by Scott O'Dell
Don Luis blinked. He tried to smile. He raised his sword and glanced at its shining blade. Again he tried to smile.
“It may be difficult for you to understand what has happened,” I said, “and I haven’t the time to explain. Someday I shall, perhaps. Meanwhile, fall to your knees, as you have seen your warriors do, as you have often done when paying your respect to the emperor, King Carlos.”
Don Luis glanced away. His jaws tightened.
Speaking in a quieter voice, I repeated my command, adding, “And press your forehead to the stones.”
He took a last glance at the square, which was now filled with a chanting crowd, at his warriors bowing in front of me, repeating my name. Slowly he got to his knees.
It was only for an instant that he stayed there—he barely touched the stones—and he did not touch his forehead, but I said nothing more. Nor did I think of demanding his sword, for I knew that he would rather die than relinquish it.
I felt no elation as I watched Don Luis get to his knees in what to him was an act of utter humiliation. It gave me not the smallest pleasure to see his stiff back bent low at my command. My only feeling was one of sudden power.
CHAPTER 10
THE YOUNG NACOM, IN A CONQUERING MOOD, WISHED TO CARRY OUT his threat to leave no one in the city, men or women, the young or the old, and none of the dogs except those not worth eating.
Against his wishes I decided to take only the able-bodied. I left most of the farmers and all of the priests, who, like our own, wore stinking gowns, stiff with dried blood.
I had a twinge of conscience at this number—some twelve hundred in all—but it quickly disappeared when I remembered from my readings in Caesar that the great general, after a battle with the Atuatoc on the banks of the Rhine, had sold the inhabitants of their village, fifty-three thousand men, women, and children, into slavery.
The hostages were loaded into their own canoes and sent off, guarded by our fleet. At dusk the caravel followed in their wake. Don Luis was scarcely aboard the about the gold—he spoke of it as our gold. when he asked Santa Margarita
I led him below, past the treasure he had wrested from the Indians of Isla del Oro. He picked up a nugget, and hefted it for weight.
“We must weigh this mass,” he said, “down to the last ounce, and keep a strict record of it. The king demands his fifth, la quinta. Since the crew has perished, we’ll divide the rest, half to you and half to me.
A generous accounting, is it not, señor?” I made no reply. Instead, I led him forward into the bow of the ship and showed him to his quarters: a triangular cubbyhole squeezed tight between the bulwarks, lit by a cloudy window.
He gazed around in disbelief. “This is a hole,” he said. “No light, a horrible stench, and the bilge. Look!” He was standing in water up to his ankles. “What’s happened to my cabin?”
“It’s occupied.”
“Occupied? Of course, I should have known.”
I marveled at his arrogance. It seemed to have increased since the moment he had accepted defeat. Strolling to the window, he wiped it with his hand and turned to face me in the dim light.
“Are you not uncomfortable in this new guise?” he said, disdainfully. “You’re a young man of simple heart. You have simple tastes. You were, when last I saw you, a follower of sweet St. Francis, who gave his clothes to the poor and talked to the flowers in the fields and the small birds in the apple trees. Tell me, señor, how do you feel going about in a mask and feathers, with Indians kissing the stones at your feet, calling you lord of this and that? Answer me, does it not imperil your Christian heart? Does it not bother your Spanish sensibilities? At times, señor, do you not feel silly?”
My answer was not delayed. “Not silly, Don Luis. In truth, at times I have a strong feeling of omnipotence, and this is one of the times. If there were a dungeon handy, I would clap you into it. This cubbyhole, I regret, will have to serve in its place.”
“I can’t breathe foul air and stand in bilge water,” he complained.
“Try,” I said. “This is the closet your slaves lived in—thirty of them. They lived here for many days until the night when they could stand their misery no longer and climbed to the deck and flung themselves into the sea.”
I closed the door upon him with the hope that he would have time to examine his conscience, though I knew full well that he possessed none.
We arrived the next day at dusk to find a throng gathered at the sea wall and bonfires burning in the streets, word of our victory having reached the city by canoe and fast runners.
Subdued not at all by his hours in the dank cubbyhole, Don Luis demanded that as warlord of a sovereign country he should be permitted to ride ashore seated upon his stallion.
“I lack spurs and a proper Spanish saddle,” he said, “but I’ll not require them.”
Nor would he, being a horseman of exceptional skill. However, I did not give him the chance to display it. Mounting Bravo, I led the procession through the firelit streets, followed by Don Luis on foot, a cohort of his warriors, and a long line of hostages.
The dwarf had gone ahead with a squad of cannoneers, and upon reaching the plaza, which was filled with a cheering crowd, I was greeted by a round from our lombards.
Still believing that this thunderous sound was the voice of the stallion, the people fell silent. But not for long. As soon as I passed, they set up an unearthly din that lasted through the night and beyond.
“They have had little to celebrate,” Ah den Yaxche said the next morning as we sat down at the breakfast table.
A crowd had gathered in the meadow not far from the palace and was beating wooden drums. The old man raised his voice above the roar.
