Chapter Nine

Don Fielding had often viewed Mexico City and the valley which lay below, in his own time, from approximately this spot. There was a super-highway going through the pass to the city of Pueblo. However, he recognized nothing. In the twentieth century, Lake Texcoco was all but completely gone. The Spanish and modem Mexicans had drained it.

Now, the lake covered what seemed to be most of the valley floor. It was ringed, so far as his eye could see, with villages and towns, some of them in the lake itself. Largest of them all was Tenochtitlan, located on the far side, not too distant from the shore line of a bay and approached by three causeways; four, if you counted one which made a juncture with another before reaching the city proper. In the distance, on the edge of the lake and nearly screened by intervening foliage, he could barely make out what must be Tetzcuco, the sister city and friendly rival of Tenochtitlan. As Don recalled, it was said to be at least the same size.

Cuauhtemoc said proudly, “Tenochtitlan.”

“Yes, of course,” Don murmured in awe. He could make out the temple area, the soaring pyramids, the huge buildings, even from this distance, and the distance was great; at least another day’s march. But the air was clear.

The blinding smog of his own day was unknown here. It might not be so bad, he thought—and firmly directed his mind elsewhere.

It was a city of canals, of greenery and other color everywhere. So covered was the area with vegetation that Don could only wonder where the people lived.

They started to descend at a stronger pace now, since the way was downhill. For that matter, the road was better. Obviously, it was more utilized this close to the capital. Shortly it became paved with some type of pink pumice traprock composed of silica and volcanic ash from what Don could see. It was wider now.

Although all had perked up at the sight of their goal, they still had a long way to go. They’d never reach the city this night, no matter that it was magnificently in view.

Don said to Cuauhtemoc, “I have been curious. How is it that your uncle and the council sent such young men as you and Axayaca as ambassadors to Cortes?”

“But we are of the Eagle calpulli.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Why, it is well that while we are still young men, we gain experience so that later, if we are elected to office, we will know how to conduct ourselves.”

“Why shouldn’t this apply to any other clan?”

“It does, but in lesser degree. Each calpulli must elect its own chiefs, of course. But we of the Eagles are particularly trained to hold high office in both the city and the confederation. We have long been noted as warriors and administrators. For many generations our clan has supplied the office of Tlacatecuhtli to the city, and that of the Cihuacohuatl, as well.”

“Cihuacohuatl?” Don said. The word meant, literally, snake-woman.

“The head chief of the Tenochas,” Cuauhtemoc explained.

Don Fielding looked at him. “But I thought your uncle, Motechzoma, was head chief of the Tenochas.”

The other shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. Motechzoma is the head war chief of our confederation of Tenochtitlan, Tetzcuco, and Tlacopan. Tlilpotonque is the Snake-Woman. It is a title that goes so far back that we know not its origins. He is not a woman, of course.”

In a way, Don Fielding was amused. Cortes, in his so badly translated dialogue with Cuauhtemoc, had assumed Motechzoma to be emperor, or at least king, of what amounted to all Mexico. Now it turned out that he wasn’t even head chief of the Tenochas.

As they descended, the woods became thinner and patches of cultivated land appeared more often, wherever in fact, there was level enough a plot to work. From what Don could see of the valley, that need was obvious. Population explosion there was in the area in this era, though not as bad as in his own. However, in his time the Mexicans were able to bring in food and other necessities by railroad and truck. But in this age a porter’s back, over these long stretches and these rugged roads and conditions, didn’t make much sense. You might be able to requisition food from as far away as fifty miles from Tenochtitlan, but after that the amount of food that the porter consumed, coming and going, started giving you diminishing returns. Shelled dried corn, of course, a concentrate, wasn’t so bad. But other staples of Indian diet—squash, melons, tomatoes, green peppers, and so forth? It simply didn’t make sense. Largely, the overcrowded inhabitants of the Mexican valley would have to raise their own food.

They spent the night in a town Cuauhtemoc told him was named Ayotzico, which was located at the southernmost part of the lake. Evidently, the Indians considered the lake to be not one, but five, although they were all joined. This was Lake Chaleo, evidently named after the largest town which bordered it and which was located somewhere over to the right.

