Don had sought out the porter who had his things and now rescued the clothes and his other few possessions, leaving for the time only the Spanish sword he had appropriated from the assassin. He took them into one of the empty rooms and changed with a sigh of relief. The Indian garments had been no great treat to him. They didn’t even protect you from ants when you sat on the ground. He belted the holster back on, fished out his box of .22 cartridges, and reloaded the clip of the gun.
He took the discarded Indian garments out and returned them to the porter.
One of the Indian women had laid four fires in the outdoor kitchen. She took up the small bow and the other fire-making equipment and began to twirl.
Don came up and said, “Here.” He brought forth a book of paper matches and struck one of them, knelt, and lit the fire.
She goggled at him. So did Cuauhtemoc who was standing nearby.
Cuauhtemoc said accusingly, “You said that you were not a magician.”
“Yeah,” Don muttered in English and then in Nahuatl, “This is a device that all have in my land. It is not magic.”
The other grunted contempt of that opinion. Don could see how his mind worked. Fire had sprung from the white man’s fingers. The hell with it. There was no way of explaining.
The group had evidently shot several rabbits along the way with their bows. They went into the community stew. In spite of the fact that he and Cuauhtemoc had eaten only a few hours ago, the smells of the dishes the women were preparing were appetite-provoking with a vengeance. When the time came to eat, he and his companion of the night before were both in line. The food was dipped out of the pots and distributed by the women. Then the men retired to squat on their heels, tortillas in hand, and ate off to the side by themselves. The women evidently ate later.
Don had assumed that they were to stay here for the balance of the day and night and get a fresh start in the morning, but after a short rest following eating, the porters began to reassemble their things again and shortly the train was under way.
Cuauhtemoc looked at him and said, “Malintzin informed me, in spite of my protests, that he would soon march to Tenochtitlan to meet with my uncle. We would not wish them to overtake us after the events of last night.”
Don said, “Is this the road to Tlaxcala?”
“No. That lies further north. We are enemies of the Tlaxcalans and it would be ill to travel through their territory, even though we are ambassadors.”
“Then you need not worry about the Spanish overtaking us. They go first to Tlaxcala.”
“How do you know?”
What could Don Fielding say? He knew because history told him so. The Spanish marched first to the land of the long-time enemies of the Tenochas, enrolled them in their forces, and then marched on Tenochtitlan. But could history be altered? Hadn’t he already altered it? The night before he had killed a Spaniard. If that soldier had remained alive, in what manner would he have participated in the conquest? For all Don knew, it was Cortes himself, or possibly Pedro de Alvarado, who played such a big role in the destruction of Tenochtitlan. But how could that be? So far as he could see, if he swatted a single mosquito, history would be altered. The mosquito’s descendants, all the millions upon millions of them, would then never exist. And how many of that insect’s descendants had, in their time, bitten human beings and given them, say, malaria or yellow fever? If those mosquitoes failed to be born, they would never have bitten their victims and the victims would have survived. Survived to do what? To become the ancestors of generals, statesmen, artists, inventors, and what-not. And hence alter the history of the world. His mind reeled. Nothing, nothing of all this made sense! It couldn’t be happening. If history had been altered by his presence here, he simply wouldn’t be here. But he was here. A dream? Ha! It might have seemed a dream the first day, the first few hours, but he had been in the past, fully conscious, for the better part of a week now. It was no dream nor fantasy. He was here, in 1519, in the world of Cortes and Montezuma.
He said simply, “I know.”
Cuauhtemoc thought about it. He was obviously no lightweight. He said finally, “Nevertheless, we will march. The sooner I report to The First Speaker and the Tlatocan the better.”
So resume the march they did, and for the next nine days. Some three hundred miles, Don Fielding estimated. He had never walked such a distance before and most certainly hoped never to have to in the future. The distant future, he corrected himself hopefully, with its nuclear weapons and penicillin, freeway congestion and Poulenc in stereo. But was this future now all in his past?
The journey was broken up twice a day at the shelters. In the morning they would eat a bit of the tortilla leftovers from the day before. At noon they would stop and have the real repast of the day, the women preparing it from the basic supplies in all the Indian equivalents of inns spaced some fifteen miles along the way. In the evening they had meager leftovers from their midday meal, which had been brought along, and tortillas which the women made freshly. Evidently, in Indian society, one meal a day, one major meal, was the rule. Don Fielding had his troubles getting used to it. He was used to three a day, not to speak of snacks or raiding the refrigerator before bedtime. How they achieved their stamina was a mystery to him. However, they had it. Their endurance was beyond his.
They had left behind their view of the sea from the mountain crest, left behind the rich growths of the tropics, and ascended into the dark belts of pines in the higher altitudes. The summer rains were upon them and the road became so muddy as to hold up their progress. To make their thirty miles a day, they had to slog along from dawn until dark and to shorten their midday rest period. The aspect of the country was as wild and dreary as the climate.
They passed through some areas that showed abundant traces of volcanic action where acres of lava and cinders proclaimed the convulsions of nature, while numerous shrubs and moldering trunks of enormous trees among the crevices attested to the antiquity of these events.
