Aztec

by Gary Jennings

  “Ayyo, there was a time we were very close,” said Nezahualpíli, smiling broadly. “When you spoke of an Eagle Knight named Mixtli, I did not make the connection, but I should have known he would rise from title to title.” To me he said, “I greet you and congratulate you, Knight of the Eagle Order.”

  I hope I mumbled the proper response. I was occupied with being glad that I wore the long-skirted sack, for my knees were slightly knocking together.

  Motecuzóma asked Nezahualpíli, “Was this Mixtli always a liar?”

  “Not ever a liar, lord friend, my pledge on that. Mixtli has always told the truth as he saw it. Unfortunately, his vision has not always accorded comfortably with that of other people.”

  “Neither does that of a liar,” said Motecuzóma through his teeth. To me he said, almost shouting, “You made us all believe that there was nothing to be feared from—”

  Nezahualpíli interrupted, saying soothingly, “Permit me, lord friend. Mixtli?”

  “Yes, Lord Speaker?” I said huskily, still unaware of what trouble I was in, but all too aware that I was in it.

  “A little more than two years ago, the Maya sent swift-messengers through all these lands, to give notice of strange objects—floating houses, they said—sighted off the shores of the peninsula called Uluümil Kutz. You recall the occasion?”

  “Vividly, my lord,” I said. “As I interpreted the message, they had but seen a certain great fish and a certain flying fish.”

  “Yes, that was the reassuring explanation put abroad by your Revered Speaker Motecuzóma, and believed by all people, to their considerable relief.”

  “To my considerable embarrassment,” Motecuzóma said grimly.

  Nezahualpíli made a placative gesture in his direction, and continued speaking to me. “It transpires that some of the Maya who saw that apparition made pictures, young Mixtli, but it is only now that one of them has come into my possession. Would you still say that this pictured object is a fish?”

  He handed down to me a small square of tattered bark paper, and I scrutinized it. It bore a typically Maya drawing, so small and crabbed of style that I could not do more than guess at what it was meant to represent in fact. But I had to say, “I confess, my lords, that it more resembles a house than it does the mighty fish with which I confused it.”

  “Or the flying fish?” asked Nezahualpíli.

  “No, my lord. The wings of that fish spread sideways. As well as I can tell, this object appears to wear its wings sticking straight upward from its back. Or its roof.”

  He pointed. “And those round dots in a row between the wings above and the roof below them. What do you make of those?”

  I said uncomfortably, “It is impossible to be certain from this crude drawing, but I venture the guess that the dots are meant to show the heads of men.”

  Miserably, I raised my eyes from the paper, to look straight at each Speaker in turn. “My lords, I recant my former interpretation. I can only plead that I was inadequately informed. Had I seen this picture at that time, I would have said that the Maya were rightly frightened, and right to warn the rest of us. I would have said that Uluümil Kutz had been visited by immense canoes somehow moved by wings and filled with men. I could not say of what people the men are or whence they come, except that they are strangers and obviously have much knowledge. If they can build such war canoes, they can wage war—and perhaps a war more fearsome than we have ever known.”

  “There!” said Nezahualpíli, with satisfaction. “Even at the risk of displeasing his Lord Speaker, Mixtli flinches not from telling the truth as he sees it—when he sees it. My own seers and sayers read the same portent when they saw that Maya drawing.”

  “Had the omens been read correctly and sooner,” muttered Motecuzóma, “I would have had more than two years in which to fortify and man the coasts of Uluümil Kutz.”

  “To what purpose?” Nezahualpíli asked. “If the strangers do choose to strike there, let the expendable Maya bear the brunt. But if, as it seems, they can invade from the limitless sea, there are limitless coasts on which they might land, east or north, west or south. Not all the warriors of all nations could adequately man every vulnerable shore. You had better concentrate your defenses in a tighter ring and closer to home.”

  “I?” Motecuzóma exclaimed. “What of you?”

  “Ah, I will be dead,” said Nezahualpíli, yawning and stretching luxuriously. “The seers assure me of that, and I am glad, for it gives me reason to spend my last years in peace and repose. From now until my death I shall make war no more. And neither will my son Black Flower when he succeeds to my throne.”

