While Alexandre had said he been through Quivira, where exactly it was located was open to debate. The Indians Coronado met there were described as living in thatched huts, which likely meant they were Wichita, and they hunted bison and moved with the herds from place to place. Regardless of where it was located, Coronado was disappointed in his quest for treasure, as all he found were iron pyrites and a few pieces of copper.
Nick deduced that Coronado had been duped, with the Indians he encountered always telling him that what he sought was just over the horizon, and they willingly provided guides to lead the Spaniards safely away from their own territories to that of their enemies, or to some desolate location from which they hopefully wouldn’t return. Coronado glossed over his disappointment in his letters to the king, and even though the Spanish quest to find Cibola had failed utterly, it never quite died out.
On his drive out of Lyons, Nick pulled over at a historical marker that summarized Coronado’s ill-fated expedition, which seemed to give too much credit to the Spaniards for essentially accomplishing nothing but wreaking havoc on the indigenous population. A bit down the road there was one last stop, at a marker to one Father Juan de Padilla.
Father Juan was a missionary who had accompanied Coronado on his wanderings to Kansas and returned to save the souls of those who the Spaniards hadn’t killed outright or through the eventual spread of disease. In an ironic twist of fate, he was killed by those he came to convert, yet was hailed as one of the first Christian martyrs of the New World.
Snapping another quick photo Nick was amazed at the gold lust that drove the Spaniards. Reflecting he had to laugh at himself for the irony that here he was, following in their footsteps, seeking the same thing.
But no, not the same thing, he thought. They came to take; I come to answer questions. They enriched themselves to the detriment of others. I come to solve a mystery, and if I’m lucky, to share new knowledge with the world. And damn it, every legend in every civilization, no matter how far-fetched, always has at least a kernel of truth buried within it.
Chapter 11 – July 2, 1521
Huápoca was on the edge of yet another tribe’s territory, one the guides were told were much more aggressive and resistant. To the north, which was directly along their intended line of travel, was the land of the Chiricahua Apache. They had proceeded thus far without having been forced into any significant battle, but the indications were that one may now be in the offing. The foul breath of the Spanish gods and their disease hadn’t blown this far to depopulate the area—at least not yet. There would be no free passage here.
Cipactli had instructed Bumblebee to ride a horse at the head of the column, dressed in full battle regalia. If the Apache were going to pick a fight, he wanted them to see a true Aztec warrior riding this strange beast into their midst, not walking along beside it. Eagle and Jaguar knights then deployed behind him, followed by warriors dispensed throughout and alongside the column. A screen was still deployed around the outer edges, in an effort to prevent their being attacked with no trip line for a warning. The day preceded uneventfully, the Apache never seen, and an uneasy calm settled over the column. Perhaps they would be like the Chichimeca and the Coahuiltecan and be appeased with gifts and offers of friendship.
Evening brought a halt to the day’s progress, and a bivouac was made. The scouts were posted for the night and kept on high alert, just in case. Well before dawn the camp was awake, eating a light meal and preparing for the day’s march. New scouts rotated to replace those who were out for the night, when word came back that not all was well.
Hummingbird reported directly to Asupacaci and asked him to accompany him out away from the camp. When they were well out of hearing distance he leaned in and said, “Tlanahuatihqui, we lost two scouts last night. At first we didn’t know what had happened to them, and then we found this.”
Cipactli was already standing there, looking down on the disfigured bodies of the two dead Aztec scouts. They were bound hand and foot, and their hair and the skin that attached it to their heads had been shorn cleanly off. They were left directly on the trail ahead, in sitting positions, facing the direction of the Aztec camp. Arrows riddled both their bodies.
Cipactli nodded to Asupacaci, adding, “It appears they made a tlamanalli of them,” meaning an offering. “And it is odd, their hair is nowhere to be found, perhaps they view it as the taking of their souls, much like we take hearts. Or perhaps they view it as a trophy of some kind.”
