Aztec Autumn by Gary Jennings
She said, shyly for her, “We could reign together, you know. You as Uey-Tecútli and I as your Cecihuatl.”
I asked teasingly, “You have so short a memory of your marriage to the late Káuritzin?”
“Ayyo, he was a good husband to me, considering that ours was a marriage arranged for others’ convenience. But we were never so close as you and I once were, Tenamáxtli. Káuri was—how do I put it?—shy of experimentation.”
“I do admit,” I said, smiling in recollection, “I have never yet known a woman who could outdo you in that respect.”
“And there is no traditional or priestly stricture against marriage between cousins. Of course, you may regard a widow woman as used goods, hand-me-down, not worthy of you.” She added, roguishly, “But at least, on our wedding night, I would not have to deceive you with a pigeon egg and an astringent ointment.”
Astringent, almost acid, came another voice, that of G’nda Ké: “How touching—the long-parted lovers reminiscing of the ‘oc ye nechca,’ the once-upon-a-time.”
“You viper,” I said through clenched teeth. “How long have you been lurking in this room?”
She ignored me and spoke to Améyatl, whose prison-pale face had blushed very pink. “Why should Tenamáxtli marry anyone, my dear? He is master here, the one man among three delectable women whom he can bed at random and without commitment. A onetime mistress, a current mistress and a mistress yet untasted.”
“Fork-tongued woman,” I said, seething, “you are inconstant even in your malignant taunts. Last night you called me a cuilóntli.”
“And G’nda Ké is so glad to learn she was mistaken. Though she cannot really be sure, can she, until you and she—?”
“Never in my life have I struck a woman,” I said. “I am now about to do exactly that.”
She prudently stepped back from me, her lizard smile both apologetic and insolent. “Forgive this one, my lord, my lady. G’nda Ké would not have intruded had she realized … Well, she came only to tell you, Tenamáxtzin, that a group of prospective new servants awaits your approval in the downstairs hall. Some of those say they, too, knew you in the oc ye nechca. More important, the members of your Speaking Council await you in the throne room.”
“The servants can wait. I will see the Council in a moment. Now slither out of here.”
Even after she had left, my cousin and I remained as embarrassed and flustered as two adolescents surprised in undressed and indecent proximity. I stammered foolishly when I asked Améyatl’s leave to depart and, when she gave it, so did she. No one would have believed that we were mature adults, and we the two of highest rank in Aztlan.
XIX
JUST SO, THE elders of the Speaking Council seemed disinclined to regard me as a grown man, worthy of my rank and of their respect They and I greeted each other politely, with exchanges of “Mixpantzínco,” but one of the old men—I recognized him as Tototl, tlatocapíli of the village of Tépiz—immediately and angrily demanded of me:
“Have we been unceremoniously rushed hither at the presumptuous bidding of an upstart? Several of us remember you, Tenamáxtli, from the days when you were only a snot-nosed bantling, creeping into this room to gawk and eavesdrop on our councils with your uncle, the Revered Governor Mixtzin. Even when we last saw you, when you left with Mixtzin for Tenochtítlan, you were still no more than a callow stripling. It appears that you have risen in stature unaccountably high and fast We require to know—”
“Be silent, Tototl!” I said sharply, and all the men gasped. “You must also remember the Council protocol—that no man speaks until the Uey-Tecútli speaks the subject to be discussed. I am not meekly hoping for your acceptance or approval of me. I know who I am and what I am—legitimately your Uey-Tecútli. That is all you need to know.”
There was some muttering around the room, but no further challenge to my authority. I may not have captivated their affection, but I definitely had seized their attention.
“I called you together because I have demands to make of you, and—out of simple courtesy and my esteem for you, my elders—I would wish to have your unanimous agreement to these demands. But I tell you also, and I kiss the earth to this, my demands will be met, whether you agree or not.”