They went through various passes, snow-topped mountains on both sides, the weather so cold now that Don was forced again to take one of the Indian mantles to ward it off.
There was a branch-off of the road and Cuauhtemoc pointed and said, “Cholula.”
Cholula? Then they weren’t so very far from their destination. Don said, “Don’t we go through there? I thought it was one of your cities.”
“Our cities? No. It is not even in the valley. Sometimes they ally themselves with the Tlaxcalans and the people of Huexotzingo and war against us. Sometimes they ally themselves with us to fight Tlaxcala.”
The next day, Don Fielding could recognize two of the mountains, Popocatapetl to the left of their march, Iztacciuatl to the right, both of them soaring higher than seventeen thousand feet. There was a feather of volcanic smoke above the former, Don noted. In his own day—his former future day?—the volcano was seldom active.
They pressed on through the pass, through the heavily wooded slopes that now materialized—noble forests of oak, cedar, and sycamore—and eventually, turning an angle of the mighty sierra, they came suddenly on the view of the valley of Mexico. And there in the lake was Tenochtitlan.
Chapter Nine
Don Fielding had often viewed Mexico City and the valley which lay below, in his own time, from approximately this spot. There was a super-highway going through the pass to the city of Pueblo. However, he recognized nothing. In the twentieth century, Lake Texcoco was all but completely gone. The Spanish and modem Mexicans had drained it.
Now, the lake covered what seemed to be most of the valley floor. It was ringed, so far as his eye could see, with villages and towns, some of them in the lake itself. Largest of them all was Tenochtitlan, located on the far side, not too distant from the shore line of a bay and approached by three causeways; four, if you counted one which made a juncture with another before reaching the city proper. In the distance, on the edge of the lake and nearly screened by intervening foliage, he could barely make ou
t what must be Tetzcuco, the sister city and friendly rival of Tenochtitlan. As Don recalled, it was said to be at least the same size.
Cuauhtemoc said proudly, “Tenochtitlan.”
“Yes, of course,” Don murmured in awe. He could make out the temple area, the soaring pyramids, the huge buildings, even from this distance, and the distance was great; at least another day’s march. But the air was clear.
The blinding smog of his own day was unknown here. It might not be so bad, he thought—and firmly directed his mind elsewhere.
It was a city of canals, of greenery and other color everywhere. So covered was the area with vegetation that Don could only wonder where the people lived.
They started to descend at a stronger pace now, since the way was downhill. For that matter, the road was better. Obviously, it was more utilized this close to the capital. Shortly it became paved with some type of pink pumice traprock composed of silica and volcanic ash from what Don could see. It was wider now.
Although all had perked up at the sight of their goal, they still had a long way to go. They’d never reach the city this night, no matter that it was magnificently in view.
Don said to Cuauhtemoc, “I have been curious. How is it that your uncle and the council sent such young men as you and Axayaca as ambassadors to Cortes?”
“But we are of the Eagle calpulli.”
“What difference does that make?”
“Why, it is well that while we are still young men, we gain experience so that later, if we are elected to office, we will know how to conduct ourselves.”
“Why shouldn’t this apply to any other clan?”
“It does, but in lesser degree. Each calpulli must elect its own chiefs, of course. But we of the Eagles are particularly trained to hold high office in both the city and the confederation. We have long been noted as warriors and administrators. For many generations our clan has supplied the office of Tlacatecuhtli to the city, and that of the Cihuacohuatl, as well.”
“Cihuacohuatl?” Don said. The word meant, literally, snake-woman.
“The head chief of the Tenochas,” Cuauhtemoc explained.
Don Fielding looked at him. “But I thought your uncle, Motechzoma, was head chief of the Tenochas.”
The other shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. Motechzoma is the head war chief of our confederation of Tenochtitlan, Tetzcuco, and Tlacopan. Tlilpotonque is the Snake-Woman. It is a title that goes so far back that we know not its origins. He is not a woman, of course.”
In a way, Don Fielding was amused. Cortes, in his so badly translated dialogue with Cuauhtemoc, had assumed Motechzoma to be emperor, or at least king, of what amounted to all Mexico. Now it turned out that he wasn’t even head chief of the Tenochas.
As they descended, the woods became thinner and patches of cultivated land appeared more often, wherever in fact, there was level enough a plot to work. From what Don could see of the valley, that need was obvious. Population explosion there was in the area in this era, though not as bad as in his own. However, in his time the Mexicans were able to bring in food and other necessities by railroad and truck. But in this age a porter’s back, over these long stretches and these rugged roads and conditions, didn’t make much sense. You might be able to requisition food from as far away as fifty miles from Tenochtitlan, but after that the amount of food that the porter consumed, coming and going, started giving you diminishing returns. Shelled dried corn, of course, a concentrate, wasn’t so bad. But other staples of Indian diet—squash, melons, tomatoes, green peppers, and so forth? It simply didn’t make sense. Largely, the overcrowded inhabitants of the Mexican valley would have to raise their own food.
They spent the night in a town Cuauhtemoc told him was named Ayotzico, which was located at the southernmost part of the lake. Evidently, the Indians considered the lake to be not one, but five, although they were all joined. This was Lake Chaleo, evidently named after the largest town which bordered it and which was located somewhere over to the right.