“Not since the raiders from Cempoala were turned back has there been such a time. But then only sixty-one prisoners were taken. A small victory. Most were sac rificed when you became the god Kukulcán.”
“I remember the day,” I said. “It shall never be forgotten.”
“Now you have twelve hundred prisoners to think about.”
“Not to sacrifice.”
“The people will demand it.”
“I intend to put them to work in this ruinous city of rubble.”
“Long ago, fifty katuns ago,” Ah den Yaxche said, one katun being the Mayan word for twenty years, “the city flourished and was great in the world. It has lain in ruins for a long time. You cannot put it back the way it was in one day or in two. You will be forced to sacrifice most of the prisoners.”
“Old man, honorable sire, we shall see.”
Flushed by my success at Tikan, I spoke in full confidence that I would send only a token number to the sacrificial stone, a dozen perhaps, no more. I did not count upon the forces ranged against me.
I saw that the prisoners were rested for a day, fed well, and though kept in a stockade, had a warm place to sleep.
The bacab in charge of the city streets, Lord Xacanatzin, was given instructions to divide them into two working squads and to put one at work cleaning up the plaza and the Temple of Kukulcán. The second squad was sent to the palace to store away the stones that littered the corridors and throne room.
I found an artist in this group, a man who had spent his life painting animal life on vases he sold in the market. He was put to work painting out the mural that filled one end of the room—a horrible scene of the two-headed earth goddess, with arms shaped like serpents and a feathered skirt embroidered with skulls.
Remembering that Ceela Yaxche possessed a modest talent as an artist, I called upon her to assist him.
Since she was familiar with the cross I had built, I instructed her to limn, as best she could, a picture of the scene around it, including the rocky headland, the sea stretching off into the distance, and the cross itself under a sunny sky, dominating all with its message of redemption.
She had already started in the school for nobles, studying ritual dance, cultivation of the speaking and singing voice, and the painting of glyphs.
The class in Spanish was delayed because the dwarf had been occupied with the Santa Margarita and the war against Tikan. Now that he was free of these responsibilities, he had new ones—conveying my messages to the bacab, Xacanatzin, and seeing that they were carried out.
Believing strongly in the value of Spanish to the children of noble families, I called upon Don Luis de Arroyo to take over the role of teacher.
Don Luis was not pleased to be teaching a roomful of girls and boys (this was the first time that the school had allowed males and females to study in the same room), but he preferred it to spending his days behind wooden bars.
He was brought to the palace each day under guard, spent two hours teaching, and then was returned to his cage. I saw nothing of him during the first week of the class, though he made several attempts to arrange a meeting. Nor did I encounter Ceela Yaxche, who still fled at the sight of me.
In addition to Spanish, I thought it important that the young should learn Nahuatl, the language of the Azteca.
This people, whom the nobles and priests feared and spoke of with awe, lived in the mountains far to the west, but sooner or later we would need to deal with them, either as friends or as enemies. The only man among us who spoke Nahuatl was Chalco, the high priest. Like Don Luis, he was reluctant to take on the duties of teaching and taming a roomful of wild young Mayans.
“These offshoots of noble families barely speak their own language,” he said. “They speak the words as if they were a mouthful of hot pebbles. How am I to teach them the beautiful words of the Azteca?”
“Try,” I said. “You’re a resourceful man. And I hope you can find the time to teach me also. Perhaps one hour in the evening we could talk Nahuatl.”
At the close of our first evening together, Chalco brought up the subject of the Tikan prisoners.
“The festival day of Xipe Totec,” he said, “is two months away. But I am preparing for it now. How many slaves have you given me?”
“None,” I said.
His jaw tightened. “We used up all we had, Lord of the Evening Star, when we celebrated your return. There are none left, except two cripples. We cannot honor the mighty god of spring with creatures that lack arms and legs.”
He was wearing the mask of a jungle bird with a long beak. It had tipped back on his head, and he paused to slide it into place.
“Unless the god of spring is generously honored, when the seeds are planted they will not sprout. There will be no harvest and the people will starve.”
“How many slaves do you wish?”
“Fifty is a good number.”
“I’ll give it thought,” I said, “and speak to you tomorrow about it.”
The two squads of prisoners had accomplished wonders in the short time they had been working. They had stored away the broken columns that littered the great plaza, cleaned the debris from the palace and the Temple of Kukulcán. But there was much more for them to do. I had projects for a thousand more, two thousand. To give up fifty workers was out of the question.
“Ten slaves,” I said when we met again the next evening. “No more.”
“May I select those I want, the tallest ones? The Tikans tend to be small.”
“Select as you wish, but no more than ten.”
Chalco was wearing a monkey mask, which, after the bird and jaguar masks he usually wore, gave him an almost human look.
“With ten,” he said, “there’ll be a poor harvest.”
“Ten,” I said.
“You could capture more slaves now that you have the big canoe with wings. There are many villages to the north. And there are places inland where you could gather up many, like Palenque and Uxmal.”
“Ten,” I said.
“Your people will complain when they hear that it is only to be that small number.”
“Let them,” I said.
These were ill-considered words.
