Aztec

by Colin Falconer

  Jaramillo shook his head. "You are a fool, Benítez. Little wonder you lost the favour of the caudillo." But he decided against a fight, as Benítez knew he would. He nodded to his companions, and got up, giving Benítez a last contemptuous glance as he walked away. Plenty more Mexica woman to toy with and Benítez could not follow them around all day.

  Benítez sheathed his sword, wondering what he had achieved. He looked down at the ragged pile of skin and bones at his feet: matted hair, haunted eyes, a terrible stink coming from her. Poor wretch.

  She raised a hand towards him and said softly, in Nahuatl: "Don't you know who I am?"

  He did not understand what she said but he recognised her voice. He groaned and collapsed onto his knees beside her,

  as if he had been stabbed in the chest.

  "Rain Flower."

  He lifted her easily and carried her back along the causeway. He saw soldiers grinning at him. An easy way to secure a bride for the night, they were thinking.

  They don't understand, Benítez thought. I am not like them, I never was like them. She is not a bride for tonight but a bride for life if my god and hers wills that she lives. This is not a Spaniard and a blood-spattered Christian gentleman, like themselves, but a renegade; a renegade like Gonzalo Norte.

  Malinali

  Coyoacan, the Place of the Wolf

  They have tied Falling Eagle to a rack and basted his feet in oil. When they bring the white-hot brands close, I can hear the skin crackle and burn. The stench of burning flesh and fat makes me sick to my stomach. Yet he makes no sound.

  The only solace is that my lord has not ordered or approved this. At least he tried to keep his word.

  The one called Alderete strokes his beard. He has a long and narrow face, as solemn as a priest's. He has requested my presence should Falling Eagle break and wish to reveal where the gold is hidden. He nods to the torturer who applies a little more oil to his victim's feet and retrieves the brand from the glowing coals.

  "Ask him again if he has clearer recollection of what happened to the gold that was lost on the noche triste," Alderete says.

  A tiny blue flame licks along the poor man's soles as the oil ignites. Sweat beads down his face and his chest heaves. His eyes roll back in his head and his muscles twist like whipcord against the pain. He makes a sound deep in his chest, a sound I have heard many times since that day at Ceutla, the kind of sound a man makes as he gives up the spirit and swallows the earth. But he is not yet ready to meet the shadow. Death is not that kind.

  I repeat Alderete's question and Falling Eagle turns his face towards me, his eyes burning with hate. "Tell him ... may his wife grow teeth her place of pleasure ... and may all his children drown in dog shit."

  "What did he say?" Alderete asks me.

  "He swears his innocence and calls on the Virgin to intercede on his behalf."

  Cristóbal de Ojeda, the doctor, examines the wounds. Blackened skin hangs in strips, like bark, revealing glistening white bone. Ojeda looks at Alderete and shakes his head. The king's treasurer bites his lip. I believe it is of small consequence to him if Falling Eagle never walks again, but he is after all under my lord's protection.

  Falling Eagle is staring at me. "You betrayed … your own people."

  "You are not my people."

  "They have made you … a Spaniard then? Will they claim you … as one of theirs?"

  "What is he saying?"

  "He repeats that everything left of our treasure was found that day in the royal barge. The rest lies in the mud of Texcoco. He asks why you persist in torturing him when he has answered all your questions as best he can."

  "I am not without compassion. If men would only give up the truth more freely there would be no need for this."

  I turn my eyes away so I do not have to watch as Alderete continues his lonely quest for veracity. The pine torches throw terrible shadows on the stone walls of the cell. I wish Falling Eagle would tell them what they want to know. After all, what does it matter now?

  This is not the world I imagined Feathered Serpent would bring, not the magical kingdom of Tollan I dreamed of as a child.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  What has happened to us since Otumba? I wonder as I hurry across the plaza. If that day had ended differently I would not be wearing this fine dress of black lace, with a mantilla covering my face, a fan of mother of pearl in my right hand; I would not be the consort of the most powerful man in New Spain. I would also not be required to listen to the screams of tortured men or watch my dreams crumble to dust before my eyes.

