The Goldsmith's Daughter Read online

  He said no more. It was treason to do so. We could neither of us doubt the judgement of our emperor. But as we continued my heart quaked with misgivings. I felt exposed, sick to the very core of my being with the thought of what these men might do to me if I were discovered. My decision was foolish beyond belief! I had made a grave error in coming here.

  Trembling with fear, I followed the noble to the slaves’ quarters. He led me to the selfsame place where I had worked beside my father. But no screens now marked off the area where I was to labour. Instead the workspace was bordered by gold: ornaments, jewellery, shields and breastplates all heaped high. There were ancient Mixtec pieces of such exquisite craftsmanship that they stole the breath from me. I was walled in with treasure.

  As I stood astonished at the wealth so casually stacked about me, there was a deafening bark. The slobbering hound by whom I had been so disgustingly licked on the causeway leapt at me and I recoiled, nearly falling into a pile of gold. But a sharp word of command recalled the beast and it sat, tail thrashing across the tiles, grinning up at me with its savage teeth. When I looked to see who had saved me, my stomach lurched.

  Staring at me from across the courtyard was the youth with curling hair.

  Although the youth had gazed with fascination at the girl on the causeway, to the boy before him he barely gave a glance. Indifference was written on his face. A brief nod of greeting was all I received before he turned his attention back to the dog at his side.

  It was from Axcahuah that I learnt the reason for his presence.

  “As your master has informed you, our lord emperor commands a statue to be made in honour of our guests’ gods. This man has been sent by their leader to oversee your work. He will tell you what the figure is to represent.”

  “How, my lord?” I asked. “Who is to interpret?”

  “He speaks our tongue,” Axcahuah replied.“I will go now. If there is anything you require, send a slave to me with word.”

  “I will, my lord.” I bowed my head respectfully, and watched as he withdrew. I was left alone with the stranger.

  For several pounding heartbeats I stood with my back to him, looking in the direction the nobleman had gone. I lacked the courage to turn and face him. My tongue seemed fixed to the roof of my mouth; my palms sweated; my skin was suffused with sudden heat; my blood rushed not with fear but with an emotion that alarmed me much more. Only when he spoke, smoothly and in my own language, did I recall my purpose.

  “Come, let us begin,” he said. “We have a task to achieve, have we not? My leader, Cortés, is anxious to see the piece. He is not famed for his patience.”

  “No more is mine.” I swung round. Crushing my resolve into a ball that sat hard beneath my ribs, I said, “You must tell me what I am to make. Which of your gods is to be honoured?”

  He did not answer me at once, but took the wooden idols I had seen carried aloft across the causeway from a large chest and set them down before me. Putting my mind firmly to the task, ignoring his close proximity as well as I could, I knelt to examine them.

  “We worship the one true god,” he said. “The creator of all.”

  “Only one god?” I echoed, eyebrows raised as I surveyed the figures. At random I picked up the carving of the man who carried a small child upon his shoulder. “Is this your creator god?”

  “No … that is a saint. A holy man. St Christopher is his name. He protects travellers such as ourselves.”

  “But he is not a god?”

  “No.”

  I pulled towards me another figure – that of the man fixed to a cross. His beautiful face was contorted with pain, his hands and feet pierced with knives that pinned him to the wood. In his side was a wound from which gushed blood.

  “That is Jesus,” the youth informed me. “He is the son of god.”

  I looked at the loveliness of that anguished face. He was like Tezcatlipoca. “He is divine… And yet he takes the form of a man?”

  “He is a man – was a man. He lived here on earth. But he is also divine. Now he is in paradise.”

  “But why does he suffer like this? Was he given in sacrifice?”

  “He was killed. For our sins. And thus was born our faith.”

  “In the blood of sacrifice,” I muttered to myself. “As was ours. Perhaps our gods are different in name alone.” I frowned, struggling to understand. “If Jesus is divine, you must have two gods: father and son. They cannot be one.”