Asupacaci looked closer, he recognized one but couldn’t place the other, not with the blood that had run down and obscured his face. “They were placed here on purpose, this is a warning to us. But we will have no secrets from our people, keep them both in place. When we march by, everyone will see them, and realize that they must always be on guard. We have met an enemy more like us than the Spanish, but an enemy nonetheless.”
The order to start was given. The caravan began its centipede-like movement forward, and eventually came upon the two bodies. The pace slowed slightly as everyone trudged by, directly observing the ingenious methods of their new enemies. There wasn’t a reaction of fear, but rather a communal girding for battle on the part of the warriors. Fear had been of the unknown, but now they at least had a sense of what they were up against, and an enemy that shot arrows was one they were happy to take their chances with. The outer ring of scouts and long runners reported back increased sightings and glimpses of the Apache, but they were merely being harassed, not attacked.
For three more settings of the sun they continued in this manner, the pace kept as brisk as possible. The inevitable consequence was that more of those with marginal endurance saw their strength ebb until they could go on no further. In keeping with the firmly established protocol, those who had served well were ritualistically and quickly dispatched with honor, and those who didn’t were left to a lingering fate, tied to a cactus with their tongues cut out, without even gifts around them as an offering to the Apache. Everyone knew what that implied, that when they were discovered still alive, they were likely to meet a lingering end.
On the following day, the trail through the valley narrowed, still wide enough for the horses dutifully pulling the wagons, but it necessitated the scouts and long runners to pull in closer to the column. The screen around the edges became more constricted, the buffer between the Apache and the column ever closer.
Asupacaci called a quick council to decide on the best course of action, and it was decided to send out a strong scouting party to determine what trail presented the best route with the least possibility of ambush. Hummingbird picked only the best among his scouts and long runners, along with a dozen warriors. Bumblebee was the first chosen, but they decided to leave his horse with the column, not wanting to lose the element of stealth. Also accompanying them were the two Coahuiltecan guides that had joined the expedition shortly after the Aztecs first entered their territory. Their knowledge of the terrain and the regional language might be useful. Late at night, when the clouds drifted over the moon and made detection less likely, the party set out.
As had been agreed upon, the column set out early the next morning, working their way toward a place called Paquimé. The plan was for the scouting party to do a reconnaissance in force and meet back up with the column already in motion, with the intention of keeping the initiative and not simply react to the forays of the Apache. By late morning the trail started narrowing further, with the walls of the surrounding hills steadily encroaching, forcing the outer screen of scouts to draw ever closer to the column. Eventually they were skirting the heights above, within eyesight of Asupacaci, not offering much of a buffer to any potential threat. But by now it was too late to change the plan, turning back would only invite chaos and certain disaster.
Suddenly shouts and war whoops were heard ahead, and Cipactli quickly summoned some of the warriors on the edges of the caravan to form in front to face the threat. He purposely didn’t bring them all, anticipating that what was hap
pening in front might be merely a diversion, and didn’t want to leave the flanks of the caravan exposed. He called for the scouts on the hills above on both sides to prepare for an attack and took his place at the head of the column, next to Asupacaci. Soon they could see figures in front of them through a cloud of dust, kicked up by the wind that funneled through the valley. At first they couldn’t tell if it was friend or foe, but as the wind died slightly they saw it was the scouting party, with their backs to them, fighting off the Apaches farther away.
Asupacaci motioned forward, and the warriors let out a shout in unison and sprinted to reinforce their exhausted comrades. Stopping in back of them, they let loose with a volley of spears with their atlatls, a wooden shaft that gave them extra leverage and greatly increased the effective distance. Scattered screams could be heard in the distance, and the surprise and accuracy of the massed volley broke the momentum of the attack, and the Apaches retreated to the hills in the distance.
As the column worked its way up to the front line of the conflict, Asupacaci sought out Hummingbird, who had led the scouting party out the prior evening. He noticed that their numbers were much reduced, as they had obviously met bitter resistance.
