The Goldsmith's Daughter (2 page)

W
ith the great difference in our fortunes it was small wonder that my love for Mitotiqui was tinged with bitterness. Perhaps it was more surprising that I loved him at all. But love him I did, with a sister's passionate devotion.

In our early years our father was so dazed, so deadened with sorrow at our mother's death, that we rarely approached him. He walked like a ghost through our lives: unseeing, unhearing, unfeeling. He ate; he slept; he worked. That was all. Each morning he went without a word to his workshop, and soon the smell of burning charcoal and melting gold would reach our nostrils. I longed to observe him at his craft – for even then I felt its lure – but never dared ask him. Our house was a silent one; and though we often heard music and cheerful conversation from the homes of our neighbours, our father avoided all contact with them.

We saw my mother's family rarely, for they were peasants; and besides, my grandfather's work was long and hard. He was as firmly fastened to his patch of soil as the willows that bordered his chinampa fields were rooted to the lake floor. Even had we wished to visit him, he would have had little time for us.

Mayatl was efficient. She fed us, bathed us, kept us clean and clothed. But she was our nurse, not our mother. Her duties ended with our bodily needs. Caresses were infrequent, and endearments – if they came – were awkward and uncomfortable.

And so Mitotiqui and I clung to one another, bestowing the affection that would have been our parents' due on each other. He was my companion, my playmate, one half of my soul. We learnt to stand by pushing ourselves up from the floor with hands on each other's shoulders. We took our first faltering steps with arms clasped tight about one another's necks. We learnt to run with fingers interlaced, so we might catch each other if we stumbled. We played in the sunlit courtyard of our home. If Mayatl tired of our noise and grew irritable, we would flee to the chinampa fields.

Here we learnt to swim, launching ourselves across the clear water that divided the cultivated squares. Here, hidden amongst the verdant maize, I felt some relief from the heavy gaze of the gods, for they stared at me constantly: from the eyes of our household idols; from the painted statues carved at the foot of temples; from the murals that adorned the walls of the bathhouse. From every surface in the city they seemed to look with disdain upon this ill-omened child.

Amongst the lushly growing crops we would stare at the distant mountains that framed the lake. From beyond those hills came many merchants: traders of different races who displayed their wares in the marketplace where our parents had met.

“From there comes amber,” Mitotiqui said, pointing east.

“And from there, gold,” I suggested, pointing west.

“From there, jade and turquoise.”

“Obsidian.”

“Cotton.”

“Salt.”

“Slaves.”

“Feathers.”

As small children we often played this game, laughing, spinning, pointing, until we dizzied ourselves with it. Sometimes we fell to inventing all manner of strange, exotic goods and even stranger people who fashioned them.

“Two-headed men live in that direction. Their women lay eggs!”

“Eggs?”

“Yes, eggs! Huge orange ones that they bring to sell in the market. Crack them open and the yolks are deepest blue.”

“Behind that hill live the tree dwellers. They sleep wrapped around branches like serpents, and swallow merchants whole who venture off the path.”

“Beyond that valley live those who are half man, half bird. Their bellies are covered in feathers. They have beaks in place of noses and long tails on their behinds!”

As I became older, I yearned to see the lands that lay over the horizon. I longed to explore the empire to its very limits – to see the salted sea that circled the earth even as the lake circled our city. More, I wished to go beyond, to set forth in a canoe and peer over the edge where the waters met the sky and tumbled into the endless darkness of the underworld below.

But one day I realized that while my brother could, if he wished, see those unknown places and learn their secrets, I could not. I was a girl: the direction of my life would not be mine to choose. Thereafter the game lost its savour. We played it no more.

W
e were perhaps three years old when we first saw our warriors set forth for battle. It was an annual spectacle, but Mayatl had feared to attend when we were smaller lest we be lost in the crowd and crushed underfoot, for it was a ceremony of passionate grandeur which many thousands gathered to watch. My brother and I having grown sufficiently robust, she ventured to take us into the city's great temple precinct to witness the event.

It was the season of war. Each year, the same ritual was conducted, the same formal courtesies observed. Messengers were sent to the neighbouring land of Tlaxcala since this state alone refused to pay tribute to Montezuma, our emperor. They preferred instead this yearly battle, and Montezuma did not object, for our warriors brought many captives home for sacrifice. Full well I knew that the gods must have blood. It was knowledge that came with the first indrawn breath to one born in the Aztec empire. The reasons were many. To feed the sun and give it strength to do nightly battle in the underworld and rise once more. To make the rain fall; the seasons change; the maize grow. The earth gives of her own body to feed us; her own blood is the sweet water that we drink. It is fitting that her sacrifice be repaid. Blood alone delays the coming of the world's calamitous end, and in this season of battle it was the captured Tlaxcalans who would provide it.

Word had been given to their leaders. The ceremonial gifts and tokens had been sent. Accepted. The time was come.

My brother and I woke before sunrise, and lay waiting for the priests to call forth the dawn upon their conch shells. When the first blast came from the city's principal temple it sounded faint, but spreading outwards from temple to temple it became louder until it reached the one in our own district of Tlaltelolco some small distance away. It was soon followed by the tread of bare feet on stone as slaves went into the streets: some to sweep, some to carry food and hot charcoal braziers to the temple priests who would be letting their own blood in reverent ritual to feed the rising sun.