Ayotzico itself spread out into the lake. That is, some of the town, resting on piles and reclaimed land, overflowed into the water.

Cuauhtemoc was not on home territory, it seemed. Ayotzico was allied to the Tenochtitlan league. He was met with full honors by the local chief and they were escorted to the quarters in one of the larger community houses. It was at least as big as anything in Cempoala, and Don realized that if and when the Spanish saw it, it would be dubbed a palace.

In the morning they arose at dawn and set off alongside the edge of the lake. Cuauhtemoc informed Don that the night before the local chief had sent a runner ahead to Motechzoma and the high council to inform them of the return of the ambassadors. Undoubtedly, they would be summoned to appear and report immediately upon arrival.

As they proceeded, the towns became thicker and were even more inclined to extend out into the lakes. They were half dry land villages, half chinampas. Don Fielding, in his wanderings about Mexico, had been in the town of Xochimilco more than once, the largest of the remaining chinampa towns in the country.

It was an interesting method of agriculture. Driven by necessity to achieve more land for cultivation, the inhabitants of the Mexican valley had created it. The lake was quite shallow, so the Indians had been able to dredge up mud from the bottom and dump it into huge baskets, in which they planted crops. The roots would soon grow out of the bottom and sink themselves into the lake floor. Each year, new baskets would be added and more rich lake bottom mud added to the top. When a fairly large area was thus covered, even trees could be planted, and in time the land would become quite permanent. Dredging up new soil to place on top each year gave somewhat the same result as the flooding of the Nile in Egypt. That is, the old land was continually fertilized by the new mud and it was possible to wrest several crops a year from the soil.

Yes, Don Fielding knew all about the chinampa towns, but it was fascinating, as an anthropologist cum archeologist, to witness them at their peak of glory. In actuality, these people were gardeners rather than farmers. They had no field agriculture, no beasts of burden, no domesticated animals save the turkey, and a small hairless dog they bred for food. Yes, fascinating, but fated to go. The Spanish would introduce the plow and draught animal, and field agriculture would be here.

It all came under the head of progress, he admitted. This chinampa system was primitive. He could see the Indians working them, with their ancient coa digging sticks; considerably wider at the digging end than the handle, it was somewhat reminiscent of a very early form of shovel.

Cuauhtemoc named the towns and villages as they progressed. Here was Xochimilco, the very town Don had known in another age, here Tlalpan, here Cuicuilco, and here Coyoacan, which was somewhat larger than most of the others and must have boasted some five thousand inhabitants.

At Coyoacan they branched off onto one of the causeways that led to the great city in the lake. It was of stone and gravel and periodically they crossed over bridges made of removable wooden beams. Cuauhtemoc, obviously prideful of his city, explained that the water breaches had three purposes. They permitted the movement of canoes through the causeway, allowed for the ebb and flow of water which might otherwise have damaged the causeway, and in case of danger, the beams could be removed so that an enemy couldn’t attack the city. An ancient horizontal form of drawbridge, Don decided.

Don Fielding could see the obvious need for passageways for the canoes. The lake was aswarm with them—dugout canoes, holding one, two, or three persons, seldom more. They were limited in size due to the fact that they were carved out of single tree trunks, undoubtedly brought down from the surrounding mountains.

After about a mile, they reached a small island which was fortified with both towers and walls and where they joined a larger causeway which came up from the south.

“Acachinanco,” Cuauhtemoc told him. “We have fortified it against our enemies of the city Huexotzingo.”

They halted here long enough for Cuauhtemoc and Axayaca and the subchiefs to get into their formal attire as ambassadors. Then they went on. The causeway, now, was some twenty-five feet wide and aswarm with Indians coming and going between the mainland and the city. All together, Don Fielding estimated the causeway must be some four miles long. The Indians bug-eyed him, but didn’t stop.