  The white adobe walls of the palace at Coyoacan loom ahead. They have proved an excellent surface for the messages of the graffitos. Someone has scrawled across it, in black paint:

  MORE WERE CONQUERED BY CORTES THAN BY MEXICO

  Even the heroes of Otumba are in revolt over the profits from their sacred expedition. When they did not find their pockets bulging with gold, they blamed the treasurer, Mejía, who in turn had blamed my lord, Cortés. Rumours spread that he had taken out a second quinto for himself, that he had retained many pieces of worked gold his men thought had been forwarded under their name to the king.

  For his own part, my lord claimed that it was the fault of Falling Eagle, that he had hidden much of the gold from them. He protested that all had been done in accordance with the law and that he had behaved properly at all times. But he lives in a palace and eats his food from golden plates and has a retinue of servants to attend him. They have won for themselves no more than the price of a new sword. Why should they not wonder at the justice of it?

  As for Tenochtitlán, the carrion birds were still gathering overhead when the rebuilding got under way. Falling Eagle was forced to order his people back to the capital to bury the dead and start work on the new shrine to the god Christi rising over the site of the Templo Mayor. My lord built himself a new palace on the site of Montezuma's former seat, using thousands of felled cedars from the surrounding forests. Even the canals were filled with stone salvaged from the ruins, so that no other conqueror could isolate the capital as we had done. The Mexica are bent at their work every daylight hour, carrying stones and earth under the lashes of the thunder lords, and many are dying of starvation and disease.

  The priests have ordered that all the Mexica's codices and statuary be burned or broken with hammers. Brother Aguilar has been especially active in these endeavours.

  If Feathered Serpent were to return to the Valley, I do not think he would recognise it.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  My lord sits at his desk, quill in hand. He wears a suit of black silk trimmed with white lace, there is a thick rope of gold at his throat, and an emerald flashes on his finger. His attendants are gathered about him and armed soldiers guard the doors. Mexican servants await his pleasure. His moles go with him everywhere and when he passes in the street all naturales must prostrate ourselves on the ground, as once we did for Montezuma.

  I am ushered into the room and my lord dismisses his retinue with a nod. I recognise only Benítez; he is accompanied by a fine Christian gentlewoman in a black mantilla veil. This woman has an indian’s eyes and our glances meet and secretly caress. It is Rain Flower saved from the holocaust. Her Spaniard is here to obtain my lord’s permission for the marriage. There are many such marriages now, for there is a shortage of delicate Spanish brides in the new colony. I do not think Benítez wants her for the sake of convenience, though. After the city fell, he sat by her bedside day and night for two weeks, feeding her back to health by his own hand. I know it is true, for I was there, and I watched him do it.

  As she leaves the room our fingers touch lightly for a moment. But then the door closes and my lord and I are left alone, only the servants standing mute against the walls.

  "I take it, as you are here, that Alderete has finished his interrogation."

  "Indeed, my lord. They are bandaging Falling Eagle's feet as we speak."

  "Did he answer the señor's questions to his satisfa
ction?"

  "He gave him the same answer he gave you, my lord."

  A frown. "I told him it was useless. He would not listen to me. Well, so be it. I am tired of distracting them from their greed. Let them wallow in it if they must. God will decide the justice of it."

  "You gave your word to Falling Eagle. You told him he was under your protection."

  He looks up, his eyebrows sharply raised. "My lady?"

  "As I was leaving, I heard one of the guards say that it was you who ordered the torture, not Alderete."

  "Do you think to interrogate me on this matter?"

  "I ask you only to give me the truth."

  "I gave you the truth. It was Alderete's decision, not mine. Let us leave the matter there."

  "But you gave your word to Falling Eagle!"

