Aztec

by Gary Jennings

  Blood Glutton returned from the command conference as we were being served our food and chocolate. He said, “When we have done eating, we will don our battle costume and arm ourselves. Then, when the dark has come, we will move to our assigned positions, and there we will sleep in place, for we must be early awake.”

  As we ate, he told us Nezahualpíli’s plan. At dawn, a full third of our army, in trim formation, complete with drums and conch trumpets, would march boldly up to and into the river as if ignorant of any danger waiting on the other side. When the enemy let fly its missiles, the attackers would scatter and splash about, to give an impression of surprised confusion. When the rain of missiles got intolerable, the men would turn and flee the way they had come, in seemingly undisciplined rout. Nezahualpíli’s belief was that the Texcaltéca would be deceived by that disarray and would incautiously give chase, so excited by their apparent easy triumph that they would give no thought to its possibly being a ruse.

  Meanwhile, the remainder of Nezahualpíli’s army would have been waiting, concealed in rocks, shrubbery, trees on both sides of the long line of march leading to the river. Not a man of them would show himself or use a weapon until our “retreating” forces had enticed the entire Texcála army across the river. The Texcaltéca would be running along a corridor between hidden walls of warriors. Then Nezahualpíli, watching from a high place, would give the nod to his drummers, and the drums would give a signal crash of noise. His men on both sides of the ambuscade would rise up, and the walls of the corridor would close together, trapping the enemy between them.

  A gray-haired old soldier of our company asked, “And where will we be stationed?”

  Blood Glutton grunted unhappily. “Almost as far back and safe as the cooks and priests.”

  “What?” exclaimed the elderly veteran. “Tramp all this way and not get close enough even to hear the clash of obsidian?”

  Our cuachic shrugged. “Well, you know how shamefully few we are. We can hardly blame Nezahualpíli for denying us a share of the battle, considering that he is fighting Ahuítzotl’s war for him. Our Knight Xococ pleaded that we might at least march in the front, into the river, and be the bait for the Texcaltéca—we would be the likeliest to be killed—but Nezahualpíli refused us even that chance at glory.”

  I personally was glad enough to hear it, but the other soldier was still disgruntled. “Do we just sit here like lumps, then, and wait to escort the victorious Acólhua and their captives back to Tenochtítlan?”

  “Not quite,” said Blood Glutton. “We may get to take a prisoner or two ourselves. Some of the trapped Texcaltéca may break out past the closing walls of Acólhua warriors. Our Mexíca and Tecpanéca companies will be fanned out to either side, north and south, as a net to snare any who do elude the ambush.”

  “Be lucky if we snare so much as a rabbit,” grumbled the gray-haired soldier. He stood up and said to the rest of us. “All you yaoquízque fighting for the first time, know this. Before you get into your armor, go off in the bushes and evacuate yourselves good and empty. You will have loose bowels once the drums begin, and no chance to wriggle out of that tight quilting.”

  He went away to take his own advice, and I followed. As I squatted, I heard him mumbling nearby, “Almost forgot this thing,” and I glanced over. He took from his pouch a small object wrapped in paper. “A proud new father gave it to me to bury on the battleground,” he said. “His new son’s navel string and little war shield.” He dropped the packet at his feet, stamped it into the mud, then squatted to urinate and defecate on it.

  Well, I thought to myself, so much for that little boy’s tonáli. I wondered if my own natal shield and string had been likewise disposed of.

  While we lesser soldiers struggled into the quilted cotton body armor, the knights were donning their flamboyant costumes, and they were splendid to see. There were three orders of knighthood: the Jaguar and the Eagle, to one of which a warrior might get elected for having distinguished himself in war, and the Arrow, to which belonged those who had achieved expert marksmanship and many killings with that most inaccurate of missiles.