The nearer they got to the city, the more chinampas they came upon. Evidently, Tenochtitlan was still growing, still sprawling out over the lake. History told him that originally, when the Tenochas had first moved out from the mainland, there had been only a few marshy islands and practically no dry land at all. Slowly, using the chinampas method, they had enlarged it until now, almost two hundred years later, it embraced some twenty-five hundred acres in all. The trouble was, where the lake ended and the city began was moot. The closer you got toward the center, the more the chinampas thickened, until finally what had been more or less open lake became patches of land, surrounded by canals.

Finally, the causeway merged into dry land and sizable buildings began.

“Xoloco,” Cuauhtemoc said. “This is the calpulli of Xoloco. There are twenty calpulli in all and the city is divided into four sections, Teopan, Moyotlan, Aztacalco and Cuepopan, each containing five calpulli, each occupied by a clan. Then there is Tlaltelolco, our sister city to which we are attached to the north, and it contains six more calpulli. Ours is the greatest city in the world.”

Well, perhaps, Don thought inwardly. He wondered just what cities they might have in this age in China or India. In Europe, perhaps, they might not have quite this population, though he suspected that Venice, London, or Paris could give this Neolithic town a run for its money.

There were the usual community houses spread out over wide areas; there were temples and there were pyramids of smaller size.

Cuauhtemoc indicated one building. “The tecpan of Xoloco,” he said.

“Tecpan?”

Cuauhtemoc frowned. “Where the calpullec, the chiefs of this clan, conducts its business affairs. Where the chief reside. Where…”

“Precinct station,” Don muttered.

As they proceeded, it came to him that Tenochtitlan resembled Venice, or perhaps Amsterdam. It was a city of canals. There was as much, or more, traffic on water as there was on land. Every house seemed to have two entries, one on the street, one on the canal. It was actually possible to enter many of the larger buildings either way; that is, you could pole or paddle your boat right into the building.

Don was reminded of the gondolas of Venice. They even stood to pole or paddle them in gondolier fashion. Evidently produce and freight was moved on the canals; so evidently was even fresh water. He pointed out another canoe, laden down with what he knew not, and asked Cuauhtemoc about it.

The young Indian laughed and explained that the public latrines were unloaded into these canoes and the contents taken over to the mainland to be used as fertilizer. It made sense. If they’d dumped their sewage into the canals, they’d not only have a horrible stench in short order but possibly an epidemic as well.

Actually it was a beautiful town, Don decided. These people went in for flowers, gardens, and trees. There was color everywhere, in the clothes, in the painting of the houses, in the decorations of temples and public buildings.

The houses were single story, as in Cempoala and every other Mexican town Don had thus far seen; however, the second story seemed to be attempting to evolve. Some of the larger community buildings, now that they were on land that was of firmer foundation, would have an arrangement where there was a first floor, then a platform behind it. An exterior stone stairway would take you up to the second landing and there would be additional rooms.

They emerged finally at the end of the causeway to what in Don’s day was the Zocalo of Mexico City and was in these days a complex of pyramids, temples, and governmental buildings of Tenochtitlan.

It was enwalled, completely surrounded by canals, and possibly the most impressive complex of buildings Don had ever seen, even in his own age. The area was far and beyond the courtyard in front of St. Peter’s in Rome or the square before St. Mark’s in Venice, and it was as abuzz as either of those.

Don Fielding had seen a model reconstruction of the great plaza of Tenochtitlan. He could make out the inaccuracies, but in actuality, it had been rather well done. He could recognize now, straight ahead, where one day the cathedral would be and where now reared a temple set atop the largest pyramid in the vicinity. Over there, to the right, where one day was to be the National Palace, the space was now occupied by a huge building with several entrances.

When he saw Don looking in that direction, Cuauhtemoc said with pride, “The central house of the Eagle clan.”

“Then that’s where your uncle, Motechzoma, lives?”

“No, the First Speaker, the Snake-Woman, and the other head chiefs of Tenochtitlan live there, in the tecpan.”

The other pointed to another huge building on the other side of the great temple. “There they administer the city and the affairs of the confederation. There they entertain visiting delegations from the other cities. There they divide the spoils of war.”