  He lays his quill aside and stands up. He puts his hands behind his back and walks to the window. "We all have bright and shining dreams, Mali. Those who are blessed by God never see their dreams come true. Somehow they lose their lustre in the living of them.”

  I put my hand to my belly, feel the babe kick. Our first son, the gift I had so wanted to give him, had died stillborn in Texcála. I wonder what throne will be prepared for this new son. “I have loved you, my lord, more than it is possible for a woman to love a man.”

  He turns to me and I wonder what moves behind his eyes, for today they are as grey and cold as winter. His presence is forbidding, even here, when he stands at ease and unarmed. It is hot in the room and from outside I hear the ring of a stonemason’s hammer, building a New Spain. “I know you have, Mali. I know you have.”

  We stare at each other, naked in our ambitions and weakness, and this is how I will remember him best. He has made me a lady of New Spain; I have made him the conqueror of Mexico. I do not see the end in his eyes, but I do see the beginning of it. We have travelled together to the top of the high mountain, elevated ourselves for our own sakes. But now the pinnacle is attained, and although we shall talk often about our journey in the days to come, I can see it in his face, in that moment, in that room, the end of our travails together.

  The future my father saw in the stars was skewed in the sky’s terrible mirror, the chaos and destruction he foretold was intended not for the Mexica alone, but for all of us.

  The god in him has departed, leaving behind the man. I should hate him for what he has brought me to, but I love him too much.

  Through the window I see Benítez cross the new plaza with his new bride. He says he will take her back to Cuba, become a humble man again and plant crops. Life is simpler when one needs only love and not a destiny. I console myself that at least one of us found something better here than gold and vengeance.

  ✽ ✽ ✽

  And so tonight I walk the streets, dressed in the rags of an indian, crying for my lost children; the dirty streets, the ancient streets, the streets of the homeless and the dispossessed.

  The city of Montezuma chokes now on its own dust and fumes; the chimalpas are buried, the temples are just a few ancient and crumbling stones, the centuries have buried Hummingbird of the Left for ever. Time has even buried the Spanish.

  Feathered Serpent now guards the metro station at Piño Suarez and the Mexica warriors in the plaza dance only for the tourists’ copper coins.

  Not far from here is the Church of Jesus Navareno, and I wander inside, to sit in the quiet, another weeping woman, praying for myself, praying for my family, praying for Mexico. He is buried here, my lord, my great lord, fifty years left in peace now, though you would have to look hard to see where they put him, just a few scratchings up on the wall by the altar there. That's how much the priests think of him now.

  He crumbles to dust in the place where he first met Montezuma, for the church is built on the causeway, or at least where the causeway once stood. Outside the city dies in its own sulphurous haze; you will not find much beauty there now. I stay here until the priest will no longer tolerate this crazy woman and the church is shut up for the night. I leave my lord there to moulder, and return to my weeping streets, my tormented city, my Mexico.

  Like a comet in the black sky, my life flared and soared, dragging portent and disaster across the firmament. Now I fall through the vacuum of these endless cold and silent days, cursed and cursing wherever I go.

  It is not true, it is not true

  that we come on this earth to live

  we come only to sleep, only to dream

  ancient Aztec poem:

  translated by Leon-Portilla

  Glossary

  Adobe sun-dried brick made of clay

  Alcalde Spanish term for mayor

  Arquebus musket steadied on a supporting metal rod for firing

  Burgonet helmet with a low collar at the back to protect the neck

  Cacique village chieftain

  Castile one of the two great kingdoms of what is now Spain

  Caudillo captain

  Chacmool stone figure representing a messenger between men and the gods.

  Chontal Maya language spoken by the Mayan indians

  Culverin large bronze cannon capable of firing a ball of between 18-30 pounds

  Encomienda a grant of land

  Entrada invasion of a previously unexplored land

  Extremadura province of Castile, in south-west Spain.

