“Your maps and journals of your travels are excellent, Knight Mixtli. These of Texcála will be of immediate use, for I plan a new war which will end forever the defiance of those Texcaltéca. I also have here your maps of the southern trade routes all the way into the Maya country. All superbly detailed. Very good work indeed.” He paused, then flicked his cold gaze up at me. “You may say ‘thank you’ when your Revered Speaker compliments you.”
I duly said, “Thank you,” and Motecuzóma went on:
“I understand that in the years since you presented these maps to my uncle, you have made other journeys.” He waited, and when I did not reply, he barked, “Speak!”
“I have not been asked a question, my lord.”
Smiling without humor, he said, very precisely, “During those later journeys did you also make maps?”
“Yes, Lord Speaker, either on the road or immediately on my return home, while my memory of landmarks was still fresh.”
“You will deliver those maps here to the palace. I will have use for them when eventually I make war in other places after Texcála.” I said nothing; obedience was taken for granted. He continued, “I understand also that you have an admirable command of many provincial languages.”
He waited again. I said, “Thank you, Lord Speaker.”
He snarled, “That was not a compliment!”
“You said admirable, my lord.”
Some of the Speaking Council rolled their eyes, others squeezed their eyes shut.
“Cease your insolence! Which languages do you speak?”
“Of Náhuatl, I command both the educated and the common speech used here in Tenochtítlan. Also the more refined Náhuatl of Texcóco, and the various rough dialects spoken in such foreign lands as Texcála.” Motecuzóma impatiently drummed his fingers on his knee. “I am fluent in the Lóochi of the Tzapotéca, not quite so fluent in the many dialects of the Poré of Michihuácan. I can make myself understood in the language of the Mixtéca, in several of the Olméca tongues, in that of the Maya and the numerous dialects derived from Maya. I have a few words of Otomíte and—”
“Enough,” Motecuzóma said sharply. “It may well be that I can give you an opportunity to practice your talents, when I make war upon some nation whose phrase for ‘we surrender’ I do not know. But for now, your maps will suffice. Make haste to deliver them.”
I said nothing; obedience was taken for granted. Some of the old men were mouthing silently but urgently at me, and I wondered why, until Motecuzóma almost shouted, “That was dismissal, Knight Mixtli!”
I backed out of the throne room as required and, in the corridor as I doffed the beggar sackcloth, I said to the steward, “The man is mad. But is he tlahuéle or merely xolopítli?” Náhuatl has two words for a madman: xolopítli means one only harmlessly deranged; tlahuéle means a dangerous raving maniac. Each word made the rabbit steward flinch.
“Please, my lord, modulate your voice.” Then he mumbled, “I will grant you, he has his peculiarities. Do you know? He takes only one meal a day, in the evening, but in preparation for it he orders whole twenties of dishes prepared, even hundreds, all different, so that when his mealtime comes he may call for whatever food appeals to him at that instant. Out of all those prepared, he may devour one and daintily taste of only two or three others.”
“And the rest go to waste?” I asked.
“Oh, no. To every meal he invites all his favorite and highest-ranking lords, all those within the reach of his messengers. And the lords come, by twenties and even hundreds, even if it means leaving their own dinners and families, and they eat whatever foods the Uey-Tlatoáni spurns.”
“Odd,” I murmured. “I should not have taken Motecuzóma to be a man who liked so much company, even at mealtime.”
“Actually, he does not. The other lords eat in the same great dining hall, but conversation is forbidden, and they never get the least glimpse of the Revered Speaker. A high screen is set around the corner where he sits to dine, so he sits unseen and unmolested. The other lords might not even know he is present, except that once in a while, when Motecuzóma is particularly pleased with some one dish, he will send it around the hall, and all must taste of it.”
“Then he is not mad,” I said. “Remember, it has always been rumored that the Uey-Tlatoáni Tixoc died of poison. What you have just described sounds eccentric and extravagant, but it could also be Motecuzóma’s shrewd way of assuring that he does not go the way his uncle Tixoc did.”
