The Goldsmith's Daughter

by Tanya Landman

  “My name is Axcahuah,” the nobleman informed my father. “I am adviser to our lord emperor. I will take you to him now. Keep close behind me.”

  When I beheld the interior, I felt as though my breath had been punched from my chest. If I were to die – if the emperor discovered my impudence and punished me for it – I could not help but feel the glory of the palace made the risk worthwhile.

  I had to lower my eyes and be silent. And yet I could not keep myself from darting looks here and there; and each time my gaze fell upon some new wonder, it almost stopped me in my tracks. It was not simply the lavish scale of the building, nor the astounding wealth of our emperor, but the exquisite quality of the craftsmanship that was all about me.

  I had often heard my father quote the poem: “The good artist is wise; the gods are in his heart.” But I had never seen the divine force that inspires and guides all artists’ work so powerfully manifested. The many stone pillars that held up the roof were intricately carved with depictions of the gods, and their complex detail made my mind spin. I could do little more than glimpse each one as we passed, and yet I saw a spiritual, sacred depth to the craftsmanship which drew my breath from me. I could spend a lifetime studying these columns and not learn all!

  We were led through a series of interlocking courtyards: some cool and leafy, where exotic waterfowl swam on deep ponds and the air was scented with blossom and sweet incense; some sunny and bright, where acrobats, jugglers and musicians practised their skills. We passed an aviary, where colourful birds filled the palace with their trilling song; a menagerie where panthers paced and coyotes howled.

  As we neared the centre of the palace I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out in delight.

  We were approaching a set of broad steps that led upwards to another floor, which in itself was a curiosity to me, for only the royal palace was permitted to have two levels. The steps were dappled with light as the sun broke through the leafy vegetation of two tall trees that stood either side. But the shadows were unmoving, for theirs was not the living foliage of real shrubs. The trunks were silver; the leaves beaten gold; the twig tips dotted with cunningly crafted turquoise flowers. Silver monkeys dangled in their branches; and beneath, two golden jaguars lay, their emerald eyes glinting.

  Axcahuah, who was familiar with the sight, did not even pause, but my father broke his step, stopping and reaching out a hand as if he could not believe what his eyes beheld. My own jaw fell open, and no exertion of will could close it. Sharp words from the nobleman recalled us both to our senses, and we began to climb the steps.

  Above, we passed through several chambers whose walls were decorated with vivid murals of expert skill. Each room was of such a vast size that the whole of our own house could have fitted easily within.

  At last Axcahuah stopped. “This is the throne room,” he said quietly.

  We had come to a place whose grandeur exceeded all I had yet seen. Though a golden, richly feathered screen stood in the doorway, it could not conceal the lofty height of the chamber, nor the lavish splendour of the painted walls. Gilded images of the gods adorned every surface.

  My throat tightened. Saliva flooded my mouth but I strained to swallow. From the sinews that rose like reeds in my father’s neck, I knew he was as fearful as I at what was to come.

  From behind the screen many slaves came forth, and at once we were sprinkled with sweet incense lest we offend the emperor’s nostrils. At the nobleman’s instruction we fell to our knees, arms stretched out before us, foreheads pressed to the floor in reverence. The screen was drawn aside, and one by one we crawled into the throne room.

  It was a difficult task to edge forward. The basket of goods I pushed before me blocked the sight I had of my father’s heels, and in panic I wondered how I should know when to stop moving. I could neither see nor hear him, for so many slaves rushed hither and thither that their footfalls covered all other sounds.

  The room was long, and we moved so slowly our passage across the floor seemed to take an eternity. But eventually Axcahuah halted my advance by speaking.

  “My lord emperor,” said the nobleman. “If it pleases your magnificence, this is the craftsman you commanded me to bring you.”

  When the emperor spoke, he did so with great gentleness; he had no need to raise his voice. As soon as his lips parted, the air became hushed, taut with expectation.

