Our idols were not moulded from clay or carved from wood but cast in gold by the hand of my father. Their jewelled eyes stared, pressing me to the floor in humble veneration.
When our prayers were over, Mayatl blew on the embers that glowed in the brazier and roused them back to life. In their heat she set a vessel of broth she had prepared the previous day, and handed us each a small piece of tortilla. We could eat but little as our bellies were so full of excitement. When we had finished, Mayatl led us out into the city.
The sun had not yet climbed above the mountains, and though the eastern sky glowed faint pink, the streets were drab in the grey light. The cool air was still heavy with night perfumes that would fade in the growing heat of day. While we passed between houses, the sweet scent of tobacco flowers and lime filled our nostrils. As we neared a temple, the aroma of blossom was lost in the rich tang of slaves’ burning hearts that smouldered in sacrifice on the altar.
We were not alone. Despite the earliness of the hour, many people were hastening to the centre of the city where the warriors would soon be gathered. Mayatl took one of our hands in each of hers and dragged Mitotiqui and me behind her. Eager though we were, we struggled to keep pace and were quite breathless when at last we reached the principal temple.
It was the first time I had seen it this close. It was higher than any other pyramid in Tenochtitlán and could be seen from every district, including my own, so I was familiar with its outline. But I had not realized until we entered the square how tall it was. It punctured the sky! The sun itself could pause and rest on its peak!
I stood, staring in delighted wonder, moving only when Mayatl’s tug pulled me into the crowd that milled in the precinct and jerked us towards the temple itself. So overwhelmed was I that I would not set foot upon the holy steps until Mayatl lifted me, hoisting me aloft and setting me on a stone plinth so that I could see above the heads and watch all that happened. Mitotiqui was beside me. I saw my own astonishment reflected in his face. For once, we were quiet. Awe burned all words from our minds.
And then came the warriors.
Six abreast, they marched in three columns, the people dividing to let them through. They halted in front of the palace, which faced the temple from across the square, and there awaited the coming of the emperor.
At the rear stood the ordinary soldiers, dressed in quilted cotton armour. Stiffly proud yet awkward, their bearing spoke more of fear than of courage. In the season of peace a man cannot change his allotted place, but by proving excellence in battle he may rise from the peasantry to the elite. Those whose hair hung loose were the untried sons of farmers hoping for such elevation. In front of them were grouped those who had fought in previous wars and were permitted to tie their hair in the esteemed warriors’ topknot.
Before this group stood the jaguar knights, clad in yellow, blackly spotted skins, their own heads covered by the skulls of the beasts, their faces peering out from between bared teeth. Painted shields trimmed with iridescent feathers were fixed on their left arms. Obsidian-bladed cudgels dangled idle in their right hands.
Heading the force were the eagle knights, decked in savagely beaked costumes. Designed to terrify an enemy, their fearsome aspect was enough to fill my head with nightmares for many weeks to come.
On seeing the warriors, Mitotiqui shouted in excitement, “I shall be dressed like them! Soon! Soon! And then you will shake before me, sister!”
Furious, I struck him, earning a sharp reprimand from Mayatl. Before I could protest, a sudden hush gripped the crowd. There was a stirring from the palace. Many slaves hastened onto the flat roof, walking backwards, bent low until they reached the far side. There was a breathless silence. And then our emperor came forth.
At that moment, the sun crested the distant hills, and instantly the square was flooded with light. It illuminated the palace, making the whitewashed walls dazzle as though gilded with silver. It touched the brilliant blue flowers of morning glory that spilt from the roof, caressing them with warmth until they sprang open as if in response to the emperor’s presence. The orange blooms of climbers that twined upwards from the ground raised their heads to bask in his splendour.
Montezuma wore a magnificent headdress, the emerald-green tail feathers of the sacred quetzal fanning out in a wide circle. His cloak was of gleaming white, and his body seemed more clad in gold than cloth, so many were the jewels that bedecked his person.