  I stood before the dais uncomfortably, but apparently unnoticed and forgotten; I was given no signal of dismissal.

  Motecuzóma stared at Nezahualpíli and his face darkened. “You are removing Texcóco and your Acólhua nation from The Triple Alliance? Lord friend, I should hate to speak the words betrayal and cowardice.”

  “Then do not,” snapped Nezahualpíli. “I mean that we will—we must—reserve our warring for the invasion foretold. And when I say we, I mean all nations of these lands. We must no longer waste our warriors and our resources in fighting each other. The feuds and rivalries must be suspended, and all our energies, all our armies pooled together to repel the invader. That is how I see it, in the light of the omens and my wise men’s interpretation of them. That is how I shall spend my remaining days, and Black Flower will do the same after me—working for a truce and solidarity among all nations, so that all may present a united front when the outlanders come.”

  “All very well for you and your tamely disciplined Crown Prince,” said Motecuzóma insultingly. “But we are the Mexíca! Ever since we attained our supremacy in The One World, no outsider has set foot inside this dominion without our permission. So it shall ever be, if we must fight alone against all nations known or unknown, if all our allies desert us or turn against us.”

  I was a little sorry to see the Lord Nezahualpíli take no umbrage at that outright expression of contempt. He said, almost sadly:

  “Then I will tell you of a legend, lord friend. Perhaps it has been forgotten by you Mexíca, but it still can be read in our Texcóco archives. According to that legend, when your Aztéca ancestors first ventured out of their northern homeland of Aztlan and made their years-long march which ended here, they knew not what obstacles they might encounter on the way. For all they knew, they might find lands so forbidding or peoples so unfriendly that they would deem it preferable to retrace their road and return to Aztlan. Against that contingency, they arranged for a swift and safe withdrawal. At eight or nine of the places they stopped between Aztlan and this lake district, they collected and hid ample stocks of weapons and provender. If they were forced to retreat homeward again, they could do it at their own pace, well nourished and well armed. Or they could turn and make a stand at any of those prepared positions.”

  Motecuzóma gaped; clearly he had not heard that tale before. Well, neither had I. Nezahualpíli concluded:

  “At least, so says the legend. Unhappily, it does not say where those eight or nine places are. I respectfully suggest, lord friend, that you send explorers northward through the desert lands to seek them out. Either that or lay out another line of stores. If you choose not to make every neighbor nation your ally now, the time will come when none will be, and you may have need of that escape route. We of the Acólhua prefer to gird ourselves with friends.”

  Motecuzóma sat silent for a long while, hunched on his chair as if huddled against an approaching storm. Then he sat up straight, squared his shoulders, and said, “Suppose the outlanders never come. You will have lain supine to no purpose but to be trampled by whichever friend first feels strong enough.”

  Nezahualpíli shook his head and said, “The outlanders will come.”

  “You seem very sure.”

  “Sure enough to make a wager of it,” said Nezahualpíli, suddenly jovial. “I challenge you, lord friend. Let
us play at tlachtli in the ceremonial court. No teams, just you against me. The best of three games, say. If I lose, I will take it as an omen contradicting every other. I will retract all my gloomy warnings and put all the Acólhua arms and armies and resources at your command. If you lose …”

  “Well?”

  “Concede only this. You will leave me and my Acólhua free from all your future entanglements, so that we may pass our last days in more peaceful and pleasant pursuits.”

  Motecuzóma instantly said, “Agreed. The best of three games,” and he smiled wickedly.

  He might well have smiled so, for he was not alone in thinking Nezahualpíli mad to have challenged him to the games. Of course, no one else except myself—and I had been sworn to secrecy—knew at that time what the Revered Speaker of Texcóco had wagered on the outcome. So far as Tenochtítlan’s citizens and visitors were concerned, the contest would be simply another entertainment for them, or an extra honor paid to Tlaloc, during the city’s celebration of The Tree Is Raised. But it was no secret that Motecuzóma was at least twenty years younger than Nezahualpíli, nor that tlachtli is a brutal game best played by the young, strong, and sturdy.