At once Mitotiqui and I leapt from our reed mats and began to dress, falling over ourselves and each other in our haste.

Our house was neither so grand as those of other goldsmiths, nor so plain as the mud-brick peasants' huts that stood facing us across the canal. There were four rooms, stone built, opening onto a large courtyard. My father's chamber gave access to a second, smaller square, at the rear of which stood his workshop.

My brother and I slept in the smallest chamber at that time, as did Mayatl, a reed screen giving her a little privacy. At the sound of our chatter she began to stir, grumbling at our eagerness.

Mayatl took longer to ready herself than we did, for while our childish locks hung loose about our shoulders, she had to braid her tresses in the elaborate manner of older women. Impatiently we waited, hopping restlessly from foot to foot, though we attempted to hold our tongues, for we did not wish to disturb our father. When she was done, we crossed the courtyard together to the kitchen.

Before cooking, before eating, before doing anything, Mayatl knelt low, touching her forehead to the floor in front of the recessed shrine that held our idols. From the sixty deities honoured by our priests in the rites and rituals of the sacred year, the head of each household must choose which he will single out for personal devotion. My father revered Quetzalcoatl, maker of mankind and patron of artists and goldsmiths; Tlaltecuhtli, earth goddess and protector of hearth and home; and Tezcatlipoca, who grants fortune to those he favours, ill luck to those he does not. My father's prayers to Tezcatlipoca were heartfelt pleas to lessen or delay the disaster that the predictions warned I would bring.

Our idols were not moulded from clay or carved from wood but cast in gold by the hand of my father. Their jewelled eyes stared, pressing me to the floor in humble veneration.

When our prayers were over, Mayatl blew on the embers that glowed in the brazier and roused them back to life. In their heat she set a vessel of broth she had prepared the previous day, and handed us each a small piece of tortilla. We could eat but little as our bellies were so full of excitement. When we had finished, Mayatl led us out into the city.

The sun had not yet climbed above the mountains, and though the eastern sky glowed faint pink, the streets were drab in the grey light. The cool air was still heavy with night perfumes that would fade in the growing heat of day. While we passed between houses, the sweet scent of tobacco flowers and lime filled our nostrils. As we neared a temple, the aroma of blossom was lost in the rich tang of slaves' burning hearts that smouldered in sacrifice on the altar.

We were not alone. Despite the earliness of the hour, many people were hastening to the centre of the city where the warriors would soon be gathered. Mayatl took one of our hands in each of hers and dragged Mitotiqui and me behind her. Eager though we were, we struggled to keep pace and were quite breathless when at last we reached the principal temple.

It was the first time I had seen it this close. It was higher than any other pyramid in Tenochtitlán and could be seen from every district, including my own, so I was familiar with its outline. But I had not realized until we entered the square how tall it was. It punctured the sky! The sun itself could pause and rest on its peak!

I stood, staring in delighted wonder, moving only when Mayatl's tug pulled me into the crowd that milled in the precinct and jerked us towards the temple itself. So overwhelmed was I that I would not set foot upon the holy steps until Mayatl lifted me, hoisting me aloft and setting me on a stone plinth so that I could see above the heads and watch all that happened. Mitotiqui was beside me. I saw my own astonishment reflected in his face. For once, we were quiet. Awe burned all words from our minds.

And then came the warriors.

Six abreast, they marched in three columns, the people dividing to let them through. They halted in front of the palace, which faced the temple from across the square, and there awaited the coming of the emperor.

At the rear stood the ordinary soldiers, dressed in quilted cotton armour. Stiffly proud yet awkward, their bearing spoke more of fear than of courage. In the season of peace a man cannot change his allotted place, but by proving excellence in battle he may rise from the peasantry to the elite. Those whose hair hung loose were the untried sons of farmers hoping for such elevation. In front of them were grouped those who had fought in previous wars and were permitted to tie their hair in the esteemed warriors' topknot.

Before this group stood the jaguar knights, clad in yellow, blackly spotted skins, their own heads covered by the skulls of the beasts, their faces peering out from between bared teeth. Painted shields trimmed with iridescent feathers were fixed on their left arms. Obsidian-bladed cudgels dangled idle in their right hands.

Heading the force were the eagle knights, decked in savagely beaked costumes. Designed to terrify an enemy, their fearsome aspect was enough to fill my head with nightmares for many weeks to come.

On seeing the warriors, Mitotiqui shouted in excitement, “I shall be dressed like them! Soon! Soon! And then you will shake before me, sister!”

Furious, I struck him, earning a sharp reprimand from Mayatl. Before I could protest, a sudden hush gripped the crowd. There was a stirring from the palace. Many slaves hastened onto the flat roof, walking backwards, bent low until they reached the far side. There was a breathless silence. And then our emperor came forth.

At that moment, the sun crested the distant hills, and instantly the square was flooded with light. It illuminated the palace, making the whitewashed walls dazzle as though gilded with silver. It touched the brilliant blue flowers of morning glory that spilt from the roof, caressing them with warmth until they sprang open as if in response to the emperor's presence. The orange blooms of climbers that twined upwards from the ground raised their heads to bask in his splendour.