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

“Very well,” returned the old trader. “We will be in the city to-morrow. The gods go with you!”

Whistling to his ocelot, the adventurer quickened his pace, and was soon far in the advance.

CHAPTER III.

A CHALLENGE

In the valley of Anahuac, at the time I write, are four lakes,—Xaltocan, Chalco, Xochichalco, and Tezcuco. The latter, besides being the largest, washed the walls of Tenochtitlan, and was the especial pride of the Aztecs, who, familiar with its ways as with the city, traversed them all the days of the year, and even the nights.

“Ho, there!” shouted a voyageur, in a voice that might have been heard a long distance over the calm expanse of the lake. “Ho, the canoe!”

The hail was answered.

“Is it Guatamozin?” asked the first speaker.

“Yes.”

“And going to Tenochtitlan?”

“The gods willing,—yes.”

The canoes of the voyageurs—I use that term because it more nearly expresses the meaning of the word the Aztecs themselves were wont to apply to persons thus abroad—were, at the time, about the middle of the little sea. After the ’tzin’s reply, they were soon alongside, when lashings were applied, and together they swept on rapidly, for the slaves at the paddles vied in skill and discipline.

“Iztlil’, of Tezcuco!” said the ’tzin, lightly. “He is welcome; but had a messenger asked me where at this hour he would most likely be found, I should have bade him search the chinampas, especially those most notable for their perfume and music.”

The speech was courteous, yet the moment of reply was allowed to pass. The ’tzin waited until the delay excited his wonder.

“There is a rumor of a great battle with the Tlascalans,” he said again, this time with a direct question. “Has my friend heard of it?”

“The winds that carry rumors seldom come to me,” answered Iztlil’.

“Couriers from Tlascala pass directly through your capital—”

The Tezcucan laid his hand on the speaker’s shoulder.

“My capital!” he said. “Do you speak of the city of Tezcuco?”

The ’tzin dashed the hand away, and arose, saying, “Your meaning is dark in this dimness of stars.”

“Be seated,” said the other.

“If I sit, is it as friend or foe?”

“Hear me; then be yourself the judge.”

The Aztec folded his cloak about him and resumed his seat, very watchful.

“Montezuma, the king—”

“Beware! The great king is my kinsman, and I am his faithful subject.”

The Tezcucan continued. “In the valley the king is next to the gods; yet to his nephew I say I hate him, and will teach him that my hate is no idleness, like a passing love. ’Tzin, a hundred years ago our races were distinct and independent. The birds of the woods, the winds of the prairie, were not more free than the people of Tezcuco. We had our capital, our temples, our worship, and our gods; we celebrated our own festivals, our kings commanded their own armies, our priesthood prescribed their own sacrifices. But where now are king, country, and gods? Alas! you have seen the children of ’Hualpilli, of the blood of the Acolhuan, suppliants of Montezuma, the Aztec.” And, as if overcome by the recollection, he burst into apostrophe. “I mourn thee, O Tezcuco, garden of my childhood, palace of my fathers, inheritance of my right! Against me are thy gates closed. The stars may come, and as of old garland thy towers with their rays; but in thy echoing halls and princely courts never, never shall I be known again!”

The silence that ensued, the ’tzin was the first to break.

“You would have me understand,” he said, “that the king has done you wrong. Be it so. But, for such cause, why quarrel with me?”

“Ah, yes!” answered the Tezcucan, in an altered voice. “Come closer, that the slaves may not hear.”

The Aztec kept his attitude of dignity. Yet lower Iztlil’ dropped his voice.

“The king has a daughter whom he calls Tula, and loves as the light of his palace.”

The ’tzin started, but held his peace.

“You know her?” continued the Tezcucan.

“Name her not!” said Guatamozin, passionately.

“Why not? I love her, and but for you, O ’tzin, she would have loved me. You, too, have done me wrong.”

With thoughts dark as the waters he rode, the Aztec looked long at the light of fire painted on the sky above the distant city.

“Is Guatamozin turned woman?” asked Iztlil’, tauntingly.

“Tula is my cousin. We have lived the lives of brother and sister. In hall, in garden, on the lake, always together, I could not help loving her.”

“You mistake me,” said the other. “I seek her for wife, but you seek her for ambition; in her eyes you see only her father’s throne.”

Then the Aztec’s manner changed, and he assumed the mastery.

