In any normal country an intruder who entered and massacred its inhabitants would be set upon by the sovereign’s troops, particularly when the national forces had the advantage of situation and numbers, and were in no way lacking in courage, as in the present case. But in the fantastic world of Mexico this did not happen. Though the massacre at Cholula was the most gross affront to Montezuma, he did not take it amiss nor think it inconsistent with the interpretation he had given to Cortés’ apparition. He did not change his mind and attack the aggressor. Cortés was still the advancing god. He had been angered at Cholula. The people, though instructed to welcome and supply him, had incurred his displeasure. They had paid the penalty. To restore him to good humour, Montezuma sent another embassy.
Bernal describes how it arrived. It was led by six lords and carried a present of gold and jewellery worth two thousand pieces-of-eight and several man-loads of very rich mantles. On coming before Cortés the leading envoy said, after touching the ground and lifting the dust to his lips: ‘Our Lord the great Montezuma, sends this present to you, Malintzin, with affectionate regards. He much regrets that the Cholulans have annoyed you. They are tiresome people and you have not punished them enough. Count on his friendship. He invites you to the capital. Come when you like and he will do his best to entertain you. I am instructed to guide you by the shortest route. Food and drink will be provided at the stopping places.’
When this was duly translated to Cortés through Doña Marina and Aguilar who by this time, says Bernal, had become very expert, he embraced the envoys. It seemed almost too good to be true. He had got his invitation at last. He would not have to try and fight his way in.
But Montezuma’s permission to come on was a manœuvre, as will shortly appear, to entangle Cortés in a magical net. Inside the valley he would be more exposed to the full force of such devices.
Though Cortés had no notion of the real reason for the invitation, he did not banish entirely from his mind the possibility of a military feint. Queer rumours began to circulate, invented perhaps by the Tlaxcalans, who wanted to frighten Cortés into taking their army with him. The Mexicans had been raiding for a hundred years; what a wonderful opportunity to raid them back! The most alarming rumour was that Montezuma had shut himself up with his chief priests for two days and consulted his god of war, the Humming Bird. The advice he received, through mediums or auguries, was that he should entice the Spaniards into his spider’s web of a fortress, raise the bridges on the causeways so that they could not escape, starve them and then capture them with his vastly more numerous forces. As this was quite feasible, it made the story all the more unnerving. ‘Don’t go without us,’ pleaded the Tlaxcalans. ‘We will gladly place ten thousand picked troops at your disposal.’
But Cortés, though lately so convinced of Montezuma’s treachery that he had felt justified in massacring three thousand Cholulans, refused to accept the Tlaxcalans’ offer. ‘I will take a thousand of your porters and labourers, that is all,’ he said. The Tlaxcalans were dumbfounded. Had he altered his opinion about Montezuma’s treacherous designs? The Spaniards would never emerge alive from Mexico. After Montezuma had overcome them, their hearts would be cut out and offered to the Humming Bird in the quauhxicalli (the Eagle-dish).
But Cortés was not moved. He sent what Bernal calls ‘an affectionate reply’ to Montezuma and informed him that he was starting off at once. The Tlaxcalans gave in. Only a god would dare to do such a thing, and he was a god. Perhaps it would turn out right. But he ought to remember that he had to cope not only with the great Montezuma but with his old enemy, the Smoking Mirror, who in Quetzalcoatl’s last incarnation had driven him out. It would be a war of gods. And, indeed, that was the truth.
A commander who refused an offer of 10,000 men in such a situation of danger and uncertainty, would normally be thought mad. But Cortés’ decision was in keeping with his policy from the first. He never contemplated storming Mexico. He always planned to get there by a strategem. Though his real intentions were not peaceful, he had consistently represented them to be so. It was impossible, therefore, for him to advance on Mexico at the head of 10,000 enemy Tlaxcalans without throwing off the mask. He evidently still thought that it would be easier to get to the capital by guile than by force. But having got there, what was he going to do? He had no credentials from Charles V. His demands were ludicrous for an envoy—vassalage and change of religion. The story will show that he found what to do, though it was so daring and extraordinary that one cannot suppose he had thought of it at this time.
