The Goldsmith's Daughter (19 page)

It was not the Spanish who took our gods away, but our own priests. The emperor gave the command but, with Cortés standing tall at his side, we knew who had placed the words in his mouth.

While we – a hushed, fearful assembly – fixed our terrified eyes on the principal temple at the heart of Tenochtitlán, the idols were removed. People paled at the sight, weeping softly, trembling, moaning and crying aloud to the gods for forgiveness. For this great act of sacrilege would undoubtedly bring punishment. Gently, carefully, with ropes and matting they were lowered down the stone steps. Huitzilopochtli, god of war. Tlaloc, who brings the rain. Tezcatlipoca.

The terracotta figure stared at me as it was laid, ungainly, on its side, and I stared back, mouth hanging open in wordless remorse.

The idols were carried away to secret places where I knew the priests would continue to let their own blood before them. How long this would keep the gods' wrath at bay, no one could tell. Some went swiftly to the other temples of the city to utter reverent prayers, for there were many altars in Tenochtitlán, many idols and many priests. Surely, people whispered to each other, while these remained, the sun could not be in danger?

I stood, unable to move, watching aghast as the temple steps were whitewashed. But the blood of ancient sacrifice could not so easily be wiped away, and it seeped through the white, staining it dull brown so that none could forget the temple's purpose.

The idols were gone. In their stead the foreigners placed their own gods. Black-skirted holy men bore figures towards the shrines: the man on the cross; the saint who carried a child upon his shoulder. And at their head – glinting on top of the temple pyramid for the whole city to see – was set the golden madonna.

She had seemed so large, so magnificent, in the palace courtyard. Up there she looked small. Unimpressive. Alien. She had no power in Tenochtitlán.

I was weak with shock at the insult given to our gods. Sick with the knowledge of what my own hands had done.

While I remained frozen and immobile, the Spanish holy men conducted their own ritual. Crossed wooden poles were erected at the foot of the temple steps, and before this the gathered soldiers knelt.

For a moment, my spirit leapt to see that Francisco was amongst them. He was so close! I fought the desperate longing to go to him. I could not! Not in the sunlit square. Not openly. Our desire, it seemed, was a shameful thing, fit only for the dark hours of night. Sensing my presence, he turned to look at me. Our eyes met, and I read in them both love and sadness. He glanced guiltily towards the golden madonna, and shame clenched my stomach in its cold fist so tightly that I covered my face and could not look at him again.

The Spanish holy men walked between the ranks, placing a morsel of food in each mouth, proffering each man a drink from a silver vessel. None in our city had ever seen such a ceremony, and there was much speculation as to its meaning. The words spoken were translated and whispered from mouth to mouth. It was said the strangers were eating the body of their god, and drinking his blood. Every brow was drawn into deep, perplexed furrows as we strove to comprehend the strange horror of this barbaric rite.

When they had finished, the Spanish force returned to the palace. They moved as one tightly pressed body and Francisco was carried with them, unable to break free. I watched as the great doors were shut between us. Only then could I find the strength to direct my feet homewards. I walked slowly, numb with misery. All about me, others did the same.

So deep was the city's distress, so many were the rumblings of profound unease, that the Spanish leader stayed his hand awhile. For the length of that day and the days that followed, Cortés left the city's many temples in peace. Impassioned prayers rang aloud from the tops of pyramids and much blood flowed as sacrifices were made to appease the deities we had so dishonoured.

Yet we waited for his next move, knowing some outrage would soon follow and that the gods we had offended would do nothing to save us. And all the while, the golden madonna glinted on the temple pyramid, a dreadful reminder of my own part in the catastrophe that was to come.

T
ales hatched and bred as fast as flies in summer. It was said that Tezcatlipoca walked the city streets breathing fear into every heart. That Huitzilopochtli, god of war, had abandoned our warriors in favour of the Tlaxcalans. That Tlaloc would withhold the rains and make the harvest fail. We would go hungry. Thirsty. We would be enslaved. Slaughtered.

We would perish.

And then it was whispered that Cortés intended something more dreadful than anyone had dreamt of: he would put an end to sacrifice.

It was a neighbour who brought word of it to us, entering our house as we were beginning our noonday meal and casting his words upon the floor, where they thudded, heavy as stones. Mayatl's shock was so great that she dropped her vessel of crushed tomatoes, and a red stain spread across the tiles of our kitchen.

“It cannot be true!” protested my father. “He cannot do this!”

“And yet they say he will.”

It was Mayatl who spoke the words that lay in all our hearts. “But how shall the sun rise?”

Our neighbour was unable to answer. He went on his way, spreading terror throughout our district until the air of Tlaltelolco was rank with it.

We finished our meal in silence, each of us knowing that we faced something worse than the end of our city, the end of our empire. We faced the end of the fifth age – the destruction of the earth itself.

And yet in the face of the cataclysm glimmered a small fragment of hope.

My father and I had not spoken of Mitotiqui since he had become the living god, for fear that Tezcatlipoca would hear and be angered. We did not breathe my brother's name now. And yet I knew what was in my father's mind when he called me to his workshop after our meal.

He had seen Mitotiqui's face when he was taken; he had understood its meaning as well as I. He too was haunted by his look. But if sacrifice were ended, Mitotiqui – unwilling as we thought he was – might be saved.

“Do you think there is truth in this last rumour?” he asked softly.

“Truly, I know nothing, Father. When I was at the palace we did not speak of this.”

