The Goldsmith's Daughter Page 13

  And then my father – master craftsman, man of peace – balled both hands into fists and struck Francisco in the belly so hard that he doubled over and fell to the ground. I gasped and turned, thinking to intervene. If I hastened down the steps I could stand between them. But Mayatl blocked my way, laying a restraining hand upon my arm.

  “Leave them. You do enough damage returning home dressed as a youth! Let us hope no one has recognized you. Do not compound your foolishness by joining in with a brawl in the street. Change your clothes. Say nothing.”

  She had never spoken to me this angrily. And yet it was sound advice. I would do well to heed it. My father came in and went straight to his workshop without a word; I knew better than to follow. Quietly I put on my women’s clothes and went with Mayatl, working beside her all that day, and the many long days that followed. A frigid tranquillity descended upon our house. For, though I had saved him from the emperor’s wrath and his certain death, my father could not bring himself to speak to me.

  My father would not even allow me to venture as far as the market. I chained myself to the loom; there was nothing else I could do to occupy my hands and mind. There I proceeded to weave a cloth of such spectacular incompetence that Mayatl clucked her tongue in despair.

  From her I learnt the news she had gleaned from the gossips in the square. We spoke softly lest we attract the disapproval of my father, but it was hard not to exclaim aloud when she told me of what had happened the day I returned from the palace.

  I had seen the power the Spanish leader had over our emperor. And yet it seemed that Cortés himself was not content and wished to strengthen his grip upon our city further.

  Montezuma had been compelled to summon all the lords of the elite. I could confirm the truth of this rumour to Mayatl, for I had seen them gathering with my own eyes. They had been made to kneel before Cortés and swear loyalty to the Spanish throne.

  To understand this ceremony was impossible. Mayatl and I tried, but could make no sense of such a thing. It was an incomprehensible ritual. There had been no war, nor had there been any declaration of one. None of the formalities necessary before a battle had been carried out. Montezuma would surely not allow it! And yet the rumour ran that Cortés had declared we were conquered; that this Spanish emperor whom we had never seen and could not even imagine was now our ruler!

  “With no fight?” I exclaimed. “No bloodshed? How could we be defeated in such a way?”

  It was so outrageously implausible that it should have been comical, and yet what Mayatl said next wiped any mirth from my mind.

  The noblemen had been ordered to give over their wives and children into the keeping of the Spanish. It was a strange bondage, done under the guise of genial hospitality, yet no one could doubt that these innocents were prisoners within the palace, although they wore no chains. And when the families of our nobility had been taken, our emperor had made no sound of protest.

  It was a time of uneasy, uncomfortable peace. It was accepted knowledge that Montezuma was hostage, not host, to the Spanish. And yet he was treated well by them. He went about the city in the company of their leader. The men I had seen cutting willows on the shore had fashioned them into pleasure boats in which Montezuma and Cortés could be seen bobbing upon the lake. They appeared to converse and exchange jests while the citizens of Tenochtitlán – who were no longer afraid to look upon the emperor’s person – watched, sucking their teeth in disapproval.

  But in all truth I must confess that I paid less heed to the manoeuvres of the great and powerful than I did to the silent conflict that raged in my own home.

  My father moved about the house like a ghost. He watched me constantly, lest I try to slip away, but said nothing. He did not work, but instead sat, stiff with unspoken wretchedness. Even had he wished to craft anything, he could not. There was no gold to be had in Tlaltelolco. Anything of worth was in the hands of the Spanish leader.

  My father’s eyes had become deep, accusing pools. I hated to cause him so much anguish. Yet my remorse and regret were not equal to the desire I felt for Francisco. It ached in my throat; it tightened like a band across my chest, making each breath pained; it flamed within and could not be quenched. And though it cut my father to the quick, I could not let the matter rest, nor yield to his will without a fight.

  When ten days had passed – days of such length they had seemed eternal – I took my courage in both hands and approached my father. In the courtyard where I had first scratched the image of Tezcatlipoca I bowed low, touching my forehead to the ground before my father as if he were the emperor.