Ayotzico itself spread out into the lake. That is, some of the town, resting on piles and reclaimed land, overflowed into the water.
Cuauhtemoc was not on home territory, it seemed. Ayotzico was allied to the Tenochtitlan league. He was met with full honors by the local chief and they were escorted to the quarters in one of the larger community houses. It was at least as big as anything in Cempoala, and Don realized that if and when the Spanish saw it, it would be dubbed a palace.
In the morning they arose at dawn and set off alongside the edge of the lake. Cuauhtemoc informed Don that the night before the local chief had sent a runner ahead to Motechzoma and the high council to inform them of the return of the ambassadors. Undoubtedly, they would be summoned to appear and report immediately upon arrival.
As they proceeded, the towns became thicker and were even more inclined to extend out into the lakes. They were half dry land villages, half chinampas. Don Fielding, in his wanderings about Mexico, had been in the town of Xochimilco more than once, the largest of the remaining chinampa towns in the country.
It was an interesting method of agriculture. Driven by necessity to achieve more land for cultivation, the inhabitants of the Mexican valley had created it. The lake was quite shallow, so the Indians had been able to dredge up mud from the bottom and dump it into huge baskets, in which they planted crops. The roots would soon grow out of the bottom and sink themselves into the lake floor. Each year, new baskets would be added and more rich lake bottom mud added to the top. When a fairly large area was thus covered, even trees could be planted, and in time the land would become quite permanent. Dredging up new soil to place on top each year gave somewhat the same result as the flooding of the Nile in Egypt. That is, the old land was continually fertilized by the new mud and it was possible to wrest several crops a year from the soil.
Yes, Don Fielding knew all about the chinampa towns, but it was fascinating, as an anthropologist cum archeologist, to witness them at their peak of glory. In actuality, these people were gardeners rather than farmers. They had no field agriculture, no beasts of burden, no domesticated animals save the turkey, and a small hairless dog they bred for food. Yes, fascinating, but fated to go. The Spanish would introduce the plow and draught animal, and field agriculture would be here.
It all came under the head of progress, he admitted. This chinampa system was primitive. He could see the Indians working them, with their ancient coa digging sticks; considerably wider at the digging end than the handle, it was somewhat reminiscent of a very early form of shovel.
Cuauhtemoc named the towns and villages as they progressed. Here was Xochimilco, the very town Don had known in another age, here Tlalpan, here Cuicuilco, and here Coyoacan, which was somewhat larger than most of the others and must have boasted some five thousand inhabitants.
At Coyoacan they branched off onto one of the causeways that led to the great city in the lake. It was of stone and gravel and periodically they crossed over bridges made of removable wooden beams. Cuauhtemoc, obviously prideful of his city, explained that the water breaches had three purposes. They permitted the movement of canoes through the causeway, allowed for the ebb and flow of water which might otherwise have damaged the causeway, and in case of danger, the beams could be removed so that an enemy couldn’t attack the city. An ancient horizontal form of drawbridge, Don decided.
Don Fielding could see the obvious need for passageways for the canoes. The lake was aswarm with them—dugout canoes, holding one, two, or three persons, seldom more. They were limited in size due to the fact that they were carved out of single tree trunks, undoubtedly brought down from the surrounding mountains.
After about a mile, they reached a small island which was fortified with both towers and walls and where they joined a larger causeway which came up from the south.
“Acachinanco,” Cuauhtemoc told him. “We have fortified it against our enemies of the city Huexotzingo.”
They halted here long enough for Cuau
htemoc and Axayaca and the subchiefs to get into their formal attire as ambassadors. Then they went on. The causeway, now, was some twenty-five feet wide and aswarm with Indians coming and going between the mainland and the city. All together, Don Fielding estimated the causeway must be some four miles long. The Indians bug-eyed him, but didn’t stop.
The nearer they got to the city, the more chinampas they came upon. Evidently, Tenochtitlan was still growing, still sprawling out over the lake. History told him that originally, when the Tenochas had first moved out from the mainland, there had been only a few marshy islands and practically no dry land at all. Slowly, using the chinampas method, they had enlarged it until now, almost two hundred years later, it embraced some twenty-five hundred acres in all. The trouble was, where the lake ended and the city began was moot. The closer you got toward the center, the more the chinampas thickened, until finally what had been more or less open lake became patches of land, surrounded by canals.
Finally, the causeway merged into dry land and sizable buildings began.
“Xoloco,” Cuauhtemoc said. “This is the calpulli of Xoloco. There are twenty calpulli in all and the city is divided into four sections, Teopan, Moyotlan, Aztacalco and Cuepopan, each containing five calpulli, each occupied by a clan. Then there is Tlaltelolco, our sister city to which we are attached to the north, and it contains six more calpulli. Ours is the greatest city in the world.”
Well, perhaps, Don thought inwardly. He wondered just what cities they might have in this age in China or India. In Europe, perhaps, they might not have quite this population, though he suspected that Venice, London, or Paris could give this Neolithic town a run for its money.
The Other Time Page 10