  “They are one. There is a trinity, three in one: father, son, holy spirit.” He held his hands up in apology and sighed. “I am sorry. I have not yet sufficient words of your tongue to explain these holy mysteries!”

  “No matter. Tell me which of these figures I am to make, and I shall begin.”

  He leant towards me and pulled the form of the dying man from my hands, replacing it with that of the woman draped in blue. In her arms she held an infant boy.

  “This is the madonna,” he explained. “The virgin Mary, the mother of god. It is to her our leader most often prays. It is by her grace that we are here. By her favour our two worlds have met.”

  I was puzzled. This woman was surely the goddess from whose body the earth had been moulded. Here our faiths did not diverge. But why then had he said the creator god was male? “She is the creator?” I asked. “The origin of all?”

  “No.”

  I frowned. “Then the baby? He is the one true god you speak of?”

  “He is Jesus.”

  “Jesus? Who was sacrificed? She is his mother?”

  He nodded.

  “Then why do you call her the mother of god? Is she not rather his lover?”

  The youth threw his head back and laughed. “You tie me in knots! I cannot explain. I am no priest.”

  I could not share his laughter; he made me feel stupid and awkward. Embarrassed, I said quietly, “If this woman is the one whom my emperor wishes to honour, I will do his bidding. I shall copy this in gold.”

  Rising from the ground, I began to gather the materials I needed. But he had not finished.

  “You find my faith strange,” he said. “To me yours is equally puzzling. Such an array of gods! And all so fearsome!”

  I was stung by his mockery. “Our gods are good to us,” I replied. “They bring us rain. They make the maize grow.”

  “And for that they demand the blood of your people!”

  My temper stirred. “Without it the sun cannot rise!”

  He said nothing, but the arch of his eyebrows incensed me.

  “It is necessary!” I told him. “Do you think we would do these things if it were not? Do you think sacrifice is easy?”

  He gave a caustic laugh. “I am sure it is hard to watch,” he said. “Yet it is harder still for those that must be put to the knife.”

  Sudden fury made me reckless. “To die in this way is a great honour! There is constant rivalry amongst the young men. They compete for such a privilege…”

  He looked at me assessingly. “Is it an honour you have sought?”

  “No! Of course not!” I spat. “How could I—?” In my rage I had almost told him I was a girl! Swiftly I covered my error with more ill-chosen words. “The young men go willingly, joyfully.”

  The youth snorted in disbelief.

  “It is true!” I shouted. “My own brother is to be honoured in this way. We delight in it! At the spring festival he will—”

  I could not continue. Emotion choked my throat; grief contorted my face. I could not disguise it. The youth stared, his eyes piercing mine for long, slow heartbeats until he had read the truth in them and my soul lay bare before him.

  “Your brother does not go willingly,” he said quietly.

  “I did not say that.”

  “You did not need to.”

  My eyes blurred with tears. He turned away from me, giving his attention to the dog, and for that I was grateful.

  I feared to draw the notice of the god by speaking further. Struggling to compose myself, I re
asoned that this alone was why my fingers trembled and my blood rushed so noisily in my ears. It had no connection whatsoever to this youth – this heathen! – who had seen so clearly what I had long kept hidden in my heart.

  I had felt the gods’ presence when I had made the figures for our emperor. They had directed my fingers and filled my soul with the knowledge and skill to create that which did them due honour.

  It was not so now. I had been abandoned.

  I mixed charcoal with clay, and under the watchful eye of the youth started to craft the statue’s core. The pressure of his stare made my fingers clumsy and talentless. As the long day wore on, my shoulders ached under the burden; my neck became stiff with tension; a throbbing pain drummed at my temples.

