Pomponius Mella, A.D. 43
* * *
Eight-Grass appeared out of the stone-and- wood sprawl of the harbor town behind them. Eagle saw him out of the corner of his eye. Eight-Grass was clearly aware of the contrast between his own bony frame and feather headdress against Eagle's squat muscularity and Grass approached the military man awkwardly as he hurried along the old jetty. He asked: "Can I re-check something?"
"Yes, what." Eagle's eyes didn't leave the load that was being hoisted up onto the deck of his flagship Sabertooth.
"Is my second load of books on board?" Eight-Grass said.
"Yes."
"The second load."
"Yes. I personally made sure it was on the ship and in your quarters."
"They're important," Eight-Grass said nervously.
"I know," Eagle said.
"I don't mean to question you."
"No worries. This may be a very long voyage and we can't afford to damage or lose anything now." For the duration of their exchange, Eagle's eyes hadn't left the load being hoisted up onto the deck. Now Eight-Grass looked up at it too. The object was wrapped in cloth and it was relatively small.
"What's that?" Eight-Grass said.
"My table." Eagle added, "It's the same one that was in my quarters on the Sea Snake during the war. I planned all our invasions on it and ate many bad meals on it. If I can't have the Sea Snake as my flagship at least I can have my table."
"Superstition?" Eight-Grass tried to ask amicably.
"No. It's a good table." Grass said nothing, and turned to count the warships out on the bay, still waiting to be loaded. Diving Eagle saved him the effort. He said, "These are the final sixty-eight."
* * *
But things did not go differently. Like colonies of primates growing in test tubes, we unknowingly quarantined ourselves in jungles and steppes and forests and tundras, and in each isolated corner of the Earth the historical accidents began to pile on top of one another, and the unfair odds piled up along with them. Of course, in reality Earth has no corners; and inevitably, soon there was nowhere new to go. Inevitably, every new horizon across an ocean or mountain range was an old one to someone else, already filled with other faces. In this way the quarantines ended. In the ensuing collisions, millennia of these accumulated accidents would come crashing down, like current through a suddenly closed circuit.
Today, we're fascinated with accounts of early encounters between those breeds of primates – like Lewis and Clarke in the Northwest, or Captain Cook in the Pacific. These supposedly true stories are interesting enough that we can't help embellishing them or outright making some up. We scour history for the tiniest scraps of evidence. We squint at supposed Norse rune stones found in a field in Minnesota, or we read claims of medieval Japanese ships landing in Hawaii, or stretch the words of Roman historians until we think they were writing about Native Americans blown off course to ancient Europe. Occasionally, we even indulge the historical conceit of imagining new chains of events differing from the one we're actually standing in. What would an Enlightenment Africa have looked like without three centuries of globalized slavery? What would Persia have become if it hadn't been broken by Alexander? What if Europeans didn't discover America until the industrial age? These exercises typically ignore the massive suffering of the people whose cultures were on the wrong side of the circuit, in favor of more high-minded academic questions. History reads very differently depending on the color of the skin you live in, and how history has treated that color.
* * *
Diving Eagle had been back from the war scarcely a year when a messenger had rowed through the floating gardens to his estate in Xochimilco to tell him that "something had been found". Eagle's impatience turned to understanding the following day when he stood before Angry-Coyote once again, in a torch-lit lower meeting room underneath the Palace, the walls crawling with painted snakes. The Speaker's minister Eight-Grass was there, and Diving Eagle had intently examined the small thing Eight-Grass handed him, the thing which had washed up on Farthest Carib Island.
Eagle had held the thing in one hand, squinting. It was a rectangular board, thin like bark, firm and light. A maze of green and gold lines was minutely etched on its surface, almost as if printed. There were small chips of black embedded in the surface of the board. The decorative gold lines were curiously asymmetric, and the pattern didn't repeat.
"What is it?"
Eight-Grass responded, "The only theory so far is some kind of pottery shard. And that's unlikely." Eagle had continued to examine it and Grass had said, "The point is, we have no goods like it from any nation we know of. And whoever made that has wealth and well-developed art." Eight-Grass added, "Based on the sea currents near Farthest Carib Island, I have deduced the area it must have come from."
Eagle had quickly seen where this was heading, and how he may profit. "If great Angry-Coyote wishes it," he said with full deference, "the Second Navy will sail again."
"Ah. Angry-Coyote wishes a Third Navy," the Speaker had said, tapping a prepared scroll on the table. "We go in strength. If this new nation's strength is equal to the Nahuatlan, we leave Eight-Grass and some other men as an embassy. If not, we don't." He let the two-way implication speak for itself.
"It's done, your highness." Angry-Coyote unrolled the scroll on the dark wood table and smacked it with his bone butterfly stamp. It was done.
* * *
Unfortunately, today it’s hard to imagine how the specific times and places and players in these initial collisions could have mattered to how things ended. The tides of whole civilizations were driving these events, and they’re driving us right now. Perhaps the world would look different if some of the primate breeds had collided after more quarantine, or less. But that’s not what happened. Exactly which man met which man, and in what city, and on what date, could have made no difference in the long run. The flood would still have come, and the circuit would still have closed. History is as it is, and the remaining red people have little choice but to get over it. The players are just the foam on the waves, and their famous quotes are in reality inconsequential. But because they announced the floods, their words still ring in the heart of the world.
* * *
Eagle shouted a few things to the oar slaves and the men were suddenly busier with the sails as the Sabertooth moved into new currents, and then without saying another word to anyone, he went back below to take his supper at his old table.
* * *
In the evening as Diving Eagle studied charts in private, Eight-Grass came to his quarters. Grass’s scrollish chestnut-brown paleness had become noticeably darker from the sun.