My father paced restlessly about the floor. He could not be still. Wringing his hands, he turned to me suddenly and said, “I must know. My curiosity writhes like a serpent within; it cannot be contained. I am loath for you to do it, but you have the means to find out. Tomorrow, at dawn, go to the palace. Find the youth of whom you are so fond. He alone can tell us what is to happen.”

I slept little that night. Fear. Desire. Excitement. Dread. All spun in my mind like a whirlwind and would give me no rest.

In the darkness before dawn I dressed in the guise of a boy once more, for I dared not walk there in my own clothes. When the sun rose above the horizon, I slipped from the house.

I approached the palace, wondering how I would gain entry. But the guard who stood at the gates recognized me.

“Are you here again, boy? Did you leave something behind?”

“Yes,” I replied with relief. “Some tools. May I collect them?”

At his command, the wooden barriers swung open and I walked inside.

I had only ever passed through the palace on the heels of Axcahuah. Without him to guide me it was harder to find the way, and I trod with nervous trepidation, trying to avoid the notice of the rowdy Spaniards. But at last I smelt the familiar scent of a charcoal burner. The tang of melting gold.

Stepping boldly now, I followed the smell until I came to the courtyard at the rear of the palace.

What I saw could not have shocked me more.

The courtyard was still filled with gold; strange solid slabs like the mud bricks of a farmer's hut were neatly stacked along one wall. But there were few fine ornaments, and what remained were heaped carelessly about the tiled floor. Some were broken into pieces. The gleaming jaguars that had reposed either side of the emperor's staircase were here, lying on their backs, their cleverly crafted feet clawing at the empty air. Their heads had been hacked off and their emerald eyes prised out, leaving dull, blind sockets. The silver monkeys dangled no more from their gleaming trees but were brought to ground as if by a violent earthquake.

And there, in the midst of this ruination, was Francisco! My heart rushed with joy to see him. But before I could move he stepped towards a statue. My figure of Tezcatlipoca! With the face of Francisco. Heart suddenly in my mouth, I looked to see if he recognized his own features.

He showed no expression. Puzzled, I froze in the shadows to see what he would do.

He caressed the figure. Ran his fingers over it. Then he took a knife and prised the obsidian from the hand of the god, cracking the stone and throwing it aside as if it had no value. He pushed my statue to the floor. Took a hammer. Pounded it flat. Broke it into shards. Set them in the fire.

Aghast, lifting my hands to my cheeks, I swayed with consternation. Rage swept through me and a scream of unspeakable anger rose in my throat as I leapt forward to stop this wanton destruction.

Francisco turned and saw me, and at once a delighted smile split his face. But, seeing the fury in my eyes and hearing the shout that burst from my lips, he seized me, clasping a hand tightly over my mouth. Snaking an arm about my waist, he carried me swiftly from the courtyard, through the slaves' quarters and into the narrow alley beyond.

Once there he released me, but not before he had muttered urgently in my ear, “Do not scream. Say nothing. If the other men see you, you are lost. Believe me, Itacate, I do not want you discovered.”

I did not cry out. But my heart pounded against my chest with rage. “What were you doing?” I asked in a harsh whisper. “To destroy such things! It is barbaric. Why would you wish it?”

He put a hand to his brow and rubbed between his temples. Wearily, in a voice drained of passion, he said only, “I do as I am bid.”

“To crush such artistry!”

“I do not like my work, Itacate. I did not seek it.”

“What kind of villain follows such orders?”

“One who wishes to live.”

His tone silenced me. He made no apologies. No excuses. Yet my statue was gone! Despair washed over me and I wept.

“They are objects, Itacate. Lifeless objects. Do they matter so much?”

“You know they do,” I answered. “Spoil the work and you slay the maker.” Wiping the tears from my face, I lifted my chin and glared at him. “That was my statue.”

“You crafted it?” Pain furrowed Francisco's brow. “Oh, dear god!”

“Why does your leader ruin things of such beauty? Has he no soul?”

“He has not.” When it came, Francisco's voice was as anguished as my own. “He does not see artistry; he sees only wealth. Gold cannot be valued unless it is weighed. It cannot be weighed with accuracy unless it is in blocks. So he commands me to melt it all.”

“All?”
I echoed, recalling the strangely shaped pieces he had placed in the fire when we had cast the virgin in gold. Chilled with sudden dread, I asked, “Was the madonna made from the destruction of such treasures?”

Francisco did not speak, but I saw the answer in his eyes. Sighing sadly, he took my limp, unresisting hand in his. “We were cast from the same mould, you and I. Believe me, I know the worth of these pieces. I feel their skill here, in my heart. You think I would put them in the fire if I had a choice?”

“Is he so harsh, then, your leader? Even to those who follow him?”

“He is brutal. To those who do not do his bidding, his punishments are extreme. And I … Itacate, I cannot live without my hands.”

I struggled to divine his meaning. “He would sever them?”

Francisco nodded, his face twisted with pain. And yet I could not believe him. No leader would do such a thing. To remove a man's hands and compel him still to live? It was impossible! He had invented this lie so that I should forgive him. But I could not.

“You say Cortés is cruel, yet I see none of it. You lie. You do what he tells you because you are a coward!”

I pulled away from him, wresting my hand from his so violently that my skin was pinched and bruised. I turned and fled, hot tears spilling down my cheeks. At that moment, Francisco's name was shouted within the palace, but he did not go at once to his masters. He called after me, his voice pleading, desperate, but I did not stop. And so Francisco returned to his destruction, and I – still ignorant of the fate that would befall my brother – returned home.