  At noon a slave girl brought us food. I carried mine to the far corner of the courtyard and ate alone. I did not glance at him. Not once. I feared that if I took just one look at those lake-blue eyes I would be unable to pull my gaze away. And so I studied the tiles. The carved pillars. The Mixtec gold. The strangers’ statues of their gods. My eyes roamed anywhere, everywhere, but never towards him. And yet I knew everything that he did; awareness of his movements seeped through my skin. I felt him sample each dish, and pick out morsels for the dog that sat beside him. Knew he smiled when he tasted the foaming chocolate. And when he stretched out in the shade and began to doze, my whole body seemed weakened by an intense, unfamiliar longing.

  Only when his breath deepened and slowed did I turn to look at him. Hungrily I consumed every detail: how his hair glinted gold where the sun caught it; how the dark lashes curved against his cheek; how he alone amongst his countrymen kept his pale skin scrubbed clean.

  He stirred. Swiftly, I snatched my gaze away and forced my attention back to my task.

  At last I finished the core, but not to my satisfaction. Glancing from it to the wooden figurine, I saw I had misjudged the proportions. If I continued and set wax upon it, my finished statue would be a distortion of the original. The goddess would have elongated limbs, a bloated face. And as for the baby in her arms – it looked more like a demon than an infant!

  In anger I pushed it to the ground, crushing the clay beneath my palms until it was flattened. A day’s work was ruined in an instant.

  The youth spoke. “You were not content?” he asked.

  “I was not.” Rubbing my temples, I glared at the wooden woman. I had never before struggled with my art. To lose my skill now, at such a time! Tears threatened to spill from my eyes. “I have no understanding of this goddess!” I exclaimed. “My heart does not tell my fingers what to do.”

  “Will you let me help you?”

  “You?”

  “I was a goldsmith in my own land.”

  Astonishment made my mouth gape. He smiled at my expression. “Do not be surprised. The men of my race have their trades too.”

  “Then why have I been called here? Can you not craft such a figure?”

  “No. Not alone. I was an apprentice only.” He sighed. “Truly I thought my master was a craftsman until I came to this land. The work I have seen here makes my hands feel heavy as a baker’s kneading dough. I have no knowledge of your methods. And yet I can help you, if you will permit me. I understand how the virgin should look.” He glanced at the mess of charcoal and clay that lay on the tiles.

  “Not like that,” I said.

  “No. You are right to try again. But the light is fading. At dawn you can begin once more. And – with your consent – I will assist you.”

  I made no protest. The emperor’s wrath hung on the horizon like a gathering storm. I did not wish to bring it closer. If I had to work alongside this youth, I would do so. But I would not talk to him. I could not. He was my enemy! How many of my race had he slaughtered at Cholula? I had to quell the turmoil within.

  I had been provided with a warm cloak for bedding. Wrapping myself in it, I sat upright, jaw clenched shut, upon a mat. I had thought he would return to the other men now the work was done for the day, but he did not. Instead he lay, head resting on the broad flank of his dog, and began to speak.

  “Are you not curious to know where I come from?” he asked.

  “No,” I lied.

  “Will you have no conversation with me?”

  “The emperor does not commission me to talk.”

  He laughed. “Very well,” he said. “I see you are determined. You need not reply. Cover your ears if you must, but I wish to speak. I am called Francisco. Do you have a name?”

  My treacherous heart seized gladly upon this knowledge, but I gave no answer.

  “I shall call you the silent goldsmith, then. I come from across the sea.”

  I could not help exclaiming. “But how is that possible? At the horizon the sea falls into nothing.”

  “It does not! There are other lands beyond the horizon. More than you can dream of. I come from a land we call Spain; it is another country. Hot, like this. With many towns and cities.”

  I was snared, like a bird in a net. My curiosity could not be contained. “Like Tenochtitlán?” I asked.

  “No!” he replied. “Dear god, no. I can truly say that there is no city in the world so large or so beautiful as Tenochtitlán. It humbles even Venice.”

  “Venice?”

  “A city famed for its beauty. Built on water, like this one. But nothing like so big, or so beautiful. Or so clean!”

  “And your country … it has an emperor?”

  “Yes. He is Charles, the fifth emperor of Spain. A mighty ruler who governs many people and many lands.”

