The Goldsmith's Daughter (9 page)

Did Mitotiqui know where his words would lead him? Did he speak the truth? I tortured myself with those questions in the months that followed, but could not find the answer.

Certainly I had not realized the depths of my brother's hurt until then; had not known how desperate his desire for our father's attention. I saw impetuous words rising in him, and longed to clap my hand upon his mouth to stop them spilling forth. But before I could move he had spoken.

Mitotiqui's eyes met our father's. It was to him Mitotiqui looked when he answered the priest.

“I saw the face of the god. Today I have walked beside Tezcatlipoca.”

“You are certain?”

My brother nodded. “I am.”

The priest fell upon him, and as if from nowhere a dozen more appeared, surrounding my brother like vultures clustering around a corpse. One daubed his cheeks with blue pigment and gave a triumphant shout.

“Tezcatlipoca!”

The cry was taken up by the others, and the air rang with their shrill voices. I felt hollow as a drum. My chest, my stomach and my bowels reverberated with the priests' ecstatic yells as my brother was taken from me.

Three days later, the beautiful youth we had seen in the procession mounted the temple steps, broke his flute and submitted himself to the priests. Horns sounded as his beating heart was torn from his chest. Moments later, the flute of the new Tezcatlipoca was heard across the city.

I could not join in the rejoicing, could feel nothing but a wild, panicked desolation; for the beautiful, perfect youth chosen as replacement – he who would live the life of a god until next year's sacrifice – was Mitotiqui.

O
n the day that followed, we moved as if in a dream. My father and I left for market with a single basket of goods to sell. We would not usually have gone with so little, but my father had promised the nobleman he could be found there, and felt it unwise to displease him.

We spoke little of Mitotiqui. He had been led away by the bloodied, stinking priests to be dressed in the vestments of Tezcatlipoca. Even as we were rowed to market, he would be dining on the finest food, waited on by a myriad of slaves, living a life of idleness and pleasure. He had become the god. I would see him no more; he was already dead to me. And for this, I was supposed to feel joyful.

My father had said only, “At his birth a splendid future was foretold for him. It seems the priests were right. There could be no greater glory.”

It was the correct – the proper – thing to say, but I knew not whether my father's heart was in the words. He too had seen the look upon Mitotiqui's face: did it now torment him as it did me?

Amongst the young men of the city, there was great rivalry to be chosen to play the part Mitotiqui had now won. Maybe he had talked of it with his schoolfellows. Maybe he had desired it. I should have been content. Yet I could not rid myself of the fear that my brother's act had been born of jealousy. His words had come unthinkingly. And what a price he would pay for his impulsiveness, not only now but for all eternity! Tezcatlipoca must have a willing sacrifice. If my brother's life was not joyfully given, he would not enter paradise. If he shamed the god, he would enter the perpetual night of Mictlan.

I dared not speak of my concerns, for if Tezcatlipoca heard me it would provoke his anger. But in my heart I raged against the gods. I had never before doubted or questioned them, and yet I did so now. Blasphemously, heretically, I stormed against their weakness – berating them for their fragility that they must have blood to make the sun rise, the seasons turn, the maize grow. Why were they not strong enough to do these things unaided? Why must Tezcatlipoca's favour be bought at so high a price? Why must he have the living heart of my brother?

I had to keep my face composed; no one could know the turmoil within me. I remembered too well what had happened to the mother of a boy taken as sacrifice to Tlaloc, the water god. During the ceremony she had wept – as did we all – for the more tears that flow, the greater the devotion shown to he who makes the rain fall. But then she had begun to wail without restraint, pleading, begging the priests to let her son live. She had leapt forward and attempted to stay the priest's hand.

She had been chastised. Painful death and eternal night were her punishment.

I could not bemoan Mitotiqui's fate. I had to hold my tongue. Bite it, though it bled, to keep it still.

My father and I were subdued when we arrived at the marketplace. It was easy for me to keep my eyes lowered, but to move with restraint and then keep still upon the reed mat was harder. My heart was heavy, and yet my limbs ached for activity as if by moving they could relieve its dreadful weight.

Word of Mitotiqui's elevation to deity spread quickly from trader to trader, and thus we had to endure the congratulations of every passer-by. The old man with jaguar-clawed feet croaked his delight loudly into the ears of my father.

Popotl had not returned to his home in Cholula but remained in Tenochtitlán to enjoy the festival. Now he came over to us, loud and hearty, and slapped my father upon the back. “And so you have a god in the family, Oquitchli! How much higher can your fortunes rise?”

From the corner of my eye I saw finely tooled shoes weaving between the bare feet of the populace. The nobleman approached.

“We shall see,” my father answered briefly; and Popotl, noticing the elite one coming closer, hurried away to array his own goods to their best advantage.

This time the nobleman did not gaze at the goods spread out at his leisure. He was swift in his dealings with my father. I could not hear their conversation above the noise of the crowd, so softly was it spoken. The nobleman was gone in but a few moments. And then my father bent low to address me.

“Pack our goods, Itacate. We must go.”

His voice was urgent, his tone anxious. I did as he asked without question and, ignoring the raised eyebrows and curious expressions of the other traders, we left the market.

Huddled at the far end of the canoe where the boatman could not hear us, my father told me what had been said.

“It seems your figurine has attracted great praise. The emperor himself has admired it.”