Long before meeting Motecuzóma, I had conceived a considerable antipathy toward him. If I came away from the palace that day feeling any new sentiment about the man, it was only a mild stirring of pity. Yes, pity. It seemed to me that a ruler should inspire others to extol his eminence, not do it himself; that others ought to kiss the earth to him because he deserved it, not because he demanded it. To my mind, all the protocol and ritual and panoply with which Motecuzóma had surrounded himself were less majestic than pretentious, even pathetic. They were like his abundance of dress ornaments, no more than the garniture of greatness, assumed by a man uneasy, insecure, uncertain that he himself was of any greatness at all.
I got home to find that Cozcatl had come calling, and was waiting to tell me the latest news of his school. While I began to divest myself of my Eagle Knight garb for more comfortable clothes, he rubbed his hands together in great good humor and announced:
“The Revered Speaker Motecuzóma has engaged me to undertake the training of his entire palace staff of servants and slaves, from the highest stewards to the scullery help.”
That was such good news that I called for Turquoise to bring us a jug of cooled octli that we might celebrate. Star Singer also came running, to bring and light for each of us a poquíetl.
“But I have just come from the palace,” I said to Cozcatl. “And I got the impression that Motecuzóma’s servants are already trained—or at least cowed to groveling—the same as his Speaking Council and every other person connected with his court.”
“Oh, his servants serve well enough,” said Cozcatl. He sucked on his tube and blew a smoke ring. “But he wants them polished and refined, to be the equal of Nezahualpíli’s staff in Texcóco.”
I said, “It appears that our Revered Speaker has feelings of envy and rivalry about more than the mannerly servants of the Texcóco court. I might even say feelings of animosity. Motecuzóma told me today that he proposes to launch a new war against Texcála, which is not surprising. What he did not say, but I have heard elsewhere, is that he tried to order Nezahualpíli to lead the assault, and with Acólhua troops forming the bulk of the army. I also hear that Nezahualpíli most firmly declined that honor, and I am glad—after all, he is no longer young. But it does seem that Motecuzóma would like to do what Ahuítzotl did in our own war days, Cozcatl. To decimate the Acólhua, or even force Nezahualpíli himself to fall in combat.”
Cozcatl said, “It may be, Mixtli, that Motecuzóma has the same reason that Ahuítzotl had.”
I took a bracing drink of octli and said, “Do you mean what I fear you mean?”
Cozcatl nodded. “That onetime child bride of Nezahualpíli whose name is no longer mentioned. Being Ahuítzotl’s daughter, she was Motecuzóma’s cousin … and maybe something more than cousin to him. For whatever it signifies, it was immediately after her execution that Motecuzóma took the black robes of priesthood and celibacy.”
I said, “A coincidence that indeed invites speculation,” and drained my cup of octli. It inspirited me enough to say, “Well, he long ago gave up the priesthood, and he now has two legal wives, and he will be taking more. Let us hope that he eventually gives up his animus toward Nezahualpíli. Let us also hope that he never learns of the part you and I played in his lady cousin’s downfall.”
Cozcatl said cheerfully, “Do not worry. The good Nezahualpíli has forever kept silent about our involvement. Ahuítzotl never connected us with the affair. Motecuzóma does not, either, or he would hardly be patronizing my
school.”
I said with relief, “You are probably right.” Then I laughed and said, “You seem impervious to worry or even to pain.” I pointed to his poquíetl. “Are you not likely to do yourself serious injury?”
He had apparently not noticed that the hand holding his lighted smoking tube had lowered so that the burning coal of it rested against the bare skin of his other arm. When I called it to his notice he jerked the poquíetl away and looked glumly at the angry red burn mark it had left on his skin.
“Sometimes my attention gets fixed on something,” he muttered, “and I am unaware of—trifles like that.”
“Trifles?” I said. “It must hurt worse than a wasp sting. I will call for Turquoise to bring an ointment.”
“No, no, I do not—I hardly feel it at all,” he said, and stood up. “I will see you soon again, Mixtli.”
