While the crowd inside and outside the court continued its wild applause, Nezahualpíli sipped at chocolate and smiled modestly, and Motecuzóma smiled approvingly. He could afford to smile, for he had only to take the remaining game to win the contest, and the ringed ball—albeit his opponent’s doing—would ensure that the day of his victory would be remembered for all time, both in the archives of the sport and in the history of Tenochtítlan.
It was remembered, the day is still remembered, but not joyously. When the tumult finally quieted, the two players faced off again, the throw to be Nezahualpíli’s. He kneed the ball into the air at an angle and, in the same movement, dashed away to where he knew it would descend, and there kneed the ball again, and again with precision, up to and through the stone ring above. It happened so swiftly that I think Motecuzóma had no time to move at all. Even Nezahualpíli appeared unbelieving of what he had done. That ringing of the ball twice in a row was more than a marvel, more than a record never to be matched in all the annals of the game, it was an accomplishment veritably stunning.
Not a sound went up from the ranks of spectators. We scarcely moved, not even our eyes, which were fixed wonderingly on that Revered Speaker. Then a cautious murmuring began among the onlookers. Some of the nobles mumbled hopeful things: that Tlaloc had shown himself so mightily pleased with us as to have taken a hand in the games himself. Others growled suspicions: that Nezahualpíli had ensorcelled the games by devious magic. The nobles from Texcóco disputed that accusation, but not loudly. No one seemed to care to speak in a loud voice. Even Cuitláhuac did not grumble audibly when he handed me a leather pouch heavy with gold dust. Nochípa regarded me solemnly, as if she suspected me of being secretly a seer of the outcome of things.
Yes, I won a great deal of gold that day, through my intuition, or a trace of loyalty, or whatever undefinable motive had made me put my wagers on my onetime lord. But I would give all that gold, if I had it now—I would give more than that, ayya, a thousand of thousand times more than that, if I had it—not to have won that day.
Oh, no, lord scribes, not just because Nezahualpíli’s victory validated his predictions of an invasion sometime to come from the sea. I already believed in the likelihood of that; the Maya’s crude drawing had convinced me. No, the reason I so bitterly regret Nezahualpíli’s having won the contest is that it brought a more immediate tragedy, and upon no one but me and mine.
I was in trouble again almost as soon as Motecuzóma, in a furious temper, stalked off the court. For somehow, by the time the people had emptied out of the seats and the plaza that day, they had all learned that the contest had involved more than the two Revered Speakers—that it had been a trial of strength between their respective seers and sayers. All realized that Nezahualpíli’s victory lent credence to his doomful prophecies, and knew what those prophecies were. Probably one of Nezahualpíli’s courtiers made those things known, while trying to quell the rumors that his lord had won the games by sorcery. All I know for certain, though, is that the truth got out, and it was not my doing.
“If it was not your doing,” said the icily irate Motecuzóma, “if you have done nothing to deserve punishment, then clearly I am not punishing you.”
Nezahualpíli had just left Tenochtítlan, and two palace guards had almost forcibly brought me before the throne, and the Revered Speaker had just told me what was in store for me.
“But my lord commands me to lead a military expedition,” I protested, flouting all the established throne-room protocol. “If that is not punishment, it is banishment, and I have done nothing—”
He interrupted, “The command I give you, Eagle Knight Mixtli, is in the nature of an experiment. All the omens indicate that any invading hordes, if they come at all, will come from the south. It behooves us to strengthen our southern defenses. If your expedition is a success, I will send other knights leading other emigrant trains into those areas.”
“But, my lord,” I persisted, “I know nothing at all about founding and fortifying a colony.”
He said, “Neither did I, until I was bidden to do exactly that, in the Xoconóchco, many years ago.” I could not gainsay it; I had been somewhat responsible for it. He went on, “You will take some forty families, approximately two hundred men, women, and children. They are farm people for whom there is simply no available land to farm here in the middle of The One World. You will establish your emigrants on new land to the south, and see that they build a decent village, and arrange its defenses. Here is the place I have chosen.”