He looked as brittle as a beetle whose wing cases have been ripped off. I opened my mouth but said nothing. My actions had exposed him to the attention of great ones and I was full aware of his fear. And yet delight sprang within me to know my work was valued. I – who could do nothing, hope for nothing – had made a piece that was valued by Montezuma, lord and ruler of the world! It would live here on earth while I wandered the gloomy darkness of Mictlan. The knowledge would light my path. There was some small satisfaction in that.

I thought he had finished, but there was more to come. Rubbing his forehead to hold back the ache that grew there, my father added, “We are to go to the palace. Now. In haste. And in secrecy. We are to tell no one –
no one
– of this. He was most insistent on that point.”

“I am to come too, Father?”

“Yes. We have not the time to return home. Besides, the emperor has said he wishes the artist who crafted the figurine to come to him. In all conscience I cannot go without you.”

“But I am a girl,” I protested. “I cannot be introduced to the emperor! Are you to lose both your children?”

My father's hand squeezed mine in reassurance. “I will not tell him you fashioned it, Itacate. It would be death to do so. But I need your eyes, your ears, your judgement on what is said. The nobleman knows we come straight from the market. He will understand I could not leave you or my wares behind. You will be my carrier. You are a woman. Behave like one. Be invisible.”

The boatman had brought us to the canal that edged the great temple precinct. We disembarked and turned to face the palace of Emperor Montezuma.

We were expected. Eagerly awaited. That much became obvious as soon as we approached. We were uncertain of where to enter the vast labyrinth of courtyards and corridors that lay before us, but as we hesitated the nobleman himself came out to meet us. I need not have been afraid of accompanying my father. So insignificant was I that the nobleman did not even glance in my direction. Instead, he ushered my father swiftly into the palace, and I was left to scurry along behind, small and worthless as an insect.

“My name is Axcahuah,” the nobleman informed my father. “I am adviser to our lord emperor. I will take you to him now. Keep close behind me.”

When I beheld the interior, I felt as though my breath had been punched from my chest. If I were to die – if the emperor discovered my impudence and punished me for it – I could not help but feel the glory of the palace made the risk worthwhile.

I had to lower my eyes and be silent. And yet I could not keep myself from darting looks here and there; and each time my gaze fell upon some new wonder, it almost stopped me in my tracks. It was not simply the lavish scale of the building, nor the astounding wealth of our emperor, but the exquisite quality of the craftsmanship that was all about me.

I had often heard my father quote the poem: “The good artist is wise; the gods are in his heart.” But I had never seen the divine force that inspires and guides all artists' work so powerfully manifested. The many stone pillars that held up the roof were intricately carved with depictions of the gods, and their complex detail made my mind spin. I could do little more than glimpse each one as we passed, and yet I saw a spiritual, sacred depth to the craftsmanship which drew my breath from me. I could spend a lifetime studying these columns and not learn all!

We were led through a series of interlocking courtyards: some cool and leafy, where exotic waterfowl swam on deep ponds and the air was scented with blossom and sweet incense; some sunny and bright, where acrobats, jugglers and musicians practised their skills. We passed an aviary, where colourful birds filled the palace with their trilling song; a menagerie where panthers paced and coyotes howled.

As we neared the centre of the palace I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out in delight.

We were approaching a set of broad steps that led upwards to another floor, which in itself was a curiosity to me, for only the royal palace was permitted to have two levels. The steps were dappled with light as the sun broke through the leafy vegetation of two tall trees that stood either side. But the shadows were unmoving, for theirs was not the living foliage of real shrubs. The trunks were silver; the leaves beaten gold; the twig tips dotted with cunningly crafted turquoise flowers. Silver monkeys dangled in their branches; and beneath, two golden jaguars lay, their emerald eyes glinting.

Axcahuah, who was familiar with the sight, did not even pause, but my father broke his step, stopping and reaching out a hand as if he could not believe what his eyes beheld. My own jaw fell open, and no exertion of will could close it. Sharp words from the nobleman recalled us both to our senses, and we began to climb the steps.

Above, we passed through several chambers whose walls were decorated with vivid murals of expert skill. Each room was of such a vast size that the whole of our own house could have fitted easily within.

At last Axcahuah stopped. “This is the throne room,” he said quietly.

We had come to a place whose grandeur exceeded all I had yet seen. Though a golden, richly feathered screen stood in the doorway, it could not conceal the lofty height of the chamber, nor the lavish splendour of the painted walls. Gilded images of the gods adorned every surface.

My throat tightened. Saliva flooded my mouth but I strained to swallow. From the sinews that rose like reeds in my father's neck, I knew he was as fearful as I at what was to come.

From behind the screen many slaves came forth, and at once we were sprinkled with sweet incense lest we offend the emperor's nostrils. At the nobleman's instruction we fell to our knees, arms stretched out before us, foreheads pressed to the floor in reverence. The screen was drawn aside, and one by one we crawled into the throne room.

It was a difficult task to edge forward. The basket of goods I pushed before me blocked the sight I had of my father's heels, and in panic I wondered how I should know when to stop moving. I could neither see nor hear him, for so many slaves rushed hither and thither that their footfalls covered all other sounds.

The room was long, and we moved so slowly our passage across the floor seemed to take an eternity. But eventually Axcahuah halted my advance by speaking.

“My lord emperor,” said the nobleman. “If it pleases your magnificence, this is the craftsman you commanded me to bring you.”

When the emperor spoke, he did so with great gentleness; he had no need to raise his voice. As soon as his lips parted, the air became hushed, taut with expectation.

“I thank you, Axcahuah.” He addressed my father. “Goldsmith. Come here to me.”

I heard my father shuffling forward on his knees.

Our emperor's voice was rich and melodious but the threat in his next words chilled my blood.