The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins
The cacique smiled grimly. “If the Tezcucan is guilty, so is Malinche,” he said. “Is it well to tell him what you know?”
“Yes. He will then be careful; at least, he will not be deceived.”
“Be it so,” said Cuitlahua, taking the ring. “I will bring you his answer; then—”
“Well?”
“Bear with me, O king. The subject I now wish to speak of is a tender one, though I know not why. To win the good-will of the Tezcucan, was not Guatamozin, our nephew, banished the city?”
“Well?”
“Now that the Tezcucan is lost, why should not the ’tzin return? He is a happy man, O my brother, who discovers an enemy; happier is he who, at the same time, discovers a friend.”
Montezuma studied the cacique’s face, then, with his eyes upon the ground, walked on. Cuitlahua went with him. Past the great trees, under the gray moss, up the hill to the summit, and along the summit to the verge of the rocky bluff, they went. At the king’s side, when he stopped, was a porphyritic rock, bearing, in bas-relief, his own image, and that of his father. Below him, westwardly, spread the placid lake; above it, the setting sun; in its midst, a fair child on a fair mother’s breast, Tenochtitlan.
“See! a canoe goes swiftly round yon chinampa; now it outstrips its neighbors, and turns this way. How the slaves bend to the paddles! My laggards at last!”
The king, while speaking, rubbed his hands gleefully. For the time, Cuitlahua and his question were forgotten.
“The lord Hualpa has company,” observed the brother, quietly.
“Yes. Io’.”
Another spell of silence, during which both watched the canoe.
“Come, let us to the palace. Lingering here is useless.” And with another look to the city and lake, and a last one at the speeding vessel, yet too far off to be identified, the king finally turned away. And Guatamozin was still an exile.
Tecalco and Acatlan, the queens, and Tula, and their attendants, sitting on the azoteas of the ancient house, taking the air of the declining day, arose to salute the monarch and his brother. The latter took the hand of each, saying, “The gods of our fathers be good to you.” Tula’s forehead he touched with his lips. His countenance, like his figure and nature, Indian in type, softened somewhat under her glance. He knew her sorrow, and in sympathy thought of the ’tzin, and of the petition in his behalf, as yet unanswered.
“All are not here, one is absent,—Nenetzin. Where is she? I may not sleep well without hearing her laugh once more.”
Acatlan said, “You are very good, my lord, to remember my child. She chose to remain below.”
“She is not sick, I hope.”
“Not sick, yet not well.”
“Ah! the trouble is of the mind, perhaps. How old is she now.”
“Old enough to be in love, if that is your meaning.”
Cuitlahua smiled. “That is not a sickness, but a happiness; so, at least, the minstrels say.”
“What ails Nenetzin?” asked the king.
Acatlan cast down her eyes, and hesitated.
“Speak! What ails her?”
“I hardly know. She hardly knows herself,” the queen answered. “If I am to believe what she tells me, the lord Cuitlahua is right; she is in love.”
“With Tula, I suppose,” said the king, laughing.
“Would it were! She says her lover is called Tonatiah. Much I fear, however, that what she thinks love is really a delusion, wrought by magic. She is not herself. When did Malinche go to the temple?”
“Four days ago,” the king replied.
“Well, the teule met her there, and spoke to her, and gave her a present. Since that, like a child, she has done little else than play with the trinket.”
Montezuma became interested. He seated himself, and asked, “You said the spell proceeds from the present: why do you think so?”
“The giver said the gift was a symbol of his religion, and whoever wore it became of his faith, and belonged to his god.”
“Mictlan!” muttered Cuitlahua.
“Strange! what is the thing?” the king persisted.
“Something of unknown metal, white, like silver, about a hand in length, and attached to a chain.”
“Of unknown metal,—a symbol of religion! Where is the marvel now?”
“Around the child’s neck, where I believe it has been since she came from the temple. Once she allowed me to see if I could tell what the metal was, but only for a moment, and then her eyes never quit me. She sits hours by herself, with the bauble clasped in both hands, and sighs, and mopes, and has no interest in what used to please her most.”
The king mused awhile. The power of the strangers was very great; what if the gift was the secret of the power?
“Go, Acatlan,” he said, “and call Nenetzin. See that she brings the charm with her.”
Then he arose, and began moodily to walk. Cuitlahua talked with Tecalco and Tula. The hour was very pleasant. The sun, lingering above the horizon, poured a flood of brilliance upon the hill and palace, and over the flowers, trailing vines, and dwarfed palm and banana trees, with which the azoteas was provided.
Upon the return of the queen with Nenetzin, the king resumed his seat. The girl knelt before him, her face very pale, her eyes full of tears. So lately a child, scarce a woman, yet so weighted with womanly griefs, the father could not view her except with compassion; so he raised her, and, holding her hand, said, “What is this I hear, Nenetzin? Yesterday I was thinking of sending you to school. Nowadays lovers are very exacting; they require of their sweethearts knowledge as well as beauty; but you outrun my plans, you have a lover already. Is it so?”
Nenetzin looked down, blushing.
“And no common lover either,” continued the king. “Not a ’tzin, or a cacique, or a governor; not a lord or a prince,—a god! Brave child!”
Still Nenetzin was silent.
“You cannot call your lover by name, nor speak to him in his language; nor can he speak to you in yours. Talking by signs must be tedious for the uses of love, which I understand to be but another name for impatience; yet you are far advanced; you have seen your beloved, talked with him, and received—what?”
Nenetzin clasped the iron cross upon her breast firmly,—not as a good Catholic, seeking its protection; for she would have laid the same hands on Alvarado rather than Christ,—and for the first time she looked in the questioner’s face straight and fearlessly. A moment he regarded her; in the moment his smile faded away; and for her it came never again—never.
“Give me what you have there,” he said sternly, extending his hand.
“It is but a simple present,” she said, holding back.
“No, it has to do with religion, and that not of our fathers.”
“It is mine,” she persisted, and the queen mother turned pale at sight of her firmness.
“The child is bewitched,” interposed Cuitlahua.
“And for that I should have the symbol. Obey me, or—”
Awed by the look, now dark with anger, Nenetzin took the chain from her neck, and put the cross in his hand. “There! I pray you, return them to me.”
Now, the cross, as a religious symbol, was not new to the monarch; in Cozumel it was an object of worship; in Tabasco it had been reverenced for ages as emblematic of the God of Rain; in Palenque, the Palmyra of the New World, it is sculptured on the fadeless walls, and a child held up to adore it (in the same picture) proves its holy character; it was not new to the heathen king; but the cross of Christ was; and singularly enough, he received the latter for the first time with no thought of saving virtues, but as a problem in metallurgy.
“To-morrow I will send the trinkets to the jewellers,” he said, after close examination. “They shall try them in the fire. Strange, indeed, if, in all my dominions, they do not find whereof they are made.”
He was about to pass the symbol to Maxtla, when a messenger came up, and announced the lord Hualpa and the prince Io’. Instantly, the cross, and Nenetzin, and her tears and troubles, vanished out of his mind.
CHAPTER VII
THE CHRISTIANS IN THE TOILS
“Let the azoteas be cleared of all but my family. You, my brother, will remain.”
So saying, the king arose, and began walking again. As he did so, the cross slipped from his fingers, and fell, ringing sharply upon the roof. Nenetzin sprang forward and picked the symbol up.
“Now, call the messengers.”
When the chief was gone, the monarch stepped to Cuitlahua, and, laying a hand upon his arm, said, “At last, O brother, at last! The time so long prayed for is come. The enemy is in the snare, and he is mine. So the god of our fathers has promised. The messengers bring me his permission to make war.”
“At last! Praised be Huitzil’!” exclaimed Cuitlahua, with upraised hands and eyes.
“Praised be Huitzil’!” cried Tula, with equal fervor.
“Malinche began his march to Tenochtitlan against my order, which, for a purpose, I afterwards changed to invitation. Since that, my people, my army, the lords, the pabas, the Empire, have upbraided me for weakness. I only bided my time, and the assent of Huitzil’. And the result? The palace of Axaya’ shall be the tomb of the insolent strangers.”
As he spoke, the monarch’s bosom swelled with the old warrior spirit.
“You would have had me go meet Malinche, and in the open field array my people to be trodden down by his beasts of war. Now, ours is the advantage. We will shut him in with walls of men as well as of houses. Over them he may ride, but the first bridge will be the end of his journey; it will be raised. Mictlan take our legions, if they cannot conquer him at last!”
He laughed scornfully.
“In the temples are seventy thousand fighting men, gathered unknown to all but Tlalac. They are tired of their prison, and cry for freedom and battle. Two other measures taken, and the war begins,—only two. Malinche has no stores; he is dependent upon me for to-morrow’s bread. What if I say, not a grain of corn, not a mouthful of meat shall pass his palace gate? As to the other step,—what if I bid you raise the bridges? What then? His beasts must starve; so must his people, unless they can fly. Let him use his engines of fire; the material he serves them with cannot last always, so that want will silence them also. The measures depend on my word, which, by the blessing of Huitzil’, I will speak, and”—
“When?” asked Cuitlahua, earnestly.
“To-morrow—”
“The day,—O my kingly brother!—the day will be memorable in Anahuac forever!”
The monarch’s eyes flashed with evil fire. “It shall be so. Part of the invaders will not content me; none shall escape,—not one! In the world shall not one be left!”
All present listened eagerly. Nenetzin alone gave no sign of feeling, though she heard every word.
The couriers now appeared. Over their uniforms was the inevitable nequen. Instead of helms, they wore broad bands, ornamented with plumes and brilliants. At their backs hung their shields. The prince, proud and happy, kissed his mother’s hand, and nodded to the sisters. Hualpa went to the king, and knelt in salute.
“I have been waiting since noon,” said Montezuma, coldly.
“We pray your pardon, O king, good master. The fault was not ours. Since yesterday at noon we have not ate or drank or slept; neither have we been out of the great temple, except to embark and come here, which was with all possible speed.”
“It is well. Arise! What says the god?”
Every ear was strained to hear.
“We followed your orders in all things, O king. In the temple we found the teotuctli, and the pabas of the city, with many from Tezcuco and Cholula.”
“Saw you Mualox, of the old Cû of Quetzal’?”
“Mualox was not there.”
The king waved his hand.
“We presented ourselves to the teotuctli, and gave him your message; in proof of our authority, we showed him the signet, which we now return.”
The seal was taken in silence.
“In presence, then, of all the pabas, the sacrifices were begun. I counted the victims,—nine hundred in all. The afternoon and night, and to-day, to the time of our departure, the service lasted. The sound of prayer from the holy men was unintermitted and loud. I looked once to the palace of Axaya’, and saw the azoteas crowded with the strangers and their Tlascalans.”
The king and the lord Cuitlahua exchanged glances of satisfaction.
“At last the labors of the teotuctli were rewarded. I saw him tear a heart from a victim’s breast, and study the signs; then, with a loud cry, he ran and flung the heart into the fire before the altar of Huitzil’; and all there joined in the cry, which was of rejoicing, and washed their hands in the blood. The holy man then came to me, and said, ‘Say to Montezuma, the wise king, that Huitzil’, the Supreme God, has answered, and bids him begin the war. Say to him, also, to be of cheer; for the land shall be delivered from the strangers, and the strangers shall be delivered to him, in trust for the god.’ Then he stood in the door of the sanctuary, and made proclamation of the divine will. And that was all, O king.”
“To Huitzil’ be the praise!” exclaimed the king, piously.
“And to Montezuma the glory!” said Cuitlahua.
And the queens and Tula kissed the monarch’s hand, and at his feet Io’ knelt, and laid his shield, saying,—
“A favor, O king, a favor!”
“Well.”
“Let not my years be counted, but give me a warrior’s part in the sacred war.”
And Cuitlahua went to the suppliant, and laid a hand upon his head, and said, his massive features glowing with honest pride, “It was well spoken, O my brother, well spoken. The blood and spirit of our race will survive us. I, the oldest, rejoice, and, with the youngest, pray; give us each to do a warrior’s part.”
Brighter grew the monarch’s eyes.
“Your will be done,” he said to Io’. “Arise!” Then looking toward the sun, he added, with majestic fervor, “The inspiration is from you, O holy gods! strengthen it, I pray, and help him in the way he would go.” A moment after, he turned to Cuitlahua, “My brother, have your wish also. I give you the command. You have my signet already. To-morrow the drum of Huitzil’ will be beaten. At the sound, let the bridges next the palace of Axaya’ on all the causeways be taken up. Close the market to-night. Supplies for one day more Malinche may have, and that is all. Around the teocallis, in hearing of a shell, are ten thousand warriors; take them, and, after the beating of the drum, see that the strangers come not out of the palace, and that nothing goes through its gates for them. But until the signal, let there be friendship and perfect peace. And”—he looked around slowly and solemnly—“what I have here spoken is between ourselves and the gods.”
And Cuitlahua knelt and kissed his hand, in token of loyalty.
While the scene was passing, as the only one present not of the royal family, Hualpa stood by, with downcast eyes; and as he listened to the brave words of the king, involving so much of weal or woe to the realm, he wondered at the fortune which had brought him such rich confidence, not as the slow result of years of service, but, as it were, in a day. Suddenly, the monarch turned to him.
“Thanks are not enough, lord Hualpa, for the report you bring. As a messenger between me and the mighty Huitzil’, you shall have reason to rejoice with us. Lands and rank you have, and a palace; now,”—a smile broke through his seriousness,—“now I will give you a wife. Here she is.” And to the amazement of all, he pointed to Nenetzin. “A wild bird, by the Sun! What say you, lord Hualpa? Is she not beautiful? Yet,” he became grave in an instant, “I warn you that she is self-willed, and spoiled, and now suffers from a distemper which she fancies to be love. I warn you, lest one of the enemy, of whom we were but now talking, lure her from you, as he seems to have lured her from us and our gods. To save her, and place her in good keeping, as well as to bestow a proper reward, I will give her to you for wife.”
Tecalco looked at Acatlan, who governed her feelings well; possibly she was satisfied, for the waywardness of the girl had, of late, caused her anxiety, while, if not a prince, like Cacama, Hualpa was young, brave, handsome, ennobled, and, as the proposal itself proved, on the high road to princely honors. Tula openly rejoiced; so did Io’. The lord Cuitlahua was indifferent; his new command, and the prospects of the morrow, so absorbed him that a betrothal or a wedding was a trifle. As for Hualpa, it was as if the flowery land of the Aztec heaven had opened around him. He was speechless; but in the step half taken, his flushed face, his quick breathing, Nenetzin read all he could have said, and more; and so he waited a sign from her,—a sign, though but a glance or a motion of the lip or hand. And she gave him a smile,—not like that the bold Spaniard received on the temple, nor warm, as if prompted by the loving soul,—a smile, witnessed by all present, and by all accepted as her expression of assent.
“I will give her to you for wife,” the monarch repeated, slowly and distinctly. “This is the betrothal; the wedding shall be when the war is over, when not a white-faced stranger is left in all my domain.”
While yet he spoke, Nenetzin ran to her mother, and hid her face in her bosom.
“Listen further, lord Hualpa,” said the king. “In the great business of to-morrow I give you a part. At daylight return to the temple, and remain there in the turret where hangs the drum of Huitzil’. Io’ will come to you about noon, with my command; then, if such be its effect, with your own hand give the signal for which the lord Cuitlahua will be waiting. Strike so as to be heard by the city, and by the cities on the shores of the lake. Afterwards, with Io’, go to the lord Cuitlahua. Here is the signet again. The teotuctli may want proof of your authority.”
Hualpa, kneeling to receive the seal, kissed the monarch’s hand.
“And now,” the latter said, addressing himself to Cuitlahua, “the interview is ended. You have much to do. Go. The gods keep you.”
Hualpa, at last released, went and paid homage to his betrothed, and was made still more happy by her words, and the congratulations of the queens.
Tula alone lingered at the king’s side, her large eyes fixed appealingly on his face.
“What now, Tula?” he asked, tenderly.
And she answered, “You have need, O king and good father, of faithful, loving warriors. I know of one. He should be here, but is not. Of to-morrow, its braveries and sacrifices, the minstrels will sing for ages to come; and the burden of their songs will be how nobly the people fought, and died, and conquered for you. Shall the opportunity be for all but him? Do not so wrong yourself, be not so cruel to—to me,” she said, clasping her hands.
His look of tenderness vanished, and he walked away, and from the parapet of the azoteas gazed long and fixedly, apparently observing the day dying in the west, or the royal gardens that stretched out of sight from the base of the castled hill.
She waited expectantly, but no answer came,—none ever came.
And when, directly, she joined the group about Nenetzin and Hualpa, and leaned confidingly upon Io’, she little thought that his was the shadow darkening her love; that the dreamy monarch, looking forward to the succession, saw, in the far future, a struggle for the crown between the prince and the ’tzin; that for the former hope there was not, except in what might now be done; and that yet there was not hope, if the opportunities of war were as open to the one as to the other. So the exile continued.
CHAPTER VIII
THE IRON CROSS COMES BACK TO ITS GIVER
Admitting that the intent with which the Spaniards came to Tenochtitlan took from them the sanctity accorded by Christians to guests, and at the same time justified any measure in prevention,—a subject belonging to the casuist rather than the teller of a story,—their situation has now become so perilous, and possibly so interesting to my sympathetic reader, that he may be anxious to enter the old palace, and see what they are doing.
The dull report of the evening gun had long since spent itself over the lake, and along the gardened shores. So, too, mass had been said in the chapel, newly improvised, and very limited for such high ceremony; yet, as Father Bartolomé observed, roomy enough for prayer and penitence. Nor had the usual precautions against surprise been omitted; on the contrary, extra devices in that way had been resorted to; the guards had been doubled; the horses stood caparisoned; by the guns at the gates low fires were burning, to light, in an instant, the matches of the gunners; and at intervals, under cover of the walls, lay or lounged detachments of both Christians and Tlascalans, apparently told off for battle. A yell without or a shot within, and the palace would bristle with defenders. A careful captain was Cortes.
In his room, once the audience-chamber of the kings, paced the stout conquistador. He was alone, and, as usual, in armor, except of the head and hands. On a table were his helm, iron gloves, and battle-axe, fair to view, as was the chamber, in the cheerful, ruddy light of a brazen lamp. As he walked, he used his sword for staff; and its clang, joined to the sharp concussion of the sollerets smiting the tessellated floor at each step, gave notice in the adjoining chamber, and out in the patio, that the general—or, as he was more familiarly called, the Señor Hernan—was awake and uncommonly restless. After a while the curtains of the doorway parted, and Father Bartolomé entered without challenge. The good man was clad in a cassock of black serge, much frayed, and girt to the waist by a leathern belt, to which hung an ivory cross, and a string of amber beads. At sight of him, Cortes halted, and, leaning on his sword, said, “Bring thy bones here, father; or, if such womanly habit suit thee better, rest them on the settle yonder. Anyhow, thou’rt welcome. I assure thee of the fact in advance of thy report.”
“Thank thee, Señor,” he replied. “The cross, as thou mayst have heard, is proverbially heavy; but its weight is to the spirit, not the body, like the iron with which thou keep’st thyself so constantly clothed. I will come and stand by thee, especially as my words must be few, and to our own ears.”
He went near, and continued in a low voice, and rapidly, “A deputation, appointed to confer with thee, is now coming. I sounded the men. I told them our condition; how we are enclosed in the city, dependent upon an inconstant king for bread, without hope of succor, without a road of retreat. Following thy direction, I drew the picture darkly. Very soon they began asking, ‘What think’st thou ought to be done?’ As agreed between us, I suggested the seizure of Montezuma. They adopted the idea instantly; and, that no consideration like personal affection for the king may influence thee to reject the proposal, the deputation cometh, with Diaz del Castillo at the head.”
A gleam of humor twinkled in Cortes’s eyes.
“Art sure they do not suspect me as the author of the scheme?”
“They will urge it earnestly as their own, and support it with arguments which”—the father paused a moment—“I am sure thou wilt find irresistible.”
Cortes raised himself from the sword, and indulged a laugh while he crossed the room and returned.
“I thank thee, father,” he said, resuming his habitual gravity. “So men are managed; nothing more simple, if we do but know how. The project hath been in my mind since we left Tlascala; but, as thou know’st, I feared it might be made of account against me with our imperial master. Now, it cometh back as business of urgency to the army, to which men think I cannot say nay. Let them come; I am ready.”
He began walking again, thumping the floor with his sword, while Olmedo took possession of a bench by the table. Presently, there was heard at the door the sound of many feet, which you may be sure were not those of slippered damsels; for, at the bidding of Cortes, twelve soldiers came in, followed by several officers, and after them yet other soldiers. The general went to the table and seated himself. They ranged themselves about him, standing.
And for a time the chamber went back to its primitive use; but what were the audiences of Axaya’ compared with this? Here was no painted cotton, or feather-work gaudy with the spoils of humming-birds and parrots: in their stead, the gleam and lustre blent with the brown of iron. One such Christian warrior was worth a hundred heathen chiefs. So thought Cortes, as he glanced at the faces before him, bearded, mustachioed, and shaded down to the eyes by well-worn morions.