  A Jaguar Knight wore a real jaguar skin as a sort of cloak, with the big cat’s head as a helmet. Its skull was removed, of course, but its front teeth were glued in place, so that its upper fangs curved down the knight’s forehead and its lower hooked upward over his chin. His body armor was tinted like a jaguar’s hide: tawny with dark brown markings. An Eagle Knight wore for a helmet an oversized eagle head made of wood and molded paper, covered with real eagle feathers, the open beak hooking forward above his forehead and below his chin. His body armor was also covered with eagle feathers, his sandals had artificial talons projecting beyond their toes, and his feather mantle was more or less shaped like folded wings. An Arrow Knight wore a helmet shaped like the head of whatever bird he chose—so long as it was of a lesser breed than the eagle—and his armor was covered with the same feathers that he preferred for fletching his arrows.

  All the knights carried wooden, leather, or wickerwork shields covered with feathers, and those feathers were worked into colorful mosaic designs, each knight’s design being his own name symbols. Many knights had become known for their bravery and prowess, so it was an act of daring for them to go into battle flaunting their symbols on their shields. They were sure to be sought out for attack by some enemy soldier, himself eager to enhance his own name as “the man who bested the great Xococ” or whomever. We yaoquízque carried unadorned shields, and our armor was uniformly white—until it got uniformly muddy. We were allowed no blazonings, but some of the older men tucked feathers into their hair or streaked their faces with paint to proclaim at least that they were not fighting their first campaign.

  Once armored, I and numerous other novice soldiers went farther to the rear, to the priests, who yawned as they heard our necessarily hasty confessions to Tlazoltéotl, and then gave us a medicine to prevent our showing cowardice in the coming battle. I really did not believe that anything swallowed into the stomach could quell a fear that exists in the recalcitrant head and feet, but I obediently took my sip of the potion: fresh rainwater in which was mixed white clay, powdered amethyst, leaves of the cannabis plant, flowers of the dogbane, the cacao bush, and the bell orchid. When we returned to group around Xococ’s flag, the Mexícatl knight said:

  “Know this. The object of tomorrow’s battle is to secure prisoners for sacrifice to Huitzilopóchtli. We are to strike with the flat of our weapons, to stun, to take men alive.” He paused, then said ominously, “However, while this is for us merely a War of Flowers, for the Texcaltéca it is not. They will fight for their lives, and fight to take ours. The Acólhua will suffer most—or win the most glory. But I want all of you, my men, to remember: if you should encounter a fleeing enemy, your orders are to capture him. His orders are to kill you.”

  With that not very inspiriting speech, he led us out into the rainy darkness—each of us armed with a spear and a maquáhuitl—northward at a right angle off the previous line of march, dropping off companies of men at intervals along the way. Blood Glutton’s company was the first to be detached, and, when the other Mexíca had plodded on, the cuachic gave us one last bit of instruction:

  “Those of you who have fought before, and have previously taken an enemy prisoner, you know you must take the next one unaided, or you will be accounted unmanly. However, you new yaoquízque, if you have a chance at taking your first captive, you are allowed to call for the help of as many as five of your fellow recruits, and you will all share equally in credit for the capture. Now follow me.… Here is a tree. You there, soldier, you climb and hide in its branches.… You there, crouch in that jumble of rocks.… Fogbound, you get behind this bush….”

  And so we were sown in a long line stretching northward, our separate posts a hundred strides or more apart. Even when daylight came, none of us would be within sight of the next man, but we would all be within calling distance. I doubt that many of us slept that nigh
t, except perhaps the hardened old veterans. I know I did not, for my shrub offered concealment only if I hunkered on my heels. The rain continued to drizzle down. My overmantle soaked through, and then my cotton armor, until it hung so clammy and heavy that I thought I might never be able to stand erect when the time came.

  After what seemed like a sheaf of years of misery, I heard faint sounds from the southward, from my right. The main bodies of Acólhua troops would be preparing to move, some into ambuscade, some into the very teeth of the Texcaltéca. What I heard was a chaplain chanting the traditional prayer before battle, though only snatches of it were audible to me so far away:

  “Oh, mighty Huitzilopóchtli, god of battles, a war is being mounted.… Choose now, oh great god, those who must kill, those who must be killed, those who must be taken as xochimíque that you may drink their hearts’ blood.… Oh, lord of war, we beg you to smile upon those who will die on this field or on your altar.… Let them proceed straight to the house of the sun, to live again, loved and honored, among the valiants who have preceded them….”