Bumblebee heard him and prostrated himself at Asupacaci’s feet. “In the hills further ahead we were ambushed Lord, they must have seen us coming the entire way despite our stealth. They had surrounded us but we finally broke out and fought our way back to here. Hummingbird fell, along with many others, fighting gallantly.” Even as he spoke, a few war whoops could be heard in the surrounding hills, slowly spreading in a widening arc around them. Asupacaci tapped him lightly on the shoulder and Bumblebee rose, bleeding from several wounds and obviously exhausted.
Looking around, Asupacaci asked, “Where are the Coahuiltecan guides who went out with you last night? Did you see them fall?”
Bumblebee looked directly at him, replying, “It all happened so fast, there was so much confusion, I can’t say for sure. They were with us when we first ran into the ambush. After that, I know not.”
Asupacaci felt a hollowness and churning in his gut and wondered of a possible betrayal leading them all into a trap. The cacophony of shouts and whoops from the hills increased, echoing all around them, until it became obvious that they were now completely surrounded, by a formidable foe whose numbers were only increasing.
The sun had risen to its zenith, beating down mercilessly, creating heat ripples that distorted views in the distance. Even the slight breeze radiated an unnatural heat, like the breath of a coiled jaguar before the killing blow. A sporadic harassing fire of arrows fell among them, an occasional one finding its mark. The Apache, natives to this land and hostile environment, appeared to be content with letting nature do the heavy lifting for them, sapping the strength of the entire expedition. Advancing slowly and deliberately, the Aztecs came to an even narrower part of the trail and found that boulders had been pried loose and rolled down the hills, creating an impassable barrier.
Asupacaci held a quick council with Cipactli, and it was decided to prepare what defenses they could and await the inevitable onslaught. Bumblebee spoke for all the warriors when he said, “It is better to die standing in battle, than to waste away and lose their hair lying down.”
Looking at all gathered, Asupacaci gave them a proud look of satisfaction, and defiantly raised his sacrificial dagger in one hand and an obsidian studded war club in the other. No quarter would be offered, and none would be accepted. It would be prophetic, he thought. For a people who believed the gods required blood, to give all of their own as the final offering.
As the day wore on with no immediate battle, Asupacaci sat in the shade of a wagon and summoned to have Friar Rodrìguez brought over to him. The Friar appeared and seemed to be holding up reasonably well, no doubt because of the special status he enjoyed as an increasing confidant to the Aztec leader, but also perhaps due to his strong faith. Faith which his remaining fellow hallow-eyed Spaniards had lost the deeper the journey progressed.
“Tetotopixqui, so did we fatten you up a little with our endless wanderings?” Asupacaci inquired, calling him the Aztec name for a holy man or priest as a joke.
“Yes, I feel like the prodigal son who, when he returned, feasted on a fatted calf at a celebration his father threw,” Friar Rodrìguez replied.
Asupacaci pated the ground indicating he should sit and noticed that the silver cross he had given him was now tied around his neck, tucked under his coarse tunic. “This land is vast, even bigger than I had ever envisioned, and as a member of the house of Montezuma I saw much of the empire. You say you came across the great sea from a land as large, it almost makes one feel, how do you say, insignificant.”
The Friar paused for a moment, and then said, “I felt that also, in sailing across the great sea, not knowing if we would ever see land again, and prayed for deliverance. But our gods work in mysterious ways do they not? For here we both sit in the shade, brought together in a land strange to both of us.”
Asupacaci smiled. “And a land we may never leave. If it all is to end here, I have a last question, to better understand your world.”
Friar Rodrìguez bowed his head. “At your service.”
“I had been wondering Tetotopixqui about your requiremento, which your people say gives them the right to take any lands and enslave or kill the people. You read it in a language nobody understands, often with nobody of the land even present. This makes your quest legitimate and holy?” Asupacaci inquired.