“City hall,” Don muttered to himself in English.

His eyes went around the rest of the square, even as they proceeded in the direction of the tecpan. He winced at the sight of the great block of the skull-rack, where thousands of skulls, threaded on poles, were piled high in orderly symmetry. Nearby was a ball court in which some young men were kicking a ball about with hips and elbows, in an effort to bounce it through two rings set opposite each other on the walls that ran the length of the court. Nearby, too, was a stone altar Don recognized, to his surprise. It was the Tizoc sacrificial stone, hollowed in the center so that hearts from the victims could be burned there. And one day to be displayed in the National Museum.

And now he noted a stench in the air, similar to that of a foul butcher shop which rose above the odor of incense from the braziers which were so thick about the square that the air was almost smoglike in quality. In his association with Cuauhtemoc and the others over the past ten days, he had forgotten this aspect of the Tenocha culture.

Let the Spanish come! At least they would end this!

On the way down the causeway street, he had spotted black garbed priests on several occasions. Now their number increased considerably and he came close enough to several to get their stench. Their hair was long, obviously never cut, and matted with what must be blood. Don’s stomach churned.

They reached an enormous gate leading into the courtyard of the building Cuauhtemoc had named the tecpan, and Don and the two younger ambassadors, followed by the subchiefs, filed in. The porters and women went off elsewhere, their portion of the expedition completed.

The building, sizable though it was and evidently containing literally hundreds of rooms, was aswarm with humanity. Some, either singly or in groups, were scurrying here and there, obviously on business. Some stood about, arguing, debating, discussing, sometimes laughing. Others squatted on their heels, doing the same. As always in these Indian buildings, there were no chairs. One could sit on the edge of a step, if he wished. Few of them seemed to. The Indian, like the Moslem, preferred to sit or squat on the floor.

Don followed Cuauhtemoc and Axayaca up a fairly steep set of stone stairs to where a moderately large set of rooms was set back on a platform—the nearest thing to a second story their architecture had thus far evolved, as he had noted before. This must be the official quarters of Motechzoma Xocoyotzin, Montezuma the Second, the First Speaker, but there were no sentries. By appearances, the Indians hadn’t gotten that far in their military know-how. Come to think of it, save for their party entering the city after a long trip, he had seen no armed men at all. Tenochtitlan, like ancient Rome, must forbid arms within the city limits. Weapons, seemingly, were stored in some sort of armory until needed.

They were being awaited. Who was evidently Motechzoma himself sat on what was the nearest thing to a chair that Don had thus far seen in Mexico. It was of leather and had a back but no legs. The war chief was still sitting on the floor. Around him were seven others, standing.

The room was typical of all that Don had as yet seen in this era. About fifty feet long by twenty deep, aside from tapestries, rugs, and colorful mats, it was unfurnished. There were no windows, no fireplace, and no way of closing the door through which the only available light came.

The war chief stood, a somewhat startled look on his not unhandsome face. The relationship to Cuauhtemoc was obvious. He looked to be about forty, well proportioned though lean, was about the same height as his nephew, which made him slightly above the Indian average. He affected a thin black beard, had the same good eyes as Cuauhtemoc, and his complexion seemed somewhat lighter than those of most of his companions. Perhaps he was in the sunlight less often. He, like the others present, was dressed similarly to all the Indians of this country Don had seen thus far. Perhaps a bit richer but much the same.

Don said politely, “Greetings to Motechzoma Xocoyotzin.” Montezuma the Younger, that meant, or Montezuma the Second; there had been another Montezuma several generations back.

All had been ogling the newcomer in amazement, but that really set them back.

The First Speaker blurted, “You speak our tongue!” His eyes went to his two nephews. “You did not inform me that the teteuhs used our tongue. Thus it has not been in our past relations with them. It was necessary to speak through this La Malinche and the other to converse with Malintzin.”