While they goggled at me and muttered some more, I stepped back to open the throne room’s door and beckoned in Nochéztli and two of the Aztlan warriors he had pronounced trustworthy. I made no introduction of them, but went on addressing the Council members:
“By now, all of you certainly have heard of the incidents that have lately occurred and the revelations that have lately transpired hereabouts. How the abominable Yeyac assumed the mantle of Uey-Tecútli through the murder of his own father and”—here I spoke directly to Kévari, tlatocapíli of Yakóreke—“the murder of your son Káuri, then the atrocious overthrow and imprisonment of your son’s widow Améyatzin. All of you certainly have heard that Yeyac was secretly conspiring with the Spaniards to help them maintain their oppression of all our peoples of The One World. You certainly have heard—with pleasure, I trust—that Yeyac is no more. You certainly have heard that I, as the sole surviving male relative of Mixtzin—hence rightful successor to the mantle—have ruthlessly been ridding Aztlan of Yeyac’s confederates. Last night I decimated Aztlan’s army. Today I shall deal with Yeyac’s lickspittles among the civil population.”
I reached my hand behind me, and Nochéztli put into it a number of bark papers. I scanned the columns of word-pictures on them, then announced to the room at large:
“This is a list of those citizens who abetted Yeyac in his nefarious activities—from marketplace stallkeepers to respectable merchants to prominent pochtéca traders. I am pleased to find that only one man of this Speaking Council is named in the list. Tlamacazqui Colótic-Acatl, step forward.”
Of this man I have spoken earlier in this narrative. He was the priest of the god Huitzilopóchtli, who, at the first news of the white men’s arrival in The One World, had been so fearful of being deposed from his priesthood. Like all our tlamacózque, he had been unwashed all his life, and wore black robes that had never been cleaned. But now, even under its grimy crust, his face went pale and he trembled as he came forward.
I said, “Why a priest of a Mexícatl god should turn traitor to that god’s worshipers is beyond my understanding. Did you intend to convert to the white men’s religion of Crixtanóyoü? Or did you simply hope to wheedle them into leaving you secure in your old priesthood? No, do not tell me. I pick my teeth at such as you.” I turned to the two warriors. “Take this creature to the central square, not to any temple—he deserves not the honor of being a sacrifice, or of having an afterlife—and strangle him to death with the flower garland.”
They seized him and the priest went whimpering away with them, while the rest of the Council stood stunned.
“Hand these papers around among yourselves,” I told them. “You tlatocapfltin of other communities will find names of persons in your own neighborhoods who either gave aid to Yeyac or received favors from him. My first demand is that you exterminate those persons. My second demand is that you comb the ranks of your own warriors and personal guards—Nochéztli here will assist you in that—and exterminate also any traitors among them.”
“It shall be done,” said Tototl, sounding rather more respectful of me now. “I think I speak for the entire Council in saying that we concur unanimously in this action.”
Kévari asked, “Have you any further demand, Tenamáxtzin?”
“Yes, one more. I want each of you tlatocapfltin to send to Aztlan every true and untainted warrior you have, and every able-bodied man who has been trained to be conscripted if necessary. I intend to integrate them into my own army.”
“Again, agreed,” said Teciúapil, tlatocapíli of Tecuéxe. “But may we ask why?”
“Before I answer that,” I said, “let me ask a question of my own. Who among you is now the Council’s Rememberer of History?”
They all l
He said, “When old Canaútli, the previous Rememberer, died—I am told he was your great-grandfather, Tenémax-tzin—none other was appointed to take his place. Yeyac insisted that there was no need for a Rememberer because, he said, with the arrival of the white men, The One World’s history had come to an end. Furthermore, said Yeyac, we would no longer count the passing years by sheaves of fifty-two, nor any longer observe the ceremony of lighting the New Fire to mark the start of each new sheaf. We would, he said, count our years as the white men do, in an unbroken sequence that began with a year numbered simply One—but began we know not how long ago.”