The map he showed me was one I had drawn for him myself, but the area to which he pointed was empty of detail, for I had never yet visited there.
I said, “My Lord Speaker, that spot is within the lands of the Teohuacána people. They also may resent being invaded by a horde of foreigners.”
With a humorless smile he said, “Your old friend Nezahualpíli advised us to make friends of all our neighbors, did he not? One of your jobs will be to convince the Teohuacána that you come as a good friend and staunch defender of their country as well as ours.”
“Yes, my lord,” I said unhappily.
“The Revered Speaker Chimalpopóca of Tlácopan is kindly providing your military escort. You will command a detachment of forty of his Tecpanéca soldiers.”
“Not even Mexíca?” I blurted in dismay. “My Lord Motecuzóma, a troop of Tecpanéca are sure to be unruly under the command of one Mexícatl knight!”
He knew it as well as I; it was part of his malice, part of my punishment for having been a friend of Nezahualpíli. Blandly, he went on:
“The warriors will provide protection on the journey into Teohuacán, and will stay to man the stronghold you are to build there. You will also stay, Knight Mixtli, until all the families are well settled and self-supporting. That settlement you will name simply Yanquítlan, The New Place.”
I ventured to ask, “May I at least recruit a few good Mexíca veterans, my lord, to be my under-officers?” He would probably have said an immediate no, but I added, “Some old men I know, who were long ago discharged as over-age.”
He sniffed contemptuously and said, “If it will make you feel safer to recruit additional warriors, you will pay them yourself.”
“Agreed, my lord,” I said quickly. Eager to get away before he could change his mind, I dropped to kiss the earth, murmuring as I did so, “Has the Lord Speaker anything else to command?”
“That you depart immediately and make all haste southward. The Tecpanéca warriors and the families of your train are being mustered now at Ixtapalápan. I want them in your new community of Yanquítlan in time to get their spring seeding in the ground. Be it done.”
“I go at once,” I said, and shuffled on bare feet backward to the door.
Even though it was pure vindictiveness that made Motecuzóma fix on me as his pioneer colonizer, I could not complain overmuch, since it was I who had first urged the idea of such colonization—to Ahuítzotl, those many years earlier. Besides, to be honest, I had lately become rather bored with being the idle rich man; I had been haunting The House of Pochtéca, hoping to hear of some rare trading opportunity that would take me abroad. So I would have welcomed my assignment to lead the emigrant train, except that Motecuzóma insisted I stay with the new settlement until it was firmly rooted. As well as I could estimate, I would be immured in Yanquítlan for a full year, if not for two or more. When I was younger, when my roads and my days seemed limitless and countless, I would not have missed that much time subtracted from my life. But I was forty and two, and I begrudged the spending of even one of my remaining years tied to a dull job in a dull farm village, while perhaps brighter horizons beckoned all about.
Nevertheless, I prepared for the expedition with all possible enthusiasm and organization. First I called together the women and servants of my household, and told them of the mission.
“I am selfish enough not to want to be without my family during that year or more, and also I think the time can
be used to advantage. Nochípa my daughter, you have never traveled farther from Tenochtítlan than the mainland beyond the causeways, and then only seldom. This journey may be rigorous but, if you would care to accompany me, I believe you would benefit by seeing and knowing more of these lands.”
“And you think I must be asked?” she exclaimed with delight, and clapped her hands. Then she sobered to say, “But what of my schooling, Father, at The House of Learning Manners?”
“Simply tell your Mistress Teachers that you are going abroad. That your father guarantees you will learn more on the open road than inside any four walls.” I turned to Béu Ribé. “I should like you to come too, Waiting Moon, if you would.”
“Yes,” she said at once, her eyes bright. “I am glad, Záa, that you no longer wish to walk alone. If I can be—”
“You can. A maiden of Nochípa’s age should not go unattended by an older woman.”
“Oh,” she said, the brightness leaving her eyes.
“A company of soldiers and lower-class farm folk may be rude company. I should like you to stay always at Nochípa’s side, and share her pallet every night.”