“Enough, Tezcucan! I listened calmly while you reviled the king, and now I have somewhat to say. In your youth the wise men prophesied evil from you; they said you were ingrate and blasphemer then: your whole life has but verified their judgment. Well for your royal father and his beautiful city had he cut you off as they counselled him to do. Treason to the king,—defiance to me! By the holy Sun, for each offence you should answer me shield to shield! But I recollect that I am neither priest to slay a victim nor officer to execute the law. I mourn a feud, still more the blood of countrymen shed by my hand; yet the wrongs shall not go unavenged or without challenge. To-morrow is the sacrifice to Quetzal’. There will be combat with the best captives in the temples; the arena will be in the tianguez; Tenochtitlan, and all the valley, and all the nobility of the Empire, will look on. Dare you prove your kingly blood? I challenge the son of ’Hualpilli to share the danger with me.”

The cacique was silent, and the ’tzin did not disturb him. At his order, however, the slaves bent their dusky forms, and the vessels sped on, like wingless birds.

CHAPTER IV.

TENOCHTITLAN AT NIGHT

The site of the city of Tenochtitlan was chosen by the gods. In the southwestern border of Lake Tezcuco, one morning in 1300, a wandering tribe of Aztecs saw an eagle perched, with outspread wings, upon a cactus, and holding a serpent in its talons. At a word from their priests, they took possession of the marsh, and there stayed their migration and founded the city: such is the tradition. As men love to trace their descent back to some storied greatness, nations delight to associate the gods with their origin.

Originally the Aztecs were barbarous. In their southern march, they brought with them only their arms and a spirit of sovereignty. The valley of Anahuac, when they reached it, was already peopled; in fact, had been so for ages. The cultivation and progress they found and conquered there reacted upon them. They grew apace; and as they carried their shields into neighboring territory, as by intercourse and commerce they crept from out their shell of barbarism, as they strengthened in opulence and dominion, they repudiated the reeds and rushes of which their primal houses were built, and erected enduring temples and residences of Oriental splendor.

Under the smiles of the gods, whom countless victims kept propitiated, the city threw abroad its arms, and, before the passage of a century, became the emporium of the valley. Its people climbed the mountains around, and, in pursuit of captives to grace their festivals, made the conquest of “Mexico.” Then the kings began to centralize. They made Tenochtitlan their capital; under their encouragement, the arts grew and flourished; its market became famous; the nobles and privileged orders made it their dwelling-place; wealth abounded; as a consequence, a vast population speedily filled its walls and extended them as required. At the coming of the “conquistadores,” it contained sixty thousand houses and three hundred thousand souls. Its plat testifies to a high degree of order and regularity, with all the streets running north and south, and intersected by canals, so as to leave quadrilateral blocks. An ancient map, exhibiting the city proper, presents the face of a checker-board, each square, except those of some of the temples and palaces, being meted with mathematical certainty.

Such was the city the ’tzin and the cacique were approaching. Left of them, half a league distant, lay the towers and embattled gate of Xoloc. On the horizon behind paled the fires of Iztapalapan, while those of Tenochtitlan at each moment threw brighter hues into the sky, and more richly empurpled the face of the lake. In mid air, high over all others, like a great torch, blazed the pyre of Huitzil’.12 Out on the sea, the course of the voyageurs was occasionally obstructed by chinampas at anchor, or afloat before the light wind; nearer the walls, the floating gardens multiplied until the passage was as if through an archipelago in miniature. From many of them poured the light of torches; others gave to the grateful sense the melody of flutes and blended voices; while over them the radiance from the temples fell softly, revealing white pavilions, orange-trees, flowering shrubs, and nameless varieties of the unrivalled tropical vegetation. A breeze, strong enough to gently ripple the lake, hovered around the undulating retreats, scattering a largesse of perfume, and so ministering to the voluptuous floramour of the locality.

As the voyageurs proceeded, the city, rising to view, underwent a number of transformations. At first, amidst the light of its own fires,13 it looked like a black sea-shore; directly its towers and turrets became visible, some looming vaguely and dark, others glowing and purpled, the whole magnified by the dim duplication below; then it seemed like a cloud, one half kindled by the sun, the other obscured by the night. As they swept yet nearer, it changed to the likeness of a long, ill-defined wall, over which crept a hum wing-like and strange,—the hum of myriad life.

