin the men.

When I finally emerged, with a tired Pedro following reluctantly, I saw that my companions had been waiting for me.

Doña Marina came forward.

‘That didn’t take very long.’ She smiled.

It seemed that nothing I did would ever be secret, and that everyone must know my business.

‘I’m not sure …’ I began.

‘If she was a virgin? I hope she wasn’t …’ Doña Marina replied.

‘I cannot marry her,’ I said firmly.

‘You are not required to do so. Would you like to see her again?’

‘No,’ I said, but then thought of her breasts against me. ‘How long will we be here?’

‘Seven nights.’

Doña Marina looked at me, taking my silence as assent.

‘I will send her every night.’

I did not know whether guilt or excitement was the stronger of the two emotions flowing through my body, but I knew that I had failed the very first test of my quest.

In the next seven days we began to plan our approach to the magnificent city of Mexico, for we had heard that this was where the greatest treasure lay. The Tlaxcalans urged us against such an undertaking, so outnumbered would we be by the forces of that great city. Even if peace was offered, we were not to believe any of the promises made by its chieftain, Montezuma. But Cortés was adamant, arguing that the whole purpose of our journey was to reach Mexico. He then asked the Tlaxcalans about the best path to the city.

A volcano stood before us, impeding our progress. This was Popocatépetl, and the local people held it in great awe as it rose out of the hills, threatening to spew forth rocks and hot lava over all that surrounded it. We had never seen such a sight and I decided that this was the moment to try my bravery. I offered to climb to the top and report on the best possible route ahead.

Cortés was amused by my boldness, asserting that the loss of my virginity had given me renewed courage, and granted me permission for the ascent. Two chiefs from the nearest settlement of Huexotzinco were to be my companions. They warned that the earth could tremble, and that flames, stones and ash were often flung from the mountain top, killing all in their wake; but I was determined to meet the challenge, whatever the dangers.

It was a difficult ascent and we had to stop at several stages to regain our breath. The light wind seemed to increase the higher we climbed, and the ground was uneven under foot. Pedro picked his way ahead of us, confident despite the sharp stones that lay beneath the snow. At times we had to scramble using our hands across ice and scree, looking down as seldom as we dared. I had never been so far from the level of the sea in my life, and a strange lightness entered my soul, as if I was no longer part of this world. The higher we climbed the smaller things seemed, just as events from our past life recede in the memory and pass into oblivion. Frightened by the unevenness of the ground and the possibility of falling, it seemed at times as if I was dreaming, and I imagined Isabella at the top of the volcano, like the Virgin Mary, dressed in white, judging my infidelity.

As we neared the summit the wind increased, and we could not hear each other speak. But then, looking out into the distance, I saw the gilded city across the plain, shining like a new Jerusalem in the evening light. It was as if I was both in heaven and in hell, and no other land mattered.

The purpose of my journey was clear. Even if I became blind at this moment, I would still have seen the greatest sight on earth. I had done what no man of my country had yet done, and, at the end of my life, when the darkness was closing in, I would be able to say to any man who asked that I, Diego de Godoy, notary to General Cortés, servant of our Emperor Charles, was the first Spaniard to climb the volcano that guarded Mexico. All roads, all settlements, and everything the eye could discern led across the Elysian fields to that noble city. It seemed to float on the water, a cascade of houses, each with its own battlements, each with its own bridge to its neighbour. I had heard people tell of the Italian city of Venice, but this was surely far finer, stretching out in an eternal immensity, lit by a light from highest heaven, beckoning all who saw it to journey across the plain.

I could not see how anyone could ever vanquish such a place, and understood now, in a moment, how all the surrounding peoples could not but submit to its glory.

Hearing of this vision, Cortés became all the more resolved to leave on the morrow, telling the Tlaxcalans that it was God’s will that he should continue. It was the eighth of November fifteen hundred and nineteen. Everything we had done on this journey, and perhaps even in our lives, had been leading to this moment.

Four chieftains now approached, carrying a bejewelled palanquin, canopied with vibrant green feathers, decorated with gold, silver and pearls, and topped with a turquoise diadem. The interior was adorned with blue jewels, like sapphires, suggesting the night sky. The figure at the centre stared ahead impassively. Men swept the road before him, and none dared look him in the face.

This was the great Montezuma. He was perhaps some forty years old, olive-skinned and with a slim figure. His hair was dark rather than black, and he wore a well-trimmed beard. His eyes were fine; I could not ascertain their colour, but what surprised me most was the mildness of his demeanour. He seemed gentle, despite his power, as if, perhaps, he never had to raise his voice. Supported on the arms of two chiefs he stepped down and wished our General welcome.

Cortés produced a series of elaborately worked Venetian glass beads, strung on a golden filament and scented with musk. Montezuma bowed to receive them. He then took from his aide a necklace of golden crabs, worked with fabulous intricacy, and hung it on our leader’s neck.

‘You are welcome to my city, and will stay in my father’s house,’ he began. ‘These men will show you the way, and my people will be happy to receive you. Rest a while and then feast with me this evening.’

He turned away, and his servants carried him off into the distance.

We had never seen such a man, and longed to speak amongst ourselves, but Cortés insisted that we remain silent, warning us to be constantly on the alert, lest we be the victims of some fearsome trap.

That night I wrote my first dispatch.

Sent to His Sacred Majesty, the Emperor, Our Sovereign, by Diego de Godoy, notary to Don Hernán Cortés, Captain General of New Spain.

Most High and Powerful and Catholic Prince, Most Invincible Emperor and Our Sovereign,

The city of Mexico is of some four score thousand houses, and consists of two main islands, Tenochtitlán and Tlatelcolo, linked to the mainland by three raised causeways, each wide enough to allow ten horsemen to ride abreast. It is almost impossible to attack, since there are gaps in the causeways spanned by wooden bridges that can be removed at the approach of an enemy. Many of the people live on the lake in rafts, or on small man-made islands where vegetables grow: peppers, tomatoes, avocado, papaya and granadilla. The lake is filled with people in small boats, catching fish in nets, selling goods or collecting fresh water. Two aqueducts bring fresh water into the city from the spring at Chapultepec, which opens out into reservoirs where men are stationed to fill the buckets of those who come in their canoes.