As one, the crowd had lowered their heads and knelt, for it is forbidden to look upon the lord of the world and to do so meant death. I was slow to respond. Before my head was forced down by a furious Mayatl, I glimpsed the glory of Montezuma. I beheld his power, and my child’s heart swelled with pride that I should dwell in the same city as he who ruled the world.
His words when they came carried to the ears of all those gathered in the square below him.
“The seasons have turned, the sacred calendar has moved, and once more it is the time for war. Go forth to our enemy. Face the battle to come with courage. If the gods see fit that you are taken captive, then die with joy in your heart. You shall walk for ever in paradise. Do not step back from the fight. Never retreat. Death. Glory. These two alone are your choices. You are men of Tenochtitlán! You are favoured by the gods! Do them honour and they shall bring you fame. Bring many home for sacrifice!”
A screaming shout from the priests’ throats answered him. Many drums began to beat, and the crowd chanted, thousands lifting their voices in veneration of the warriors. The priests moved amongst the columns of men, sprinkling their chests with blood to buy the favour of Huitzilopochtli, god of war, the deity most revered by our emperor.
With great ceremony the warriors turned away from the palace and began to march towards the wide causeway that joined our city to the distant shore. A cry of exultation erupted from the onlookers. Mothers clasped daughters to their breasts, their ardent prayers begging the gods to send an honourable destiny for their sons and brothers. Fathers watched, chins held high.
Tears coursed down Mayatl’s face as she caught the crowd’s stirring emotion. Seeing her expression, I looked sideways at my brother. But though Mitotiqui was turned towards me, his eyes did not meet mine. They followed the eagle knights. As his lips curled into a smile, I felt a stab of jealous pain. My brother was viewing his own glorious future.
When Mitotiqui and I were nine years old, a strange sight appeared in the night sky that sent tremors of apprehension quivering throughout Tenochtitlán.
The festival of Miquiztli, held in honour of our dead ancestors, was upon us. In previous years Mayatl had acquired the flowers we needed from the market, judging us too small and too foolish to gather our own. But Mitotiqui had grown so much during the preceding winter that his head was now touching her shoulder. At my urging, he asked that we be allowed to leave the city. Pursing her lips, with many stern warnings that we were to behave respectfully, she at last fastened a bundle of provisions on my brother’s back. With an empty basket balanced upon her head, Mayatl led us from our home towards the distant hills.
In ancient times the gods had guided our ancestors through the wilderness to the great lake valley in which we lived. Our forefathers had diverted streams and drained marshes, building temples and palaces on the islands they reclaimed from the water god and linking them with ornate bridges and level causeways. From nothing, they had made Tenochtitlán, and from Tenochtitlán they had set forth to conquer, creating the Aztec empire that now covered the entire world.
There were three causeways across the lake that joined our city to the shore beyond. To reach the nearest to our home, we had first to pass through the great market square of Tlaltelolco.
It was impossible for Mitotiqui and me to enter the market without looking hopefully towards the slave traders. It was the custom that if a slave escaped, he could be pursued only by his seller. If he could flee as far as the palace and touch its walls, he would gain his freedom.
On this day, no such excitement ga
ve us diversion. There were no slaves grouped miserably in the corner. Instead, the whole square was brimful of bright blooms. Deep reds, fiery oranges, rich purples. Flowers of every shape and hue were piled high on reed mats, and their sellers called loudly to attract buyers. The air was heady with scents that thrilled the senses. Clutching us tightly, Mayatl dragged us through the throng.
It was scarcely less crowded on the causeway, which streamed with people heading in both directions. A sharp shout of greeting and there before us was Pachtic the midwife. She at once embraced Mitotiqui, squeezing his plump cheek as though he were a sun-ripe fruit. I smiled at her but received no such token of affection. Instead she brushed past me, drawing aside her cloak as if to prevent its being soiled with ill fortune.