  “Forgive me, Father. I am sorry.”

  He grunted sceptically. “You are not. You burn for him. I see it in your eyes.”

  Carefully I answered, “I am sorry for the pain I cause you, Father. But you are right. I do not regret the time I spent in Francisco’s company.”

  “I wish only to keep you safe,” he said, shaking his head. “You see what these men are! And yet you throw yourself in the path of danger. What demon inspires you to such folly?”

  “He has done me no harm.”

  “Itacate, he wants you for his whore!”

  “He does not!”

  “He said as much. Why else would I strike him?”

  “He mistook the word, Father. He does not speak our tongue as well as he would wish.”

  “Itacate, you know what is done at the palace. You have seen it with your own eyes. The emperor is held there like an errant child. To buy the favour of his captors, our lord has given his women as gifts. His own nieces – his own daughters! You think they are there to roll tortillas?”

  I lowered my head. I had seen how the strangers treated women, but knew Francisco was as repelled as I by their behaviour. “I can only say that this man is different from the others. He has not ill-treated me. And I—” A rising sob stoppered my throat. I could speak no more.

  My father muttered bitterly, “I should have paid more heed to the priests at your birth. Had I kept you confined to the house, this would not have happened. I should never have let you cross the threshold of my workshop. Never put gold in your hands for you to fashion.” Heaving a great sigh, he then spat vehemently, “The gods have taken one child from me. I will not let them take another! Daughter, do you not see the peril that shadows the path you tread? Do you willingly stride into disaster? These are our enemies, Itacate. You cannot mix with them without causing great harm to yourself. And if you will not consider yourself, think of those around you. Do you not see the damage you will do? You must forget him.”

  I made no reply. Crouching before me, my father put his hand under my chin and raised my face to his.

  “I see in your eyes that you are not persuaded.” He dropped his hand and looked up to the heavens. “The gods must be laughing at me. How have I offended them to get such a stubborn child?”

  Softly I said, “When you first saw my mother—”

  “Do not bring her into this!” The violence of his reaction shocked me and I drew back, flinching. “It is not the same,” he said hotly.

  My own temper rose to meet his. “It is.”

  “She was of my own city: my own race. By all the gods, I would rather give you as mistress to a Tlaxcalan than see you as whore to this heathen!”

  “I cannot choose whom I love! You of all people should understand. It is not some cloth that I can fold and put away simply because you bid me to.”

  “This is mere fancy. You are a child, you do not know what you speak of.”

  “I am the age my mother was when you met her. She knew her own mind, did she not?”

  My father paled. In a cracked whisper he said, “She did. And look what fate came to her.” He was still for a moment, his face growing more gentle as he remembered. But then, recalling himself, he told me with renewed fervour, “You are to forget this man. I forbid you to see him. That is the end of it.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You must. You will. You are not to be
seen in the company of a Spaniard! It will bring disaster to us all. It is my command.”

  I stood and faced him. I was chilled. Fearful. But I could say nothing else. “Then I must disobey you.”

  My father stared at me, disbelieving. Then, through clenched teeth, in a voice low with menace he spoke. “I have never struck you, child. Do not tempt me to do so now.”

  I matched his threat with one of my own. “You put aside your parents to follow your heart. Will you make me do the same?”

  I had pushed him too far. My gentle father raised his arm and dealt me a blow across the face. Then he turned and went from the courtyard, walking away into the street. And I, shocked and heartsore, curled up in a corner of the empty workshop and wept.

  Whether I truly would have had the courage to disobey my father, I do not know. Two days later, when I had scarce recovered from the shock of his blow, I heard a screaming cry in the street. It was answered by another, followed by a surge of panicked voices as neighbours stepped outside to see what was the cause.

  I was trapped within my loom but Mayatl was on the rooftop tending to our hives. She called down to the people below, “What is the matter? What has happened?”

