Aztec Autumn

by Gary Jennings

  Even if I had not been kept too busy to bed anybody, and even if she had been the last human female in existence, I would not have been tempted. Indeed, during my tenure as Uey-Tecútli—when by custom I could have had any Aztlan woman I wanted—I was having none at all. Pakápeti seemed staunch in her determination never again to couple with any man. And I would not have dreamed of intruding myself into Améyatl’s sickbed, even though she was getting healthier and stronger and more beautiful every day.

  I did visit my cousin’s bedside whenever I had a free moment, simply to converse with her. I would apprise her of all my activities as Uey-Tecútli, and of all happenings in and about Aztlan—so that she could the more easily resume her regency when the time came, (And, frankly, I was yearning for that time to come, so I could be off to war.) We talked of many other things, too, of course, and one day Améyatl, looking vaguely troubled, said to me:

  “Pakápeti has taken loving care of me. And she looks lovely, now that her hair is nearly as long as my own. But the dear girl might as well be repellently ugly, because the anger in her is so very nearly visible.”

  “She is angry toward men, and she has reason. I told you of her encounter with those two Spanish soldiers.”

  “White men, then, I could understand. But—excepting only you—I think she would gladly slay every man alive.”

  I said, “So would the venomous G’nda Ké. Perhaps her propinquity has influenced Pakápeti to an even deeper hatred of men.”

  Améyatl asked, “Including the one inside her?”

  I blinked. “What are you saying?”

  “Then you have not noticed. It is just beginning to show, and she is carrying it high. Tiptoe is pregnant.”

  “Not by me,” I blurted. “I have not touched her in—”

  “Ayyo, cousin, be at ease,” said Améyatl, laughing despite her evident concern. “Tiptoe blames that encounter of which you spoke.”

  “Well, she could reasonably be bitter about carrying the mongrel child of a—”

  “Not because it is a child. Or a mongrel. Because it is a male. Because she detests all males.”

  “Oh, come now, cousin. How could Pakápeti possibly know it will be a boy?”

  “She does not even refer to it as a boy. She speaks savagely of ‘this tepúli growing inside me.’ Or ‘this kuru’—the Poré word for that same male organ. Tenamáxtli, is it possible that Tiptoe’s distress is causing her to lose her mind?”

  “I am no authority,” I said with a sigh, “cm madness or women. I will consult a tícitl of my acquaintance. Perhaps he can prescribe some palliative for her distress. In the meantime, let us both—you and I—be watchful that Tiptoe does not try to do some hurt to herself.”

  But it was a while before I got around to summoning that physician, because I had other distractions. One was a visit from one of the guards at the Coyolxaúqui temple, come to report that the imprisoned warriors were most miserable, having to sleep on their feet, eating nothing but mush, being so long unbathed, and so forth.

  “Have any of them yet suffocated or starved?” I demanded.

  “No, my lord. They may be near dead, but one hundred thirty and eight were confined in there, and that number still remain. However, even we guards outside the temple can hardly endure their stink and their clamor.”

  “Then change the guard more frequently. Unless those traitors begin to die, do not trouble me again. Near dead is not punishment enough for them.”

  And then Nochéztli returned from his mission as a quimíchi in Compostela. He had been gone for about two months—and I had begun to worry that he had again defected to the enemy—but he came back, as promised, and came brimming with things to tell.

  “Compostela is a much more thriving and populous town, my lord, than when I last saw it Most numerous of the male white inhabitants are the Spanish soldiers, whom I estimate to number about a thousand, half of those horse-mounted. But many of the higher-ranking soldiers have brought their families, and other Spanish families have come as colonists, all of those families having built houses for themselves. The governor’s palace and the town church are of well-worked stone; the other residences are of dried-mud brick. There is a marketplace, but all the goods and produce for sale there have been brought by trains of traders from the south. The whites of Compostela do no farming or raising of herds—they all prosper on the output of the many silver mines now being worked in the vicinity. And evidently they prosper sufficiently to afford the expense of importing all their comestibles and other necessities.”

  I asked, “And how many of our own people are resident there?”