“Her pallet,” Béu repeated.
I said to the servants, “That will leave you, Turquoise and Star Singer, to occupy and care for the house and safeguard our belongings.” They said they could and would, and promised that we would find everything in perfect order when we came back, however long we might be gone. I said I had no doubt of it. “And right now I have one errand for you, Star Singer.”
I sent him to summon the seven old warriors who had been my own small army on other expeditions. I was saddened but not much surprised when he returned to report that three of them had died since last I had required their services.
The surviving four who did come had been fairly along in years when I first knew them as friends of Blood Glutton; they had not grown younger, but they came without hesitation. They came into my presence bravely, forcing themselves to walk with upright posture and sturdy tread, to divert my attention from their ropy musculature and knobby joints. They came booming with loud voices and laughs of anticipation, so the wrinkles and folds of their faces might have been taken to be only the lines of good humor. I did not insult them by remarking on their pretense at youth and vigor; their having come so gladly was proof enough to me that they were still capable men; I would have enlisted them even if they had arrived limping on sticks. I explained the mission to them all, then spoke directly to the oldest, Qualánqui, whose name meant Angry at Everybody:
“Our Tecpanéca soldiers and the two hundred civilians are waiting at Ixtapalápan. Go there, friend Angry, and make sure they will be ready to march when we are. I suspect you will find them unprepared in many respects; they are not seasoned travelers. The rest of you men, go and purchase all the equipment and provisions we will need—the four of you, myself, my daughter, and my lady sister.”
I was more concerned with my emigrants’ completing the long march than with any unfriendly reception we might meet in Teohuacán. Like the farm folk I was escorting, the Teohuacána were an agricultural people, and few in number, and not known for pugnacity. I fully expected that they would even welcome my settlers, as new people to mingle with and marry their offspring to.
When I speak of Teohuacán and the Teohuacána, I am of course using the Náhuatl names bestowed on them. The Teohuacána were actually some branch of the Mixtéca, or Tya Nuü, and called themselves and their country Tya Nya. The land had never been besieged by us Mexíca or put under tribute to us because, except for farm products, its treasures were few. They consisted of hot mineral springs, not resources easily confiscated, and anyway the Tya Nya freely traded to us pots and flasks of the water from those springs. The water tasted and smelled awful, but it was much in demand as a tonic. And since physicians often ordered their patients to go to Tya Nya and bathe in those hot, stinking waters, the natives had also profited by building some rather luxurious inns adjacent to the springs. In sum, I did not expect much trouble from a nation of farmers and innkeepers.
Angry at Everybody returned to me the next day to report, “You were right, Knight Mixtli. That band of rustic louts had brought all their kitchen grinding stones and images of all their favorite gods, instead of an equal weight of seed for planting and pinóli powder for traveling rations. There was much grumbling, but I made them discard every replaceable encumbrance.”
“And the people themselves, Qualánqui? Will they constitute a self-supporting community?”
“I believe so. They are all farmers, but there are men among them who have also the skills of masons and brickmakers and carpenters and such. They complain of only one trade lacking. They are not provided with priests.”
I said sourly, “I never heard of a community which settled or grew anywhere, but that a plenitude of priests seemed to sprout from the ground, demanding to be fed and feared and revered.” Nevertheless, I passed the word on to the palace, and our company was supplied with six or seven novice tlamacázque of various minor gods, priests so young and new that their black robes had hardly yet begun to be encrusted with blood and grime.
Nochípa, Béu, and I crossed the causeway on the eve of our planned departure day, and spent the night in Ixtapalápan, so that I could call the train to order at first light, and introduce myself, and see that the tumplined loads were equitably divided among all the able-bodied men, women, and older children, and get us all early on the road. My four under-officers bawled the Tecpanéca troops to attention, and I closely inspected them, using my topaz. That caused some covert snickering in the ranks, and the soldiers thereafter referred to me among themselves—I was not supposed to be aware of it—as Mixteloxíxtli, a rather clever blending of my name with other words. It would translate roughly as Urine Eye Mixtli.
