Aztec

by Gary Jennings

  “I believe only in the believable,” he said. “A beautiful young woman with lightning in her hair and a Lóochi name which I know to mean Always, she is a much more credible goddess than most.”

  Tuxtem and I divided the articles as we had agreed, and then separated my share into four bundles. The working of the pieces had made them rather less in bulk and weight than the original tusks had been, so the resultant packages were wieldy enough that I and my three companions could carry them unaided by porters. We took them first to an inn there in Xicalánca, and engaged rooms, and rested, cleaned ourselves, and dined, and slept.

  The next day, I selected one item from among our new acquisitions: a small knife sheath, etched with the scene of Quetzalcóatl paddling away from that shore on his raft of entwined snakes. Then I dressed in my best and, while Cozcatl and Blood Glutton escorted Zyanya to show her the sights of Xicalánca, I went to the palace and requested an audience with Cupílco’s ruling noble, the Tabascoöb, as he was called there. From that title—I do not know why—you Spaniards have concocted a new name for much of the land that was then Olméca country.

  The lord received me graciously enough. Like most persons of other nations, he probably had no prodigious affection for us Mexíca. But his land lived by trade, and ours were the most numerous of all traders.

  I said, “Lord Tabascoöb, one of your local craftsmen, the Master Tuxtem, has lately done a unique kind of artwork in which I expect to turn a profitable trade. But I thought it fitting that the very first example should be presented to the lord of these lands. Hence I offer this token as a gift in the name of my own lord, the Uey-Tlatoáni Ahuítzotl of Tenochtítlan.”

  “A thoughtful gesture and a generous gift,” he said, examining the sheath with open admiration. “And a most beautiful work. I have never seen the like.”

  In return, the Tabascoöb gave me a small quill of gold dust to present to Master Tuxtem, and a boxed collection of sea creatures—starfish, sea fawns, a coral sea feather, all gold-dipped for preservation and added beauty—as a reciprocal gift for the Revered Speaker Ahuítzotl. I left the palace feeling that I had accomplished at least a little in the furtherance of good relations between Cupílco and Tenochtítlan.

  I made sure to mention that to Ahuítzotl when I called on him immediately after our arrival in The Heart of the One World. I hoped the Tabascoöb’s good-fellowship gift would help induce the Revered Speaker to grant my request: that Zyanya and I be married by a palace priest of impressive rank and credentials. But Ahuítzotl only gave me his most red-eyed glare and growled:

  “You dare to come asking a favor of us, after having disobeyed our express instructions?”

  Honestly not understanding, I said, “Disobeyed, my lord?”

  “When you brought us the account of your first expedition to the south, we told you to remain available for further discussion of it. Instead you vanished, and deprived the Mexíca of a possibly valuable opportunity to make war. Now you come back, two years later, two years too late, to wheedle our sponsorship of a trifling thing like a wedding!”

  Still puzzled, I said, “Assuredly, Lord Speaker, I would never have gone away if I suspected I was doing a disservice. But … what opportunity was lost?”

  “Your word pictures told how your train had been beset by Mixtéca bandits.” His voice rose angrily. “We have never let an attack on our traveling pochtéca go unavenged.” He was obviously more angry at me than at the bandits. “Had you been available to press the grievance, we would have had good excuse to send an army against the Mixtéca. But, with no demonstrable plaintiff …”

  I murmured apologies, and bowed my head humbly, but at the same time I made a deprecatory gesture. “The miserable Mixtéca, my lord, possess little worth the winning. However, this time I return from abroad with news of a people who do possess something well worth seizing, and they likewise deserve punishment. I was most harshly treated by them.”

  “By whom? How? And what do they possess? Speak! It may be that you can redeem yourself in our estimation.”

  I told him how I had discovered the sea-and-rock-barricaded habitat of the Chóntaltin, or the Zyú, or The Strangers, that viciously reclusive offshoot tribe of the Huave. I told how only that people knew when and where to dive for the sea snails, and how those unlovely slugs yield the lovely deep purple dye that never fades or discolors. I suggested that such a unique commodity would be of immeasurable market value. I told how my Tzapotécatl guide had been butchered by The Strangers, and how Zyanya and I had but narrowly escaped the same fate. During my narrative, Ahuítzotl heaved himself up from his grizzled-bear throne and strode excitedly about the room.