  “The indio population is about equal to that of the whites. I speak only of those who serve as domestic slaves in the households of the Spanish—and there are numerous black slaves as well, those creatures called Moros. If the slaves are not domiciled with their masters, they have derelict huts and shacks on the town’s outskirts. There is another considerable population of our men working the mines under the earth, and in surrounding buildings atop the earth, called mills. I fear I could not estimate the number of those men, because so many of them work underground, turn about, half of them daylong, the other half during the night Also, they and their families, if they have any, live penned in locked and guarded compounds where I could not enter. The Spanish call these places obrajes.”

  “Ayya, yes,” I said. “I know about the infamous obrajes.”

  “The word is that those laborers—since our people never before had to slave underground or in such wretched conditions—keep dying off, several every day. And the mine owners cannot replace them as fast as they die, because, of course, all the indios in New Galicia not already enslaved have made haste to move and hide themselves far beyond the reach of the slave-catchers. So Governor Coronado has asked the Virrey Mendoza in the City of Mexíco to send to Compostela quantities of Moro slaves from—from wherever those Moros are brought from.”

  “Some land called Africa, I have been told.”

  Nochéztli grimaced and said, “It must be a place akin to our fearsome Hot Lands in the far south. Because I hear that the Moros can easily endure the terrific heat and closeness and clangor of the mines and mills. Also the Moros must be more like the Spaniards’ beasts of burden than like human beings, for it is also said that they can labor unceasingly, under crushing loads, without dying or even complaining. It may be that if enough Moros are imported into New Galicia, Coronado will cease trying to capture and enslave our own people.”

  “This Governor Coronado,” I said. “Tell me about him.”

  “I glimpsed him only twice, when he was reviewing his troops, elegantly costumed and astride a prancing white horse. He is no older than yourself, my lord, but his rank, of course, is inferior to yours of Revered Governor, for he is answerable to superiors in the City of Mexíco, and you are answerable to no one. Nevertheless, he is clearly determined to make a more lordly name for himself. He is remorseless in demanding that the slaves extract every pinch of silver ore—not just for the enrichment of himself and his New Galicia subjects, but for all of New Spain and that ruler called Carlos in distant Old Spain. On the whole, though, Coronado seems less of a tyrant than his predecessor. He does not allow his subjects to torment or torture or execute our people at whim, as the Governor Guzmán used to do.”

  “Tell me of the governor’s arms and fortifications for the defense of Compostela.”

  “That is a curious thing, my lord. I can only assume that the late Yeyac must have persuaded Compostela that it need never fear attack from our people. In addition to the usual thunder-sticks carried by the Spanish soldiers, they have also those much more immense thunder-tubes mounted on wheeled carriages. But the soldiers do not defensively ring the town; they are chiefly employed in keeping the mine slaves submissively at woric or in guarding the obrajes where they are confined. And the massive thunder-tubes positicmed around the town are not pointed outward, but inward, obviously to turn back any slaves’ attempt to rev
olt or escape.”

  “Interesting,” I murmured. I rolled and lighted and smoked a poquíetl while I meditated on what I had learned. “Have you anything else of moment to report?”

  “Much else, my lord. Though Guzmán claimed to have conquered Michihuácan and sent its few surviving warriors into slavery abroad, it seems he did not subdue all of them. The new Governor Coronado hears regularly of uprisings in the south of his domain, mostly in the area around Lake Pétzcuaro. Bands of warriors, armed only with blades made of the famous Purémpe metal, and with torches, have been assaulting Spanish army outposts and the estancias of Spanish settlers. They attack always by night, slay the armed guards and steal their thunder-sticks, and set afire the estancia buildings, thereby killing many white families—men, women, children, all. Those whites who have survived swear that the attackers were women—though how they could tell, considering the darkness and the fact that all the Purémpecha are bald, I know not When the remaining Spanish soldiers comb the countryside by daylight, they find the Purémpe women doing nothing but what they have always done—peaceably weaving baskets, making pottery and the like.”

  “Ayyo,” I said to myself, with satisfaction. “Pakápeti’s troops are indeed proving their worth.”