In silence still they hurried forward. Vessels like their own, but with lanterns of stained aguave at the prows, seeking some favorite chinampa, sped by with benisons from the crews. At length they reached the wall, and, passing through an interval that formed the outlet of a canal, entered the city. Instantly the water became waveless; houses encompassed them; lights gleamed across their way; the hum that hovered over them while out on the lake realized itself in the voices of men and the notes of labor.

Yet farther into the city, the light from the temples increased. From towers, turreted like a Moresco castle, they heard the night-watchers proclaiming the hour. Canoes, in flocks, darted by them, decked with garlands, and laden with the wealth of a merchant, or the trade of a market-man, or full of revellers singing choruses to the stars or to the fair denizens of the palaces. Here and there the canal was bordered with sidewalks of masonry, and sometimes with steps leading from the water up to a portal, about which were companies whose flaunting, parti-colored costumes, brilliant in the mellowed light, had all the appearance of Venetian masqueraders.

At last the canoes gained the great street that continued from the causeway at the south through the whole city; then the Tezcucan touched the ’tzin, and said,—

“The son of ’Hualpilli accepts the challenge, Aztec. In the tianguez to-morrow.”

Without further speech, the foemen leaped on the landing, and separated.

CHAPTER V

THE CHILD OF THE TEMPLE

There were two royal palaces in the city; one built by Axaya’, the other by Montezuma, the reigning king, who naturally preferred his own structure, and so resided there. It was a low, irregular pile, embracing not only the king’s abode proper, but also quarters for his guard, and edifices for an armory, an aviary, and a menagerie. Attached to it was a garden, adorned with the choicest shrubbery and plants, with fruit and forest trees, with walks strewn with shells, and fountains of pure water conducted from the reservoir of Chapultepec.

At night, except when the moon shone, the garden was lighted with lamps; and, whether in day or night, it was a favorite lounging-place. During fair evenings, particularly, its walks, of the whiteness of snow, were thronged by nobles and courtiers.

Shortly after the arrival of Iztlil’ and Guatamozin, a party, mostly of the sons of provincial governors kept at the palace as hostages, were gathered in the garden, under a canopy used to shield a fountain from the noonday sun. The place was fairly lighted, the air fresh with the breath of flowers, and delightful with the sound of falling water.

Maxtla, chief of the guard, was there, his juvenility well hidden under an ostentatious display. That he was “a very common soldier” in the opinion of the people was of small moment: he had the king’s ear; and that, without wit and courtierly tact, would have made him what he was,—the oracle of the party around him.

In the midst of his gossip, Iztlil’, the Tezcucan, came suddenly to the fountain. He coldly surveyed the assembly. Maxtla alone saluted him.

“Will the prince of Tezcuco be seated?” said the chief.

“The place is pleasant, and the company looks inviting,” returned Iztlil’, grimly.

Since his affair with Guatamozin, he had donned the uniform of an Aztec chieftain. Over his shoulders was carelessly flung a crimson tilmatli,—a short, square cloak, fantastically embroidered with gold, and so sprinkled with jewels as to flash at every movement; his body was wrapped closely in an escaupil, or tunic, of cotton lightly quilted, over which, and around his waist, was a maxtlatl, or sash, inseparable from the warrior. A casque of silver, thin, burnished, and topped with plumes, surmounted his head. His features were gracefully moulded, and he would have been handsome but that his complexion was deepened by black, frowning eyebrows. He was excessively arrogant; though sometimes, when deeply stirred by passion, his manner rose into the royal. His character I leave to history.

“I have just come from Iztapalapan,” he said, as he sat upon the proffered stool. “The lake is calm, the way was very pleasant, I had the ’tzin Guatamo’ for comrade.”

“You were fortunate. The ’tzin is good company,” said Maxtla.

Iztlil’ frowned, and became silent.

“To-morrow,” continued the courtier, upon whom the discontent, slight as it was, had not been lost, “is the sacrifice to Quetzal’. I am reminded, gracious prince, that, at a recent celebration, you put up a thousand cocoa,14 to be forfeited if you failed to see the daughter of Mualox, the paba. If not improper, how runs the wager, and what of the result?”

The cacique shrugged his broad shoulders.

“The man trembles!” whispered one of the party.

“Well he may! Old Mualox is more than a man.”

Maxtla bowed and laughed. “Mualox is a magician; the stars deal with him. And my brother will not speak, lest he may cover the sky of his fortune with clouds.”