The city itself has many broad streets of hard earth, and is divided into four areas: The Place Where the Flowers Bloom, The Place of the Gods, The Place of the Herons and The Place of the Mosquitoes. The houses are of one, or two floors of stone, capped with flat roofs made either of wooden shingles or of straw laid across horizontal poles. Poorer homes consist of small one-room huts, without chimney or windows, and are made of mud brick on a stone foundation, or of wattle and daub, with thatched gabled roofs. All travel in the city is by bark and canoe, and some of the streets consist entirely of water, so that people can only leave their homes by boat.

The Central Palace has three courtyards, over twenty doors or gates, and a hundred baths and hot houses, all made without nails. The walls are wrought of marble, jasper, and other black stone, with veins of red, like rubies. The roofs are built of timber, cut from cedar, cypress and pine trees; the chambers are painted and hung with cloths of cotton, coney fur, and feathers. Within this palace there live over a thousand gentlewomen, servants and slaves. The soldiers’ chambers are hung with a luxurious golden canopy. So beauteous does it seem that even if it were to become a prison, many of us think that we could stay here for all eternity.

On the first night that we stayed in the city there was a tremendous feast. It is impossible to list all the delicacies that were produced: turkeys, pheasants, wild boars, chickens, quails, ducks, pigeons, hares and rabbits. It appeared that anything on earth that moved and could be eaten would be put in front of us. We even heard rumours of human flesh being one of the delicacies, and it would have been impossible to tell if this were the case, so spiced the recipes, so rich the variety of meat. There were locusts with sage, and fish with peppers and tomatoes. There were frogs with green chilli, venison with red chilli, tamales filled with mushrooms, fruit, beans, eggs, snails, tadpoles and salamanders. Small earthenware braziers stood by the side of each dish, and over three hundred men waited upon us, bringing torches made from pine knots when the sky began to darken.

Montezuma sat at a table covered in cloths with Cortés alone by his side. A screen had been erected so that no one should see them eat, and tasters stood at each end, checking the food before it was served. After the meal three richly decorated tubes, or pipes, filled with liquid amber and a herb they called tobacco were placed in front of them. The screen was removed, and Montezuma encouraged our leader to smoke and drink as we watched jesters and acrobats, dwarves and musicians dance and play and sing.

Truly, this is a place of wonders, another world, and I urge Your Sacred Majesty to send a trustful person to make an inquiry and examination of everything that I have said in order that your Kingdoms and Dominions may increase as your Royal Heart so desires.

From the town of Tenochtitlán, dated the fifteenth of November fifteen hundred and nineteen, from Your Sacred Majesty’s very humble servant and vassal, who kisses the Very Royal Feet and Hands of Your Highness – Diego de Godoy, notary to Herná Cortés.

To tell further of the evening would have been to include information only pertaining to myself for which, I am sure, the Emperor had little concern.

Yet I know that it was on this night that my life changed irrevocably.

Five hand-maidens dressed in simple cream tunics now arrived in the banquet bearing an urn. One of these women caught my eye and smiled.

I could not help but stare. Her olive skin seemed to glow in the half-light, and her dark hair shone.

She gestured to the urn, brought over a jug, and poured a deep brown liquid into my goblet.

Bringing the drink to my lips, I found that the beverage had a cool and bittersweet taste, enlivened perhaps with chillies, and that it was not possible to discern its full effect with ease.

The woman nodded at me, encouraging me to continue.

Supping again, the strangely comforting taste began to intrude upon my palate as if one sip could never be enough. It was a liquid that only inspired further drinking, and it began to fill my entire body with its smoothness, as if I need no longer fear the affliction of the world; and all anxiety might pass.

I smiled at the woman and made a gesture to inquire as to the nature of the drink. She replied with one word: ‘Cacahuatl.’

At this the soldiers around me roared, jesting that I had drunk liquid caca, and that it would soon emerge from my body as a substance no different from the way in which it had entered.

I turned away with great sadness at their vulgarity. They had not tasted as I had tasted. They had not felt their life change in an instant.

As the meal progressed, I found that I could think of nothing else. I wondered what kind of life this woman led and where she lived. Did she make the beverage, or simply serve it? Perhaps I could learn something of the language and speak to her? The drink had left me so desirous of more that I wondered if perhaps it was a kind of medicine, or if I had been drugged, so tired did I now find myself.

As I lay on my mat that night, under a dais of yellow silk, I realised that I could no longer think of Isabella, but only of the mouth and eyes of the woman who had served me, savouring the sense of ease and peace she had provided. I fell into a deep sleep and dreamed that this woman was coming towards me, slowly and relentlessly, and that I could not escape. Backing away, I could not take my eyes from hers, as she kept walking towards me. Isabella’s voice came into my head, telling me to go, to run away, into a forest. I turned and ran, but found myself in an orchard of fig trees, where Isabella’s pet canary lay dead on the ground. The lady with the cacahuatl was looking down at the bird, and then said, in Spanish, ‘Voló golondrina’, the swallow has gone, the opportunity is lost.

What could this mean?

I awoke with a start, greatly troubled by my dream, and found a return to sleep almost impossible. It was clear that I would find no rest until I saw the lady once more.

The next morning we began our exploration of the marketplace. Stalls filled with exotic and extraordinary goods had been set out as far as the eye could see: embroidered cloths, capes and skirts; agave-fibred sandals, skins of wild beasts, cottons, sisal and ropes; robes made from the skins of pumas and jaguars, otters, jackals, deer, badgers and mountain cats. There were stalls selling the richest of spices: salt and sage, cinnamon, aniseed and black pepper; mecaxochitl, vanilla, ground hazelnut and nutmeg; achiote, chillies, jasmine and ambergris. Stalls of firewood and charcoal jostled with traders roasting fowl, foxes, partridges, quails, turtle-doves, hares, rabbits, and chickens as large as peacocks. There were even weapons of war, laid out for purchase, as their owners sharpened flints, cut arrows from long strips of wood and hammered out axes of bronze, copper and tin. There were flint knives, two-handed swords, and shields, all ready to be bartered, exchanged or sold.

There were thirty thousand people here, each in search of new delights. The method of buying and selling was to change one ware for another; one gave a hen for a bundle of maize, others offered mantles for salt. But everything was priced, and for money they used the strange brown almonds I had seen one of the natives spill in his canoe when we first arrived. These, we were told, were the beans of the cacao tree, and were held in great regard. One of them could buy a large tomato or sapota; a newly picked avocado was worth three beans, as was a fish, freshly prepared on a stall and wrapped in maize. A small rabbit would sell for thirty beans, a good turkey hen might cost a hundred, and a cock twice that amount.