  “I thank you, Axcahuah.” He addressed my father. “Goldsmith. Come here to me.”

  I heard my father shuffling forward on his knees.

  Our emperor’s voice was rich and melodious but the threat in his next words chilled my blood.

  “I have summoned you here to make certain objects,” he continued. “But take care that you do not reveal this to anyone: if you do, it will mean death, and not only for you. It will mean the ruin of your house to its foundations, the loss of your goods, and the slaughter of all your kinsmen. If you once displease me, all trace of you and your family shall be removed from the earth.”

  At that moment I was glad to be kneeling, for I was suddenly faint and dizzy with dread. I trembled at the power of one who could make such threats and, with the lifting of one little finger, give the command that would wipe us away as though we had never existed! And yet I held tight to the knowledge that he valued my statue. Whatever the emperor wanted, I could produce it. In the peace of our own home, I could work without fear.

  But our lord emperor had not yet finished. His next sentence fell like an axe blow. He stepped down from the dais and walked closer to my father. I could see his feet! Sandals of such astounding craftsmanship. And his toenails were gilded alternately with gold and silver!

  Softly, so that no slave could overhear, he said, “You will make two statues. Of the same quality as the figurine, but much larger. One of the god Tezcatlipoca. And one of the god Quetzalcoatl. You are to make these objects here in my presence so that your work remains secret.”

  My father’s answer came tight and dry. “It shall be done, my lord emperor.”

  With those few words, our audience was finished. We could not turn our backs on the emperor, and so – shuffling in awkward retreat, dragging my basket with me – we started the long, slow reverse out of the chamber.

  I had not gone far when my eye was caught by a tiny movement near the emperor’s foot. At the very edge of my vision I saw that something had dropped from him. For a moment, I thought it was a bright jewel, but when it hit the floor it made no sound.

  With great shock, I realized that what had fallen was a tear. There – in the centre of his palace, the centre of our city, the centre of the world – Montezuma, our lord emperor, the master of all, was weeping.

  Axcahuah led us through the corridors to a set of rooms at the rear of the palace.

  I was relieved to discover that when the emperor had bid us work in his presence he meant only that we should remain within the palace walls. And although I was sure his power could be felt in each one of those three hundred rooms, we were not to be overseen by him.

  The workshops Axcahuah took us to were in the slaves’ quarters, apartments that were nonetheless so luxurious they made our own home seem plain as a peasant’s hut. Screens shielded the rooms from the view of anyone passing, and I breathed a sigh of relief: perhaps I might aid my father after all.

  Yet when we squeezed behind the screens my heart sank to see two other goldsmiths already there. One was hard at work making a splendid fan, beating a thin sheet of gold into a carved wooden mould that gave an ornate pattern to what would become the fan’s centrepiece. Next to him a pile of exquisite feathers showed how it would be trimmed. Another had taken emeralds, setting them into an extraordinary medallion that hung from heavy chains.

  Baskets were heaped with gold ready for our use; I had never seen so much in one place. I was used to working with the small grains that were stored in the hollow quills of feathers and traded at market, but here were piled nuggets the size of pebbles! Ten, twenty baskets full
of them! Beside these were several vessels containing fine gems. Perfect jade, polished obsidian, a profusion of emeralds, ambers the size of my fist. I could tell at once that these had been brought directly to the palace: stones of this quality never appeared in the marketplace.

  The full peril of our situation struck me. I could do nothing before these men. My father would have to create the statues alone; with his failing eyesight he would have to mimic my piece. And if his craftsmanship fell short of the required standard, we would die.

  Axcahuah spoke. “This is where you will work. In all haste you must do what our emperor has ordered.”

  My father nodded. And then he began to lie.

  “My lord Axcahuah,” he whispered, “I am as anxious as you to do the emperor’s bidding. But did he not say I must work in private?”

  “These craftsmen too work to the emperor’s commission.”