  “The result has been that additional troops have been sent out from New Spain to try—so far, in vain—to quell those disturbances. And the Spaniards in the City of Mexíco are vociferously lamenting that this diversion of troops leaves them vulnerable to indio invasions or insurrections. If the attacks in Michihuácan have done damage that is really only trifling, they have undoubtedly made all the Spaniards—everywhere—uneasy and uncertain of their security.”

  I muttered, “I must find some way to send my personal commendation to that frightful cóyotl-woman Butterfly.”

  “As I say,” Nochéztli went on, “the Governor Coronado receives these reports, but he refuses to send southward any of his own troops from Compostela. I heard that he insists on keeping his men ready for some grandiose plan he has conceived to further his own ambitions. I heard also that he was eagerly awaiting the arrival of a certain emissary of the Virrey Mendoza, from the City of Mexíco. Well, that person arrived, just before I left Compostela, my lord, and a very peculiar emissary he turned out to be. A common Christian friar—and I recognized him, for he had been a resident in Compostela before, and I had seen him there. I know not his name, but at that earlier time he was disparagingly called the Lying Monk by all his fellows. And I know not why he has returned, or why the viceroy sent him, or how he could possibly assist in the ambitions of Governor Coronado. The only other thing I can tell you in this respect is that the friar arrived accompanied by a single attendant, a mere Moro slave. Both of them, friar and slave, went immediately into private conference with the governor. I was tempted to stay and try to learn more about this mystery. However, by this time, I was beginning to get suspicious looks from the townspeople. I feared also that you, my lord, might have had suspicions about my being so long away.”

  “I confess that I did have, Nochéztli, and I apologize. You have done well—very well indeed. From what you have discovered, I can divine much more.” I chuckled heartily. “The Moro is leading the Lying Monk in search of the fabulous Cities of Antilia, and Coronado expects to share the credit when they are discovered.”

  “My lord…?” said Nochéztli, puzzled.

  “No matter. What it means is that Coronado will be detaching some of his troops to aid in that search, leaving the complacent town of Compostela even more defenseless. The time approaches for the late Yeyac’s pet warriors to expiate their crimes. Go you, Nochéztli, and tell the guards at that temple prison to start feeding those men on good meat and fish and fats and oils. They are to be made strong again. And have the guards let them out of the temple occasionally, to bathe and exercise and drill and get themselves fit for vigorous action. See to this, Nochéztli, and when you deem the men ready, come and tell me so.”

  I went to Améyatl’s chambers—where she was no longer bedridden, but seated on an icpéli chair—and told her everything I had heard, and what I had deduced from that information, and what I intended to do about it. My cousin seemed still dubious about my plans, but did not withhold her approval of them. Then she said, “Meanwhile, cousin, you have done nothing yet about Pakápeti’s precarious condition. I worry more about her each day.”

  “Ayya, you are right I have been remiss.” To one of her other servants, presently in attendance, I ordered, “Go and fetch the Ticitl Ualíztli. He is surgeon to the army. You will find him at the knights’ barracks. Tell him I require him immediately.”

  Améyatl and I chatted of various matters—for one thing, she said she felt quite her former self again, and if I would allow it, she would begin to help me with some of the routine details of my office—until Ualíztli arrived, bearing the pouch of instruments and medicaments that all tíciltin carry everywhere. Being a rather elderly, stout man, and having hurried at my summons, he was slightly out of breath, so I had the servant bring a cup of chocólatl to refresh him, and told her to bring Tiptoe at the same time.

  “Esteemed Ualíztli,” I said, “this young woman is my good friend Pakápeti of the Purémpe people. Tiptoe, this gentleman is the highest-regarded physician of Aztlan. Améyatzin and I would like you to let him examine your physical condition.”

  She looked a little wary, but made no demur.

  I told the tícitl, “From all indications, Pakápeti is with child, but apparently having something of a difficult pregnancy. All of us here would value your opinion and advice.”

  Immediately Tiptoe exclaimed, “I am not with child!” but she obediently lay supine on Améyótl’s pallet when the physician bade her do so.

  “Ayyo, but you are, my dear,” he said, after only briefly kneading her through her clothes. “Please to raise your blouse and lower your skirt band, so I may make a thorough examination.”