  I was perplexed. “How can it be that we had never heard of him?”

  Francisco turned onto his side, propping his head on a hand as he answered, “No more had we Spaniards heard of you. We first found this land just a few years ago. We thought it to be a group of islands. It was not until later that we realized it was a great continent. We too are mightily surprised by what we find. You are as new to me as I to you.”

  There was a pause while we studied each other. He looked at me with the frank openness of one boy talking to another. Yet I could not hold his gaze. I felt uncomfortably hot, yet in the next instant was so cold that my skin prickled with bumps.

  To mask my sudden shivering, I asked, “How do you know my language?”

  “The journey here took many long months. I listened well. I was considered a fair scholar in my own country; it was not so hard to learn.”

  I could not resist the temptation to puncture the pride in his voice. “And yet your knowledge has many gaps, for you have learnt from men and warriors.”

  “What gaps?”

  “You know what to call the food that is set before you when you eat, but do you know the words for the corn it is ground from? The stone used to crush it?”

  “But these are women’s matters, are they not? From whom would I learn them?”

  I changed the conversation’s direction at once. “Why do you come here? Is it true that you are sick? That you have a disease of the heart for which you seek a remedy?”

  Francisco laughed, but the sound was harsh and contained no trace of mirth. “The tale has travelled before us,” he replied, and his voice was suddenly sharp. “Yes… You could well say we are sick men.”

  In the gathering darkness I watched for his reaction to my next words. “They say that gold gives you the cure. Can it really be so?”

  Francisco rolled onto his back, a hand pressed to his chest as if to ease a pain there, and looked up at the stars. “If greed is a sickness, then yes, we are all afflicted by it. We are rotten to the core; riddled with disease. Our leader more than any. But believe me, my silent goldsmith, gold does not cure it. It is like drinking salt water: no man is satiated by it. The more he has, the more he needs; the more his mind runs mad with desire for it.” His voice then dropped so low, I strained to catch his words.

  “It will be the death of us.”

  Our work began at first light. I had lost an entire day’s labour, and we wer
e both aware of the urgency of the task. Mixing fresh clay and charcoal, I started to shape the new core.

  Francisco said little. His mood had darkened overnight and he had no desire for idle chatter. When we spoke it was of the statue and nothing else. He did not touch it, but made many comments: “The head is too large; you must remove some for the chin” or “Her arm must curve more.” Each remark helped me see more clearly the shape of the figure I was striving for. By the time the slave girl brought our noonday meal the core was completed.

  There was nothing more to be done until the clay had hardened sufficiently to take the wax. Working beside Francisco, as I had done all morning, had roused my desire to know more of his country. Of him. Try as I might, I could not douse it. This time it was I who began to talk.

  Looking at the huge dog at his side, I recalled the tales of the creatures who ripped out warriors’ throats in battle. Was this animal truly one of them? Would it soon be set upon the men of my own city?

  “Your beast,” I said. “Has it killed many men?”

  Francisco laughed loudly. “No!” He fondled the dog’s ears with affection. “She is a hunting dog, not one of war. And she is a coward, though she looks so fearsome.”

  “She is yours?”

  “She has become mine. I found her in the forest when we first came to this land. We were sent ashore for fresh water. The expedition that was there the year before had left her behind.” He chuckled. “She scared me half to death! The sailors had been telling fearful tales of dog warriors who live in the jungle. When she leapt at me out of the bushes I thought my end had come! I fled back to the ship screaming like a simpleton.”

  “The ship? What is that?”

  “A vessel. Like your canoes but much larger. With sails – great cloaks – that catch the wind and drive it across the ocean.”

  “Like a temple on the water?”

  “A what? Oh – a pyramid. Yes, I suppose so.”

  “I see.”

  “I was running across the beach towards the ship when she caught up with me, knocked me to the ground and licked me. I thought the sailors would soil themselves with laughing. She was so glad to be found! She has been my companion ever since.”