From another corner of the marketplace rose the smell of cooked food: roasted meat in various sauces, tortillas and savoury tamales, maize cakes, dishes of fish or tripe and toasted gourd seeds sprinkled with salt or honey.

And then I saw the lady who had served me the previous evening, sitting at a stall, carefully grinding cacao beans on a low basalt table. I was lost in amazement, realising that this drink must surely be one of the greatest of delicacies, for she was destroying the actual coinage of the realm in order to create it. If one could only find the source of these beans, and the flower in which they grew, one might perhaps find the secret of all future wealth.

By the lady’s side stood a man whom I took to be her father, roasting beans over a fire, sweeping them backwards and forwards with a fan made from rushes. He then sieved them, removed the husks, and poured them onto the lady’s table.

Here she crushed the beans with a roller, creating a thick, dark-brown paste which was scraped away into a large gourd and given to a second woman, who now added a little water.

My lady then took the heart of a sapota seed, and began to grind it. This too was added to a small quantity of water, and passed to the second woman.

Then she took some maize, ground it in a gourd and mixed it in the same manner, until the time came to combine all three pastes, which were aerated by vigorous whisking and the slow addition of more water.

And, at last, my lady stood on a chair and poured the finished mixture of cacao, sapota seed and maize down from a great height into a new, larger bowl, where it was whisked into a foaming liquid, and poured into a richly decorated calabash gourd which she held out for me to taste.

I drank of the heady concoction, the foam stretching up towards my nose. It was a strange, almost bitter drink, more spicy in nature than the previous evening. I reached into my knapsack for one of the small sets of bells I had brought with me for barter and the lady smiled so invitingly that I found I could not but meet her gaze.

But then: disaster.

Aguilar, the interpreter, tried to pull me away, arguing that I was neglecting my duties by indulging in flirtation. He told me that I must rejoin Cortés immediately, and keep a note of the sights we saw.

‘What is your name?’ I asked the lady as Aguilar attempted to remove me from this prospect of paradise.

She did not understand me, saying again the strange word for the drink she had given me, although this time it sounded different – chocolatl.

I pointed to my breast.

‘Diego. Diego de Godoy.’

She repeated my words, as if I had two Christian names. ‘Diego – Diego de Godoy.’

‘Diego,’ I insisted, and then stretched out my arm to point to her.

She took my hand in hers and placed it on her breast. ‘Quiauhxochitl.’

‘It means Rain-Flower.’

The wife of Cortés had appeared by my side.

‘You will never be able to pronounce it,’ she said dryly. ‘Call her Ignacia.’

‘After Ignatius of Antioch,’ added the priest who accompanied Doña Marina, looking at the girl intently. ‘Ignis is Latin for fire, you know. You must burn with love of the Lord …’

‘And with love for his creation …’ Doña Marina added tartly, inspecting the girl’s body with wry, almost competitive amusement.

Our peace was broken.

‘Ignacia,’ I said.

‘Ignacia.’

She smiled and returned to her work, serving Ortiz, the musician, who began to ingratiate himself immediately. I was convinced that he received the same look that I had accepted myself when first arriving at her stall, and a second violent emotion overcame me, as I moved, in an instant, from incipient passion to total jealousy. I had never known such volatility of heart and felt in such torment that I could have killed Ortiz on the spot.

‘Come on,’ said Doña Marina, taking my arm. ‘We have work to do.’

Lost in thought, I walked through courtyards filled with citrus and jasmine until we arrived before an enormous temple. It was square, and made of stone, raised as high as the reach of an arrow shot from a crossbow. One hundred and fourteen steps stretched up towards two great altars and priests in white robes made their way up and down in ceaseless movement. From the top one could see over the entire city, the lake and the three giant causeways. Although it was one of the most incredible sights we had witnessed thus far, it meant nothing.

I had met Ignacia.

Attempting to write my dispatches that night, I found that no words fell from my pen. I was completely distracted. Whether this was infatuation, desire or love, I knew not; all I did know was that I could not live without seeing that woman again, for what else could account for the sickness in my stomach and the raging in my heart? My only hope lay in Doña Marina. I would have to swallow my pride and confess my love that very night.

‘I must see the lady who sells the chocolatl. I must discover where she lives,’ I declared in as bold a fashion as I could muster.

‘Of course we can bring her to you,’ she answered abstractedly.

I did not want anything to be done by force.

‘No,’ I replied. ‘I would like to see where she lives.’

‘It would not be safe to go there. You would be surrounded by these people, and could be put in danger …’

‘But they surround us now.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You have seen the walls that border our quarters, the causeways, the bridges, and the lake that circles this city. They are like the lattice of a spider’s web. We are already trapped and it makes no difference whether I am contained here or with my lady.’

‘My lady?’ Doña Marina smiled at me, but then stopped for a moment, as if she had not realised the true import of my observation. Lost in thought, she seemed to abandon her concentration.

‘I have to see her,’ I insisted. ‘Will you help me speak with her?’

‘Another time.’ Still Doña Marina seemed distracted. ‘I can summon her, but you cannot visit. My Lord would forbid such a thing. You are needed here. Talk to me again if you require my help, but do not ask me to disobey our General.’

Later that night I was brought before Cortés. I was fearful of both his company and his temper and was greatly relieved when he received me in all courtesy.

‘You have done me great service, Diego.’

‘I, my Lord?’

‘I too am aware that we are surrounded, cut off even from our Tlaxcalan allies. My chief advisor, Pedro de Alvarado, thinks we should mount a surprise attack and take our chances, but I believe that we should be more cautious. Doña Marina has come to me with good advice, for if you were to be kept with your lady, without fear of harm and in great leisure, how much better and safer it might be if Lord Montezuma were similarly entrapped with us. I have therefore invited him here this night, where he will remain as a voluntary prisoner.’

This seemed an act of unbelievable daring, and I could not imagine how we could explain this to the Mexican people. They would surely rebel. But Cortés continued: ‘In honour of our guest I should like you to guard him. I will give you three soldiers, and you must stay with him and occupy his time.’

‘What shall I say? I do not have the language.’

‘I will give you an interpreter.’

And so, amazingly, it came to pass that over the next few weeks I was instructed in the Nahuatl language by the great Lord Montezuma.