  All around and beyond the ball court’s outer walls, The Heart of the One World was packed with people, nobles as well as commoners, squeezed shoulder to shoulder, though not one in a hundred of them could have hoped to see even a glimpse of the games. But when some bit of play made the favored spectators inside the court cry a praiseful “ayyo!” or groan “ayya!” or breathe a prayerful “hoo-oo-ooo,” all the people in the plaza outside echoed and amplified the cheer or the lament or the owl hoot, without even knowing why.

  The steplike tiers of stone slanting upward from the court’s marble inner walls were crowded with the very highest nobles of Tenochtítlan and those of Texcóco who had come with Nezahualpíli. Possibly in compensation or bribe for my keeping their secret, the two Revered Speakers had allotted me one of the precious seats there. Though an Eagle Knight, I was the lowest-ranking person in that august company—excepting Nochípa, for whom I had arranged a place by perching her on my lap.

  “Watch and remember, Daughter,” I said into her ear. “This is something never seen before. The two most notable and lordly men in all The One World, pitted one against the other, and in public show. Watch it and remember it all your life. You will never see such a spectacle again.”

  “But, Father,” she said, “that player wearing the blue helmet is an old man.” She used her chin to point discreetly at Nezahualpíli, who stood at center court, a little apart from Motecuzóma and the high priest of Tlaloc, the priest in charge of all that month’s ceremonies.

  I said, “Well, the player in the green head-protector is about my own age, so he is no spry juvenile either.”

  “You sound as if you favor the old man.”

  “I hope you will cheer for him when I do. I have wagered a small fortune on his winning.”

  Nochípa swung sideways on my lap and leaned back to stare into my face. “Oh, you foolish Father. Why?”

  I said, “I do not really know.” And I did not. “Now sit still. You are heavy enough without wriggling.”

  Though my daughter had just then turned twelve years of age and had had her first bleeding, hence wore the garb of a woman, and was beginning to swell and curve prettily into woman’s shape, she had not—I thanked the gods—inherited her father’s size, or I could not have endured sitting between her and the hard stone seat.

  The priest of Tlaloc made special prayers and invocations and incense burnings—at tedious length—before he threw high the ball to declare the first game under way. I will not attempt, my lord scribes, to tell of the ball’s every bound and bounce and rebound, for I know you are ignorant of the complex rules of tlachtli and could not begin to appreciate the finer points of the game. The priest scuttled from the court like a black beetle, leaving only Nezahualpíli and Motecuzóma—and the two goalkeepers at either end of the court, but those men stayed immobile and unnoticed except when the progress of the game required them to move one goal yoke or another.

  Those things, the movable low arches through which the players had to try to put the ball, were not the simple half-circles of stone provided on ordinary courts. The goal yokes, like the court’s vertical walls, were of finest marble and, like the winning-goal rings set high in the walls’ center points, they were elaborately carved and polished and brilliantly colored. Even the ball had been specially braided for that contest, of strips of the liveliest óli, the overlapping strips colored alternately blue and green.

  Each of the Revered Speakers wore a padded leather band around his head and ears, secured by straps crossing the top of his head and under his chin; and heavy leather disks at elbows and knees; and a tightly wound, bulkily quilted loincloth, over which was belted a leather hip girdle. The head protectors were, as I have mentioned, of the two colors of Tlaloc—blue for Nezahualpíli and green for Motecuzóma—but, even without that differentiation, even without my topaz, even I would have had no trouble distinguishing the two opponents. Between the paddings and quiltings, Motecuzóma’s body showed firm and smooth and muscular. Nezahualpíli’s was gaunt and ribby and stringy. Motecuzóma moved easily, springingly, lithe as óli himself, and the ball was his from the moment the priest tossed it up. Nezahualpíli moved stiffly and awkwardly; it was pitiful to see him chase his fleet adversary, like Motecuzóma’s shadow detached and trying to catch him up. A sharp elbow nudged my back; I turned to see the Lord Cuitláhuac, Motecuzóma’s younger brother and commander of all the Mexíca armies. He grinned tauntingly at me; he was one of the several men with whom I had laid a sizable wager in gold.

