The Fair God; or, The Last of the 'Tzins: A Tale of the Conquest of Mexico. Lew Wallace
feathers of his helm brushed the dust from the royal feet.
“It is well!” repeated the king, smiling. “But, son of my friend, where are your comrades?”
Tlahua, the Otompan, and the young Cholulan, equipped like Iztlil’, rendered their homage also. Over their heads he extended his hands, and said, softly, “They who love the gods, the gods love. Put your trust in them, O my children. And upon you be their blessing!”
And already he had passed the spears: one gage was forgotten, one combatant unblessed. Suddenly he looked back.
“Whose shield is that, my lords?”
All eyes rested upon the plain gage, but no one replied.
“Who is he that thus mocks the holy cause of Quetzal’? Go, Maxtla, and bring him to me!”
Then outspake Iztlil’.
“The shield is Guatamozin’s. Last night he challenged me to this combat, and he is not here. O king, the owl may be looking for the eagle.”
A moment the sadly serene countenance of the monarch knit and flushed as from a passing pain; a moment he regarded the Tezcucan. Then he turned to the shields of the Othmies and Tlascalans.
“They are a sturdy foe, and I warrant will fight hard,” he said, quietly. “But such victims are the delight of the gods. Fail me not, O children!”
When the Tihuancan and his chaperone climbed half-way to the upper row of seats, in the quarter assigned to the people, the former was amazed. He looked down on a circular arena, strewn with white sand from the lake, and large enough for manœuvring half a thousand men. It was bounded by a rope, outside of which was a broad margin crowded with rank on rank of common soldiery, whose shields were arranged before them like a wall impervious to a glancing arrow. Back from the arena extended the staging, rising gradually seat above seat, platform above platform, until the whole area of the tianguez was occupied.
“Is the king a magician, that he can do this thing in a single night?” asked Hualpa.
Xoli laughed. “He has done many things much greater. The timbers you see were wrought long ago, and have been lying in the temples; the tamanes had only to bring them out and put them together.”
In the east there was a platform, carpeted, furnished with lounges, and protected from the sun by a red canopy; broad passages of entrance separated it from the ruder structure erected for the commonalty; it was also the highest of the platforms, so that its occupants could overlook the whole amphitheatre. This lordlier preparation belonged to the king, his household and nobles. So, besides his wives and daughters, under the red canopy sat the three hundred women of his harem—soft testimony that Orientalism dwelt not alone in the sky and palm-trees of the valley.
As remarked, the margin around the arena belonged to the soldiery; the citizens had seats in the north and south; while the priesthood, superior to either of them in sanctity of character, sat aloof in the west, also screened by a canopy. And, as the celebration was regarded in the light of a religious exercise, not only did women crowd the place, but mothers brought their children, that, from the examples of the arena, they might learn to be warriors.
Upon the appearance of the monarch there was a perfect calm. Standing awhile by his couch, he looked over the scene; and not often has royal vision been better filled with all that constitutes royalty. Opposite him he saw the servitors of his religion; at his feet were his warriors and people almost innumerable. When, at last, the minstrels of the soldiery poured their wild music over the theatre, he thrilled with the ecstasy of power.
The champions for the god then came in; and as they strode across to the western side of the arena the air was filled with plaudits and flying garlands; but hardly was the welcome ended before there was a great hum and stir, as the spectators asked each other why the fourth combatant came not with the others.
“The one with the bright panache, asked you? That is Iztlil’, the Tezcucan,” said Xoli.
“Is he not too fine?”
“No. Only think of the friends the glitter has made him among the women and children.”
The Chalcan laughed heartily at the cynicism.
“And the broad-shouldered fellow now fixing the thong of his shield?”
“The Otompan—a good warrior. They say he goes to battle with the will a girl goes to a feast. The other is the Cholulan; he has his renown to win, and is too young.”
“But he may have other qualities,” suggested Hualpa. “I have heard it said that, in a battle of arrows, a quick eye is better than a strong arm.”
The broker yawned. “Well, I like not those Cholulans. They are proud; they scorn the other nations, even the Aztecs. Probably it is well they are better priests than soldiers. Under the red canopy yonder I see his father.”
“Listen, good Xoli. I hear the people talking about the ’tzin? Where can he be?”
Just then within the wall of shields there came a warrior, who strode swiftly toward the solitary gage. His array was less splendid than his comrades’; his helm was of plain leather without ornament; his escaupil was secured by a simple loop: yet the people knew him, and shouted; and when he took down the plain shield and fixed it to his arm, the approbation of the common soldiery arose like a storm. As they bore such shields to battle, he became, as it were, their peculiar representative. It was Guatamozin.
And under the royal canopy there was rapid exchange of whispers and looks; every mind reverted to the paper dropped so mysteriously into the king’s hand at the palace door; and some there were, acuter than the rest, who saw corroboration of the meaning given the writing in the fact that the shield the ’tzin now chose was without the owl, his usual device. Whether the monarch himself was one of them might not be said; his face was as impassive as bronze.
Next, the Othmies and Tlascalans, dignified into common challengers of the proudest chiefs of Tenochtitlan, were conducted into the arena.
The Tlascalans were strong men used to battle; and though, like their companions in danger, at first bewildered by the sudden introduction to so vast a multitude, they became quickly inured to the situation. Of the Othmies, a more promising pair of gladiators never exhibited before a Roman audience. The father was past the prime of life, but erect, broad-shouldered, and of unusual dignity; the son was slighter, and not so tall, but his limbs were round and beautiful, and he looked as if he might outleap an antelope. The people were delighted, and cheered the challengers with scarcely less heartiness than their own champions. Still, the younger Othmi appeared hesitant, and, when the clamor somewhat abated, the sire touched him, and said—
“Does my boy dream? What voice is in his ear that his heart is so melted? Awake! the shield is on the arm of the foe.”
The young man aroused. “I saw the sun on the green hills of Othmi. But see!” he said, proudly, and with flashing eyes, “there is no weakness in the dreamer’s arm.” And with the words, he seized a bow at his feet, fitted an arrow upon the cord, and, drawing full to the head, sent it cleaving the sunshine far above them. Every eye followed its flight but his own. “The arm, O chief, is not stronger than the heart,” he added, carelessly dropping the bow.
The old warrior gazed at him tenderly; but as that was no time for the indulgence of affection, he turned to the Tlascalans, and said, “We must be ready: let us arm.”
Each donned a leathern helm, and wrapped himself in a quilted escaupil; each buckled the shield on his arm, and tightened the thongs of his sandals. Their arms lay at hand.
Such were the preparations for the combat, such the combatants. And as the foemen faced each other, awaiting the signal for the mortal strife, I fancy no Christian has seen anything more beautiful than the theatre. Among the faces the gaze swam as in a sea; the gleaming of arms and ornaments was bewildering; while the diversity of colors in the costumes of the vast audience was without comparison. With