He was treated in all civility, for we gave the impression that he stayed within our quarters willingly, and that there would be no need for any Mexican to doubt that he was still their ruler. His wives and mistresses were allowed to visit, and he behaved with the utmost courtesy. In the evenings I would instruct him in games of dice, and he would tell of the history of his country so that I could write a full account of this great city.

One evening he even showed me the treasury full of riches gathered by his father. It contained the most extraordinary array of masks, jewellery, urns, bangles and gold. In one corner stood a large vase, which, when I removed the lid, seemed to be filled with the seeds used in the drink Ignacia had given me. I held them in my hand, letting them slip through my fingers.

‘Cacao,’ explained Montezuma.

I repeated the word.

In this room lay all the fortune any man could ever need. The great chieftain put his arm around me and escorted me from the chamber, as if I was the prisoner and he my gaoler. And, as we sat together and ate that evening, he asked how many wives I possessed.

I told him that I was unmarried, but that a fine and beautiful lady waited at home for my return.

He then asked, now that I had seen his city, if I truly wanted to return to Spain.

I admitted that there was surely no fairer place on earth than this, and that it must seem madness to want to go back home, but I had made a promise, and my word was my bond. I would return to Isabella within two years, having made my fortune, and with a gift no other man could give, a token perhaps even beyond wealth, something as elusive as the Holy Grail or wood from the foot of the Cross of our Saviour.

This intrigued Montezuma, and he told me that he would be glad to provide a brooch, bracelet, necklace or staff that no other man had seen; holy objects, perhaps, from his religion: sacrificial bowls, daggers, statues, or even the smallest and most delicate of objects, a salamander encrusted with lapis.

His generosity and kindness seemed to have no end, and I found it hard to believe that this was the man whose reputation for cruelty and sacrifice stretched out across all these lands and into the approaching seas. I was forced to explain that, although grateful for his kindness, there would surely be many soldiers here who would hope to bring such objects back to Spain.

He then suggested that he should provide me with a small dwelling and a canoe, and that I could return to Spain to bring Isabella to live with me here. We could build a new life in Mexico.

I thought of the way we might live, and could not imagine a world in which Isabella and Ignacia could exist together.

‘You are thinking,’ he observed, ‘that nothing I can give will make you happy.’

I began to speak.

‘My great Lord. It is because I am distracted. There is a woman who makes what they call chocolatl in your service. If I could see her, the lady who turns your money into drink, then perhaps I could take such things home with me to show my lady.’

At this he laughed.

‘This is all that you require? Why not take the lady as your wife? I will give her to you.’

I explained that I did not believe that human beings could be bartered, and that people should only come together freely, not as animals to be exchanged for profit.

‘How then will the world survive?’ he argued. ‘Everything must be ordered. If we all did as we pleased there would be chaos. Even you must have a leader. We must be both leaders and the led.’

‘Even in matters of love?’

‘I think so,’ he insisted. ‘It is the best way in which to prevent dispute.’

‘Then love is a form of slavery?’

‘A slavery in which we willingly enter. What would you have me do?’

‘I would like to see the lady who makes the chocolatl. I would like to see where she gathers the beans, and how she lives her life.’

‘I shall send for her tomorrow,’ he answered. ‘I will also show you the secret passage from this palace.’

‘A secret passage? Then why have you not escaped?’ I asked.

‘Because it entertains me to observe your leader, who thinks he has control of me. The more effort he makes in disguising my imprisonment before my people, the more amusing I find you all …’

‘What will you do?’

‘You cannot stay here for ever. I am sure you will tire of us …’

I could not understand why so potent a chieftain could appear so kind and weak. It seemed he no longer had any power, and that his wealth was a burden to him. His eyes contained a great sadness, as if all the riches of the world could not bring him happiness, and I realised then that if there were one emotion I would use to describe Montezuma it was that he was bored. He was toying with our presence because it amused him to do so, and he could think of no better jest than to make us think that we had conquered him.

The following day one of Montezuma’s servants gestured that Pedro and I should follow him. I was uncertain whether we were travelling north or south or east or west, as we moved through low passageways, strange tunnels, and corridors underneath the temple. It appeared that there was a second, dark underground city in Mexico, filled with stores, supplies, and secret alleys in which people could be hidden away. This place was only known to the court of Montezuma. His tactic had been to concede to each of our wishes, to give us the illusion that we had control of the city and to behave with all courtesy. Then he would either persuade us to retreat, or would have made us so weak and bloated that he could make a strong offensive on our trapped position from below, above, and on every side. All he needed was the right moment to attack.

Emerging from underground, the servant led me through the streets to the edge of the town and left me standing by the side of the lake. He motioned me to wait and immediately departed. I was in a section of the city I had never seen before, and felt certain that I could never return to our quarters without aid.

Pedro’s nose twitched with fear, and he looked at me for a reassurance that I knew I could not provide. We were alone with our destiny.

At last I heard the muffled sound of a low canoe, and saw Ignacia, the maker of the chocolatl, coming towards us. She pulled in to the side of the lake and motioned me to join her.

I sat behind her as she paddled, the muscles of her back easing back and forth, and wondered what fate now planned for me. I could not help but stare at the way in which her dark hair fell on her bare olive skin. I do not think that I had ever felt such excitement.

Eventually we found ourselves in a shallow creek, and steered our way through the small islands of the chinampas. The air was filled with the sounds of quetzals and toucans. Midges, sawflies, bees and prepona butterflies moved through the stillness of the evening. The trees were lush and shady and so much fruit hung overhead that we did not even have to leave our boat to take figs, cherries, oranges and lemons. Small limestone buildings lay almost hidden in the vegetation and Ignacia pointed ahead to an orchard of low, well-shaded cacao trees growing beneath blackwoods and legumes, their large cauliflorous fruits sprouting directly from black trunks. The earth beneath was thick, soft and fertile, as if no one had walked inside these woods before and the leaves of years and of generations had been left to fall and rot, gently nurturing the growth of each new season. My beloved, for that was how I saw her now, steered the boat to the side of the canal, stepped out in one movement, and held out her hand for the rope. I threw it to her. Then she reached back into the boat, removed a silver sickle, and cut one of the large pods from the tree. After splitting it in half, she stretched forward and showed me the brown seeds lying in a soft, white veil, like the caul of a child.

Ignacia then pulled away the white buttery substance, and produced six cacao beans.