When the Totonacs, who had followed him all the way from the coast, learnt of his decision, their hearts failed them. They dared not go to Mexico, even in company with a god. ‘You will be quite safe with us,’ Cortés told them. But although, says Bemal, ‘Doña Marina put it in the most warm-hearted manner’ they still declined. The risk was too great, particularly for them, subjects of Montezuma who had refused to pay taxes. On their departure Cortés made them a liberal present and asked them to deliver two loads of rich mantles to the fat lord of Cempoalan, who was in some sort his father-in-law. He also sent a letter to Juan de Escalante with all the news, urging him to finish Vera Cruz and keep on good terms with the local people. None of the Conquistadores asked leave to go back with the Totonacs, not even those who had hesitated before. ‘On to Mexico’, was the cry. Not one of them doubted that Cortés could do it.
On November 1st they marched away, mounted scouts in front, the cannon next, then the rest of the horsemen and the main body, each man sharply on the lookout, la barba sobre el ombro, the beard on the shoulder, as Bernal etches the scene for our eyes. To reach Mexico they had to cross a pass 12,000 feet high between the volcanoes of Popocatapetl (the Mountain that Smokes) and Iztacciuatl (the White Woman) an extinct volcano, both snow mountains of over 17,000 feet which lay twenty miles due west of Cholula. Popocatapetl had become active after a long quiescence shortly before the Spaniards’ arrival, an added portent of calamity in Mexican opinion. ‘A great volume of smoke came from it day and night, rising to the clouds as straight as a pillar,’ wrote Cortés. As they approached they could hear it roaring. With its cap of snow it was a marvellous sight. That night camp was pitched about six miles below the top of the pass. On reaching the top next day they saw the city of their dreams 5,000 feet below. The map gives an idea of the great panorama. They were some twenty miles from the southern shore of the lake, which at that time filled the greater part of the valley. Near its centre was the island on which Mexico itself stood. As they were the best part of forty-five miles from the city, the causeways which connected it with the mainland can hardly have been visible. The lake, which was fifty miles long, was in six compartments, opening out of each other. Round the shores were ten large towns and twenty smaller ones. This secluded valley at the end of the world, surrounded on all sides by high ranges, was densely populated. Though the people all spoke the Nauatl tongue, they were not all Mexicans. Only the inhabitants of Mexico city were of that race. The rest were the descendants of the several North American tribes which, as explained further back, settled in the valley before the Mexicans arrived. But all of them were now subject to Montezuma, and the lords who governed them were related to him.
Bernal says it came on to snow at the top of the pass, blotting out the view, and continued to snow as they descended. The crater of Popocatapetl close on their left was belching smoke and flames. An icy wind moaned in the pine trees. It was a wild and desolate scene. Never had they felt so far from home. The enterprise had never seemed so desperate. In their anxiety they suspected an ambush and at a fork where the Mexican envoys wished to take them by one road they insisted on going by the other. At dusk they reached a group of rest-houses, post inns of a sort for the use of travelling merchants. ‘There we got a good supper but the cold was intense,’ says Bernal, though Cortés says there was a wood fire in each room. These arrangements for their comfort had been made by the Mexicans. To suspect them still of treachery began to seem far-fetched. Nevertheless, Cortés did not relax his precautions. It was impossible to be sure how the affair would go.
Next morning, November 3rd, they continued the march down hill. Proceeding at a leisurely pace through Amecameca and other small towns they did not reach the southern shore of the lake at Ayotzinco until the 6th. The people flocked to see them pass and at each stopping place plenty of food was provided for the whole party.
During this descent to lake-level at 7,400 feet Cortés was met by no less than three sets of emissaries from Montezuma. The first of these was a magical embassy. Historians are not agreed as to its exact significance. It was headed by a personage who was the image of Montezuma and gave himself out to be the First Speaker. The reader will recall that an embassy led by a Mexican very like Cortés had come while the Spaniards were on the coast. The present case was the opposite, but the intention to bewitch was the same. If Cortés-Quetzalcoatl was induced to treat Montezuma’s double as though he were Montezuma and was drawn into a conversation, the words of which created an enchantment, he would be prevented afterwards, by force of enchantment, from recognizing the real Montezuma. But unversed in the details of Mexican magic we cannot know exactly the intention. Whatever it was, the attempt fell flat, because Cortés discovered the personation and refused to receive the ambassador.
