The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins
The drinking-chamber, about the close of the third quarter of the night, presented a lively picture. For the convenience of the many patrons, tables from other rooms had been brought in. Some of the older lords were far gone in intoxication; slaves darted to and fro, removing goblets, or bringing them back replenished. A few minstrels found listeners among those who happened to be too stupid to talk, though not too sleepy to drink. Every little while a newcomer would enter, when, if he were from Iztapalapan, a crowd would surround him, allowing neither rest nor refreshment until he had told the things he had seen or heard. Amongst others, Hualpa and Io’ chanced to find their way thither. Maxtla, seated at a table with some friends, including the Chalcan, called them to him; and, as they had attended the banquet of the lord Cuitlahua, they were quickly provided with seats, goblets, and an audience of eager listeners.
“Certainly, my good chief, I have seen Malinche, and passed the afternoon looking at him and his people,” said Hualpa to Maxtla. “It may be that I am too much influenced by the ’tzin to judge them; but, if they are teules, so are we. I longed to try my javelin on them.”
“Was their behavior unseemly?”
“Call it as you please. I was in the train when, after the banquet, the lord Cuitlahua took them to see his gardens. As they strode the walks, and snuffed the flowers, and plucked the fruit; as they moved along the canal with its lining of stone, and stopped to drink at the fountains,—I was made feel that they thought everything, not merely my lord’s property, but my lord himself, belonged to them; they said as much by their looks and actions, by their insolent swagger.”
“Was the ’tzin there?”
“From the azoteas of a temple he saw them enter the city; but he was not at the banquet. I heard a story showing how he would treat the strangers, if he had the power. One of their priests, out with a party, came to the temple where he happened to be, and went up to the tower. In the sanctuary one of them raised his spear and struck the image of the god. The pabas threw up their hands and shrieked; he rushed upon the impious wretch, and carried him to the sacrificial stone, stretched him out, and called to the pabas, ‘Come, the victim is ready!’ When the other teules would have attacked him, he offered to fight them all. The strange priest interfered, and they departed.”
The applause of the bystanders was loud and protracted; when it had somewhat abated, Xoli, whose thoughts, from habit, ran chiefly upon the edibles, said,—
“My lord Cuitlahua is a giver of good suppers. Pray, tell us about the courses—”
“Peace! be still, Chalcan!” cried Maxtla, angrily. “What care we whether Malinche ate wolf-meat or quail?”
Xoli bowed; the lords laughed.
Then a gray-haired cacique behind Io’ asked, “Tell us rather what Malinche said.”
Hualpa shook his head. “The conversation was tedious. Everything was said through an interpreter,—a woman born in the province Painalla; so I paid little attention. I recollect, however, he asked many questions about the great king, and about the Empire, and Tenochtitlan. He said his master, the governor of the universe, had sent him here. He gave much time, also, to explaining his religion. I might have understood him, uncle, but my ears were too full of the rattle of arms.”
“What! Sat they at the table armed?” asked Maxtla.
“All of them; even Malinche.”
“That was not the worst,” said Io’, earnestly. “At the same table my lord Cuitlahua entertained a band of beggarly Tlascalan chiefs. Sooner should my tongue have been torn out!”
The bystanders made haste to approve the sentiment, and for a time it diverted the conversation. Meanwhile, at Hualpa’s order, the goblets were refilled.
“Dares the noble Maxtla,” he then asked, “tell what the king will do?”
“The question is very broad.” And the chief smiled. “What special information does my comrade seek?”
“Can you tell us when Malinche will enter Tenochtitlan?”
“Certainly. Xoli published that in the tianguez before the sun was up.”
“To be sure,” answered the Chalcan. “The lord Maxtla knows the news cost me a bowl of pulque.”
There was much laughter, in which the chief joined. Then he said, gravely,—
“The king has arranged everything. As advised by the gods, Malinche enters Tenochtitlan day after to-morrow. He will leave Iztapalapan at sunrise, and march to the causeway by the lake shore. Cuitlahua, with Cacama, the lord of Tecuba, and others of like importance, will meet him at Xoloc. The king will follow them in state. As to the procession, I will only say it were ill to lose the sight. Such splendor was never seen on the causeway.”
Ordinarily the mention of such a prospect would have kindled the liveliest enthusiasm; for the Aztecs were lovers of spectacles, and never so glad as when the great green banner of the Empire was brought forth to shed its solemn beauty over the legions, and along the storied street of Tenochtitlan. Much, therefore, was Maxtla surprised at the coldness that fell upon the company.
“Ho, friends! One would think the reception not much to your liking,” he said.
“We are the king’s,—dust under his feet,—and it is not for us to murmur,” said a sturdy cacique, first to break the disagreeable silence. “Yet our fathers gave their enemies bolts instead of banquets.”
“Who may disobey the gods?” asked Maxtla.
The argument was not more sententious than unanswerable.
“Well, well!” said Hualpa. “I will get ready. Advise me, good chief: had I better take a canoe?”
“The procession will doubtless be better seen from the lake; but to hear what passes between the king and Malinche, you should be in the train. By the way, will the ’tzin be present?”
“As the king may order,” replied Hualpa.
Maxtla threw back his look, and said with enthusiasm, real or affected, “Much would I like to see and hear him when the Tlascalans come flying their banners into the city! How he will flame with wrath!”
Then Hualpa considerately changed the direction of the discourse.
“Malinche will be a troublesome guest, if only from the number of his following. Will he be lodged in one of the temples?”
“A temple, indeed!” And Maxtla laughed scornfully. “A temple would be fitter lodging for the gods of Mictlan! At Cempoalla, you recollect, the teules threw down the sacred gods, and butchered the pabas at the altars. Lest they should desecrate a holy house here, they are assigned to the old palace of Axaya’. To-morrow the tamanes will put it in order.”
Io’ then asked, “Is it known how long they will stay?”
Maxtla shrugged his shoulders, and drank his pulque.
“Hist!” whistled a cacique. “That is what the king would give half his kingdom to know!”
“And why?” asked the boy, reddening. “Is he not master? Does it not depend upon him?”
“It depends upon no other!” cried Maxtla, dashing his palm upon the table until the goblets danced. “By the holy gods, he has but to speak the word, and these guests will turn to victims!”
And Hualpa, surprised at the display of spirit, seconded the chief: “Brave words, O my lord Maxtla! They give us hope.”
“He will treat them graciously,” Maxtla continued, “because they come by his request; but when he tells them to depart, if they obey not,—if they obey not,—when was his vengeance other than a king’s? Who dares say he cannot, by a word, end this visit?”
“No one!” cried Io’.
“Ay, no one! But the goblets are empty. See! Io’, good prince,”—and Maxtla’s voice changed at once,—“would another draught be too much for us? We drink slowly; one more, only one. And while we drink, we will forget Malinche.”
“Would that were possible!” sighed the boy.
They sent up the goblets, and continued the session until daylight.
CHAPTER VII
MONTEZUMA GOES TO MEET CORTES
Came the eighth of November, which no Spaniard, himself a Conquistador, can ever forget; that day Cortes entered Tenochtitlan.
The morning dawned over Anahuac as sometimes it dawns over the Bay of Naples, bringing an azure haze in which the world seemed set afloat.
“Look you, uncles,” said Montezuma, yet at breakfast, and speaking to his councillors: “they are to go before me, my heralds; and as Malinche is the servant of a king, and used to courtly styles, I would not have them shame me. Admit them with the nequen off. As they will appear before him, let them come to me.”
And thereupon four nobles were ushered in, full-armed, even to the shield. Their helms were of glittering silver; their escaupiles, or tunics of quilted mail, were stained vivid green, and at the neck and borders sparkled with pearls; over their shoulders hung graceful mantles of plumaje, softer than cramoisy velvet; upon their breasts blazed decorations and military insignia; from wrist to elbow, and from knee to sandal-strap, their arms and legs were sheathed in scales of gold. And so, ready for peaceful show or mortal combat,—his heroes and ambassadors,—they bided the monarch’s careful review.
“Health to you, my brothers! and to you, my children!” he said, with satisfaction. “What of the morning? How looks the sun?”
“Like the beginning of a great day, O king, which we pray may end happily for you,” replied Cuitlahua.
“It is the work of Huitzil’; doubt not! I have called you, O my children, to see how well my fame will be maintained. I wish to show Malinche a power and beauty such as he has never seen, unless he come from the Sun itself. Earth has but one valley of Anahuac, one city of Tenochtitlan: so he shall acknowledge. Have you directed his march as I ordered?”
And Cacama replied, “Through the towns and gardens, he is to follow the shore of the lake to the great causeway. By this time he is on the road.”
Then Montezuma’s face flushed; and, lifting his head as it were to look at objects afar off, he said aloud, yet like one talking to himself,—
“He is a lover of gold, and has been heard speak of cities and temples and armies; of his people numberless as the sands. O, if he be a man, with human weaknesses,—if he has hope, or folly of thought, to make him less than a god,—ere the night fall he shall give me reverence. Sign of my power shall he find at every step: cities built upon the waves; temples solid and high as the hills; the lake covered with canoes and gardens; people at his feet, like stalks in the meadow; my warriors; and Tenochtitlan, city of empire! And then, if he greet me with hope or thought of conquest,—then—” He shuddered.
“And then what?” said Cuitlahua, upon whom not a word had been lost.
The thinker, startled, looked at him coldly, saying,—
“I will take council of the gods.”
And for a while he returned to his choclatl. When next he looked up, and spoke, his face was bright and smiling.
“With a train, my children, you are to go in advance of me, and meet Malinche at Xoloc. Embrace him, speak to him honorably, return with him, and I will be at the first bridge outside the city. Cuitlahua and Cacama, be near when he steps forward to salute me. I will lean upon your shoulders. Get you gone now. Remember Anahuac!”
Shortly afterward a train of nobles, magnificently arrayed, issued from the palace, and marched down the great street leading to the Iztapalapan causeway. The house-tops, the porticos, even the roofs and towers of temples, and the pavements and cross-streets, were already occupied by spectators. At the head of the procession strode the four heralds. Silently they marched, in silence the populace received them. The spectacle reminded very old men of the day the great Axaya’ was borne in mournful pomp to Chapultepec. Once only there was a cheer, or, rather, a war-cry from the warriors looking down from the terraces of a temple. So the cortege passed from the city; so, through a continuous lane of men, they moved along the causeway; so they reached the gates of Xoloc, at which the two dikes, one from Iztapalapan, the other from Cojohuaca, intersected each other. There they halted, waiting for Cortes.
And while the train was on the road, out of one of the gates of the royal garden passed a palanquin, borne by four slaves in the king’s livery. The occupants were the princesses Tula and Nenetzin, with Yeteve in attendance. In any of the towns of old Spain there would have been much remark upon the style of carriage, but no denial of their beauty, or that they were Spanish born. The elder sister was thoughtful and anxious; the younger kept constant lookout; the priestess, at their feet, wove the flowers with which they were profusely supplied into ramilletes, and threw them to the passers-by. The slaves, when in the great street, turned to the north.
“Blessed Lady!” cried Yeteve. “Was the like ever seen?”
“What is it?” asked Nenetzin.
“Such a crowd of people!”
Nenetzin looked out again, saying, “I wish I could see a noble or a warrior.”
“That may not be,” said Tula. “The nobles are gone to receive Malinche, the warriors are shut up in the temples.”
“Why so?”
“They may be needed.”
“Ah! was it thought there is such danger? But look, see!” And Nenetzin drew back alarmed, yet laughing.
There was a crash outside, and a loud shout, and the palanquin stopped. Tula drew the curtain quickly, not knowing but that the peril requiring the soldiery was at hand. A vendor of little stone images,—teotls, or household gods,—unable to get out of the way, had been run upon by the slaves, and the pavement sprinkled with the broken heads and legs of the luckless lares. Aside, surveying the wreck, stood the pedler, clad as usual with his class. In his girdle he carried a mallet, significant of his trade. He was uncommonly tall, and of a complexion darker than the lowest slaves. While the commiserate princess observed him, he raised his eyes; a moment he stood uncertain what to do; then he stepped to the palanquin, and from the folds of his tunic drew an image elaborately carved upon the face of an agate.
“The good princess,” he said, bending so low as to hide his face, “did not laugh at the misfortune of her poor slave. She has a friendly heart, and is loved by every artisan in Tenochtitlan. This carving is of a sacred god, who will watch over and bless her, as I now do. If she will take it, I shall be glad.”
“It is very valuable, and maybe you are not rich,” she replied.
“Rich! When it is told that the princess Tula was pleased with a teotl of my carving, I shall have patrons without end. And if it were not so, the recollection will make me rich enough. Will she please me so much?”
She took from her finger a ring set with a jewel that, in any city of Europe, would have bought fifty such cameos, and handed it to him.
“Certainly; but take this from me. I warrant you are a gentle artist.”
The pedler took the gift, and kissed the pavement, and, after the palanquin was gone, picked up such of his wares as were uninjured, and went his way well pleased.
At the gate of the temple of Huitzil’ the three alighted, and made their way to the azoteas. The lofty place was occupied by pabas and citizens, yet a sun-shade of gaudy feather-work was pitched for them close by the eastern verge, overlooking the palace of Axaya’, and commanding the street up which the array was to come. In the area below, encompassed by the Coatapantli, or Wall of Serpents, ten thousand warriors were closely ranked, ready to march at beat of the great drum hanging in the tower. Thus, comfortably situated, the daughters of the king awaited the strangers.
When Montezuma started to meet his guests, the morning was far advanced. A vast audience, in front of his palace, waited to catch a view of his person. Of his policy the mass knew but the little gleaned from a thousand rumors,—enough to fill them with forebodings of evil. Was he going out as king or slave? At last he came, looking their ideal of a child of the Sun, and ready for the scrutiny. Standing in the portal, he received their homage; not one but kissed the ground before him.
He stepped out, and the sun, as if acknowledging his presence, seemed to pour a double glory about him. In the time of despair and overthrow that came, alas! too soon, those who saw him, in that moment of pride, spread his arms in general benediction, remembered his princeliness, and spoke of him ever after in the language of poetry. The tilmatli, looped at the throat, and falling gracefully from his shoulders, was beaded with jewels and precious stones; the long, dark-green plumes in his panache drooped with pearls; his sash was in keeping with the mantle; the thongs of his sandals were edged with gold, and the soles were entirely of gold. Upon his breast, relieved against the rich embroidery of his tunic, symbols of the military orders of the realm literally blazed with gems.
About the royal palanquin, in front of the portal, bareheaded and barefooted, stood its complement of bearers, lords of the first rank, proud of the service. Between the carriage and the doorway a carpet of white cloth was stretched: common dust might not soil his feet. As he stepped out, he was saluted by a roar of attabals and conch-shells. The music warmed his blood; the homage was agreeable to him,—was to his soul what incense is to the gods. He gazed proudly around, and it was easy to see how much he was in love with his own royalty.
Taking his place in the palanquin, the cortege moved slowly down the street. In advance walked stately caciques with wands, clearing the way. The carriers of the canopy, which was separate from the carriage, followed next; and behind them, reverently, and with downcast faces, marched an escort of armed lords indescribably splendid.
The street traversed was the same Malinche was to traverse. Often and again did the subtle monarch look to paves and house-tops, and to the canals and temples. Well he knew the cunning guest would sweep them all, searching for evidences of his power; that nothing would escape examination; that the myriads of spectators, the extent of the city, its position in the lake, and thousands of things not to be written would find places in the calculation inevitable if the visit were with other than peaceful intent.
At a palace near the edge of the city the escort halted to abide the coming.
Soon, from the lake, a sound of music was heard, more plaintive than that of the conchs.
“They are coming, they are coming! The teules are coming!” shouted the people; and every heart, even the king’s, beat quicker. Up the street the cry passed, like a hurly gust of wind.
CHAPTER VIII
THE ENTRY
It is hardly worth while to eulogize the Christians who took part in Cortes’ crusade. History has assumed their commemoration. I may say, however, they were men who had acquired fitness for the task by service in almost every clime. Some had tilted with the Moor under the walls of Granada; some had fought the Islamite on the blue Danube; some had performed the first Atlantic voyage with Columbus; all of them had hunted the Carib in the glades of Hispaniola. It is not enough to describe them as fortune-hunters, credulous, imaginative, tireless; neither is it enough to write them soldiers, bold, skilful, confident, cruel to enemies, gentle to each other. They were characters of the age in which they lived, unseen before, unseen since; knights errant, who believed in hippogriff and dragon, but sought them only in lands of gold; missionaries, who complacently broke the body of the converted that Christ might the sooner receive his soul; palmers of pike and shield, who, in care of the Virgin, followed the morning round the world, assured that Heaven stooped lowest over the most profitable plantations.
The wonders of the way from the coast to Iztapalapan had so beguiled the little host that they took but partial account of its dangers. When, this morning, they stepped upon the causeway, and began the march out into the lake, a sense of insecurity fell upon them, like the shadow of a cloud; back to the land they looked, as to a friend from whom they might be parting forever; and as they proceeded, and the water spread around them, wider, deeper, and up-bearing denser multitudes of people, the enterprise suddenly grew in proportions, and challenged their self-sufficiency; yet, as I have heard them confess, they did not wake to a perfect comprehension of their situation, and its dangers and difficulties, until they passed the gates of Xoloc: then Tenochtitlan shone upon them,—a city of enchantment! And then each one felt that to advance was like marching in the face of death, at the same time each one saw there was no hope except in advance. Every hand grasped closer the weapon with which it was armed, while the ranks were intuitively closed. What most impressed them, they said, was the silence of the people; a word, a shout, a curse, or a battle-cry would have been a relief from the fears and fancies that beset them; as it was, though in the midst of myriad life, they heard only their own tramp, or the clang and rattle of their own arms. As if aware of the influence, and fearful of its effect upon his weaker followers, Cortes spoke to the musicians, and trumpet and clarion burst into a strain which, with beat of drum and clash of cymbal, was heard in the city.
“Ola, Sandoval, Alvarado! Here, at my right and left!” cried Cortes.
They spurred forward at the call.
“Out of the way, dog!” shouted Sandoval, thrusting a naked tamene over the edge of the dike with the butt of his lance.
“By my conscience, Señores,” Cortes said, “I think true Christian in a land of unbelievers never beheld city like this. If it be wrong to the royal good knight, Richard, of England, or that valorous captain, the Flemish Duke Godfrey, may the saints pardon me; but I dare say the walled towns they took, and, for that matter, I care not if you number Antioch and the Holy City of the Sepulchre among them, were not to be put in comparison with this infidel stronghold.”
And as they ride, listening to his comments, let me bring them particularly to view.
They were in full armor, except that Alvarado’s squire carried his helmet for him. In preparation for the entry, their skilful furbishers had well renewed the original lustre of helm, gorget, breastplate, glaive, greave, and shield. The plumes in their crests, like the scarfs across their breasts, had been carefully preserved for such ceremonies. At the saddle-bows hung heavy hammers, better known as battle-axes. Rested upon the iron shoe, and balanced in the right hand, each carried a lance, to which, as the occasion was peaceful, a silken pennon was attached. The horses, opportunely rested in Iztapalapan, and glistening in mail, trod the causeway as if conscious of the terror they inspired.
Cortes, between his favorite captains, rode with lifted visor, smiling and confident. His complexion was bloodless and ashy, a singularity the more noticeable on account of his thin, black beard. The lower lip was seamed with a scar. He was of fine stature, broad-shouldered, and thin, but strong, active, and enduring. His skill in all manner of martial exercises was extraordinary. He conversed in Latin, composed poetry, wrote unexceptionable prose, and, except when in passion, spoke gravely and with well-turned periods.41 In argument he was both dogmatic and convincing, and especially artful in addressing soldiers, of whom, by constitution, mind, will, and courage, he was a natural leader. Now, gay and assured, he managed his steed with as little concern and talked carelessly as a knight returning victorious from some joyous passage of arms.
Gonzalo de Sandoval, not twenty-three years of age, was better looking, having a larger frame and fuller face. His beard was auburn, and curled agreeably to the prevalent fashion. Next to his knightly honor, he loved his beautiful chestnut horse, Motilla.42
Handsomest man of the party, however, was Don Pedro de Alvarado. Generous as a brother to a Christian, he hated a heathen with the fervor of a crusader. And now, in scorn of Aztecan treachery, he was riding unhelmed, his locks, long and yellow, flowing freely over his shoulders. His face was fair as a gentlewoman’s, and neither sun nor weather could alter it. Except in battle, his countenance expressed the friendliest disposition. He cultivated his beard assiduously, training it to fall in ringlets upon his breast,—and there was reason for the weakness, if such it was; yellow as gold, with the help of his fair face and clear blue eyes, it gave him a peculiar expression of sunniness, from which the Aztecs called him Tonitiah, child of the Sun.43