  Tiptoe seemed not embarrassed to expose her breasts and now-bloated belly in the presence of Améyatl and myself—and she seemed equally indifferent to the tícitl’s frowns and sighs and mutters as he pressed and poked her here and there. When at last he sat back away from her, she spoke before he could:

  “I am not pregnant! And I do not wish to be this way, either!”

  “Be easy, child. There are certain potions I could have administered, early on, to induce a premature birth, but you are too far—”

  “I will not give birth, early or late or ever!” Tiptoe insisted vehemently. “I want this thing inside me killed!”

  “Well, to be sure, the fetus would not have survived a premature birth. But now—”

  “It is not a fetus. It is a—a male thing.”

  The tícitl smiled tolerantly. “Did some meddlesome midwife tell you it would be a boy because you are carrying it high? That is only an old superstition.”

  “No midwife told me anything!” Tiptoe declared, getting more and more agitated. “I did not say a boy—I said a male thing. The thing that only a male person…” She paused, shamefaced, then said, “A kuru. A tepúli.”

  Ualíztl gave her a searching look. “Let me have a word with your eminent friend here.” He drew me out of the women’s hearing and whispered, “My lord, does this perhaps involve an unsuspecting husband? Has the young woman been unfaith—?”

  “No, no,” I hastened to defend her. “There is no husband at all. Several months ago, Pakápeti was raped by a Spanish soldier. I fear that her dread of bearing an enemy’s child has somewhat addled her faculties.”

  “Unless Purémpe women are built differently than ours—which I doubt—something has addled her insides, as well. If she is carrying a child, it is growing more in the area of her stomach than her womb, and that is a thing impossible.”

  “Can you do anything to give her relief?”

  He made a face of uncertainty, then went back to lean over Tiptoe again. “You could be right, my dear, that it is not a viable fetus. Sometimes a woman
can develop a fibrous growth that only mimics pregnancy.”

  “I told you it is growing! I told you it is not a fetus! I told you it is a tepúli!”

  “Please, my dear, that is an unbecoming word for a well-bred young lady to utter. Why do you persist in speaking so immodestly?”

  “Because I know what it is! Because I swallowed it! Take it out!”

  “Poor girl, you are distraught” He began searching for something in his pouch.

  But I was staring agape at Pakápeti. I was remembering … and I was wondering…

  “Here, drink this,” said Ualíztli, holding out a small cup to her.

  “Will that rid me of the thing?” she asked hopefully, almost pleadingly.

  “It will calm you.”

  “I do not want to be calm!” She dashed the cup from his hand. “I want to be free of this hideous—”

  “Tiptoe,” I said sternly, “do as the tícitl tells you. Remember, we should shortly be on the road again. You cannot come with me unless you get well. For now, just drink the potion. Then the good physician will consult with his fellow tíciltin as to what measures will next be taken. Is that not right, Ualíztli?”

  “Exactly so, my lord,” he said, concurring in my lie.

  Though still looking obstinate and defiant, Tiptoe obeyed me, and drank down the cup he had refilled. Ualíztli gave her permission to rearrange her clothing and take her leave. When she was gone, he said to me and Améyatl:

  “She is worse than distraught. She is demented. I gave her a tincture of the nanécatl mushroom. That will at least alleviate her mental turmoil. I know nothing else that can be done, except to cut into her with an obsidian lancet, and few patients survive such a drastic exploration. I will leave you a supply of the tincture, to be administered whenever she gets delusional again. I am sorry, my lord, my lady, but the signs prognostic are not at all promising.”

  In the ensuing days, Améyatzin occupied a throne slightly smaller than my own, and slightly below and on the left side of my own, and she joined in my conferences with the Speaking Council when there was occasion for those elders to convene, and helped me with many of the decisions that my other officials came to ask for, and relieved me of much of the wearisome burden of dealing with petitions from the common folk. Améyatl kept always at her left side our dear Pakápeti, mainly as a precaution against the girl’s doing something harmful to herself, but partly also in the hope that Tiptoe’s mind might be diverted from its dark obsession by the activities in the throne room.