The civilians of the train probably called me by even less flattering names, for they had numerous grievances, of which the main one was that they had never intended or wanted to be emigrants at all. Motecuzóma had omitted to tell me that they had not volunteered for removal, but were “surplus population” rounded up by his troops. So they felt, with some justification, that they were being unfairly banished to the wilderness. And the soldiers were almost equally unhappy. They disliked their role of nursemaid escort, and the making of a long march from their Tlácopan home, with their destination no honorable battlefield but an indefinite garrison duty. Had I not brought my four veterans to keep the troops in order, I fear that Commander Urine Eye would have had to cope with mutiny or desertion.
Ah, well. Much of the time I was wishing I could desert. The soldiers at least knew how to march. The civilians lagged, they strayed, they got sorefooted and lame, they grumbled and whimpered. No two of them could ever pause to relieve themselves at the same time; the women demanded halts to breast feed their infants; the priest of this or that god had to stop at specified times of day to offer up a ritual prayer. If I set a smart marching pace, the lazier people complained that I was running them to death. If I slowed to accommodate the laggards, the others complained that they would die of old age before journey’s end.
The one thing that made the march pleasurable for me was my daughter Nochípa. Like her mother Zyanya, on her first trip far from home, Nochípa exclaimed joyously at each new vista revealed by each new turn in the road. There was no landscape so ordinary but that something in it gladdened her eye and heart. We were following the main trade road southeastward, and it is a route of much scenic beauty, but it was somewhat over-familiar to me and Béu and my under-officers—and the emigrants were incapable of exclaiming over anything but their miseries. But we could have been crossing the dead wastes of Míctlan, and Nochípa would have found it all new and wonderful.
She sometimes would break into song, as birds do, for no seeming reason except that they are winged creatures, and happy to be so. (Like my sister Tzitzitlíni, Nochípa had won many honors at her school for her talent at singing and dancing.) When she sang, even the most hat
eful malcontents among our company would cease their grumbling for a while, to listen. Also, when she was not too tired from the day’s walking, Nochípa would lighten the dark nights by dancing for us after our evening meal. One of my old men knew how to play a clay flute, and had brought it along. On those nights Nochípa danced, the company would bed down on the hard ground with less lamentation than usual.
Apart from Nochípa’s brightening of the long and tiresome journey, I remember only one incident along the way that struck me as out of the ordinary. At one night’s camping place, I walked some distance out of the firelight to relieve myself against a tree. Chancing to pass the tree again some while later, I saw Béu—she did not see me—and she was doing a singular thing. She was kneeling at the base of that same tree and scooping up the bit of mud made by my urination. I thought that perhaps she was preparing a soothing poultice for some marcher’s blistered foot or sprained ankle. I did not interrupt her or later remark on the occurrence.
But I should tell you, lord scribes, that among our people there were certain women, usually very old women—you call them witches—who had knowledge of certain secret arts. One of their capabilities was to make a crude little image of a man, using the mud from a place where he had recently urinated, and then, by subjecting that doll to certain indignities, to make the man himself suffer an unexplainable pain or illness or madness or lust or loss of memory or even loss of his possessions until he became impoverished. But I had no reason to suspect Waiting Moon of having been a witch all her life without my ever realizing it. I dismissed her collection of the mud that night as a mere coincidence, and forgot all about it until much later.
Some twenty days’ march out of Tenochtítlan—it would have been only twelve days for an experienced and unencumbered traveler—we came to the village of Huajuápan, which I knew of old. And, after spending the night there, we turned sharply northeastward on a lesser trade road that was new to all of us. The path led through pleasant valleys green with early spring verdure, winding among low and lovely blue mountains, toward Tya Nya’s capital town, which was also called Tya Nya, or Teohuacán. But I did not take the entire train that far. After some four days along that route, we found ourselves in an extensive valley, at the ford of a wide but shallow stream. I knelt and took up a palmful of the water. I smelled it, then tasted it.
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