  Ba-ra-ROOM! Stiff as I was, I started violently at the combined thunder of the massed “drums which tear out the heart.” Not even the muffling rain all about could mute their earthquake rumble to anything less than bone-shaking. I hoped the fearsome noise would not frighten the Texcála troops into flight before they could be lured into Nezahualpíli’s surprise envelopment. The roar of drums was joined by the long wails and honks and bleats of the conch trumpets, then the whole noise began slowly to diminish, as the musicians led the decoy part of the army away from me, along the line of march toward the river and the waiting enemy.

  What with the rainclouds practically within arm’s reach overhead, the day did not begin with anything like a sunrise, but it was by then perceptibly lighter. Light enough, anyway, for me to see that the shrub behind which I had sat hunched all night was only a wizened, nearly leafless huixáchi, which would not adequately have hidden a ground squirrel. I would have to seek a better place to lurk, and I still had plenty of time to do so. I got up creakily, carrying my maquáhuitl and dragging my spear so it was not visible above the surrounding scrub, and I moved off in a sort of crouching lope.

  What I could not tell you, even to this day, reverend friars, not even if you were to put me to the Inquisitorial persuasions, is why I went in the direction I did. To find other concealment, I could have moved backward or to either side, and still have been within hailing distance of the others of my company. But where I went was forward, eastward, toward the place where the battle would soon commence. I can only presume that something inside me was telling me, “You are on the fringe of your first war, Dark Cloud, perhaps the only war you will ever be engaged in. It would be a pity to stay on the fringe, a pity not to experience as much of it as you can.”

  However, I did not get near the river where the Acólhua confronted the Texcaltéca. I did not even hear sounds of battle until the Acólhua, pretending consternation, pulled back from the river—and the enemy, as Nezahualpíli had hoped, rushed after them in full force. Then I heard the bellow and whoop of war cries, the shrieks and curses of wounded men, and, above all, the whistling of arrows and warbling of flung javelins. All our mock weapons at school, harmlessly blunted, had made no distinctive noise. But what I heard now were real missiles, pointed and bladed with keen obsidian, and, as if they exulted in their intent and ability to deal death, they sang as they flew through the air. Ever afterward, whenever I drew a history that included a battle, I always pictured the arrows, spears, and javelins accompanied by the curly symbol that means singing.

  I never got closer than the noise of the battle—first coming from my right front, where the armies had met at the river, then progressing farther to my right, as the Acólhua fled and the Texcaltéca gave chase. Then Nezahualpíli’s signal drums abruptly boomed for the corridor to close its walls, and the tumult of battle sounds multiplied and increased in volume: the brittle clash of weapons against weapons, the thuds of weapons against bodies, the fear-inspiring war cries of coyote howls, jaguar grunts, eagle screams, owl hoots. I could envision the Acólhua trying to restrain their own blows and thrusts, while the Texcaltéca desperately fought with all their strength and skill, and with no compunction against killing.

  I wished I could see it, for it would have been an instructive exhibition of the Acólhua’s fighting skills. By the nature of the battle, theirs had to be the greater art. But there was rolling land between me and the battle site, and shrubbery and clumps of trees, and the gray curtain of rain, and of course my own nearsightedness. I might have tried to go nearer, but I was interrupted by a hesitant tap on my shoulder.

  Still in my protective crouch, I whirled and leveled my spear, and almost skewered Cozcatl before I recognized him. The boy stood, also hunched over, with a warning finger to his lips. With the breath I had gasped in, I hissed out, “Cozcatl, curse you! What are you doing here?”

  He whispered, “Following you, master. I have been near you all the night. I thought you might need a better pair of eyes.”

  “Impertinent pest! I have not yet—”

  “No, master, not yet,” he said. “But now, yes, you do. One of the enemy approaches. He would have seen you before you could see him.”

  “What? An enemy?” I hunkered even lower.