  Motecuzóma ran, he leapt, he floated, he flew. Nezahualpíli plodded and panted, his bald head gleaming with sweat under the straps of his headgear. The ball hurtled, it bounced, it flickered back and forth—but always from Motecuzóma to Motecuzóma. From one end of the court, he would hip it hard toward the wall where Nezahualpíli stood indecisive, and Nezahualpíli was never quick enough to intercept it, and the ball would angle off that wall toward the farther end of the court, and somehow, impossibly, Motecuzóma would be there to strike it again with elbow or knee or buttock. He sent the ball like an arrow through this goal yoke, like a javelin through that one, like a blowpipe pellet through the next, the ball going through every low arch without ever touching either side of the stone, every time scoring a goal against Nezahualpíli, every time raising an ovation from every spectator except me, Nochípa, and Nezahualpíli’s courtiers.

  The first game to Motecuzóma. He bounded off the court like a young buck deer, untired, unwinded, to the handlers who rubbed him down and gave him a refreshing sip of chocolate, and he was standing, haughty, ready for the next game, when the trudging, sweat-dripping Nezahualpíli had barely reached his resting seat among his own handlers. Nochípa turned and asked me, “Will we be poor, Father?” And the Lord Cuitláhuac overheard, and gave a great guffaw, but he laughed no more when the play resumed.

  Long afterward, veteran tlachtli players were still arguing various and contradictory explanations for what subsequently occurred. Some said it had simply taken the playing of the first game to limber Nezahualpíli’s joints and reflexes. Some said that Motecuzóma had rashly played the first game so strenuously that he prematurely tired himself. And there were many other theories, but I had my own. I knew Nezahualpíli of old, and I had too often seen a similar rickety, hobbling, pathetic old man, a man the color of a cacao bean. I believe I saw, that day of the tlachtli contest, Nezahualpíli’s last pretense at that decrepitude when he mockingly gave away the first game to Motecuzóma.

  But no theory, including mine, can really account for the marvel that then occurred. Motecuzóma and Nezahualpíli faced off for the second game, and Motecuzóma, having won the previous one, threw the ball into play. With his knee he lobbed it high in the air. It was the last time he ever touched that ball.

  Naturally, after what had gone
before, almost everyone’s eyes were on Motecuzóma, expecting him to flicker away that instant and be under the ball before his aged opponent could creak into motion. But Nochípa, for some reason, watched Nezahualpíli, and it was her squeal of delight that brought every other spectator to his feet, everybody roaring together like a volcano in eruption. The ball was jiggling merrily inside the marble ring high in the north wall of the court, as if pausing there long enough to be admired, and then it fell through on the side away from Nezahualpíli, who had elbowed it up there.

  There was an uproar of exultation on the court and in the tiers, and it went on and on. Motecuzóma rushed to embrace his opponent in congratulation, and the goalkeepers and handlers milled about in a frenzy. The priest of Tlaloc came dancing and flaffing onto the court, waving his arms and raving, unheard in the din, probably proclaiming that to have been an augury of favor from Tlaloc. The cheering spectators jumped up and down in place. The bellow of “AYYO!” got even louder, ear-breakingly louder, when the crowd in the great plaza beyond the court heard the word of what had occurred. You will have gathered, reverend friars, that Nezahualpíli had won that second game. Placing the ball through that vertical ring on the wall would have won it for him even if Motecuzóma had already been many goals ahead.

  But you must understand that such a ringed ball was almost as much of a thrill for the onlookers as for the man who ringed it. That was so rare an occurrence, so unbelievably rare, that I do not know how to tell you how rare it was. Imagine that you have a hard óli ball the size of your head, and a stone ring, its aperture of just slightly larger diameter than that of the ball, poised vertically and twice your height above you. Try putting that ball through that hole, using not your hands, using only your hips, knees, elbows, or buttocks. A man might stand for days, doing nothing else, uninterrupted and undistracted, and never do it. In the swift movement and confusion of a real game, its doing was a thing miraculous.