“No,” said the Tezcucan, proudly; “the wager was not a sacrilege to the paba or his god; if it was, the god, not the man, should be a warrior’s fear.”

“Does Maxtla believe Mualox a prophet?” asked Tlahua, a noble Otompan.

“The gods have power in the sun; why not on earth?”

“You do not like the paba,” observed Iztlil’, gloomily.

“Who has seen him, O prince, and thought of love? And the walls and towers of his dusty temple,—are they not hung with dread, as the sky on a dark day with clouds?”

The party, however they might dislike the cacique, could not listen coldly to this conversation. They were mostly of that mystic race of Azatlan, who, ages before, had descended into the valley, like an inundation, from the north; the race whose religion was founded upon credulity; the race full of chivalry, but horribly governed by a crafty priesthood. None of them disbelieved in star-dealing. So every eye fixed on the Tezcucan, every ear drank the musical syllables of Maxtla. They were startled when the former said abruptly,—

“Comrades, the wrath of the old paba is not to be lightly provoked; he has gifts not of men. But, as there is nothing I do not dare, I will tell the story.”

The company now gathered close around the speaker.

“Probably you have all heard,” he began, “that Mualox keeps in his temple somewhere a child or woman too beautiful to be mortal. The story may be true; yet it is only a belief; no eye has seen footprint or shadow of her. A certain lord in the palace, who goes thrice a week to the shrine of Quetzal’, has faith in the gossip and the paba. He says the mystery is Quetzal’ himself, already returned, and waiting, concealed in the temple, the ripening of the time when he is to burst in vengeance on Tenochtitlan. I heard him talking about it one day, and wagered him a thousand cocoa that, if there was such a being I would see her before the next sacrifice to Quetzal’.”

The Tezcucan hesitated.

“Is the believer to boast himself wealthier by the wager?” said Maxtla, profoundly interested. “A thousand cocoa would buy a jewel or a slave: surely, O prince, surely they were worth the winning!”

Iztlil’ frowned again, and said bitterly, “A thousand cocoa I cannot well spare; they do not grow on my hard northern hills like flowers in Xochimilco. I did my best to save the wager. Old habit lures me to the great teocallis;15 for I am of those who believe that a warrior’s worship is meet for no god but Huitzil’. But, as the girl was supposed to be down in the cells of the old temple, and none but Mualox could satisfy me, I began going there, thinking to bargain humilities for favor. I played my part studiously, if not well; but no offering of tongue or gold ever won me word of friendship or smile of confidence. Hopeless and weary, I at last gave up, and went back to the teocallis. But now hear my parting with the paba. A short time ago a mystery was enacted in the temple. At the end, I turned to go away, determined that it should be my last visit. At the eastern steps, as I was about descending, I felt a hand laid on my arm. It was Mualox; and not more terrible looks Tlalac when he has sacrificed a thousand victims. There was no blood on his hands; his beard and surplice were white and stainless; the terror was in his eyes, that seemed to burn and shoot lightning. You know, good chief, that I could have crushed him with a blow; yet I trembled. Looking back now, I cannot explain the awe that seized me. I remember how my will deserted me,—how another’s came in its stead. With a glance he bound me hand and foot. While I looked at him, he dilated, until I was covered by his shadow. He magnified himself into the stature of a god. ‘Prince of Tezcuco,’ he said, ‘son of the wise ’Hualpilli, from the sun Quetzal’ looks down on the earth. Alike over land and sea he looks. Before him space melts into a span, and darkness puts on the glow of day. Did you think to deceive my god, O prince?’ I could not answer; my tongue was like stone. ‘Go hence, go hence!’ he cried, waving his hand. ‘Your presence darkens his mood. His wrath is on your soul; he has cursed you. Hence, abandoned of the gods!’ So saying, he went back to the tower again, and my will returned, and I fled. And now,” said the cacique, turning suddenly and sternly upon his hearers, “who will deny the magic of Mualox? How may I be assured that his curse that day spoken was not indeed a curse from Quetzal’?”

There was neither word nor laugh,—not even a smile. The gay Maxtla appeared infected with a sombreness of spirit; and it was not long until the party broke up, and went each his way.

CHAPTER VI.