  Falconets wrought iron cannon, smaller than a culverin, capable of firing balls of 2-3 pounds.

  Grandee lord

  Hidalgo name given to a landed gentleman of Castile

  Huehuetl drum made from a hollowed log, often bearing carvings of eagles and jaguars.

  Jinetas Spanish horseman riding a la jineta, with stirrups very high

  Labret ornament inserted into a hole pierced in the lip

  Maguey a species of cactus plant

  Maquauhuitl war club; also means penis in Nahuatl slang

  maravedcurrency; in 1519 450 maraved¡s equalled one crown or peso

  Nahuatl the 'elegant speech' of the Meixca

  Nao large Spanish galleon

  Naturales Castilian term for indigenous peoples

  Peyotl white truffle-like cactus; when taken, powdered in water, it caused hallucinations

  Pulque alcoholic liquor distilled from a cactus plant

  Quetzal indigenous bird with startling green plumage, highly valued among the Mexica

  Teponaztli a snakeskin drum

  Toltecs a race of people, once pre-eminent, that lived in Valley of Mexico some five hundred years before Cortés arrived at Yucatan.

  Ypcalli low wooden throne

  THE END

  COLIN FALCONER’S CLASSIC HISTORY SERIES

  If you enjoyed ‘Aztec’, here are excerpts from two other books in the series: ‘Silk Road’

  and ‘East India’

  SILK ROAD

  Toulouse, France

  in the year of the Incarnation of Our Lord 1293

  THEY FOUND HIM in the cloister, lying on his back with ice in his beard. He was half conscious, muttering about a Templar knight, a secret commission from the Pope, and a beautiful woman on a white pony. His fellow monks carried him back to his cell and laid him on the hard cot that had been his bed for the last twenty years. He was an old man now and there was nothing to be done. His eyes had the cold sheen of death. A brother went to fetch the abbot so that the old fellow might make his last confession.

  It was cold as death in the room. The abbot knelt down beside him. Somewhere in the forest a fir bough crashed to the ground under its burden of snow. The old man’s eyes flickered open at the sound and the yellow glimmer of the candle was captured in the lens of his eye. His breathing was ragged in his chest and the abbot wrinkled his nose at the sour smell of it.

  He whispered something; a name perhaps, but it was unintelligible.

  “William,” the abbot murmured, “I can hear your confession now.”

  “My confession?”

  “You will be absolved of all sin and this night you shall see our Bles
séd Savior.”

  William smiled, a ghastly grin that chilled the abbot to his soul. William who had come to them in such mystery, would leave them now in the same manner. “Water.”

  The abbot lifted his head and moistened his lips from a wooden bowl. So cold in here. William’s breath rose to the ceiling in a thin vapor, like a spirit leaving the body.

  “The Blesséd Savior will not see me.”

  “You must make your confession,” the abbot repeated, anxious now that it be done before the soul was taken.

  “I see the Devil. He warms the brands for me.”

  The abbot felt a thrill of dread along his spine at his invocation of the Beast. “You have lived a holy life. What do you have to fear from Beelzebub?”

  William raised a hand from the bed, touched the sleeve of the abbot’s robe. “Come closer,” he said. “Come closer and I shall tell you ... precisely ... what I have to fear.”

  Fergana Valley

  in the Chaghadai Khanate of the Tatar

  the Year of the Sheep, 1259 AD

  SHE HAD ALWAYS DREAMED she could fly.

  She imagined that the earth was laid before her, as in the eye of an eagle, could feel the updrafts of the valley in the sweep of a wing, could believe for that moment that no silver bond tied her to the earth

  Khutelun reined in her horse, turned her face to the north wind, the cold burning her cheeks. The snow peaks on the Roof of the World had turned a glacial blue in the late afternoon sun. Below her, in the valley, the black yurts of her tribe huddled like thieves on the brown valley. Nothing stirred on the plain. She was alone up here, alone with the great silence of the steppes.