“Yeyac was wrong,” I said. “There is still much history—and I intend to make more—for our historians to remember and record. That, to answer your earlier question, councillors, is why I want your warriors for my army.”
And I went on to tell them—as I had just told Améyatl and, before her, Pakápeti and G’nda Ké and the late Citláli and the thunder-stick artisan Pochotl—of my plans to mount a rebellion againt New Spain and take back all of The One World for our own. Like those others who had listened to me, these members of the Speaking Council looked impressed but incredulous, and one of them began to say:
“But, Tenamáxtzin, if even the mighty—”
I interrupted, with a snarl, “The first man among you who tells me that I cannot succeed where ‘even the mighty Mexíca failed’—that man, however aged and wise and dignified, even decrepit though he may be—that man will be ordered to lead my first assault against the Spanish army. He will go at the front of my forces, at the very point, and he will go unarmed and unarmored!”
There was dead silence in the room.
“Then does the Speaking Council agree to support my proposed campaign?” Several of the members heaved a sigh, but they all nodded assent. “Good,” I said.
I turned to that merchant who had informed me that there was no longer a Rememberer of History on the Council. “Canaútli no doubt left many books of word-pictures telling what occurred in all the sheaves of sheaves of years up to his own time. Study and memorize them. And I bid you do this, too. Commence a new book—with these words: ‘On this day of Nine-Flower, in the month of the Sweeping of the Road, in the year Seven-House, the Uey-Tecútli Tenamáxtzin of Aztlan declared The One World’s independence of Old Spain and began preparations for an insurrection against the unwelcome white overlords, in both New Spain and New Galicia, this plan having the consent and endorsement of his Speaking Council in assembly agreed.’ ”
The man promised, “Your every word, Tenamáxtzin,” and he and the other councillors went their way.
Nochéztli, still in the room, said, “Excuse me, my lord, but what shall be done with those warriors imprisoned in the goddess’s temple? They are so crowded in there that they must take turns sitting down, and cannot lie down at all. They are also getting very hungry and thirsty.”
“They deserve worse than discomfort,” I said. “But tell the guards to feed them—only atóli and water—and only a minimum of each. I want those men, when I am ready to put them to use, hungry for battle and thirsty for blood. Meanwhile, Nochéztli, I believe you said you have visited Compostela in Yeyac’s company?”
“Yes, Tenamáxtzin.”
“Then I want you to visit there again, this time being a quimíchi for me.” That word properly means “mouse,” but we use it also to mean what the Spanish call an espión. “Can I trust you to do that? To go there, secretly get information, and return here with it?”
“You can, my lord. I am alive only because of your sufferance, therefore my life is yours to command.”
“Then that is my command. The Spanish cannot yet have heard that they have lost their ally Yeyac. And since they already know you by sight, they will suppose you to be Yeyac’s emissary, come on some errand.”
“I will carry gourds of our fermented coconut milk to sell. All the white men, high and low, are fond of getting drunk on it. That will be sufficient excuse for my visit. And what information would you wish me to gather?”
“Anything. Keep your eyes and ears open, and linger there as long as necessary. Find out for me, if you can, what the new Governor Coronado is like, and how many troops he now has stationed there, and how many other people—both Spanish and indio—now inhabit Compostela. Also be alert for any news or rumor or gossip of what is happening elsewhere in the Spanish lands. I will await your return before I send Yeyac’s pack of disloyal warriors on their suicidal mission, and the outcome of that mission will largely depend on what information you bring back to me.”
“I go at once, my lord,” he said, and he did.
Next, I gave quick and desultory approval to all the wouldbe servants that G’nda Ké had gathered in the hall. I recognized a number of them from the old days, and I was sure that if any of the others had ever been in league with Yeyac, they would not now have dared to apply for service under my eye. From then on, we pípiltin of the palace—Améyatl, Pakápeti, G’nda Ké and myself—were most assiduously attended and most sumptuously fed, and we never had to lift a finger to do anything that could be done for us. Though Améyatzin now had a bevy of women to wait upon her, she and I both were pleased that Tiptoe insisted on continuing to be her closest personal handmaiden.