‘Happie Monie,’ she said, in my own language, as if she had learned such words only for me, and gestured that I follow her.

I soon found myself in a series of well-shaded gardens, in which we walked on narrow paths bordered with wild flowers, and past ponds of fresh water used to irrigate the plantation. I tried to think of Isabella but found that I could not; nor did I want to, so excited were my emotions, and so voracious was my desire. Excusing myself with the thought of other soldiers, for whom such activities involved no loss of conscience, I steeled myself with the knowledge that in this country, at least, it seemed common that a man should have more than one beloved.

At last we arrived at a small and private dwelling, hidden in the midst of the plantation. Outside, in a bright space of sunlight, lay wooden trays of cacao beans baking in the sun. Inside, protected against the heat stood a low bed, a table, and storage jars filled with the dried chocolatl. There were red glazed pottery jugs, gourds and bowls, and Ignacia now motioned that I should fetch some water while she prepared the chocolatl.

I drank from the nearby pond, cooling my neck and forehead, not knowing if it was the heat or my passion which had so raised my temperature.

When I returned, Ignacia held out each ingredient for me to savour before she included them in her mixture, grinding nutmeg, cinnamon and black pepper, adding chillies, aniseed and honey.

She stirred the paste by rolling a carved silver whisk between her palms at speed.

‘Molinillo,’ she said with a smile, as the mixture began to froth.

‘He who drinks one cup,’ she said in Nahuatl, ‘can travel for a whole day without any other refreshment.’

I drank and felt that I need never taste anything else again.

‘I need nothing but this.’

‘You seem weary. Rest.’

Her voice was as dark and as warm as the chocolatl.

Then she gestured to the bed.

Sitting beside me she now took off my cotton quilted jacket and began to rub a kind of butter into my skin, a cream that she took from the pods of the cacao tree. She covered my body, in long sweeping gestures, pressing deep into my flesh, and I knew then that I was lost, that there could be no possible escape from the delights of this seduction, and I gave myself freely to her.

We stayed on the plantation for five days. During this time I drank little but chocolatl; it was combined with honey, with flowers, with aniseed, with nutmeg and even with achiote, which made the mixture almost red in colour. We always drank from the same gourd. Then we would sleep and play together. All consciousness seemed lost.

At the back of the dwelling was a hot room in which we steamed our bodies, switching them with twigs and bundles of grass, before swimming in the lake and massaging each other dry. We found ourselves half-sleeping, half-waking, in both night and day, and clung to each other as if our bodies could never be separated.

We spoke in a mixed language, part Nahuatl, part Castilian. Ignacia told me that her family had travelled from the far south, from Chiapas, and that they would surely return there. I asked if I would be with her, and she laughed, telling me that we came from different worlds, and could only be together if the earth changed, or if we lived for hundreds of years, or if we lived so many lives, dying and being reborn so often that we would inevitably meet once more, either in this world or the next.

Ignacia spent one whole day making a turkey dish with chillies, vanilla, aniseed and chocolatl. She used a small obsidian knife, unfurling onions, slicing the chillies in quick deft movements, and grinding all the ingredients into a thick spicy paste, which she began to beat with the silver molinillo. This tool seemed to be the secret to her preparation, as it aired and whisked the mixture at the same time. It was some ten inches long, with protruding spikes, like a miniature weapon.

Water now boiled in pans over fires, the turkey roasted, and as she mixed almonds, raisins and sesame together, she made me inhale each spice before its inclusion in her mole poblano. She stripped cinnamon from the bark of a tree and it smelled of early autumn after rain; she broke the petals of star anise, and rubbed my fingers with hers. We ground each spice together and the bouquet of aniseed, cinnamon and almond welled up before us; and then, as Ignacia melted the dark chocolatl, the air became heady with the fragrance of onion, chilli and cacao.

I had never savoured such pleasure before. We relished each taste and each minute in which we were together, being gentle both in our conversation and in our love. I had seen how rough soldiers could be, and how brutally they could treat both women and each other, and I had no desire to behave in such a way. As we explored our bodies I wanted to know every part of Ignacia and let her know every part of me. Sometimes I would lie without moving and let her do anything she wanted, stroking and kissing me and bringing me to the point of pleasure before letting me do the same to her. I wanted to give Ignacia the satisfaction that she had given me and she seemed almost insatiable in her desire; so much so, that by the end of the five days we spent together, our supply of cacao butter was quite exhausted.

Pedro, too, had never been happier, chasing rabbits and turkeys, making long forays into the heart of the plantation, emerging on one occasion with a rabbit which he laid at Ignacia’s feet, determined, it seemed that she should cook for him as well as myself. It was as if we were a family. Pedro even seemed keen to add to our number, vigorously pursuing yet another Mexican hairless dog and indulging in such a determined act of mating that I began to suspect that his character was rather more competitive than I had first realised.

Yet I must confess that all was not perfection. Ignacia and I could not avoid the difference in our lives and expectations. The conversation began quite innocently, as we lay together in the half-light, when I asked her what she had thought when she had first seen our soldiers. I expected her to say that she could not help but admire the gleam of our silver armour and the majesty of our demeanour.

But for the first time I saw an ineffable sadness in her.

‘War,’ she said, simply, ‘and death.’

‘Can we not come in peace?’

‘When we have such riches?’

She looked at me as if I knew nothing. ‘Pale-coloured men, sons of the sun, the beginning of death.’

I argued, as I had been told but no longer quite believed, that we had come to bring the love of Christ, who had brought us eternal life.

‘You have come to destroy our gods and gain great wealth,’ she countered quickly.

I tried to explain that the gold here was of the same value as our glass, but Ignacia would not be fooled.

‘Do not lie. You want to take our land.’

‘That is not the purpose of our travels.’

‘Then why have you come?’

I tried to think of all the reasons that were not to do with wealth and conquest.

‘To find the New World,’ I argued.

‘But it is not new to us. This is what we have.’

I begged her: ‘Do not speak to me like this. I feel great love for you …’

‘And I for you, but how can this love survive?’

I could not answer her. She kissed me on the lips and moved away, saying only, ‘You have a wife?’

‘I do not.’

‘You have a woman who loves you.’

I could not counter her statement. But I did not know if Isabella had ever truly loved me.

‘I hope that you are my beloved.’

‘I do not believe you.’

I clasped her shoulders and turned her round, forcing her to look into my eyes. ‘At this moment, in this minute, in this hour, and on this day, I love none but you.’