  “Yes,” he said, grinning ravenously. “The outrage against one of our pochtéca would justify a punitive invasion, and the purple alone would amply repay it. But why settle for taming just the one wretched Huave tribe? That land of Uaxyácac has many other treasures worth acquiring. Not since the long-ago days of my father’s reign have the Mexíca humbled those proud Tzapotéca.”

  “I would remind the Revered Speaker,” I said quickly, “that not even your father Motecuzóma could keep such a faraway people subject for very long. To do so would require permanent garrisons in that country. And to support the garrisons would require extended supply lines always vulnerable to disruption. Even if a military rule could be imposed and maintained, it would cost more than any expectable return in plunder and tribute.”

  Ahuítzotl grumbled, “You seem always to have an argument against men waging manly war.”

  “Not always, my lord. In this case, I would suggest that you enlist the Tzapotéca as allies. Offer them the honor of fighting alongside your own troops when you descend upon the Huave barbarians. Then put that defeated tribe under tribute, not to you, but to the Lord Kosi Yuela of Uaxyácac—to surrender to him all their purple dye from now forevermore.”

  “What? Fight a war and refuse the fruits of it?”

  “Only hear me out, Lord Speaker. After your victory, you arrange a treaty whereby Uaxyácac sells the purple to no one but our Mexíca traders. That way both nations will profit, for of course our pochtéca will resell the dye for a much higher price. You will have bound the Tzapotéca closer to us by the bonds of increased trade—and by their having fought beside the Mexíca for the first time in a mutual military venture.”

  His glare at me became a gaze of speculation. “And if they fight once as our allies, they could do so again. And again.” He bestowed on me a look almost kindly. “The idea is sound. We will give the order to march as soon as our seers have picked an auspicious day for it. Be ready, Tequíua Mixtli, to take command of your allotted warriors.”

  “But, my lord, I am to be married!”

  He muttered, “Xoquíui,” which is a low profanity. “You can be married any time, but a soldier is always subject to call, especially one of command rank. Also, you are again the aggrieved party in this business. You are our excuse for violating the borders of Uaxyácac.”

  “My physical presence will not be necessary, Lord Speaker. The excuse has already been prepared.” I told him how I had reported The Strangers’ evil doings to the ruling noble of Tecuantépec, and through him to the Lord Bishósu of that land. “None of the Tzapotéca bears any love for that squatter tribe of Huave, so your way to them will not be impeded. Indeed, Kosi Yuela will probably require no coaxing at all to join you in chastising them.” I paused, then said meekly, “I hope I did right in thus presuming to ease in advance the affairs of lords and armies and nations.”

  For a short while, there was no sound in the room except that of Ahuítzotl drumming his thick fingers on a bench of which the upholstery I suspected was human skin. Finally he said:

  “We are told that your intended bride is of incomparable beauty. Very well. No man who has already done exemplary service for his nation should be required to put the enjoyment of war before the enjoyment of beauty. You will be married here, in the court ballroom, which we have had newly decor
ated. A palace priest will officiate—our priest of the love goddess Xochiquétzal, I think, not he of the war god Huitzilopóchtli—and our entire retinue will attend. Invite all your fellow pochtéca, your friends, anyone else you choose. Simply consult the palace seers, so they may set a well-omened date. In the meantime, you and your woman go about the city and find a home site which pleases you, one that is yet unoccupied or is purchasable from its owner, and that will be Ahuítzotl’s wedding gift to you.”

  At the proper time in the afternoon of my wedding day, I nervously approached the portal of the crowded and noisy ballroom, and I stopped there long enough to survey the gathering through my topaz. Then, out of vanity, I let the thonged crystal drop inside my rich new mantle before I stepped into the room. But I had seen that the new decoration of the vast hall included wall paintings which I would have recognized even unsigned—and that the crowd of nobles and courtiers and privileged commoners included a tall young man who, though his back was to me at that moment, I recognized as the artist: Yei-Ehécatl Pocuía-Chimáli.