  Several shouts came back.

  “The gods!”

  “They are stealing our gods!”

  “From the temple!”

  “They are taking our idols!”

  Hearing these calls, my father hurried from his workshop towards me. “Do you know anything of this?” he asked.

  Blankly I shook my head. “We did not speak of it.”

  Suddenly our own troubles were engulfed and rendered small and insignificant. The whole district was hastening to the temple precinct in blind terror; we were powerless to resist the flow. When my father stepped from the house he was swallowed up in the crowd. As soon as Mayatl had freed me from my loom we likewise joined the throng.

  It was not the Spanish who took our gods away, but our own priests. The emperor gave the command but, with Cortés standing tall at his side, we knew who had placed the words in his mouth.

  While we – a hushed, fearful assembly – fixed our terrified eyes on the principal temple at the heart of Tenochtitlán, the idols were removed. People paled at the sight, weeping softly, trembling, moaning and crying aloud to the gods for forgiveness. For this great act of sacrilege would undoubtedly bring punishment. Gently, carefully, with ropes and matting they were lowered down the stone steps. Huitzilopochtli, god of war. Tlaloc, who brings the rain. Tezcatlipoca.

  The terracotta figure stared at me as it was laid, ungainly, on its side, and I stared back, mouth hanging open in wordless remorse.

  The idols were carried away to secret places where I knew the priests would continue to let their own blood before them. How long this would keep the gods’ wrath at bay, no one could tell. Some went swiftly to the other temples of the city to utter reverent prayers, for there were many altars in Tenochtitlán, many idols and many priests. Surely, people whispered to each other, while these remained, the sun could not be in danger?

  I stood, unable to move, watching aghast as the temple steps were whitewashed. But the blood of ancient sacrifice could not so easily be wiped away, and it seeped through the white, staining it dull brown so that none could forget the temple’s purpose.

  The idols were gone. In their stead the foreigners placed their own gods. Black-skirted holy men bore figures towards the shrines: the man on the cross; the saint who carried a child upon his shoulder. And at their head – glinting on top of the temple pyramid for the whole city to see – was set the golden madonna.

  She had seemed so large, so magnificent, in the palace courtyard. Up there she looked small. Unimpressive. Alien. She had no power in Tenochtitlán.

  I was weak with shock at the insult given to our gods. Sick with the knowledge of what my own hands had done.

  While I remained frozen and immobile, the Spanish holy men conducted their own ritual. Crossed wooden poles were erected at the foot of the temple steps, and before this the gathered soldiers knelt.

  For a moment, my spirit leapt to see that Francisco was amongst them. He was so close! I fought the desperate longing to go to him. I could not! Not in the sunlit square. Not openly. Our desire, it seemed, was a shameful thing, fit only for the dark hours of night. Sensing my presence, he turned to look at me. Our eyes met, and I read in them both love and sadness. He glanced guiltily towards the golden madonna, and shame clenched my stomach in its cold fist so tightly that I covered my face and could not look at him again.

  The Spanish holy men walked between the ranks, placing a morsel of food in each mouth, proffering each man a drink from a silver vessel. None in our city had ever seen such a ceremony, and there was much speculation as to its meaning. The words spoken were translated and whispered from mouth to mouth. It was said the strangers were eating the body of their god, and drinking his blood. Every brow was drawn into deep, perplexed furrows as we strove to comprehend the strange horror of this barbaric rite.

  When they had finished, the Spanish force returned to the palace. They moved as one tightly pressed body and Francisco was carried with them, unable to break free. I watched as the great doors were shut between us. Only then could I find the strength to direct my feet homewards. I walked slowly, numb with misery. All about me, others did the same.

  So deep was the city’s distress, so many were the rumblings of profound unease, that the Spanish leader stayed his hand awhile. For the length of that day and the days that followed, Cortés left the city’s many temples in peace. Impassioned prayers rang aloud from the tops of pyramids and much blood flowed as sacrifices were made to appease the deities we had so dishonoured.