After his double failed, Montezuma sent out his regular enchanters. What happened to them was very strange; it is recorded in perhaps the most curious scene of Sahagún’s curious book. The march of the Conquistadores was in its plain reality as extraordinary an event as has ever happened. But its power as a real story is heightened by non-real touches which ally it with the great poetic drama of antiquity and give it a universal symbolism. Such is the nature of Sahagún’s scene. When the enchanters had gone some part of their way and were in a solitary place, they saw coming towards them down the slope a countryman in a loin-cloth with a grass rope wound eight times round his body. He halted in front of them and blocked the path. He was like a drunk man; or was his drunkenness due to fury? He seemed to rise up in the way and said in a hectoring voice: ‘What, you have come again! This time what is your errand? What has Montezuma got in his brain? Has he only now come to his senses? His errors, his guilt, his sins, are past counting. He has given the people over to death. He has wrapped them in their shroud.’
The enchanters were appalled by this denouncement. Suddenly terrified, they saw that it was not a drunken rustic they had to do with, but Tezcatlipoca, the Smoking Mirror. In the magical books it was recorded that he had appeared before in just such a guise and foretold the destruction of the Toltecs, the ruling dynasty which had preceded the Mexican. Throwing themselves on the ground, they prayed fervently, as the apparition continued to rant at them. Hastily they piled up a little pyramid of earth, with a bed of grass for him on the top, and begged him to sit there, so that they might offer him their blood. But he would not even look their way. And opening wide his great mouth he cried: ‘What good is it your coming here? All is over. The Mexico that was, is no longer and shall never be again. Too late! Too late! Look what is happening!’ And he pointed towards the city.
They looked back and saw that all the temples were ablaze, and the priests’ houses, all the houses of Mexico. And it was as if a great battle, too, were raging. They became incoherent and out of their wits. Him who had spoken they could see no more.
Choking with horror they hastened to tell their master. The meaning of their vision was plain. The chief of the gods, who in the old days had driven Quetzalcoatl out of the land, was enraged with Montezuma for having let him return. Mad with fury, he was abandoning Mexico to its fate.
When Montezuma was told the news a vast sadness overtook him. He had provoked what he most dreaded, a supernatural conflict. By refusing to fight Quetzalcoatl, he had aroused the jealousy of Smoking Mirror. If Smoking Mirror, chief guardian of the city, withdrew his protection, the cosmic balance would be upset with incalculable results. He fell into a long silence of despair.
At last rousing himself, he said: ‘We have swallowed the poison. Nevertheless, some means may yet be found.’ But what means? He would try gold again, more gold, a bigger offer. The incarnate god had made it clear that he preferred gold to any gift. If enough gold were offered he might even now, late though it was, turn his face homewards. And Smoking Mirror would forget his anger.
A new embassy was sent. The envoys earnestly begged Cortés not to come nearer, offering him for himself alone, if he went back, four loads of gold, that is two hundred pounds’ weight, and for each captain fifty pounds’ weight. But Cortés replied that he must see and talk to Montezuma, in order to explain why he had come. When he had done so, he would depart, if Montezuma did not wish him to remain.
This promise was at least a straw of hope. If the god were paying him but a brief call, there was less reason for alarm. Smoking Mirror could perhaps be appeased; the future might not be as dark as feared. Montezuma felt he had gained a point. It remained for him to welcome the god in a fitting manner. He could do no more for the moment. The third embassy was the result of this decision.
It arrived early in the morning of the 7th while the Spaniards were at Ayotzinco on the south shore of the lake. At the head of it was Cacamatzin (Lord of Small Maize Cobs), Montezuma’s nephew, lord of Tetzcuco, the most important lake town after Mexico. All the previous envoys had been lords, but Cacamatzin’s rank was far higher. Though quite young, only twenty-five, he was a leading figure in the valley. The ceremony that surrounded him as he approached greatly impressed the watching Spaniards. ‘He rode in a litter richly worked in green feathers, with many silver borderings, and rich stones set in bosses made of the finest gold,’ Bernal records. Eight lords bore the litter. When Cacamatzin got out, they ‘swept the ground and removed the straws where he had to pass’.
Cacamatzin then formally welcomed Cortés and offered to conduct him to the city. He even apologized that Montezuma himself had not come out to meet him. Cortés embraced him and gave him beads.
