Aztec Gold

PROLOGUE

The boy perched on the highest point of the highest hill, watching. His name was Acalan, meaning ‘canoe’. He had no idea why a boy named so would fare particularly badly at watery pursuits nor why his parents, artisans both, had named him after a water going vessel. Even the tiacotin, the slaves of his household, questioned it though not knowingly within earshot.

His eyes swept the gleaming city below. The Spanish were everywhere, their conquistadors prancing in full armor atop their horses, already conquerors in mind if not in reality. And though their leader, the one called Cortés, had departed days ago, it was later said, to fight off fellow Spaniards that were coming to arrest him, there was still another in charge tonight — one they called Alvarado.

This preening deputy governor had finally consented to the Aztecs’ many requests to allow them to celebrate the festival of Toxcatl, granted after the imprisoned leader of the Aztecs, Montezuma himself, made an impassioned plea. They were all down there now, almost a thousand men gathering in the Patio of the Gods, mostly lords and nobles, naked except for their glittering jewels and feathered headdresses, surrounded by singers and drummers, readying themselves for the festival’s beginning.

The Spaniards watched dispassionately.

Acalan squinted harder, trying to distinguish the familiar figure of his father making ready in the square. The men all looked very much alike from this distance, the women — he was starting to realize as he progressed in years — not so much. One in particular, Chimalma, meaning shield-bearer, had already caught his eye, her sparkling flirtatious gaze the core of his dreams. He looked away from the area of the main temple, seeking her dwelling, but the white pathways were full to bursting with so many dark-haired people on this early eve that it was impossible to tell one from another.

The sun was starting to set, a fiery blaze on the horizon. Some would say a portent of bad things to come. Others — warriors and priests — would say death and slaughter were never far away from a culture that practiced human sacrifice.

The festival would soon begin. Acalan, in his curious way, was looking forward to it. This night always produced a fine spectacle. Maybe even the sly, stoic Spaniards would be impressed. The boy sat back and sniffed the air, allowing his senses to wander, the smoky reek of fire vying with the natural heady scent of fresh air. The grass rustled and the soil scraped into ruts beneath his bare feet as he dug them in hard, enjoying the sensation.

Let the men have their ceremony. All Acalan needed was this sense of freedom. The arrival of the Spanish, though at first welcomed by Montezuma and many other lords, had instilled within the community an underlying, multifaceted sense of dread. If the Spanish were indeed returning gods, then why didn’t they act so and why were they insatiably greedy? If they were conquerors why didn’t they fight? And where was their leader now?

Acalan stretched as the noise coming from below intensified. A caterwauling of religious admiration spread its passionate voice across the heavens, rising up on a self-centered cloud, the nobles engrossed in their worship. Acalan watched with a kind of fascinated disinterest. He saw the men whirling in their fancy garb; saw the musicians around the outside playing furiously, the great noise beginning to swell yet again. Acalan flicked a glance over the watching Spaniards — their faces rarely changed expression and tonight was no exception. From his vantage point he could see further afield and it was he that first saw the disturbance.

Nothing major — just a change in pace and raised voices. It came from over by the Spanish compound, impacting Acalan’s awareness more than if it had come from anyplace else. The conquistadors were forming together, amassing into a unit and their captain, Alvarado, was shouting at them.

Acalan wanted to smile. Perhaps a thief existed in their midst, or a rebel. It could be that they were getting a dressing down, but Acalan’s parents had taught him to always be wary and trust very little, and thus he wasn’t surprised, just alarmed when the men formed into lines and began to march out of the compound’s gates.

Having no concept of politics, but knowing violence when he saw it in the set of a man’s shoulders and the way of his walk, Acalan bounced to his feet and set off down the hill like a bolt of lightning. His parents were at the Patio of the Gods, as was most everyone else. On this night they would have no warning of the approaching menace.

Acalan’s feet whispered through the tall grass, swishing their way through the clumps like scythes with the speed of his passage. At one point he lost his balance, falling head over heels for a few moments, and the scene vibrating up from the square below assailed his vision like a tumbling kaleidoscope. He fancied he could hear the march of the men, the dull clunk of their weapons, even the sly sibilance of their murderous breaths. He fancied he could hear the tuneful lilt of his mother’s voice, the intonations remembered from a happy childhood of sweet songs, and the thudding in his heart rose until he could no longer bear it.

He caught himself, arrested the fall, then stood and screamed. “They are coming! Beware. They are coming!”

But of course the chanting and the music drowned him out. The people were ear-splittingly ecstatic in their celebration of the festival of Toxcatl, oblivious to all else.

Acalan despaired.

He ran on. The soldiers approached the square, their leader taking point. Acalan expected them to stop and shout, to halt proceedings, to gesture and accuse and march somebody off to captivity. He expected a dangerous stand-off, the Aztecs outraged at the interruption and the Spaniards forcibly trying to drive their collective will home.

What he didn’t expect was the heart-stopping suddenness with which the Spaniards drew their swords, the violent vigor with which they charged forward, the happy abandon with which they began to chop down his people.

Acalan cried out as he ran, an entreaty to the gods. Even from this distance he could see the blood flow, the bodies collapse as they were hacked apart. A cry went up from the square, a cry to arms, but the Aztec warriors would not arrive in time to save their brethren.

A mass of people poured away from the massacre. The Spaniards let them go, concentrating their murderous efforts against the Patio as if seeking some kind of retribution. Several townsfolk went to the aid of their lords, but were treated none the less ruthlessly.

Now it seemed, only now, the Spaniards were showing their true colors. They laughed as they slaughtered, stabbed helpless men time and again in a form of torture, chopped a man’s head clean off and then kicked it around between them. They did worse to the women, leaving none alive.

Acalan sped down beyond the bottom of the slope, mercifully losing sight of the massacre and threading the streets toward his parents’ abode, heart heavy and pounding, desperately, staggeringly hopeful that they’d made it out alive. Screams and the sounds of death and dreadful laughter now infused the night air.

Acalan came around the final corner.

His mother’s arms were open, her face the epitome of relief. His father’s face was grim.

“This is the first night of their destruction,” he said. “If Montezuma won’t help us, we will help ourselves.”

Following the events referenced during the night above, the Aztecs laid siege to the Spanish compound until Cortés returned and even elected a new leader. Following the Spanish captain’s triumphant reappearance, having subdued and indeed gained even more followers during his time away, the imprisoned king, Montezuma himself, was killed and Cortés decided the Spaniards’ best chance was to break out of the city at night.

During this night — later called ‘La Noche Triste’, the Night of the Long Sorrows, the Spaniards, under cover of a rainstorm, broke out along a narrow causeway. A battle of ferocious intensity ensued. Hundreds of canoes appeared alongside the causeway, filled with warriors. Weighed down by plundered gold and equipment, the Spaniards stumbled along, some losing their footing and drowning, sinking into the mud below so burdened were they with treasure that was not theirs to take.

Thousands died that night. Even native women, cooks and housekeepers that had been given to the Spaniards, died amidst the rage of battle.

Unknown to the Spaniards, and little documented since, were the actions of the Aztecs during the weeks following the original massacre at the Patio of the Gods and the return of Cortés. They took firm action. Whilst the Spaniards under Alvarado were besieged in their compound, the Aztecs amassed the majority of their remaining wealth — a great treasure trove of jewels and gold coins, the largest monetary treasure ever assembled. Even the buildings were stripped of their gold and gems.

It is said that seven caravans set out, following a northern course.

Writings tell of the caravans traveling for a long time, but no one knows where they ended up or the actual treasure location…