  “Indeed. But I prefer to follow his command exactly as he spoke it. Besides, I have my own trade secrets that I wish to preserve. Techniques that I alone have developed. My methods are unique to me. I would not wish to hand them to a competitor.”

  Axcahuah raised an eyebrow at my father’s impertinence but could not deny his request. He called for slaves and sent them running in search of further screens and drapes. Before long an area that comprised a covered workshop and open courtyard was marked off for my father’s personal use.

  Into this were then stacked the gold and gems. At the noble’s command a charcoal burner, amounts of wax and clay, and the tools for moulding them were brought forth. Sleeping mats and a spread of delicious titbits completed our provisions; we were well supplied and could work undisturbed.

  “You can see your daughter safely home before you begin,” said Axcahuah.

  “If it pleases you, my lord,” replied my father hastily, “I should prefer to keep her here. I may need certain tools from my home, and she will be able to fetch them with all due discretion. The emperor commands secrecy and I would not wish to trust anyone else.”

  “Very well.” The nobleman took a last look around our improvised workspace. “You have everything you need?”

  I hoped Axcahuah would not notice the irony that tinged my father’s voice as he looked at me and answered, “Yes indeed, my lord. Now I have everything.”

  Like every Aztec emperor who had preceded him, Montezuma made a great display of his wealth. He gave splendid gifts of such high value that no recipient could ever hope to return their worth. This was the mark of his vast power, his huge might, his inestimable riches. My father and I were thus both sensible of the strangeness of being asked to work in a clandestine manner, but dared not discuss it. Instead we began our task.

  Our lord had requested a larger copy of my figurine and so we started with this. Picking through the gems, I selected those that would adorn my statues. I found a disc of obsidian, black and so highly polished that I could see my face in it. It was perfect for Tezcatlipoca, the god of the smoking mirror, old man and perfect youth. He could grant wealth, heroism, nobility, honour. But he was also a capricious trickster, a god of affliction and anguish.

  I would make a two-faced figure, then. On one side his visage would be aged and malign, his body as withered as he who had struck my brother’s chest at the spring festival. On the reverse he would be splendidly handsome. As handsome as Mitotiqui. I would craft my brother’s image in glorious tribute to him. His face, at least, would remain here on earth when his spirit had left for paradise. The obsidian I would set in his hand as the mirror in which Tezcatlipoca viewed the future.

  Assessing the quantity of gold we had been supplied with, it became clear that the new figure would have to be made with a hollow core; it could not be solid throughout like the original. In low whispers we debated the wisdom of this.

  “Should we request more gold?” I asked. “Will the emperor be displeased if it is not solid like the other?”

  “I think we have made trouble enough already. Let us begin, Itacate, and hope that the gods are with us.”

  The gods. They had stripped me of my brother and now put me and my father in mortal danger. But no… I could not blame them for this situation. This was my own doing. And with my own hands I could, I hoped, undo it.

  Mixing charcoal with clay, I began to create the core of the statue. The emperor had said he wanted it larger than the original, but had not specified a precise size. I would be extravagant: if this was to be my last earthly task, I would make certain the object I created was unforgettable.

  My father kept watch. He sat and listened to the sounds of the palace, alert for any who might approach. I was grateful for the nobles’ habit of wearing bells upon their cloaks, for they could not come upon us unawares. But slaves move quietly. So do craftsmen. My father was stiff with attention while I worked.

  When I had finished the rough shape of the statue that was its core, I set it aside in the sun to harden. I could do nothing more to it until it was firm enough to take the wax I would mould upon its surface to create the detail.

  My father urged me to eat the meal that had been laid upon a mat for us. Palace food: meats I did not recognize, sweet morsels of potato and tomato cooked to perfection, delicate cakes. My eye saw the exquisiteness of its preparation, but fear rendered it tasteless in my mouth. I forced myself to chew, for I knew I would need my strength for the task ahead. I ended with a vessel of the foaming chocolate that was the drink of the elite; only the very wealthy could afford it. To me it looked as dark as Mictlan and tasted as bitter as death.