CHAPTER 11
THE CITY GREETED MY VICTORY WITH THE WILDEST ACCLAIM
For a week the populace chanted night and day, the temple drum never ceased to boom. The elders were praiseful. Even the three high priests had praiseful words, though Chalco, lest I think that I had gained a victory over him and the stars, was prompt with an ex planation.
“It was the fault of Xelba, my assistant,” he said. “Xelba, a dull fellow, committed mistakes and confused the month of Yaax with the month of Quej. In that way a wrong prediction was born.”
Suddenly the big drum that shook the bones, the trumpets that pierced the ears, fell silent. Cantú brought word that people had begun to ask questions.
“What was to be done with the Tikan slaves?” they asked. “Why had they not been sacrificed?” “Was Kukulcán saving them for the festival of Xipe Totec?”
It was true that the plaza sparkled. For the first time in centuries the temple was clean. My palace had been saved from ruin. But when, the populace wanted to know, would the many slaves climb the steps to the god house and give up their hearts to the hungry sun?
Cantú brought word that they had learned that only ten of the slaves were to be sacrificed in honor of the spring god, Xipe Totec.
Seeds would die in the ground, it was said. There would be no harvest.
To silence the grumbling, I had three crosses made of black, tough fibered wood, twice my height. One was placed at the harbor, where it could be seen from the strait and by all those who entered or left. The second cross was placed on the terrace, where the priests would have to pass it on their way to and from the god house and where the crowds below would see it. The third cross was set above the palace door, so that it caught the sun and cast shadows throughout the day.
A picture of the Virgin Mary, painted by Ceela using a model she found in the palace kitchen, with blue eyes and golden hair and a shimmering halo around her head, was hung from a ceiba tree in the center of the plaza.
I went there at evening for a week and told the people about the Mother of Christ, and who Christ was and how He had died on a cross and why He had died.
My words were much like those I once had spoken to Ceela Yaxche. And like those words, they fell upon ears of stone.
Oh, yes, the plaza overflowed with Indians. They pressed in upon the guards who were there to protect me from being trampled beneath adoring feet. They lis tened, not in silence but with murmurs of approval—ayec, ayec—and sighs of contentment. They fell to their knees when I fell to mine. They stayed after I had sung the Ave Maria and, striking up their drums, chanted my name.
These services did nothing, however, toward an swering the question of the slaves. If anything, the com plaints increased. The loudest came from the band of nobles.
In Seville, most of the nobles belonged to a secret so ciety that cared for the poor and the sick and buried the friendless dead. Through the Council of Elders I formed a similar society in the city and thus dampened some of the grumbling.
The farmers were subject to soldierly duties, but had much time on their hands between harvest and planting. Again through the elders, I passed a decree that they should give one day of work each week to the city, to be used as the bacab, who took his orders from me, saw fit.
This helped to suppress the complaints but did not end them.
The dwarf suggested that we start a poc-a-tok tourna ment.
“The season comes later, when the rains settle the dust,” he said. “But we could start the games now and thus give the people something else to think about.”
I was certain that Cantú’s suggestion arose partly from his enthusiasm for the contest, but I also remem bered from readings in history that Nero had successfully diverted trouble by furnishing entertainment, cir cuses, and athletic games for his subjects.
“Where is the game played?” I asked him. “Who plays it? Who watches?”
“The poc-a-tokcourt is the only edifice in the city that’s been completely restored,” he said. “It seats a thousand spectators. That is, the nobles and their fami lies sit.”
“And the commoners stand?”
“Yes, at both ends of the court. But everyone bets, those who sit and those who stand. The nobles bet houses and jewels and gold. The rabble bets a handful of beans.”
The game, as Cantú described it, was played by two teams of heavily padded men, their object being to put a ball through hoops set high in the opposite walls, not using their hands, only hips and shoulders.
“It’s a war,” Cantú said. “Many are injured and some one is always killed. At the end there’s a celebration for the victorious team. The captain is invited to go into the stands and demand from the nobles whatever he sees that he covets. The captain of the defeated team is bound and tied to a post. Then archers range around and shoot arrows at him until he looks like a pincush ion.”
“It sounds bloodier than the sacrificial altar,” I said, and without further comment gave up the idea of the poc-a-tok tournament.
From Ah den Yaxche I learned of a town on the mainland coast some twenty leagues to the north. It was called Zaya and was thought to have a straggling popu lation of two or three hundred.
Forthwith, I summoned the nacom and with a ship load of warriors set sail for this nearby port.
It developed that Zaya was not a port at all, but a stone fortress located on the very edge of a cliff, with waves pounding the rocks below and sea spray rising against its gray walls. Since it could not be reached from seaward, we fired one shot and sailed north to a beach, where we landed and doubled back.
The fortress enclosed a small temple and a nest of black-robed priests whose hair was so caked with dried blood that it looked not like hair but more like dark-painted wood. The people, who lived outside the walls on small farms of an acre or less, were gaunt and seemed to be starving.
We gathered them up, three hundred and ten in all, counting women and children, and though they pro tested, got them aboard the Santa Margarita and sailed for home.