Cuauhtemoc said defensively, “He is the only teteuh who speaks Nahuatl. He says he is not of the same nation as the other teteuhs. He denies that he is a teteuh himself, or even that they are. His story is that they imprisoned and tried to kill him but that he killed the assassin and escaped. He came to us and we brought him here.” The younger man was properly respectful, but he didn’t seem to have any particular awe for his uncle.

Motechzoma’s eyes were going back and forth in utter disbelief.

“I did not instruct you to return with a prisoner.”

“He is not a prisoner. He came of his free will. Besides, I doubt that I could take him prisoner if I so wished, since he carries one of the weapons of the gods.”

One of the older chiefs came up with, “It is said that it is impossible to kill a teteuh.”

Motechzoma said, “If you are not of the same nation as Malintzin, from whence do you come?”

Don gave him the story of his land to the distant north, and he could see disbelief in the other’s eyes. He wasn’t being overly impressed by the head war chief of the Mexico valley confederation. The other had a somewhat fearful quality about him. Fearful of Don Fielding, here in his own capital, here in his power? He had only to clap his hands and Don was a dead man. Nevertheless, there was no denying the other’s confusion.

Axayaca said, “He claims that Malintzin marches on Tlaxcala.”

“Tlaxcala!” one of the others blurted. “Then we are safe.”

Cuauhtemoc shook his head. “Malintzin himself told me that he comes here to see the Tlacatecuhtli. That then all problems will be solved between you.”

Don Fielding said, “He goes to Tlaxcala on the way here. He intends to make allies of them and then march on Tenochtitlan.” He could have told them, he supposed, that Cortes was coming for no good, so far as the Indians were concerned, but why should he? He wished, above all, to continue living, and ultimately survival could only be through the Spaniards. Tenochtitlan’s fate was already in the cards. Somehow, he must make his peace with Cortes and the Spanish army. How, he didn’t know, but he would have to. Perhaps he could get to him through Fray Olmedo, Malinche, or Bernal Diaz.

One of the chiefs, the seemingly sharpest of them, said, “If you are their enemy, how should you know?”

Don lied, “When I was in their camp I heard their chiefs talking.”

Motechzoma seemed in despair, but he got around, at last, to introductions. He indicated the last Indian speaker. “This is Tlilpotonque, the Cihuacohuatl.”

So Snake-Woman, head chief of the Tenochas, was possibly ten years the senior of Motechzoma and considerably his senior intellectually, if Don was any judge. This man had achieved his high office through his own endeavors, not just because he belonged to the Eagle clan. He hadn’t the good looks of Cuauhtemoc and his uncle, but he had an intensity that came through in eyes and facial expression.

The war chief was introducing the others. Tlacochcalcatl, Tlacatecatl, Ezhuanhuacatl, Cucuhnochtecuhtli. Don didn’t know if these were titles or names or both. The words meant, literally: man of the house of darts, cutter of man, bloodshedder, and chief of the eagle and prickly pear. If Don got it correctly, these four, all of whom were more elderly than the rest present, were the head chiefs of the four sections into which Tenochtitlan proper was divided.

The war chief was indicating the others. “And Tetlepanquetzaltzin, Tlachochcalcatl of Tlacopan; Cacama, Tlachochcalcatl of Tetzcuco; Itzcuauhtzin, Tlachochcalcatl of Tlatelolco, our sister city.”

Evidently this was not just a meeting of the high council of Tenochtitlan, but of the confederated cities as well. If he had it right, it was strictly a military alliance. The three cities were united for the purpose of looting their neighbors—a bandit people whose raiding expeditions extended over half of Mexico and some three hundred cities, towns, and villages. Well, the Spanish would end that, too, with raids to end all raids. In fact, they had already begun. Cempoala had been one of the tribute areas and Cortes had taken it over in the name of his monarch, Charles Fifth.

There was only one other present, thus far unintroduced. He was black-robed, his hair matted and filthy; a seeming madness gleamed from his eyes set in a fox face. Motechzoma said, “Xochitl, the Quequetzalcoa.”

So this was the High Priest of Huitzilopochtli, the Hummingbird God, the god of war of the Tenochas.

His eyes burned and he screamed, “Sacrifice him to the gods!”