  I made my way through the throng of people, some standing, chatting and drinking from golden cups; others, mostly the court noblewomen, already kneeling or seated around the countless gold-thread-embroidered cloths spread out on the floor matting. Most of the people reached out to pat my shoulder or reached up to stroke my hand, smiling and murmuring words of congratulation. But, as tradition required, I acknowledged none of the gestures or words. I went to the front of the room, where the most elegant cloth of all was spread on a high dais, and where a number of men waited for me, among them the Uey-Tlatoáni Ahuítzotl and the priest of Xochiquétzal. As they greeted me, the performers from The House of Song began to play a muted music.

  For the first part of the ceremony—that of my being given into full manhood—I had asked the three elder pochtéca to do me the honor, and they were also seated on the dais. Since the cloth was spread with platters of hot tamáltin and jugs of potent octli, and since it was prescribed that the Givers depart immediately after the first ritual, the three elderly men had already helped themselves, to the extent that they were noticeably gorged, drunk, and half asleep.

  When the room had quieted and only the soft music could be heard, Ahuítzotl and the priest and I stood together. You might suppose that the priest of a goddess named Xochiquétzal would at least be cleanly in his habits, but that one was as professionally unkempt and unwashed and unsavory as any other. And, like any other, he took the occasion to make his speech a tediously long one, more full of dire warnings about the pitfalls of marriage than any mention of its pleasures. But he finally got done and Ahuítzotl spoke, to the three besotted and sentimentally smirking old men seated at his feet, just a few words and to the point:

  “Lords pochtéca, your fellow trader wishes to take a wife. Regard this xelolóni I give you. It is the sign that Chicóme-Xochitl Tliléctic-Mixtli desires to sever himself from the days of his irresponsible youth. Take it and set him free to be a full-grown man.”

  The scalpless one of the three accepted the xelolóni, which was a small household hatchet. Had I been an ordinary commoner getting married, the hatchet would have been a simple utilitarian tool of wood shaft and flint head, but that one had a solid silver haft and a blade of fine jadestone. The old fellow brandished it, belched loudly, and said:

  “We have heard, Lord Speaker, we and all present have heard the wish of young Tliléctic-Mixtli: that henceforth he bear all the duties, responsibilities, and privileges of manhood. As you and he desire, so let it be.”

  He made a drunkenly dramatic chopping motion with the hatchet—and very nearly chopped off the remaining foot of his one-footed colleague. The three of them then stood and bore away the symbolic cutting tool, the one-footed man dangling and hopping between the other two, and all of them lurching as they departed from the big room. The Givers were no sooner out of sight than we heard the clamor of Zyanya’s arrival at the palace: the accumulated crowd of city commoners outside the building calling to her: “Happy girl! Fortunate girl!”

  The arrangements had been well timed, for she was coming just at sundown, as was proper. The ballroom, which had been getting gradually darker during the preliminary ceremony, began to glow with golden light as servants went about lighting the pine-splint torches angled out at intervals from the painted walls. When the hall was blazing bright, Zyanya stepped through the entranceway, escorted by two of the palace ladies. It was allowable for a woman at her wedding—just that one time in her life—to beautify herself to the utmost by using all the cosmetic arts of a courtesan auyaními: coloring her hair, lightening her skin, reddening her lips. But Zyanya had no need for any such artifice, and had used none. She wore a simple blouse and skirt of virginal pale yellow and she had selected, for the traditional festoon of feathers along her arms and calves, the long plumes of some black-and-white bird, obviously to repeat and accentuate the white-streaked black of her long, flowing hair.

  The two women led her to the dais, through the murmurously admiring crowd, and she and I stood facing each other, she looking shy, I looking solemn, as the occasion required. The priest took from an assistant two instruments and handed one of them to each of us: a golden chain from which depended a perforated golden ball, inside which burned a bit of copáli incense. I raised my chain and swung the ball around Zyanya, leaving a fragrant loop of blue smoke hanging in the air about her shoulders. Then I hunched down a bit, and she stood on tiptoe to do the same to me. The priest took back the censers and bade us sit down side by side.