THE CÛ OF QUETZAL’, AND MUALOX, THE PABA

Over the city from temple to temple passed the wail of the watchers, and a quarter of the night was gone. Few heard the cry without pleasure; for to-morrow was Quetzal’s day, which would bring feasting, music, combat, crowd, and flowers.

Among others the proclamation of the passing time was made from a temple in the neighborhood of the Tlateloco tianguez, or market-place, which had been built by one of the first kings of Tenochtitlan, and, like all edifices of that date properly called Cûs, was of but one story, and had but one tower. At the south its base was washed by a canal; on all the other sides it was enclosed by stone walls high, probably, as a man’s head. The three sides so walled were bounded by streets, and faced by houses, some of which were higher than the Cû itself, and adorned with beautiful porticos. The canal on the south ran parallel with the Tlacopan causeway, and intersected the Iztapalapan street at a point nearly half a mile above the great pyramid.

The antique pile thus formed a square of vast extent. According to the belief that there were blessings in the orient rays of the sun, the front was to the east, where a flight of steps, wide as the whole building, led from the ground to the azoteas, a paved area constituting the roof, crowned in the centre by a round tower of wood most quaintly carved with religious symbols. Entering the door of the tower, the devotee might at once kneel before the sacred image of Quetzal’.

A circuitous stairway outside the tower conducted to its summit, where blazed the fire. Another flight of steps about midway the tower and the western verge of the azoteas descended into a court-yard, around which, in the shade of a colonnade, were doors and windows of habitable apartments and passages leading far into the interior. And there, shrouded in a perpetual twilight and darkness, once slept, ate, prayed, and studied or dreamed the members of a fraternity powerful as the Templars and gloomy as the Fratres Minores.

The interior was cut into rooms, and long, winding halls, and countless cellular dens.

Such was the Cû of Quetzal’,—stern, sombre, and massive as in its first days; unchanged in all save the prosperity of its priesthood and the popularity of its shrine. Time was when every cell contained its votaries, and kings, returning from battle, bowed before the altar. But Montezuma had built a new edifice, and set up there a new idol; and as if a king could better make a god than custom, the people abandoned the old ones to desuetude. Up in the ancient cupola, however, sat the image said to have been carved by Quetzal’s own hand. Still the fair face looked out benignly on its realm of air; carelessly the winds waved “the plumes of fire” that decked its awful head; and one stony hand yet grasped a golden sceptre, while the other held aloft the painted shield,—symbols of its dominion.16 But the servitors and surpliced mystics were gone; the cells were very solitudes; the last paba lingered to protect the image and its mansion, all unwitting how, in his faithfulness of love, he himself had assumed the highest prerogative of a god.

The fire from the urn on the tower flashed a red glow down over the azoteas, near a corner of which Mualox stood, his beard white and flowing as his surplice. Thought of days palmier for himself and more glorious for his temple and god struggled to his lips.

“Children of Azatlan, ye have strayed from his shrine, and dust is on his shield. The temple is of his handiwork, but its chambers are voiceless; the morning comes and falls asleep on its steps, and no foot disturbs it, no one seeks its blessings. Where is the hymn of the choir? Where the prayer? Where the holiness that rested, like a spell, around the altar? Is the valley fruitless, and are the gardens without flowers, that he should be without offering or sacrifice?… Ah! well ye know that the day is not distant when he will glister again in the valley; when he will come, not as of old he departed, the full harvest quick ripening in his footsteps, but with the power of Mictlan,17 the owl on his skirt, and death in his hand. Return, O children, and Tenochtitlan may yet live!”

In the midst of his pleadings there was a clang of sandalled feet on the pavement, and two men came near him, and stopped. One of them wore the hood and long black gown of a priest; the other the full military garb,—burnished casque crested with plumes, a fur-trimmed tilmatli, escaupil, and maxtlatl, and sandals the thongs of which were embossed with silver. He also carried a javelin, and a shield with an owl painted on its face. Indeed, one will travel far before finding, among Christians or unbelievers, his peer. He was then not more than twenty-five years old, tall and nobly proportioned, and with a bearing truly royal. In Spain I have seen eyes as large and lustrous, but none of such power and variety of expression. His complexion was merely the brown of the sun. Though very masculine, his features, especially when the spirit was in repose, were softened by an expression unusually gentle and attractive. Such was the ’tzin Guatamo’, or, as he is more commonly known in history, Guatamozin,—the highest, noblest type of his race, blending in one its genius and heroism, with but few of its debasements.