We wove our way along the causeway, bare feet treading carefully on the timber that bridged each section of stone. After a mile or so we reached the land, and I looked about me with interest. As Tenochtitlán had grown, its population had spilt beyond the city to the lake shore. A small town had sprung up here at the causeway’s end. I had often seen the outlines of these buildings – on a clear day the distant temple pyramid and dwellings were a familiar sight. But to now be amongst them, to cross the paved square and follow the wide streets to the hills, was an odd sensation, akin to walking into a painting daubed upon a wall. Strangest of all was to feel so much grass beneath my feet. I, who had only ever walked on sun-warmed stone and terracotta tiles, or in the soft dampness of the chinampa fields, found the dry, scratchy unevenness at once peculiarly uncomfortable and wildly exhilarating.
When we reached the open hillside, Mitotiqui, basking in the sunshine like a well-fed dog, was content to remain at Mayatl’s side and lazily pluck an occasional bloom from the grass. I was not. Fearing what lay beyond but unable to resist its pull, I edged slowly towards the crest of the hill, taking my basket with me in pretence of searching for bigger and brighter petals. But I had not climbed to the peak – I was not even close to it – when Mayatl’s harsh tones called me back. Admonishing me, she sent me down the slope of the hill below her. I was hemmed in: the town to one side, Mayatl to the other, where she could see easily if I attempted to stray.
After a morning’s picking we ate the tortillas and tomatoes that Mayatl had packed as a noonday meal. Sitting in the prickly grass, pestered by biting insects, we looked down at our city. Ringed with mountains on all sides, it seemed to be suspended in the centre of the lake, its buildings silvered by the bright sun. When we walked its streets it felt vast – an endless maze of dwellings and temples. But now, for the first time, I could see it in its entirety. And for the first time, I could measure its limits.
With baskets brimming, and arms full of flowers that were already wilting in the heat, we returned across the causeway.
Each district of Tenochtitlán has its own temples for daily worship. But for the important festivals that mark each year’s cycle, all flock to the principal temple in the central square. Once through the narrow streets of Tlaltelolco, we joined the throng passing along a broad avenue towards the heart of the city.
Throughout the year, the steps of the temple ran red with the blood of sacrifice. But for the festival of Miquiztli, they were coloured scarlet with flowers. The pyramid was festooned with fragrant blooms, petals rippling in the spring breeze, each one representing one of the departed dead. The priests say that on this earth we are all flowers who wither and die within a few, fleeting moments.
On reaching the base of the temple, we began to climb carefully amongst the blooms, ascending steadily until we saw the whole network of canals and streets spread out below us. There we placed our flowers reverently on the steps.
The throbbing beat of drums and pipes sounded beneath us in the square; and as we watched, the crowd cleared, standing back from the space in which the men would dance.
When at last we joined the onlookers, I searched for my father amongst the whirling figures, and saw that as he danced his brow was knitted with pain. He had not ceased regretting that my mother had stayed with him for so short a time, and this, the festival of the dead, was an annual reminder of his loss. Even at nine years old, I watched him with fear in my heart, mutely pleading for him to mask his expression, for it was unwise to offend the priests. They moved through the crowd, their hair matted, their faces stained black, their ears lacerated by each morning’s offering of their own blood. I knew well that if any of them noticed the terrible heartache shown so clearly on my father’s face, they would look upon him with displeasure. For we are taught that the life we have on earth is nothing but a passing dream, soon over. Death opens the door to reality and we must all meet it without fear or sadness.
In the press of the great crowd that had gathered, I felt Mitotiqui’s hand squeeze my own. I did not need to meet his eyes to know what he suggested. As one we turned, weaving between those who penned us in, and ran for the fields. We knew chastisement from Mayatl would come later for our unruly flight, but the draw of sunshine and freedom was irresistible.
We raced through the broad streets and narrow alleys, past the steam baths where men and women went to chatter and gossip, meeting no one but slaves sweeping the streets, for all were gathered in the square to witness the ritual dance. At last, breathless and giggling, we sat on a narrow footbridge that joined the fields, our dangling toes attracting the attention of several large fish that circled below.