They all set out at once. Mexico, still twenty miles away, was not visible; it was hidden behind a promontory which, as the map shows, here juts across the lake. But there was much of interest to be seen. They marched along the shore until they reached a preliminary causeway, a broad embankment two miles long which crossed the water to the promontory, not one of the main causeways leading to the city, but a link in the system. Half-way over was an island where stood the town of Cuitlahuac (Place of the Dunged Water), ‘the most beautiful we had yet seen,’ Cortés told the Emperor, ‘not only because of the well-decorated houses and towers, but also for the excellent construction of its foundations in the lake’. Looking west they could see Xochimilco (the Field of Flowers), an island famous for its botanical garden. Having dined well at Cuitlahuac, they continued along the causeway to the promontory and took the road for Iztapalapan (On the Salt-Coloured Water). It was on the far side of the promontory and opposite Mexico, and when they reached it they could see the city’s white temples and palaces five miles away, rising from the water of the lake at the end of one of the main causeways. This view of it reminded them of fairy cities in their old romances. ‘Some of our soldiers asked whether what we saw were not a dream. I do not know how to describe it all, for we were looking at what had never been heard of or seen before, nor even dreamed about,’ says Bernal.
At Iztapalapan they were lodged in a palace, ‘spacious and well built, the walls panelled with scented woods, great rooms and courts covered with awnings of cotton cloth’. It was grander than anything they had seen at home. A garden was close by, with paths, flower-beds and bathing-pools, the alleys decorated with carvings in relief. ‘No future discoveries will ever be so wonderful. Alas! to-day, all is overthrown and lost, nothing left standing,’ sighs Bernal. This sigh, coming from an old Conquistador, is very revealing. As a human being, he could not help regretting the destruction wrought by his countrymen. Thinking of Iztapalapan and the view of Mexico in the midst of the waters, he forgets for a moment that this beauty was only one aspect of Mexican life. Gardens, lily ponds, bathing-pools, sculptured terraces they had indeed, but down the steps of the white towering pyramids, which looked so beautiful from a distance, was oozing, on closer view, streams of blood.
The 8th of November dawned, the day ever memorable, disastrous, epochal, when the Spaniards entered Mexico, or, as it was then called, Tenochtitlan (The Foundation of Stone Prickly Pear). They had as their conductors not only Cacamatzin, Montezuma’s nephew, but also his brother Cuitlahuac, lord of the little causeway town of the same name and also of Iztapalapan. A dense crowd lined the way, staring at the extraordinary strangers with amazement and fear, and also with excitement. Sahagún has a passage which describes the scene through their eyes. ‘At the head of the column were four riders, who turned their eyes this way and that, in case of a surprise attack. The dogs ran ahead with their noses on the ground. Next came an ensign carrying a banner, waving it, swinging it round his head. Men-at-arms followed, their swords sparkling, with their shields on their shoulders. Behind was a row of riders with lances, their swords hanging from the hips and bells tinkling on their bridles. The horses neigh and sweat, foam at the mouth, their hooves clatter on the roadway. Then come the men with crossbows on their shoulders and quivers crammed with arrows, in quilted armour, plumes in their casques. Again riders, then the musketeers.’
So they marched along the causeway, which veered west to a junction with a side causeway from the town of Coyuacan (Place of Many Lean Coyotes), and then went north straight on to Mexico. Bernal says that when they found themselves surrounded by the crowds on both sides of the way and in canoes on the lake, (not to speak of their escort, the armed men of the princes Cacamatzin and Cuitlahuac), they felt very nervous, remembering how the Tlaxcalans had warned them to beware of entering Mexico. But there was no threatening sign; the expression on all faces was of awe and respect. More and more lords came to welcome them and kiss the earth.
And now the great moment approached when they were to come face to face with Montezuma. They had passed Xoloc, a fortress on the causeway, when word went round that he was on his way to meet them. Cacamatzin and Cuitlahuac hastened ahead. Montezuma had come out of the city and was approaching the head of the causeway. When the princes reached him, he descended from his litter. A canopy of feathers and embroidery was raised and beneath it he walked towards the Spaniards, supported under the arms by the two princes. His mantle was rich, his sandals golden. Ahead of him went other lords, sweeping the ground and spreading cloth as a carpet for his feet. All the lords were barefoot and, except the two who supported his arms, had their eyes lowered in reverence.
