The Goldsmith's Daughter (18 page)

We did not know we were followed.

My father was so inflamed with anger that he did not glance behind. Only when we reached the doorway of our home did he stop, for Francisco had called out to him.

“Sir! My gracious and noble most esteemed lord chief emperor!” He rolled every courteous form of address he could muster into one ludicrous sentence. Francisco spoke my language well, but emotion – and fear of my father – rendered him inarticulate. Yet none could doubt the sincerity in his voice.

“Hear me. Please, I beg of you, let me speak.”

My father turned to face him. He did not even look at me, but gave me a small push towards the house. “Get inside. Now. Before you are seen by our neighbours.”

I did his bidding, running swiftly in. With haste I climbed to the roof, where I hoped to hear what was said. I was in time to see Francisco bow respectfully to my father.

He did his best, but he had few of the words he needed to plead his case. Haltingly he said, “Your daughter … she is very…” He groped for a word, and could only find one that was used for fine feather wares. “She is very resplendent.”

“Resplendent?”

Francisco tried again. “She is … golden.”

“Golden?” If such a thing were possible, my father's voice grew colder still.

Francisco remained undaunted. “She is very valuable to me.”

My father frowned. “To me also,” he said. “Which is why I will protect her honour.”

“Sir, I wish her no injury.”

“I saw the look you gave her. You burn with desire!”

“Sir, believe me, I mean her no dishonour. I would like your daughter to be my…”

I prayed he would find the right word. But he had learnt our tongue from Tlaxcalan warriors. Soldiers. Slaves. He knew not the formal language of courtship. Of love. The word he finally used could not have been more wrong.

“Sir,” he announced to my father and the whole listening neighbourhood, “I would wish your daughter to be my … my whore.”

“Is that so?” My father's tone was calm. Dangerously so. He approached Francisco, arms outstretched as if to welcome him with an embrace. Francisco did likewise, a nervous smile flickering across his lips.

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.

M
y 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.

W
hether 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.