The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins

“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 - Bernal Diaz, Hist. of the Conq. of Mexico.] 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 - Ib.]

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 - Bernal Diaz, Hist. of the Conq. of Mexico.]

And over what a following of cavaliers the leader looked when, turning in his saddle, he now and then glanced down the column,—Christobal de Oli, Juan Velasquez de Leon, Francisco de Montejo, Luis Marin, Andreas de Tapia, Alonzo de Avila, Francisco de Lugo, the Manjarezes, Andreas and Gregorio, Diego de Ordas, Francisco de Morla, Christobal de Olea, Gonzalo de Dominguez, Rodriques Magarino, Alonzo Hernandez Carrero,—most of them gentlemen of the class who knew the songs of Rodrigo, and the stories of Amadis and the Paladins!

And much shame would there be to me if I omitted mention of two others,—Bernal Diaz del Castillo, who, after the conquest, became its faithful historian, and Father Bartolomé de Olmedo,[44 - Ib.] sweet singer, good man, and devoted servant of God, the first to whisper the names of Christ and the Holy Mother in the ear of New Spain. In the column behind the cavaliers, with his assistant, Juan de las Varillas, he rode bareheaded, and clad simply in a black serge gown. The tinkle of the little silver bell, which the soldiers, in token of love, had tied to the neck of his mule, sounded, amid the harsher notes of war, like a gentle reminder of shepherds and grazing flocks in peaceful pastures near Old World homes.

After the holy men, in care of a chosen guard of honor, the flag of Spain was carried; and then came the artillery, drawn by slaves; next, in close order, followed the cross-bowmen and arquebusiers, the latter with their matches lighted. Rearward still, in savage pomp and pride, strode the two thousand Tlascalans, first of their race to bear shield and fly banner along the causeway into Tenochtitlan. And so the Christians, in order of battle, but scarcely four hundred strong, marched into a capital of full three hundred thousand inhabitants, swollen by the innumerable multitudes of the valley.

As they drew nigh the city, the cavaliers became silent and thoughtful. With astonishment, which none of them sought to conceal, they gazed at the white walls and crowded houses, and, with sharpened visions, traced against the sky the outlines of temples and temple-towers, more numerous than those of papal Rome. Well they knew that the story of what they saw so magnificently before them would be received with incredulity in all the courts of Christendom. Indeed, some of the humbler soldiers marched convinced that all they beheld was a magical delusion. Not so Cortes.

“Ride on, gentlemen, ride on!” he said. “There is a question I would ask of a good man behind us. I will rejoin you shortly.”

From the artillerists he singled a soldier.

“Martin Lopez! Martin Lopez!”

The man came to him.

“Martin, look out on this lake. Beareth it resemblance to the blue bays on the southern shore of old Spain? As thou art a crafty sailor, comrade mine, look carefully.”

Lopez raised his morion, and, leaning on his pike, glanced over the expanse.

“Señor, the water is fair enough, and, for that, looks like bayous I have seen without coming so far; but I doubt if a two-decker could float on it long enough for Father Olmedo to say mass for our souls in peril.”

“Peril! Plague take thee, man! Before the hour of vespers, by the Blessed Lady, whose image thou wearest, this lake, yon city, its master, and all thou seest here, not excepting the common spawn of idolatry at our feet, shall be the property of our sovereign lord. But, Martin Lopez, thou hast hauled sail and tacked ship in less room than this. What say’st thou to sailing a brigantine here?”

The sailor’s spirit rose; he looked over the lake again.

“It might be done, it might be done!”