She looked at me in disbelief.

‘You know how to use words …’

‘I speak the truth.’

‘I do not think so.’

‘Ask me then to prove my love.’

‘Renounce your people.’

It came so suddenly, so impossibly.

‘You know I cannot do this; it would be the same as asking you to come back with me to Spain, and for you to leave your home and father.…’

‘You cannot do this?’

‘No,’ I said, ‘I cannot.’

I was trapped in Isabella’s love; it was an arrangement from which I could not break free without shame or scandal.

‘Then you cannot love me,’ Ignacia said simply.

‘Trust me,’ I said with all my heart. ‘I will be true to you.’

‘I cannot see how this can be …’

‘And I cannot see how I can prove it.’

‘Swear …’ she said.

‘What shall I swear?’

‘That you will never forget me, that you will always love me. Swear.’

‘Upon what?’

‘Upon this chocolatl …’

I had never seen her so serious. ‘Love me,’ she said, taking my hand, as the flames leapt under the pan of melting chocolate.

‘I will always love you,’ she said. ‘And I will always remember this day.’

I repeated her words, and we clasped our hands over the fire.

‘Put your hand over the flame, and lift the chocolatl away.’

I leaned forward and did so, the heat burning into my hand, pain searing through my body. I was determined to prove that I could do such a thing. Love is the greatest spur to bravery.

‘I swear.’

Ignacia smiled briefly and I tried to kiss her, but her movements were now perfunctory. She turned away and lay back on the matting we had so recently consecrated. ‘One day,’ she said quietly, ‘we too will be conquerors. What would you think if we came to your land, and did as you have done to us?’

‘I could not be happy.’

‘Why not?’

‘For you would change the land I love.’

I thought of the glories of Seville, of Isabella and her father, of the town square, and of our fiestas.

‘Then why do you think I am unhappy now?’ she asked, forlornly. ‘Can you not see? You are taking our land.’

‘I will try to protect you.’

‘Against so many? There is no protection in war.’

She turned away from me, as if intending to sleep, and it seemed there could be no further conversation. I began to stroke her back, but her mind was decided. I knew that she was still awake, but there was nothing I could do or say that would reassure her.

When I awoke, I realised that I had lost all sense of time, and found myself in a state of advanced agitation. I was aware, as perhaps I had never been before, of the responsibilities I possessed: to my General, my fellow soldiers, and myself. I had abandoned my duties, and could think of no explanation for my actions, nor could I write of the things that I had seen and done, so inappropriate were they to a royal report. My only hope of safety lay in Montezuma’s reasoning, for he, surely, would provide my alibi to Cortés. Perhaps he would argue that I had been listing the contents of his treasury.

I told Ignacia that we must leave at once.

She looked at me sadly, and we walked over to our canoe. I could not believe that such a time had come to an end. Ignacia steered the boat towards me and I climbed in with a heavy heart.

As we emerged from the plantation I was filled not only with the impending loss of love but also with trepidation and the fear of punishment.

Ignacia tried to be reassuring as she paddled away from our brief moment of joy, as if she had felt guilty for our last conversation. Perhaps together we could bring peace, she argued. If we encouraged other soldiers to do as we had done, then there was no reason why we could not create a true and lasting settlement and live a life of happiness together.

But I could feel that we were returning to the world of aggression and despair as surely as the tides must ebb and flow. And, as we emerged from the narrow creek of the plantation and sailed once more onto the great lake, we noticed distant fires flaring up on the horizon. The waters were filled with people fleeing the city in low canoes. We could hear the unmistakable sounds of warfare in the distance: orders given, swords striking, women screaming.

‘You see,’ Ignacia told me, as if she had expected everything. ‘Men and violence. It will never end. You love this more than life.’

‘It’s not true. I am not as other men,’ I argued.

‘You look at this and tell me it’s not true? You have no choice but to be a man. It cannot be otherwise.’

She steered the boat towards the causeway.

‘Keep your head low.’

Silently she manoeuvred the boat tight against the side of the causeway so that we were hidden under its lip, lost in its dark shadow. Ignacia tied up and motioned me to follow her through the gate. A whole street had been destroyed and I could see our soldiers fleeing with idols from the temples they had desecrated.

‘Go now,’ she said, ‘back to your people, as I must return to mine.’

Pedro leapt ahead down the street.

‘Stop, Pedro, stop,’ I called. He waited at the corner, but was impatient for me to join him. It was now dangerous for all three of us, and if we were seen together we could be attacked by any side.

I told Ignacia that I could not live without hope of seeing her again.

‘Quien bien ama tarde olvida. He who loves well is slow to forget …’ Ignacia said and kissed me.

‘I will always love you,’ I said.

‘And I you …’

Then Ignacia pushed me gently away. I watched in despair as she turned and ran, disappearing down distant streets.

Night was falling. The evening birdsong that I so loved had disappeared beneath the cries of battle. I had no choice but to run through the city in search of the secret passage by which I had come. The Mexican people were raising the drawbridges that linked the houses and streets over the lake, and many had stationed themselves on the rooftops to hurl stones at any Spaniards below. Clinging to the walls of the buildings, and making our path through the shadows, avoiding exposed avenues and keeping under the balconies and parapets, we ran in abrupt and darting movements through the city, until Pedro finally stopped at a wooden door at the back of one of the temples and began to bark. On opening the door we could see the passage by which we had come. The Mexicans were daubing the walls with blood and pulling down the statue of Our Lady that we had placed there.

Pedro and I now plunged back into the dark cavern, illuminated by flares and candles under the faces of gods and demons in our path. The strange underworld was filled with people taking all the weapons, jewels and stored supplies they could lay their hands on, piling provisions into crates as if they too were trying to leave the city. All was panic. I could not imagine anything other than the fact that the Mexicans must be in revolt, and that some calamity must have befallen our leader.

Making my way to the treasury, I discovered that Montezuma’s spoils had already been divided – and that our soldiers were in the midst of preparations for a heavily guarded departure. While I had been disporting myself on the plantation, Cortés had been forced to travel back to Vera Cruz in order to defend our mission against an unruly band who had been sent from Cuba to recall our expedition and profit from it themselves. He had left one hundred and fifty men in the capital under the command of Pedro de Alvarado, who had seized the opportunity for the surprise attack he had always advocated, and had turned on the Mexicans as soon as they had tried to free Montezuma.