  At that point, there should have come forward from the crowd our relatives and friends bearing presents. Neither of us had any kinfolk in attendance, so there came only Blood Glutton, Cozcatl, and a delegation from The House of Pochtéca. They all, in turn, kissed the earth to us and laid before us their varied gifts—for Zyanya items of wearing apparel: blouses, skirts, shawls, and the like, all of the finest quality; for me also an assortment of clothing, plus an estimable armory: a well-wrought maquáhuitl, a dagger, a sheaf of arrows.

  When the gift bearers had retired, it was the moment for Ahuítzotl and one of Zyanya’s escorting noblewomen to take turns at chanting the routine fatherly and motherly advice to the couple about to be married. In an unemotional monotone, Ahuítzotl warned me, among other things, never to be still abed when I heard the cry of the Early Bird, Pápan, but to be already up and doing. Zyanya’s surrogate mother recited a long list of wifely duties—everything, it seemed to me, including the lady’s favorite recipe for making tamáltin. As if that had been a signal, a servant came bearing a fresh, steaming platter of the maize-and-meat rolls, and set it before us.

  The priest gestured, and Zyanya and I each picked up a tamáli and fed it to each other, which, if you have never tried it, is no easy matter. I got my chin well greased, and Zyanya her nose, but we each got at least a token bite of the other’s offering. While we were doing that, the priest began another long, rote harangue, the which I will not bore you with. It concluded in his bending down, taking a corner of my mantle and a corner of Zyanya’s blouse, and knotting them together.

  We were married.

  The quiet music suddenly boomed loud and exultant, and a shout went up from the assembled guests, as all the ceremonial stiffness relaxed into conviviality. Servants dashed about the hall, dispensing to all the separate dinner cloths platters of tamáltin and new jugs of octli and chocolate. Every guest was expected to gobble and guzzle until the torches burned out at dawn or until the males among them fell over unconscious and were borne home by their women and slaves. Zyanya and I would eat but daintily, and then would be led discreetly—everybody pretending we were invisible—to our wedding chamber, which was an upstairs suite in the palace, lent to us by Ahuítzotl. But at that point I departed from custom.

  “Excuse me one moment, my dear,” I whispered to Zyanya, and stepped down from the dais into the room, the Revered Speaker and the priest regarding me with puzzled eyes and open mouths showing hal
f-chewed tamáltin.

  In my long life, no doubt I have been hated by many persons; I do not know how many. I have never cared enough even to try remembering and counting them. But I had then, that night, in that room, one mortal enemy, one enemy sworn and implacable and already bloody-handed. Chimáli had mutilated and murdered others close to me. His next victim, even before myself, would be Zyanya. That he should attend our wedding was his threat of it and his defiance of my doing anything to stop it.

  As I walked in search of him, winding my way among the quadrangles of seated guests, their chattering dwindled to a wondering silence. Even the musicians lowered their instruments to pay attention. The room’s silence was finally broken by the crowd’s collective gasp, when I swung backhanded and knocked away the golden goblet Chimáli was raising to his mouth. It rang musically as it bounced off his own wall painting.

  “Do not drink too much,” I said, and everyone heard. “You will want a clear head in the morning. At dawn, Chimáli, in the wood of Chapultépec. Just the two of us, but any kind and number of weapons you like. To the death.”

  He gave me a look compounded of loathing, contempt, and some amusement, then glanced about at his goggling neighbors. A private challenge he could have refused, or set conditions to, or even warded off by abasing himself. But that challenge had been prefaced by an insulting blow; it had been seen and heard by every leading citizen of Tenochtítlan. He shrugged, then reached for someone else’s cup of octli, raised it in wry salute to me, and said clearly, “Chapultépec. At dawn. To the death.” He drained the drink, stood up, and stalked out of the ballroom.

  When I returned to the dais, the crowd began its buzz and chatter again behind me, though sounding somewhat subdued and aghast. Zyanya gazed at me with bewildered eyes, but to her credit she asked no question, she made no complaint about my having turned a gladsome occasion into something otherwise. The priest, however, gave me a baleful frown and began: