The Goldsmith's Daughter Page 8

  My father made no reply.

  It was his task to finish it: setting the obsidian in the god’s hand and removing the sprues which stuck up from the holes into which we had poured the gold. When all this was done he began rubbing the figure to a bright, lustrous sheen.

  While my father polished, I laboured to complete the second statue.

  In two days more, Quetzalcoatl was likewise finished. It was time to present our work to the emperor.

  My father sent a slave to fetch Axcahuah. When the nobleman appeared, he made no comment, but simply summoned slaves to carry the weighty figures. Hidden from view beneath draped cloths, they were borne through the palace towards the emperor, and towards our fate.

  As we approached the steps leading to the emperor’s chamber, I began to shake. I held the basket of goods I had brought from the market; it seemed a long time ago that we had come here. If all went well, we could return home. If not…

  While I had worked, the craft had taken all of my attention. But now I felt dread: my father’s life – my life – hung by a thread. If these objects were not approved, then death was certain.

  We were preparing to enter the throne room, sinking to our knees, when I heard a voice ringing out in anger. Axcahuah paused, uncertain of what to do. I could hear the words quite clearly. We all could.

  “You say Quetzalcoatl; yet he says Tezcatlipoca. And now you disagree with both of them! You tell me that he who leads these strangers is merely a man! Why can you not all agree?”

  It was the emperor – no other man could speak with such command. And yet his voice was not the rich, melodious one that we had heard previously. Fury – or fear – made him shrill.

  I heard no replies, but someone must have answered, for the emperor spoke again.

  “You all chatter until my head rings, but none of you says anything worth hearing! You are advisers. Why do you not advise? Why can none of you tell me what to do? Be gone!”

  A commotion followed, and swiftly one, two, three noblemen appeared from behind the screen, their faces flushed and anxious. Axcahuah looked as though he was going to lead us away; it did not seem a propitious moment to approach the emperor.

  But then Montezuma called out, “Axcahuah! Where are you? Where is the goldsmith?” and the screen was removed. We had no choice but to edge towards the throne.

  When the slaves had set the statues on the floor and retreated from the chamber, my father shuffled towards the first one and pulled away the cloth that covered it.

  Axcahuah spoke for him. “My lord,” he said, his voice tight with apprehension, “the work is finished. I hope it finds your favour.”

  There was silence for a long time, broken only by the sound of the emperor’s soft sandals padding like a stalking jaguar around the figure of the god.

  Then he asked curtly, “The other? Let me see that of Quetzalcoatl.”

  On his knees my father approached the second statue and pulled away the covering cloth.

  The same silence. The same menacing tread of feet circling.

  And then at last the emperor expelled a sigh, though whether of exasperation or contentment I could not tell. My insides shrivelled to a tight knot. Metal cords seemed to bind my chest, making breathing pained and hard.

  After a long time he said, “The work is excellent.”

  Relief rose in me so strongly that I seemed to float to the ceiling.

  “Axcahuah, see this man is well rewarded. Give him rich cloths, cloaks, cotton, cocoa beans. Clothes for himself and his family. See he is well supplied with food. He must want for nothing.”

  We were released.

  We entered the temple precinct together, my father’s hand clasped unsteadily upon my shoulder. Halfway across he began to shake so violently that he was compelled to sit down; and there, under the full gaze of every passer-by, he wept. I stood in front of him, trying to shield him as best I could.

  “I have never been so afraid, Itacate! You are your mother, born again. I could not bear—”

  He said no more. Sobs tore his throat, making him incapable of speech. I saw then that my father’s reserved detachment in the early years of our childhood had not come from indifference as my brother and I had always supposed. It was not that he cared for us too little, but that he feared for us too much. I stood watching his tears spill, coursing down his cheeks, and felt a pricking at the back of my own eyes. For, had it come sooner, what difference might this knowledge have made to Mitotiqui?

  My father calmed himself, and at last we reached a canoe. Heavily laden with tokens of the emperor’s favour, we continued our journey home.

  As we entered the house, Mayatl clucked over us like an excited chicken. We could tell her nothing, and she had sense enough not to question us. But our unexplained absence had terrified her, and her hands trembled as she laid simple food on mats before us. In my great relief to be home, it tasted more delicious to me than any of the spiced delicacies the palace cooks had conjured up for us.

  Creating the figures, I had been kept so busy I had not had time to dwell on the meaning of our lord’s tears, or wonder why we had been forced to work in such secrecy. But in the safety of my father’s workshop I turned my attention to these questions.

  Our life on earth is controlled by two calendars: the temporal and the sacred. The temporal calendar, which governs the turn of seasons and the farmers’ year, runs for three hundred and sixty-five days; the sacred, which dictates the round of rites and festivals, for two hundred and sixty. Only once in every fifty-two years do these two calendars conjoin. When they do, it brings to a close the bundle of years. Then – if the gods wish it – a new cycle commences with feasting and celebration; temples are faced with new stone; houses are painted or rebuilt. It is a time of fresh beginnings, of new life, of great optimism.

  And if the gods do not wish it? What then?

  The bundle of years was currently drawing to an end. In exactly one hundred days the calendars would collide.

  I began to suspect that the ill omens of the past years had not been single events, but parts of a larger whole. The night fire in the sky; the burning of temples; the weeping woman; the fireball; the flood… And now the rumours ran that strangers had come to the distant eastern shore.

  Our lord emperor was a learned man, as well able to study and interpret the sacred calendar and heavenly portents as any priest. Had he seen the shape of what was to come? Why had he spoken so loudly of Tezcatlipoca? Of Quetzalcoatl? Why – from all the many gods – had he compelled me to fashion these two?

  An ancient legend stirred in my mind. Together Tezcatlipoca and Quetzalcoatl had created this world, ripping apart the body of the earth goddess to separate land from sky. Quetzalcoatl had then made mankind to dwell upon it. But he had been tricked by Tezcatlipoca, and the people he had created had then turned upon him and shamed him into leaving. Long ago Quetzalcoatl had vanished into the eastern sea – but not before he had promised to return. And not before he had vowed vengeance on the people of the city who had betrayed him. He would one day come back to Tenochtitlán. With him would come suffering. Without mercy. Without relief.

  Without end.

  Suddenly weak with fear, I thought I began to see the direction the emperor’s mind had taken. This tale was more than an ancient legend; it was a prophecy. Was it soon to be fulfilled? The strangers who had come… Was Quetzalcoatl even now standing on the eastern shore? The figures I had made… Would they be sent as gifts to him?

  I put my fingers to my throat to quell my rising panic. It could not be so! The work of my hands sent to a god? It was not possible!

  But even as I dismissed my thoughts as insane delusions, new questions burst forth. Would the god know who had made the statues? Could they delay Quetzalcoatl’s vengeance? Or would they only serve further to inflame his wrath?

  The palace was a vast complex, peopled with many nobles and slaves. Though he strove to contain the secrets his messengers carried within those walls, the emper
or could not do so, any more than he could force the gods to do his bidding. Rumours began to leak from the court like water from a cracked jar. It was said that the strangers had turned their faces inland and were journeying towards Tenochtitlán. Whispered reports pooled like puddles in the streets; anyone who walked outside could not avoid treading in them.

  We did not need to work. My father and I had been so spectacularly paid by the emperor that we had no need to do anything. But without occupation, my thoughts lingered on Mitotiqui. His absence was a constant sorrow, an endless dull pain that penetrated to my core. The house seemed to echo with emptiness now he was gone, and in thinking of what was to become of him I felt I would run mad with woe.

  And so I urged my father to let me accompany him to the market, where he might purchase stones. By setting myself a task, I thought I could better bear my distress.

  He chose not to buy from Popotl, wishing to keep far from his curious stares, but the trader came in pursuit of us when we approached another merchant.

  “Oquitchli!” he said, slapping my father between his shoulders. “I feared for you when you left so hastily. Is all well?”

  “Yes,” replied my father. “All is well, I thank you.” He said no more and turned away, but Popotl was not so easily deterred.

  “The nobleman – Axcahuah I think is his name? He had a commission for you?”

  My father gave a dismissive shrug. “A trinket, that was all. Some small piece with which to adorn his favourite wife.”

  “Interesting.” Popotl smiled and drew closer. “You have heard the news? You know there is talk of newcomers in this world of ours?”

  “Idle gossip,” declared my father. “I give it no credence. From where on the earth could they come?”

  “But that is the point! Believe me, Oquitchli, the rumours are true. People are saying that those who come are not of this world. They may be immortals. I have lately been at my home in Cholula. I saw the emperor’s messengers with my own eyes journeying east, carrying splendid gifts to them.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Indeed. They sought to evade notice, but it is hard to conceal offerings of such magnitude.” Popotl gave a small sigh. “Strange! Two of the pieces looked remarkably like your own. At least, like the work you have done lately. I do not recall your craftsmanship was always so fine.” I felt his eyes upon me and burned hot with the fear of what he seemed to know. He gave a loud laugh. “But there! My eyes are not what they were. I must have been mistaken.”

  My father replied coldly, “You were.”

  Popotl continued, “The strangers – are you not curious to know from where they come? In Cholula they are already celebrating. They believe it to be Quetzalcoatl himself, for has not legend long foretold he would return? The people of my city believe the god comes to free them from the emperor’s mighty fist. No wonder Montezuma seeks to buy their favour. How he must quake to know a god is coming to wrest the throne from him!”

  My father said nothing, for what reply could he possibly give? This news was so startling to him that he was rendered speechless.

  But hearing it, I felt a sudden, strange relief. My mind was not running mad with deluded imaginings. I had seen clearly what was to come. The ending of the fifth age; the coming of Quetzalcoatl. I could almost hear the calendars as they ground towards the fateful date…

  Catastrophe lay ahead and we were powerless to prevent it. All we could do was bow our heads and wait.

  In the days that followed, I was too restless to work, either in my father’s workshop or in the kitchen. Dread made me clumsy. When I dropped a bowl of freshly ground corn, spilling it across the floor, Mayatl sent me out of the house.

  “Go. Bathe. Be massaged. The scented oils may soothe you a little.”

  Every dwelling in our city, from the humblest peasant’s hut to the proudest noble’s mansion, had its own bathhouse where its inhabitants could wash daily. In addition, there were the grand public baths – the steam houses – where one could go to be massaged as well as cleansed, with large heated chambers and deep pools of fresh mountain water. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I took Mayatl’s advice. But the news I heard at the bathhouse served only to agitate me further.

  I had entered the steam room, and was sitting stiff and irritable upon one of the long benches, when in came a portly woman, bristling with the importance of a new rumour.

  “Have you heard?” she said, her voice shrill with excitement.

  The other women in the chamber were little interested. They looked at her wearily, expecting some trifling tale of a domestic mishap. When she continued she had the great satisfaction of seeing their jaws drop open in amazement.

  “There has been a battle!” she announced with relish.

  “A battle? Impossible! It is not the season for war!” A woman in the corner dismissed her words in scathing tones.

  “Season or not,” she persisted, “this force of strangers has fought the Otomi.”

  “The Otomi?” I echoed, astonished. I knew of their reputation. They were a wild, brutal race whose territory lay next to that of the Tlaxcalans. Their women were as savage as their men, walking abroad with blue-painted breasts bared for all to see. The Otomi were said to be unconquerable, ungovernable. Certainly our emperor had always allowed them to do as they wished. “These strangers must be fools indeed if they sought a fight with them!”

  A woman next to me agreed. “Then it is the last we shall hear of these newcomers. They must have perished.”

  The portly one shook her head furiously, cheeks flapping like the wattles of a rooster as her words fell over themselves in her hurry to get them out. “No no no – it was the Otomi who perished. The Otomi who were vanquished. It was the strangers who won.”

  “I heard their numbers were small,” puzzled a girl sitting opposite me. “A few hundred. How can they have beaten the Otomi? That tribe has many thousands of warriors.”

  “They have great magic, it seems. Monstrous dogs that will tear a man’s throat out at their bidding. An instrument that will kill ten men with one blow, scattering their limbs to the wind. Sticks that will slay across such a distance that a warrior has no chance even to raise his cudgel against an opponent. How can any fight against such unnatural force?”

  The steam chamber seemed suddenly to cool. Every woman sat, arms wrapped around her body, as if seized with cold. There was silence for a while, and then the girl who faced me across the room said quietly, “They are gods, then.”

  The rooster-cheeked woman was unnerved. She pulled her head back, and then thrust it forward again. “Perhaps,” she conceded.

  “Quetzalcoatl,” said the girl. “It can be no other.”

  “I know not,” came the response. “But it is said their leader has no taste for sacrifice. That has the sound of Quetzalcoatl, does it not? And if they are merely mortal, they surely have a powerful god behind them. Some deity smooths their path. How else could they conquer the Otomi? Whatever they are, I think we shall soon find out.” She looked about at her fearful audience, timing her next words to cause a sensation. “They have already journeyed far. With each day they come closer. And after their fight with the Otomi, it seems they made an alliance with Tlaxcala. They have their support.”

  A series of gasps rippled around the chamber. The Tlaxcalans were our ancient foe. Each year the blood of their warriors was spilt on our altars. But now this old enemy had a new and mighty friend…

  “What will they do?” I asked softly.

  “Who can say? These are peculiar days. But all know the Tlaxcalans have long wanted to rise up against our emperor. If they have the opportunity to do so, they will surely take it.”

  “They will come here.”

  “They will,” declared the woman. “Only the gods can protect us.”

  The rumours gripped Tenochtitlán, and when it became certain that the strangers were both real and approaching with an army of Tlaxcalan warriors, people became frozen with fear. No one
knew what to say or do. The city quaked with dread at what would follow. We were used to the sights of sacrifice: such suffering was necessary. But if so much blood and pain were required to buy the gods’ favour, how much more would be needed now we had lost it?

  Our emperor was carried about in his litter as if bidding farewell to the earthly splendours of Tenochtitlán. Before the will of the gods he bowed his head, as did we all, and waited for the blows of fate to fall.

  Devastating news came on the next market day. Mayatl set forth to trade for vegetables but returned almost at once, her face drained of colour, her eyes wide with shock.

  “Dead!” she gasped. “Slain!” As she entered the kitchen her knees gave way beneath her and she folded onto the tiled floor.

  “Who?” I demanded, panic stripping me of sympathy. Shaking her by the shoulders, I roused her sufficiently to relate the appalling tale.

  It seemed there had been a massacre in a nearby city. The strangers had drawn their weapons on the people of Cholula. Unprovoked. Undeserved. Unarmed.

  Women. Children. Babies.

  Thousands upon thousands of them. Slain without warning. Without mercy.

  Knowledge of this slaughter settled on Tenochtitlán like heavy frost. It chilled every heart and filled every belly with despair. My own insides heaved with distress.

  And with this dreadful event came even greater confusion. I had thought it certain that he who drew ever nearer was Quetzalcoatl. And yet I knew that the people of Cholula venerated this god above all others; they were his favoured ones, his chosen race. It was inconceivable that he would set upon them and slay them within the precinct of his own temple. The strangers had used their weapons not on warriors but on nobles, merchants, traders, craftsmen. And their Tlaxcalan followers had looted and pillaged the city, burning and destroying until its buildings were ash, its avenues choked with rubble.

  With every heartbeat the same questions fluttered inside my head like the wings of a caged bird. It was not Quetzalcoatl … and yet who but a god could do such things? Who but a god could allow this to happen? Had the Cholulans erred in their beliefs? Had they given their devotion to the wrong deity?