  “Yes, master. A Jaguar Knight in full regalia. He must have fought his way out of the ambush.” Cozcatl risked raising his head far enough for a quick look. “I think he hopes to circle around and fall upon our men again from an unexpected direction.”

  “Look again,” I said urgently. “Tell me exactly where he is and where he is headed.”

  The little slave bobbed up and down again and said, “He is perhaps forty long paces to your left front, master. He is moving slowly, bent over, though he does not appear to be wounded, merely cautious. If he continues as he goes, he will pass between two trees that stand ten long paces directly to your front.”

  With those directions, a blind man could have managed the interception. I said, “I am going to those trees. You stay here and keep a discreet eye on him. If he notices my movement, you will know it. Give me a shout and then run for the rear.”

  I left my spear and my overmantle lying there, and took only my maquáhuitl. Squirming almost as close to the ground as a snake does, I moved ahead until the trees loomed out of the rain. The two trees stood amid an undergrowth of high grass and low shrubs, through which an almost imperceptible deer trail had been lightly trampled. I had to assume that the fugitive Texcaltécatl was following that trail. I heard no warning call from Cozcatl, so I had got into position unobserved. I squatted on my heels at the base of one tree, keeping it between me and the man’s approach. Holding my maquáhuitl with both fists, I brought it back behind my shoulder, parallel to the ground, and held it poised.

  Through the drizzle sound of the rain, I heard only the faintest rustle of grass and twigs. Then a muddy foot in a muddy sandal, its sole rimmed with jaguar claws, was set down on the ground directly in front of my hiding place. A moment later, the second foot stood beside it. The man, now sheltered between the trees, must have risked standing fully upright to look about and get his bearings.

  I swung the obsidian-edged sword as I had once swung at a nopáli trunk, and the knight seemed to hang in the air for an instant before he crashed full length on the ground. His feet in their sandals stayed where they were, severed above the ankles. I was on him in one bound, kicking away the maquáhuitl he still grasped, and laying the blunt point of my own against his throat, and panting the ritual words spoken by a captor to his captive. In my time, we did not say anything so crude as, “You are my prisoner.” We always said courteously, as I said to the fallen knight, “You are my beloved son.”

  He snarled viciously, “Then bear witness! I curse all the gods and all their get!” But that outburst was understandable. After all, he was a knight of the elite Jaguar order, and he had been cut down—in his own one moment o
f carelessness—by a young, obviously new and untried soldier of the lowly yaoquízqui rank. I knew that, had we met face to face, he could have minced me at his leisure, sliver by sliver. He knew it too, and his face was purple and his teeth grated together. But at last his rage ebbed to resignation, and he replied with the traditional words of surrender, “You are my revered father.”

  I lifted my weapon from his neck and he sat up, to gaze stonily at the blood gushing from his leg stumps and at his two feet still standing patiently, almost unbloodied, side by side on the deer trail ahead of him. The knight’s jaguar costume, though rain-drenched and mudsmeared, was still a handsome thing. The dappled skin which depended from the fierce helmet head was fashioned so that the animal’s front legs served as sleeves, coming down the man’s arms so that the claws rattled at his wrists. His fall had not broken the strap which held his brightly feathered round shield to his left forearm.

  There was another rustling in the brush, and Cozcatl joined us, saying quietly but proudly, “My master has taken his first war prisoner, all unaided.”

  “And I do not want him to die,” I said, still panting—from excitement, not exertion. “He is bleeding badly.”

  “Perhaps the stumps could be tied off,” the man suggested, in the heavily accented Náhuatl of Texcála.

  Cozcatl quickly unbound the leather thongs of his sandals and I tied one tightly around each of my prisoner’s legs, just below the knee. The bleeding dwindled to an oozing. I stood up between the trees and looked and listened, as the knight had done. I was somewhat surprised at what I heard—which was not much. The uproar of battle to the south had diminished to no more than a hubbub like that of a crowded marketplace, a babble interspersed with shouted commands. Obviously, during my little skirmish, the main battle had been concluded.