Surrounded by this chaos, I searched about the treasury. ‘The king’s fifth’ had already been allotted, and was packed in crates ready for our departure. The friar told me that Cortés had claimed one fifth, and that, after double shares for the captains, horsemen and crossbowmen had been allotted, there was virtually nothing left for the common soldier. At this point I must confess that I was filled with a frenzied covetousness, pulling back boxes, peering in chests, casting treasures aside, until at last, in a dark corner, I found the vase with the cacao beans. This I claimed as mine own.

I had discovered the treasure with which I would return and I, alone among my companions, knew its worth. The other soldiers laughed to see me carrying such an object but knew nothing of its contents, and could not imagine the glory it would bring me when I presented it to my betrothed.

I had succeeded in my quest.

Our captains shouted that we should flee, for to defend our position was hopeless, and our most pressing duty was to remove both ourselves and the treasures that we had secured. Yet when we attempted to make our escape some four thousand Mexican soldiers attacked us.

In the ensuing chaos the city became a place of fear and desperation. It rained heavily, and our horses lost their foothold on the slippery flagstones of the courtyard. Blood and water washed down the streets, and sixteen of our men were killed in the first attack.

In the hell that followed, Montezuma appealed for calm but was stoned to death by his own people. Any attempt at the restoration of order was futile. Cortés returned but had no choice other than retreat. Our horses spurred ahead, fleeing the city, as the Mexicans took to the lake in their canoes, firing at us from all angles, determined that none should live. They broke off sections of the causeway so that we were forced to fight with our bodies chest high in water and could only proceed by holding up our shields, hacking away with the utmost brutality at any who stood in our way. It was a night of blood and rain in which no tactics were effective and the lake slowly filled with the dead, the dying and the terrible remnants of war.

By dawn we had made our way back to the town of Tlaxcala, where we stayed for the next twenty-two days, cauterising our wounds with oil and bandaging them with cotton. We were exhausted, and had no choice but to rest, wash, eat, and recover.

During this time a large section of the gold that we had stored was stolen and the remaining share could not rest in our possession without becoming a source of danger and argument. Cortés took me aside and asked if I would take a group of men back to Spain with the treasure, and put his case for further reinforcements.

I had to follow these orders, and the thought of returning home to Isabella should have filled me with pleasure and relief, but I found that I could think only of Ignacia.

I had to see her again.

The thought of life without her was impossible.

Over the next few nights I began to plan how I might steal away and see her once more. If I was quick, I might be able to return before dawn, without anyone knowing of my departure.

Moving through the creeks and under the trees at nightfall, I knew that any time together would be desperately short, but to part from this land and never see Ignacia again was something I could not tolerate. Pedro checked the route ahead and I crawled through the undergrowth until, at last, we came to the small hut where we had known such happiness.

Ignacia emerged from the doorway, half in sleep and half in fear.

‘It is you.’

‘I had to see you.’

‘You are leaving.’

‘I have come to say farewell.’

‘This was how it had to be. There is too much gold. Too many soldiers.’

I told her that, although I had to obey my orders, nothing mattered more to me than that I should one day see her again.

‘I do not believe you. You will never return.’

‘You must believe me.’

‘No, no. Only remember me. It is not safe for you to stay.’ She turned towards the hut, and fetched a gourd filled with her best criollo cacao beans.

‘Take these, and think of me.’

I had nothing to give her in return, no token of my love.

It was as if I no longer knew who I was.

She looked at me sadly.

‘A princess was left to guard a secret treasure while her husband was away. Enemy soldiers came. They attacked and tortured her, but she did not say where the treasure lay.’

‘This will not happen to you …’

‘Then the soldiers killed her …’

‘No.’

‘Our people say that the cacao plant grew from her blood in the earth.’

She handed me the gourd in which the beans were held.

‘The treasure of the fruit is in the seeds; as bitter as the sufferings of love, as strong as virtue, as red as blood.’

Now she handed me the silver molinillo.

‘Go safely.’

‘I will return.’

‘The city will be destroyed. There will be nothing left.’

‘What will you do?’

‘If I have nothing then I will go to Chiapas. If you come back, you may find me there. I know the people.’

I looked into her eyes.

‘Wherever you are, I will find you.’

Ignacia took a gold bangle from her arm, and placed it round my wrist. It was as if she was stripping everything away from herself and giving it to me. ‘The world is larger than you think.’

‘But not large enough for the love we have.’

I had become so well versed in the practice of courtship that now, when I felt more than I had ever felt before, I could not describe my emotions. Everything that I wanted to say seemed as if it came from the Libro de Buen Amor.

‘You have so many words …’ she said.

‘And all are true. What can I say to make you believe me?’

‘That love never tires.’

She looked at me as if she truly believed that she would never see me again. Her voice was filled with the expectation of disappointment, now fulfilled.

‘I am no longer myself when I am with you,’ I said softly, ‘for you have changed me. I am only afraid that something might happen, some terrible disaster which might prevent us seeing each other again, and this I cannot bear …’

‘You must not be afraid of death. One day you will know that we only come to dream; we only come to sleep. That is one of our songs. It is not true, it is not true that we come to live on earth …’

Pedro barked, urging me to return to the boat, and I leaned forward to try and kiss Ignacia once more.

‘Wait …’ She broke off, and turned to fetch a small container from the hut.

‘Drink this when you begin your voyage home.’

‘What is it?’

‘My gift to you. Drink it if you truly think we love each other.’

‘Is it chocolatl?’

‘There are other spices. Drink it as you leave this country, and trust me to do the same.’

‘I will drink it now.’

‘No. It is better for our luck to drink it when we are apart. If you plan to return it will help you.’

‘I will return. I promise.’

‘You have sworn?’

‘I have sworn.’

‘Then let us trust each other. If you are alive then I am alive. Never cease in your search of me.’

We kissed, as if for the last time, as if I might have no other future beyond this moment and my life would be suspended until I saw her again.

‘Quien bien ama tarde olvida. He who loves truly forgets slowly.’

Ignacia held me to her.

‘Say it.’

‘Quien bien ama tarde olvida,’ I repeated.

She rested her hands on my shoulders, and looked into my eyes.

‘Love me. Never forget me. Never doubt me.’

‘I will always love you.’

‘Remember the love we have, however long we are apart.’

We kissed until we could not stand the sorrow any more.

