The Goldsmith's Daughter (20 page)

T
he doubts I held as to the unnatural cruelty of the Spanish leader were soon dispelled.

Perhaps a month after I had fled from Francisco, an event took place in the temple precinct that made me see the truth of all he had told me and understand the perilous position he was in.

Some days before, Cortés had sent his messengers from our city to the coast. They had been slain as they journeyed. Montezuma had called for Qualpopoca, the leader of the town where it had happened, to come to Tenochtitlán.

In good faith Qualpopoca obeyed, bringing with him his sons and nobles, for they trusted our lord emperor. They were of the elite; they had neither lifted the knives themselves, nor knew who was responsible. Indeed, some in our city muttered that a god had done the killing for it was well known that the Spanish had desecrated a temple in the town and stolen the golden idols from its altar.

The nobles were betrayed.

Our emperor ordered that they be punished, although all could hear the Spanish leader's voice in the words he chose.

I heard the proclamation in the marketplace; since I had returned from the palace so violently angered against Francisco, my father's own fury had softened and I was once more free to walk the city streets. Scarce believing the evidence of my own ears, I went to the temple precinct, falling in with a crowd of baffled onlookers.

The centre of the square was empty, save for several large piles of fresh-cut willow from which tall poles protruded skywards. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd to better see but was only puzzled further by the broken spears and cudgels which had been added to the green wood. It seemed the Spanish had taken the weapons from our warriors' armoury.

The makeshift doors of the palace swung open, and from there our emperor came. No one lowered their heads. No one averted their eyes. All saw him following behind Cortés like a faithful dog.

A dais had been erected, and climbing onto this the two leaders could be seen clearly by those assembled in the square. They were at once surrounded by Spanish soldiers, well armed with what we now knew to be guns and crossbows. Then came the rest of their force, assembling in rigidly straight lines along the length of the palace walls. Francisco was amongst them. I saw him a moment before he laid his eyes on me; before he stepped forward as though to call my name, and received a sharp jab with the end of a spear for stepping out of his allotted place. He made no further move. Enraged though I still was, I felt the awareness hanging between us, tying us together with a silken thread. Through all the dreadful spectacle that followed, I felt its tug.

Raising his arms aloft, the emperor spoke the words he was commanded to. With no tremble in his voice, sounding as though all feeling had died with his captivity, he declared, “For crimes against our honoured guests, these nobles shall be punished. The sentence is death.”

An astonished cry leapt from every mouth. Death? It was unjust! The hands of the Spanish soldiers went at once to their weapons, and this was enough to still the audible stirrings of discontent. When all fell silent, the Spanish leader gave a signal, and those who were to die were led in chains towards the piles of wood. Roughly they were forced to climb on, and were tied to the upright poles. Never had we seen such a punishment. No one could imagine what was to come next. I looked to Francisco, but his head was lowered, his whole body seeming crushed with the weight of despair.

It was then that a Spanish holy man came forth. To each of the nobles he went, offering them the touch of the large black book he carried. His words were loudly translated so we all understood he was promising the men salvation: if they would convert to the Spanish faith they would live for ever in paradise.

One asked if there would be Spaniards in this heaven. When he was given the answer yes, he turned his head away. “I will not spend eternity with savages.”

The priest moved on to Qualpopoca. The book, he told him, spoke the word of god. Qualpopoca inclined his head, frowning with concentration as if trying to hear its voice. But at last he raised his chin proudly and spoke. In the hushed square his words rang loud. “I hear nothing. Your book does not speak to me.” And then he spat in contempt. I was far from him, but I could imagine the spittle hitting the leather volume, balling and rolling slowly down its cover.

The holy man gave a furious shriek. Skirts flying, he ran towards a soldier who held a flaming torch. Wresting it from his hands, the priest took it and plunged it into the heap of wood.

It was not merciful, nor was it swift. Fresh willow is slow to burn. With neither pulque nor mushrooms to ease their passage, these nobles met their flaming deaths in screaming, ghastly anguish.

The horror, the imaginative cruelty of the punishment, reduced all those watching to silence. We had never seen the like. No one had ever dreamt that such a thing was possible.

Our emperor watched them burn, tears streaming down his face as the fetid air of the temple precinct turned black with smoke. When it was done, he was led away. Helpless. Weak. Lost. And as he climbed down from the dais, I saw his ankles were chained.

I did not look at Francisco. I did not even glance in his direction. But when the sickened crowds had melted away to their homes, and the Spanish had withdrawn to the palace, we two were left standing in the square.

I recall neither moving towards him nor reaching out. All I remember is the aching sorrow, the searing pain, as we stood holding each other. Not caring who saw us, disregarding the censure we would bring down on our heads, we clung to one another as tightly as drowning fishermen to a canoe. But though we tried to keep our heads aloft, we knew we were in grave danger of slipping beneath the dark waters of despair.

A
week after the burnings, Francisco managed to break free from the palace and ventured once more to our home, standing humbly in the street until he was given permission to enter. Despite the danger that followed on his heels along with the dog Eve, his constant companion, my father did not turn him away. Francisco alone could give him knowledge of what might happen to my brother. Though he asked not of Mitotiqui, my father longed to have some insight into what lay in the Spanish leader's mind.

The air of Tenochtitlán had grown thick with anticipation of dreadful events to come. As winter had turned to spring, people scurried about the streets like birds, darting from building to building as though a mighty jaguar stood in the shadows ready to pounce. A dark current whirled beneath the lake, threatening to pull our floating city down to some unknown place. There was a restless edge. A breath of violent menace that would erupt at the slightest provocation.