Perhaps recollection of our mother made him thoughtful, for suddenly Mitotiqui heaved a sigh and looked back at the shimmering city. Dropping a flower into the water, he said softly, “They say this life isn’t real.”
“I know what they say,” I replied, dipping my toe in the water and watching a fish give it an inquisitive bite. I had heard the priests’ words often enough. And yet my child’s mind had difficulty in grasping their meaning. The world felt solid to me; I could imagine no other reality. I scooped a handful of water and threw it at Mitotiqui, but his sudden seriousness was not to be so easily shaken.
“I wonder what paradise is like?” he mused.
My brother lifted his chin to the heavens and smiled. I could see his mind exploring the happy prospect of eternal bliss, and I was filled with such resentment that I had to grit my teeth to stop spiteful words from tumbling out. I lowered my eyes and stared angrily into the lake, shivering, although the day had not yet grown cold. It seemed Mitotiqui had forgotten that in death we would be divided. He would walk on clouds in the vaulted sky above, while I would spend eternity beneath the earth in the black gloom of Mictlan.
My brother was dazzling, as light and as radiant as the sun. But sometimes, when he smiled as he did then, his very brightness seemed to throw me into shadow. At those times I felt as though I were indeed a dark-hearted, ill-favoured creature, cursed by the gods.
We returned home late, disgruntled and irritated with one another as children sometimes are. Mayatl’s words of reprimand further inflamed me, and I settled to sleep too heated with anger to take any proper rest.
So I was awake, gazing through the open doorway at the stars, when the sky suddenly became light. It was not the beginning of a new day; I knew well that the sun had barely begun its battle with the night and that the dawn – if it came – was still many hours away. And yet the central courtyard of our house was filled with a strange amber glow. I rose, and went into the street.
I was not alarmed. For those first moments, when I stood alone beneath the sky, I was enraptured by the beauty of the sight that greeted me. A plume of fire as tall as the principal temple burned in the very heart of the heavens. Shaped like a grain of corn, from it many small flames fell earthwards like tears – or drops of blood.
I watched in wonder, until the scream of a woman rang from a nearby house, and my father was roused from his slumber. A commotion followed as one by one all the residents of the district woke to this strange vision and spilt, befuddled and dishevelled, from their houses into the street. Mayatl sent me back inside, telling me to remain safely
with my brother, but we could no more stay within than we could fly. When her back was turned, we slipped out and joined the throng of people who stared skywards.
Whispers spread and fear grew like a wind-whipped wave upon the lake, starting with a little ripple but rising higher and higher until at last there was an outcry of terrified confusion. None could agree the precise meaning of the sight but all seemed certain of one thing.
The flame was a warning of some terrible disaster to come.
I did not sleep that night. At my father’s command my brother and I returned to our chamber and lay still. But when Mayatl’s breathing slowed and we knew she slept, we whispered to each other of what we had seen.
We lived in the age of the fifth sun.
When the fourth sun had perished in a great flood, the gods Tezcatlipoca and Quetzalcoatl had fashioned new land and sky from the body of the earth goddess. But the deities stood in darkness until the resplendent Tecuciztécatl offered himself to be a new sun. Nanahuatzin, a smaller god whose disfigured face was studded with pimples and open sores, also volunteered for the honour of lighting the new-made earth.
Both prepared themselves with rites of penitence, just as a new emperor does when he comes to the throne. Then the other gods prepared a vast, flaming pyre and the splendid Tecuciztécatl made lavish offerings of sweet-smelling incense and the brightly coloured feathers of the sacred quetzal before it. But Nanahuatzin laid out something more simple: blood-covered thorns with which he had pierced his own body.
Both gods approached the fire. Tecuciztécatl was driven back by the dreadful heat. Four times he tried, but he had neither the courage nor the will to enter the flames. Without fear the scarred, imperfect Nanahuatzin stepped into the pyre; and, as his earthly body burned to ashes, the fifth sun was born. Shamed by his own cowardice, Tecuciztécatl also threw himself on the flames. He became the pale moon.
The Goldsmith's Daughter Page 2