I turned to walk away and then ran, with Pedro ahead, away from the glade to the waiting boat, remembering the first time that Ignacia had brought us here and all the joy that we had shared. I could not bear it. Desperate to escape the gulf between memory and reality, I rowed away from the plantation to join my colleagues, aching with pain and loss, knowing that all my former happiness was past, and that there was no means of avoiding the terrible anguish that now engulfed me.

The next day I was compelled to return to my role as a conquistador. No longer could I live in the world of dream. My responsibilities were clear. I must leave for the coast with sixty men and begin preparations for the return to Spain. Losing oneself in work and duty was, it seemed, the recommended means of forgetting the pains of love, and I set about my tasks like a man possessed, believing that the harder I laboured the more difficult it would be for bitter reality to reach me. At Vera Cruz we worked at a brisk pace, gaining anchors, sails, rigging, cables and tow with such zeal that within a few weeks we were able to set sail for home.

I tried to recall everything that had happened to me, and thought at first of the good fortune that I had enjoyed, my life having been spared by God’s grace. But no matter how extraordinary these travels may have been, I could not help but feel that my life would never again be so enthralling. The memory of Ignacia invaded my consciousness. Each night was filled with dreams and memories: the smell of her hair, the taste of the chocolatl on her lips, the softness of her skin. One night I dreamed that she was standing in front of the shelter in the glade. She walked towards me and took my hand – as if in search of treasure. We found ourselves behind the dwelling and Ignacia began to dig a hole in the earth with a trowel, bringing out a small wooden box.

She opened it for me to admire and I could see that it was lined with silver and filled with cacao beans. But then she began to walk away, carrying the still open box, and I found that I was unable to follow her. She receded into the distance until I could see that she was standing at the edge of a lake, far away, where she could not hear me and could hardly see me.

Then she tipped the contents of the box into the lake.

Was she pouring our love away? Or was she suggesting that I discard my gift to Isabella?

My dreams were filled with the loss of our love.

Reaching into my knapsack I found the drink that she had given me, full of peppers, chocolatl and chillies, and quaffed as if it were the last drink that I might enjoy on earth. It tasted strangely sweet, as if there was some extra ingredient, cardamom perhaps, and I wished that I had asked Ignacia what it was – there was so much that remained unsaid, so much more that we needed to know about each other.

Pedro licked the goblet clean, and we stared out to sea. Looking back now, as I write, I can hardly remember that journey, so numb were my senses, so lost in dreams had I become. At times I took out Isabella’s portrait, attempting to look forward to my return, but found that nothing could revive my affection for her. I had become a different man and she must surely be a different woman.

II

It was a strange homecoming. My father had died and I had little in common with the friends who had remained in the city. Their lives had scarcely changed and they did not seem interested in my travels, preferring to keep the raw experiences of war, death and adventure outside the genteel confines of the court.

On approaching Isabella’s house I was filled with an overwhelming depression. I could not see the point of anything in my life, and the love that I tried to recall, however faintly or insincerely, had vanished for ever. I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and with the wrong woman.

Isabella was a pale and delicate stranger, as if she had never seen the sun or walked outdoors. She held out her hand and I stooped to kiss its tiny and fragile form, thinking that this must surely be a dream.

‘My lady …’

‘You are much changed,’ Isabella ventured.

‘I have travelled many miles.’

‘And with a beard?’

Her right eyebrow raised itself in amusement and contempt.

‘It is the sailor’s custom.’

Pedro remained in the doorway, alert, watchful, and unmoved. After two years’ absence he no longer knew Isabella. She called to him, but he simply lay down, his head between his paws. Even after she had crossed the room and held him to her, Pedro remained aloof.

‘It seems you have corrupted my dog.’

‘He has seen much violence, and learned to fear strangers,’ I replied wearily. It was as if all my emotions had vanished.

‘My poor Pedro.’

‘I thought that you had given him to me.’

‘He will always be my Pedro.’

An awkward silence followed. After all the perils of separation Isabella and I had nothing to say to each other. Even today, as I write, I cannot understand how endless those two years apart had seemed at the time, and how swift and immediate was the disillusion when we were reunited.

‘I long to hear of your endeavours,’ she said at last. ‘I did believe that you might lose your life.’

‘You sound as if you might have wanted this to be so.’

‘Only in the most romantic sense.’

We spoke as strangers reciting lines from The Romance of Durandarte or as performers in a play in which we had been given the wrong parts. Perhaps she thought me uncouth, for, having seen such suffering, I was no longer the effete young gentleman she had known; and I was saddened, realising that, although I had changed, Isabella had not.

Out of boredom, I reached into my knapsack and pulled out a gold ingot.

Isabella gasped and held out her hand, which then sank under its weight.

‘Is this the treasure?’

‘It is a present, my love, but the true secret follows …’

‘And where shall I find it?’

‘If you will come to my house …’

She sat for a moment and smiled. Her canary sang in the corner, heartlessly beautiful.

‘What is that you wear upon your wrist?’ she asked accusingly. I had brushed my hair from my eyes, and the bangle Ignacia had given me had fallen forward. For the first time, I felt the need to defend myself.

‘It is nothing, my lady, a trifle.’

‘It looks like a love token.’

‘Believe me, it is no such thing.’

‘I think indeed it is.’

‘It is merely medicinal. It holds the pain at bay.’

‘I have never heard people tell of such a thing. Give it to me.’

‘I cannot.’

‘You would deny me?’

‘I must. It is fixed to my wrist. It cannot be removed.’

‘Would you cut your hand off for me?’

‘If I did such a thing I would no longer be able to defend you.’

‘Would you place it in fire?’

I thought of Ignacia making me pledge my love upon the chocolatl, and of how all my words with Isabella were of no consequence compared to that memory.

‘I would consign my whole body to the flames if I thought I could win your love …’ I stated, as boldly as I could, knowing that these rhetorical love games were ridiculous. One could be pledging love and allegiance until Doomsday if one stayed long enough at court. These were amusements of wit, without feeling or passion, and I could not believe that I, who had risked both my life and that of my companions, now lived an existence in which a man’s greatest fear might lie in an inadequate reply.

‘And, my lady, will you come in search of the treasure I have promised? Will you risk the streets of shame and danger to find me waiting for you?’

I was really quite disgusted with myself.

‘The true pleasure lies within my house,’ I continued. ‘I shall expect you to call upon me.’

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