He was just leaving the house when Béu Ribé came in from some errand. Cozcatl greeted her warmly, as usual, but her smile at him seemed rather strained, and, when he was gone, she said to me:
“I met his wife on the street, and we spoke a few words. Quequelmíqui must know that I am acquainted with Cozcatl’s history, and his wound, and their marriage of accommodation to it. But she seemed radiantly happy, and she looked at me with a sort of challenge, as if she dared me to make any remark.”
A little drowsy from the octli, I said, “Make a remark about what?”
“About her being pregnant. It is obvious to any woman’s eyes.”
“You must be mistaken,” I said. “You know it to be impossible.”
She gave me an impatient look. “Impossible it may be, but mistaken I am not. Even a spinster recognizes that condition. It cannot be long before even her husband takes note of it. And what then?”
There was no answer to such a question, and Béu left the room without waiting for one, leaving me to sit and think. I should have realized, when Ticklish came to me pleading that I give her the one experience her husband could not, that she had really wanted me to give her something more lasting than just the experience. She wanted a child—a Cocóton of her own—and who better than the beloved Cocóton’s father to provide it? More than likely, Ticklish had come to me already having eaten of fox meat or of the herb cihuapátli or one of the other specifics that supposedly assure a woman’s impregnation. Well, I very nearly had succumbed to her blandishments. Only Béu’s unexpected arrival had given me an excuse to refuse. So I was not the father, and Cozcatl could not be, but somebody was. Ticklish had made it plain that she would resort to other expedients. I said to myself, “When I sent her away from here, she had all the remainder of that day….”
No doubt I should have been more concerned about the matter, but at that time I was working hard, in obedience to Motecuzóma’s order that I hand over all the maps of all my travels. In doing so, I took some liberty in my interpretation of his order. I did not deliver to the palace my original maps, but took the time to make copies of them all, and submitted them one by one as they were completed. I excused the delay by explaining that many of the earlier-drawn originals were fragmentary and travel-stained, some done on poor paper or even scratched on grape leaves, and that I wanted my Lord Speaker to have fresh, clean, and durable drawings. The excuse was not entirely an untruth, but my real reason was that the original maps were precious to me as mementos of my wanderings, some of which I had made in company with my adored Zyanya, and I simply wanted to keep them.
Also, I might want to travel those roads again, and perhaps keep on going, not to return, if the reign of Motecuzóma made Tenochtítlan too uncomfortable for me. With that possible emigration in mind, I omitted some significant details from the map copies I provided to the Uey-Tlatoáni. For example, I left out any mark of the black lake where I had stumbled upon the giant boar tusks; if there was any more treasure there, I might someday have need of it.
When not working, I spent as much time as possible with my daughter. I had got into the pleasant habit of telling her a story every afternoon, and of course I told her such tales as would have most interested me when I was her age: stories replete with action and violence and high adventure. In fact, most of them were true accounts of my own experiences. Or a slightly embellished truth, or a slightly diluted truth, as the case might be. Such tales required me frequently to roar like a maddened jaguar or chatter like an angry spider monkey or howl like a melancholy coyote. When Cocóton quailed at some of the noises I produced, I prided myself on my talent for telling an adventure so vividly that a listener could almost share it. But one day the little girl came to me at the accustomed time for my entertaining her, and she said most solemnly:
“May we speak, Tete, as grown persons would?”
I was amused at such grave formality from a child only about six years old, but I replied just as gravely, “We may, Small Crumb. What do you have on your mind?”
“I wish to say that I do not think the stories you tell are the most fitting for a young girl to hear.”
Somewhat surprised, even hurt, I said, “Do tell me your complaint about my unsuitable stories.”
She said, as if soothing a petulant child even younger than herself, “I am sure they are very good stories. I am sure a boy would like very much to hear them. Boys like to be frightened, I think. My friend Chacálin”—she waved in the direction of a neighbor’s house—“he sometimes makes animal noises and his own noises frighten him into crying. If you like, Tete, I will bring him each afternoon to hear your stories instead of me.”