‘As we approached each other,’ wrote Cortés, ‘I dismounted and was about to embrace him, but the two lords in attendance prevented me with their hands, so that I might not touch him.’
Bernal says the princes prevented the embrace because they thought it an indignity. But since Montezuma believed Cortés to be a divine incarnation and came afoot to receive him, the objection to the embrace could not have been that it was thought too great a liberty. What the objection was, we cannot tell, but may well suppose it was prompted by fear. Ever since Montezuma had heard of Cortés’ arrival, he had been terrified at the idea of meeting him. He could not have imagined that the god would immediately seek to embrace him. The two princes may have read into Cortés’ gesture a magical intention. However, they rapidly recovered from their fright and did not object when Cortés took off a necklace he was wearing of multicoloured beads strung on a gold cord scented with musk and hung it round Montezuma’s neck.
Montezuma now formally bade Cortés welcome. Sahagún has recorded the beautiful speech and we may be sure that it accurately represents the gist of what was heard by the Mexicans who stood by on that day. A phrase or two of it is found in Bernal, who remembered that much of Doña Marina’s translation.
Says Sahagún: ‘Montezuma straightened himself to his full height and standing close before Cortés addressed him thus: “O Lord, our Lord, with what trouble, what fatigue, have you journeyed to reach us, have arrived in this land, your land, your own city of Mexico, to sit on your mat, your stool, which I have been guarding for you this while. Your vassals, the old kings, my ancestors, are gone, after they too had kept ready your mat. Would that one of them could rise from the dead and, astonished, see what my eyes truly see, for in no dream do I see your face. Ah, these days, five, ten, a string of days, I have been anxious, watching for you, waiting to see you appear from your hidden place among the clouds and mists. For the kings, my ancestors, told that you would appear, that you would return to sit on your mat, your stool. Now it has come true; you have returned. With toil, with weariness, you have reached us at last. Welcome to this land. Rest now. You are tired. Rest awhile. Rest in your palace. With your companions, the lords, take your rest.”’
Who can say how Doña Marina and Aguilar rendered intelligible this lyrical address, thrilling with hidden anguish, humble and adoring? Indeed, we cannot suppose that Cortés received more than a hint of its pathos and renunciation. Even now we can only with difficulty catch its overtones. One of the strangest utterances ever recorded, its ultimate meanings still escape us. We do not know in what consultations, political and priestly, Montezuma had spent the previous day. But evidently he had discovered no way of escaping his fate. He must submit, whatever might come.
Cortés’ reply was polite. He expressed no astonishment at the offer of the throne. Perhaps he did not believe it was seriously meant. But the offer of the throne was meant; at least it was an acknowledgment of Cortés’ right to the throne. It has to be remembered that Quetzalcoad was not only a god but that he had, during his last appearance, been King of the Toltecs. He was therefore not only a returning god but a returning king. And a returning Toltec king was, in Mexican opinion, senior to a reigning Mexican king. Cortés reiterated what he had always said—that he came in peace, there was nothing to fear, that he had been longing to see Montezuma, had much to tell him.
Montezuma now announced that he would escort the Spaniards to the house which he was placing at their disposal. A procession was formed, Montezuma walking in front to show the way. They went up a broad street into the heart of the city, watched by an immense crowd. Presently a man came with a parcel. It contained a necklace of golden shrimps that Montezuma had sent for and which he hung round Cortés’ neck. If, as is supposed, the necklace was part of Quetzalcoad’s insignia, the gift showed that nothing in Cortés’ appearance or speech was thought inconsistent with his being the god.
When they reached the centre of the town, they came to a group of splendid buildings. On their right was Montezuma’s immense palace and nearly opposite was the enclosure in which rose up the great pyramid-temple of the Humming Bird. A short distance further on, beside a zoo, was the palace of Montezuma’s late father, Axayacatzin (Face of Water Lord), a previous First Speaker. This was the residence where the Spaniards were to stay. Montezuma led them into a great hall and taking Cortés by the hand made him sit by him on a dais. Dinner would soon be ready, he said. They must make themselves at home. As soon as they had eaten and rested, he would visit them again. With these words he left and went to his own palace. ‘A splendid dinner came up and we ate it at once,’ says Bernal. ‘Such was our lucky and daring entry into the great city of Mexico on 8th November 1519. Thanks to our Lord Jesus Christ for it all.’