  Once the core had dried I stuck wax upon it, bulking it up piece by piece until it was entirely covered. This I started to sculpt.

  When night came, I felt I had barely begun my task. I would have continued, but the fire of our charcoal burner was not sufficient to light my work. It was as well I stopped for a slave girl – who moved so softly that even my father had not heard her – pulled aside a drape and set more food down for us. When we had eaten, my father and I wrapped ourselves in the warm cloaks provided by our emperor and settled on our mats to rest.

  Sleep was slow to come.

  From another courtyard floated the beat of a drum and the whistle of pipes. Whoops and yells of laughter greeted the emperor’s jugglers and acrobats as they leapt and spun before the nobility. Somewhere in the city my own brother was perhaps being entertained in a similar manner. Thinking of Mitotiqui I curled into a tight ball, trying to ease the pain that twisted in my stomach.

  The revelry carried on late into the night. And when that had ceased, the cries of caged coyotes echoed mournfully through the palace, and the low growls of panthers – snarling, furious – seemed to rumble through the ground beneath me like a distant earthquake.

  It took me nearly all of the next day to carve the wax to my satisfaction. When I had finished, I stood back and looked at the figure. With a gasp I saw that the face I had crafted to represent the perfect youth was not a likeness of Mitotiqui at all. It was of the youth I had seen in my vision: a face that was not of this world.

  Puzzled at what my unconscious mind had made my hands produce, I reached for the face, thinking to refashion it, but my father stayed my hand.

  “The work is good, Itacate. And you have no time to change it.”

  Sighing, I set about covering the whole with clay to make the mould, but my father took my work from me, saying, “This much I can do, Itacate. Sit. Eat. You have a second figure to make. How will you do it?”

  It was an apt question. While I ate a chilli-stuffed tamale I started to consider.

  Quetzalcoatl was many things: the maker of mankind, the wind, the spirit of new beginnings, the morning star, the warrior of the dawn. He was the deity from whom all art and knowledge flowed. He alone amongst the gods did not demand the blood sacrifice of people.

  By the time I had finished eating, the light was already fading; I could do no more that day. Instead I tossed restlessly on my mat, turning images of Quetzalcoatl over in my mind. I had no tim
e for leisurely consideration: by morning I must know what I intended to make.

  All night – or so it seemed – I wondered how best to depict the god.

  Quetzalcoatl had once taken human form, this much I knew: bearded, with pale skin. In ancient times he had walked the city streets until Tezcatlipoca had outwitted and banished him. More often he was represented in the shape of a feathered serpent. Which did our emperor wish for?

  I could only guess at what lay in his heart. But I had made Tezcatlipoca in human form, so perhaps the second figure should match it.

  In the year Mitotiqui and I were born, our emperor had built a shrine in the precinct beside the principal temple to honour Quetzalcoatl. Unlike all other temples, this shrine was of round construction, for he was god of winds, which cannot blow freely where there are corners. Perhaps I should adhere to the same principle.

  A circular base then, curled with a writhing serpent. From this, a bearded man rising…

  The image grew and formed in my head, and when the priests blew their conches to bring forth the new dawn, I began my work.

  While I shaped the form of Quetzalcoatl, the clay surrounding that of Tezcatlipoca dried. My father baked it in the fire, melting the wax and letting it run out. It was ready to be cast.

  Neither of us had ever created anything this size. With nervous trepidation we melted sufficient gold and poured it into the mould. With anxious glances we ate our meal while we waited for the gold to cool and set. With utter elation we then broke off the clay to reveal the figure: perfect, splendid, immortal.

  “I cannot believe even a Mixtec craftsman could produce anything finer,” murmured my father.

  “For certain, neither can I,” I said. “I think it is the very best I shall ever do.” My voice shrank to a fearful whisper. “But is it good enough for our emperor?”