  Yet we waited for his next move, knowing some outrage would soon follow and that the gods we had offended would do nothing to save us. And all the while, the golden madonna glinted on the temple pyramid, a dreadful reminder of my own part in the catastrophe that was to come.

  Tales hatched and bred as fast as flies in summer. It was said that Tezcatlipoca walked the city streets breathing fear into every heart. That Huitzilopochtli, god of war, had abandoned our warriors in favour of the Tlaxcalans. That Tlaloc would withhold the rains and make the harvest fail. We would go hungry. Thirsty. We would be enslaved. Slaughtered.

  We would perish.

  And then it was whispered that Cortés intended something more dreadful than anyone had dreamt of: he would put an end to sacrifice.

  It was a neighbour who brought word of it to us, entering our house as we were beginning our noonday meal and casting his words upon the floor, where they thudded, heavy as stones. Mayatl’s shock was so great that she dropped her vessel of crushed tomatoes, and a red stain spread across the tiles of our kitchen.

  “It cannot be true!” protested my father. “He cannot do this!”

  “And yet they say he will.”

  It was Mayatl who spoke the words that lay in all our hearts. “But how shall the sun rise?”

  Our neighbour was unable to answer. He went on his way, spreading terror throughout our district until the air of Tlaltelolco was rank with it.

  We finished our meal in silence, each of us knowing that we faced something worse than the end of our city, the end of our empire. We faced the end of the fifth age – the destruction of the earth itself.

  And yet in the face of the cataclysm glimmered a small fragment of hope.

  My father and I had not spoken of Mitotiqui since he had become the living god, for fear that Tezcatlipoca would hear and be angered. We did not breathe my brother’s name now. And yet I knew what was in my father’s mind when he called me to his workshop after our meal.

  He had seen Mitotiqui’s face when he was taken; he had understood its meaning as well as I. He too was haunted by his look. But if sacrifice were ended, Mitotiqui – unwilling as we thought he was – might be saved.

  “Do you think there is truth in this last rumour?” he asked softly.

  “Truly,
I know nothing, Father. When I was at the palace we did not speak of this.”

  My father paced restlessly about the floor. He could not be still. Wringing his hands, he turned to me suddenly and said, “I must know. My curiosity writhes like a serpent within; it cannot be contained. I am loath for you to do it, but you have the means to find out. Tomorrow, at dawn, go to the palace. Find the youth of whom you are so fond. He alone can tell us what is to happen.”

  I slept little that night. Fear. Desire. Excitement. Dread. All spun in my mind like a whirlwind and would give me no rest.

  In the darkness before dawn I dressed in the guise of a boy once more, for I dared not walk there in my own clothes. When the sun rose above the horizon, I slipped from the house.

  I approached the palace, wondering how I would gain entry. But the guard who stood at the gates recognized me.

  “Are you here again, boy? Did you leave something behind?”

  “Yes,” I replied with relief. “Some tools. May I collect them?”

  At his command, the wooden barriers swung open and I walked inside.

  I had only ever passed through the palace on the heels of Axcahuah. Without him to guide me it was harder to find the way, and I trod with nervous trepidation, trying to avoid the notice of the rowdy Spaniards. But at last I smelt the familiar scent of a charcoal burner. The tang of melting gold.

  Stepping boldly now, I followed the smell until I came to the courtyard at the rear of the palace.

  What I saw could not have shocked me more.

  The courtyard was still filled with gold; strange solid slabs like the mud bricks of a farmer’s hut were neatly stacked along one wall. But there were few fine ornaments, and what remained were heaped carelessly about the tiled floor. Some were broken into pieces. The gleaming jaguars that had reposed either side of the emperor’s staircase were here, lying on their backs, their cleverly crafted feet clawing at the empty air. Their heads had been hacked off and their emerald eyes prised out, leaving dull, blind sockets. The silver monkeys dangled no more from their gleaming trees but were brought to ground as if by a violent earthquake.