The Spanish leader held the emperor and thus he held the city. Or so he thought. He could not know that with each day Montezuma spent at Cortés's side, the power to influence his people was waning. The foreign force had eaten its way through the maize stored in vast chambers as protection against future famine. And now there were mutterings that, if a provincial nobleman like Qualpopoca could find the courage to spit upon a Spaniard before he burned, our own leader should find the courage to do the same before the population starved. There were rumblings of discontent. Murmurings of anger. The talk on the streets was all of change. Something would happen; something would break this brittle calm. But whether it would be in our favour or theirs was impossible to say.

And to this general unease was added the particular dread of what would become of my brother.

My father sat with Francisco in his workshop. It was a strange, awkward meeting. I knelt between them, and though I hoped for a mutual liking to grow, there was none. My father was rigid with anxiety for my brother, and Francisco could do little to comfort him. “It is true Cortés wishes to put an end to sacrifice,” he said. “He has spoken of it often. And yet he does nothing.”

“Why does he wish to stop it?” asked my father.

Francisco grimaced. “Because it gives his expedition moral purpose,” he replied. “Cortés can justify any act, any brutality, as long as he says he does it for our god. For the true faith. Our priests will then forgive him anything. As will our own emperor. But whether he will dare to, I cannot say.”

“Does your leader not tell you what he plans?” snapped my father.

“Does yours tell you?” countered Francisco. “Cortés is wilful. Capricious. We are here not because of some carefully ordered scheme, but because he is a gambler. An opportunist. Gold is the one god he worships. None of us can say what he will do next.”

“The spring festival is almost upon us,” my father said quietly.

I felt Francisco stiffen beside me. He turned his face to mine, his brows arched in a question. “Did you not once tell me that your brother—”

“—is the living god,” I interrupted. “Yes. It is a great honour for our family. You know a little of the ceremony, I think? A
willing
sacrifice goes to glory on the festival's fourth day.”

If Tezcatlipoca was listening, my words could not offend him. But my eyes told Francisco a different tale. They confirmed what he had once guessed for himself.

He looked slowly from me to my father. “Then I must warn you that our holy men urge Cortés to stop the ritual. They insist upon it. But he fears the city will rise up against him. We are well weaponed, but we are fewer in number. I do not know what will happen. I cannot tell you more. I am sorry.”

My father gave him a brief nod in response and withdrew, leaving the house once more to pace the city streets. We were left alone, and for a time we lost ourselves in each other, stealing joy amidst the devastation that swirled about us.

Too soon, Francisco had to return to the palace. Holding me close, he said in a soft whisper that surely no god could hear, “I do not know if there is anything that can be done to save your brother. But if there is … I must be certain: do you wish me to do it?”

We stood, foreheads pressed together. The smallest movement of my head gave my assent. I made no other reply. There was nothing more that could be said. We both knew that the people of Tenochtitlán would not allow the sun to perish. If Cortés – if Francisco – dared to make this move against our faith, the city would be provoked into war.

It was on a day of sweet spring sunshine that disaster finally came to Tenochtitlán. Despite the tension and fear of trouble, the people sang as they went about their business, for the festival of Toxcatl was upon us. Four days of feasting and dancing in honour of Tezcatlipoca. Four days of processions and rituals with their beautiful, haunting power.

And at the end, my brother would die. On the fourth day, Mitotiqui would enter paradise.

Or he would not.

If his death dishonoured the god, he would walk for ever in the gloom of Mictlan.

I was tormented by the suspicion that he had lied: that he had never seen the god; that his rash words had been born of jealousy. And without his joyful willingness, what was left?

Death.

Ugly. Futile. Cruel.

I was in agony as the festival began. My father stood beside me in the crowd, and I could feel him tremble as we watched.

A fanfare. The beat of many drums. And then there, on the steps of the great temple, stood Mitotiqui, dressed in the robes of a warrior. My brother, my twin, one half of my soul. Looking at his familiar face after so long made sweet memories of childhood flood my mind and brought bitter tears to my eyes.

Four women – great beauties – were given to him. They would be his companions during his last days and nights on earth. Before he descended the steps, my brother surveyed the city square below him. He did not look at me, but as his eyes slid over the assembled worshippers I saw that no blinding glory lit him from within. The god did not possess him. His eyes were dulled with pulque, and for that I was grateful. If I too could have deadened my senses and blurred my mind, I would have drunk myself into oblivion.

Mitotiqui climbed into a litter; he was hoisted high and then carried through the city at the head of an exultant procession. Flowers were strewn in his path. People fell on their knees before him. Men begged to be blessed with a touch of his fingers; women fainted in the crush that surrounded him. And my father and I followed, dazed, and sick with sorrow.

For three days the festival escalated in intensity. Dancing at sacred sites grew more frequent and the participants more numerous, until it seemed as though the whole city throbbed with the beat of one drum and all paced the elaborate steps of a ritual dance.

I had to watch it all; had to feast and worship with a smile fixed on my lips. But my heart lay dead inside me. I knew well that I should not feel as I did. If Tezcatlipoca looked into his smoking mirror and saw what lay in my mind, he would be outraged. Who knew what the result would be if that happened? I did not want to bring his wrath upon my city. And yet I could not shape my thoughts and feelings to what they should be.

I was tense beyond bearing, my nerves pulled tight as the threads of my loom. There was a dreadful foreboding in the air; a sense of calamity to come.