I said, perhaps a trifle peevishly, “Chacálin has his own father to tell him stories. Doubtless very exciting tales, the adventures of a pottery merchant in the Tlaltelólco market. But, Cocóton, I have never noticed you crying when I told a story.”
“Oh, I would not. Not in front of you. I cry at night in bed when I am alone. For I remember the jaguars and the serpents and the bandits, and they come even more alive in the dark, and they chase me through my dreams.”
“My dear child!” I exclaimed, drawing her to me. “Why did you never mention this before?”
“I am not very brave.” She hid her face against my shoulder. “Not with big animals. I suppose not with big fathers either.”
“From now on,” I promised, “I shall try to appear smaller. And I will tell no more of fierce beasts and skulking bandits. What would you prefer that I tell about?”
She pondered, then asked in a shy voice, “Tete, did you never have any easy adventures?”
I could think of no immediate answer to that. I could not even imagine such a thing as an “easy adventure,” unless it was something of the sort that might happen to Chacálin’s father—selling a customer a jug with a hairline crack, and not being caught at it. But then I remembered something, and I said:
“I once had a foolish adventure. Would that be acceptable?”
She said, “Ayyo, yes, I would enjoy a foolish tale!”
I lay down on the floor on my back, and bent my knees to a peak. I pointed and said, “That is a volcano, a volcano named Tzebóruko, which means to snort with anger. But I promise, I will do no snorting. You sit up there, right on the crater of it.”
When she was perched on my kneecaps, I said the traditional “Oc ye nechca,” and I began to tell her how the volcano’s overflow had caught me sitting stupidly in the middle of the ocean bay. During the course of the story, I refrained from making the noises of lava erupting and steam boiling, but, at the story’s high point, I suddenly cried “Uiuióni!“ and waggled my knees, then bumped them upward. “And o-o-ómpa! I went away with the water!” The bounce dislodged Cocóton so that, at the ómpa, she slid down my thighs to stop with a thump on my belly. It knocked the breath out of me and made her giggle and gurgle with delight.
It seemed I had hit on a story, and a form of story-telling, eminently suitable for a little girl. Every afternoon for a very long time thereafter, we had to play the Volcano Erupting. Even though I managed to think up other unfrightening tales, Cocóton ins
isted that I also tell and demonstrate how Tzebóruko had once flung me off The One World. I told it over and over and over, always with her participation—tremulous atop my knees as I drawled and drew out ever longer the suspense of the preliminaries, then gleeful when I bounced her, squealing as she slid, then heartily laughing at my whoosh of breath when she came down with a thump. The Volcano Erupting went on erupting every day until Cocóton grew old enough that Béu began to disapprove of her “unladylike behavior,” and Cocóton herself began to find it a “childish” game. I was somewhat sorry to see my daughter growing out of her childhood, but I was by then well wearied of being jolted in the belly.
Inevitably, the day came when Cozcatl called on me again—in a pitiable state: his eyes red-rimmed, his voice hoarse, his hands interlaced and twisting as if they fought each other.
I asked him gently, “Have you been crying, my friend?”
“Doubtless I have reason to,” he said in that gravelly voice. “But no, I have not. What it is …” He unlaced his knotted fingers to gesture distractedly. “For a while past, my eyes and my tongue both seem somehow to have been—thickening—filming over.”
“I am sorry,” I said. “Have you consulted a physician?”
“No, and I did not come to speak of that. Mixtli, was it you who did it?”
I made no hypocritical pretense of ignorance. I said, “I know what you mean. Béu remarked on it some time ago. But no, it was not my doing.”
He nodded and said miserably, “I believe you. But that only makes it harder to bear. I will never know who it was. Even if I beat her half to death, I do not think she would tell. And I could not beat Quequelmíqui.”
I considered for a moment, then said, “I will tell you this. She wanted me to be the father.”
He nodded again, like a palsied old man. “I had supposed so. She would have wanted a child as much like your daughter as possible.” After a pause, he said, “If you had done it, I would have been hurt, but I could have borne it….”
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