Friar Rodrìguez tried to choose his words carefully, to defend the actions of his king and country, but found that, like his spiritual superior Bartolomé de las Casas, he could not in good conscience. “Alas, I cannot justify all of it. Even Las Casas tells us all humankind is one. While I disagree with your acts of human sacrifice, I find that I don’t disagree with you choosing what you want to believe. I think my people would say I’m going native, and I suspect I would be burned at the stake for it.”
Asupacaci grunted to himself, he had won a small victory here. He’d had a meeting of the minds with a man from an alien place, in a vast, dry land his people had never been, on his way to an unknown destination at the end of all their endurance.
“Well, how do you preserve the soul of your people, your collective knowledge, your history, for generations unborn?” Asupacaci inquired.
“We hand it to the next generation by the telling of it, by the singing of it, by the living of it, and by capturing the words in books so that those more eloquent and educated can make their voices heard forever,” the Friar replied.
Asupacaci looked toward his unseeing eyes, fighting back the tears which started trickling down his dusty face. “Ah, but that is the problem my people face. You Spaniards and your greed, your steeling, and your disease may not leave us a next generation to hand it down to. And then what are we, who will know of us, who will keep us and our ancestors and traditions alive in their memories?”
Friar Rodrìguez was about to say something but stopped, for once no appropriate words coming to him. Asupacaci closed his eyes, it seemed the world was collapsing in on itself as the prophesies had foretold, that the Age of the Fifth Sun was about to end, and Tzitzimitl would descend and devour the last of all men.
In the momentary silence, the sound of a young horse whinnying could be heard. Asupacaci raised his head, the dark spell suddenly broken, a slight smile forming on his lips as he saw it was the colt that had been presented as a gift to him, prancing about at the end of its tether. This wild yearling was the offspring of horses that had survived a shipwreck all the way from the other world. He took it as a sign, that despite everything life continues, life always finds a way. He stood, shook off the momentary self-pity, weight of the task he was undertaking, and the battle he was in, regaining his regal composure. He realized that enough blood had to have been sacrificed to Tzitzimitl already. How could it not be with nearly all of his race dead? The realization that the world was not going to end,
at least not yet and not on these terms, gave him renewed strength and determination.
He jumped up on the wagon, in full view of everyone, including the Apache, and raised his voice. “We will not fail, and that is why we are here, in this strange land, on this sacred task. What we have brought with us will outlast us all, will tell future generations the story of a people who left grasshopper hill to found a great city, and then a great empire, and in doing so changed the world, long before the world ever changed them!”
His men raised their weapons and shouted and chanted back at him.
“A great people mustn’t simply fade away, erased from history forever by a strange invader and disease. We will shout across all of time that we were here, that we lived and breathed and prospered and raised great temples to our gods. We were Aztec!”
Chapter 12 – June 2, Present Day
Nick spent the next few weeks carefully following the trail of his great-great-great-great grandfather, Alexandre, as told across the journals of his father Albert. While they had spent parts of several summer vacations in his youth visiting these places, now he was doing a condensed revisit of most of the sites his dad had systematically explored. And he was seeing it through the eyes of not only an adult, but as one educated in history and archeology, with a very personal mystery to unwind.
From Quivira he had journeyed to Fort Larned and then to Fort Wallace, both in Kansas, chronologically following where Alexandre had been posted. Fort Larned billed itself as the “Home to the Guardians of the Santa Fe Trail,” and had a superbly preserved sandstone fort that Nick spent several hours exploring and photographing. He could find no records of Alexandre having been there, but that wasn’t unusual in the tumult of troops coming and going during the Indian wars. Fort Wallace, named for a general who died at the battle of Shiloh, no longer existed, but it had a small museum Nick found interesting. Ever the archeologist, he also found time to visit nearby Monument Rocks, a stunning formation of chalk monoliths used as a landmark to the passing prairie schooners, rich in fossils and formed by the erosion of what had been an ancient seabed.
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