What time Tiptoe was not attending Améyatl, she gladly passed in accompanying the warriors I sent to arrest and execute the Aztlan townsmen whose names had been on Nochéztli’s bark papers. I gave no orders except “execute them!” and I never bothered to find out what means the warriors employed—whether the flower-garland garrote or the sword or arrows or the knife that tears out the heart—or whether Tiptoe personally dispatched some of those men with one or another of the horrid methods she had mentioned to me. I simply did not care. Sufficient for me that all the property and possessions and wealth of those who died came to Aztlan’s treasury. I may seem callous in having said that, but I could have been even more callous. By ancient tradition, I could have slain those traitors’ wives, children, grandchildren, relatives of even more remote degree, and from that I refrained. I did not wish to depopulate Aztlan entirely.
I had never been a Uey-Tecútli before, and the only other one I had ever observed in the exercise of that office had been my Uncle Mixtli. It had seemed to me—then—that to accomplish anything whatsoever that required accomplishing, all Mixtzin had to do was smile or scowl or wave a hand or put his name-sign to some document. I soon learned—now—that being a Revered Governor was no easy occupation. I was being continually petitioned—I could say pestered—for decisions, judgments, pronouncements, intercessions, advice, verdicts, consents or denials, acceptances or rejections …
The other officials of my court, charged with various governing responsibilities, regularly came to see me with their various problems. A dike restraining the swamp waters needed crucial repairs, or the swamp would soon be in our streets; would the Uey-Tecútli authorize the cost of materials and the rounding-up of workmen? The fishers of our ocean fleet were complaining that the long-ago draining of that same swamp had resulted in the gradual silting up of their accustomed seaside harbors; would the Uey-Tecútli authorize the dredging of those harbors deep again? Our warehouses were bulging with sea-otter pelts, sponges, shark skins and other unsold goods, because, for years now, Aztlan had been trading only with lands to the north of us, none to the south; could the Uey-Tecútli devise a plan to get rid of that glut, and at a profit?…
I had to contend with not just my court officials and major matters of policy, but also with the most trivial doings of the common folk. Here a quarrel between two neighbors over the boundary between their plots of land; there a family squabbling over the division of their recently dead father’s meager estate; here a debtor asking relief from an usurious and harassing mone
It was exceedingly difficult for me to find time to attend to matters that were—to me—of much more urgency. But somehow I managed. I instructed all the loyal knights and cuáchictin of my army to put their forces (and every available conscript) to intensified training, and to make place in their ranks for the additional warriors levied and daily arriving from the other communities subordinate to Aztlan.
I even found time to take out of hiding the three arcabuces Pakápeti and I had brought, and to give personal training in the use of them. Needless to remark, every warrior was, at first, timorous of handling these alien weapons. But I selected only those who could overcome their trepidation, and who showed an aptitude for using the thunder-stick efficiently. Those eventually numbered about twenty, and when one of them asked, diffidently, “My lord, when we go to war, are we to take turns employing the thunder-sticks?” I told him, “No, young iyac. I expect you to wrest from the white men their arcabuces with which to arm yourselves. Furthermore, we will also be confiscating the white men’s horses. When we do, you will be trained in the handling of them, as well.”
My being continuously busy had at least one gratifying aspect: it kept me from having anything to do with the Yaki woman G’nda Ké. While I was occupied with affairs of state, she occupied herself with overseeing the palace household and its domestics. She may have been a nuisance to those servants, but she had little opportunity to be a nuisance to me. Oh, occasionally we might meet in a palace corridor, and she would utter some taunting or teasing remark:
“I weary of waiting, Tenamáxtli. When do you and I go forth together and commence our war?”
Or “I weary of waiting, Tenamáxtli. When do you and I go to bed together, so that you may kiss every one of the freckles that sprinkle my most intimate parts?”