“You look good!” Diving Eagle said. “You’re a bit thin, but I told you the fresh air is good for you after all.”
“Still no land,” Eight-Grass said simply.
“Yes, and?” Diving Eagle was impatient with Grass’s worrying, as he was with everyone, and looked back down at the chart. He had spread a sabertooth pelt over the old table to protect the worn old bark scrolls from wearing against the pitted, splintered wood.
“Maybe the land bends to the north here. It does at least along the Swamp-Peninsula.”
“Yes, it does bend to the north here, even north of the Swamp, but not that much. Weren’t you the one who said the object came from this direction?”
“Yes, but I don’t know how far.”
“The Great Sea is just another enclosed sea like the Carib Sea, surrounded by land. Just bigger.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Grass said.
“You know a lot from your maps and books, but things feel a lot different when you’re in the map, don’t they?”
“Or off it, in this case.”
“Try to generalize,” Eagle said. “Doesn’t this seaweed remind you of the Carib Sea’s southern edge, when you’re approaching the coastal marshes? On the Warao Coast? I’m telling you, we’re approaching land.”
“I’ve never been there. To the Warao Coast.”
“I have. It looks just like this.”
“But there are strange things going on.”
“Like what,” Diving Eagle muttered.
Eight-Grass said haltingly, “The seaweed and the creatures – we’re coming to the edge of the real world. After this we’ll be in another reality. In – in some alien version of nature. Where maybe we can’t survive.”
“Look at me.”
“I’m looking,” Eight-Grass said.
“Into my eyes.”
“I’m looking.”
Diving Eagle leaned toward Eight-Grass. “There is no evidence to suggest anything of the sort, you old woman. None. We’re going through seaweed and it’s slowing us down. That’s all.” Eagle sighed. “Grass. I appreciate your knowledge.” His voice lowered and his eyes darkened. “But ships require discipline. That’s difficult to maintain, and with the ambassador-to-be expressing these kinds of doubts, it’s impossible. If you are saying these kinds of things to anyone but me, there will be consequences.” He didn’t like having to take the hard line with officers so soon in the voyage. It was a bad sign.
Grass quickly genuflected and left. Eagle had thought he recognized in Grass the expertise to know when his leader said he wanted to hear conflicting opinions, but didn’t actually want to hear conflicting opinions. Eagle never bothered to pretend he wanted to hear conflicting opinions.
In two more days, the patches of seaweed ended, and still they didn’t see any land.
* * *
Another evening Eight-Grass came into Eagle’s quarters. Grass’s visits had become much less frequent, but no less blunt. Eagle was eating at his old pine table and reading in Mayan from a faded scroll of star positions. It pleased Eagle to wonder if it surprised Grass that he could read Mayan.
“We’re lost. There’s no way we’ll ever get back,” Grass said.
“I see you’ve been appointed Fleet Optimist,” Diving Eagle said around a mouthful of boiled dog. He added, “There must be land eventually.”
“You don’t know that. The sea could go on forever.”
“Fine then,” Eagle said. “We’re being pushed east. Fast. What would you do?” Grass was silent. Absently Eagle reached into a pouch and produced the green-and-gold board that had launched the fleet, tracing its thicker etched pathways with his finger. “That’s right. There’s nothing else to do. Either we give up and jump into the sea, or we keep on until we come to land.” He paused for effect. “We will come to land soon.” He hoped his voice didn’t ring so falsely in Grass’s ears too.
* * *
It was for that reason that Eagle gave more mind to Three-Bat’s concerns than Eight-Grass’s. Three-Bat came to see him when they were still in the endless open sea, gray-streaked hair braided simply behind him.
“It’s the animals,” Three-Bat said. “The keepers are having trouble with them. There were two maulings yesterday. We’ve never had them at sea for this long. During the war the longest was two weeks.”
“Restrain them.” Eagle knew almost nothing about the keeping of war-animals.
“This is why I wanted better trained men for this. It’s a hard job. They can step on you.”
“We’ll be there soon, Three-Bat.”
“How long?”
“Days, Three-Bat. Days.”
* * *
On closer approach, Eagle saw that there were two high promontories growing out of the quiet water, brown sandstone dusted with green, and a wide strait that lay between them. There were no forts, no smoke trails, no roads cut into the side of any of the rock. The first warships cautiously entered the strait, and when the Sabertooth entered Eagle saw that the water was calm as glass. Dolphins stirred the water to their north.
Eagle ordered that half the fleet anchor on the north side and half the south side of the strait. The Sea-Dukes commanding the other ships had their men land and the parties on the north side reported that they’d found freshwater creeks, taken some game, and pastured the war-animals. The land reminded some of the men of the northern part of Nahuatlan, along the Great Western Sea. There was no sign of men, but plenty of deer, and good wood. There were some other strange animals, ugly with flat noses, but the men found that their roasted flesh tasted good. Diving Eagle tried some that they brought on board and found it pissy and disagreeable, spitting it out, to the good-natured jeers of his ship’s crew. Despite their protests, as a precaution Eagle insisted the men return to the ships and the great fleet anchor for the night off the coast.
“See?” he said later to Grass. “Virgin forest. Perfect.” Only later did he wonder where the pot-makers were if there was no one cutting down forests or burning wood, but no one else seemed to wonder. In the absence of anyone to ask what the north-side land was called – frankly, in the absence of any interest to know what any natives might call it – Eagle named it New Mexico. The scouts mapped the land and coastline, but they found no cities. Diving Eagle began daily briefings with his land-fight-leaders.
The next afternoon as Diving Eagle readied for supper, a land-fighter, trembling, was brought to Eagle by his personal guards. In private the fighter told Eagle that in some coastal scrub he’d found an old fire-ring. The man insisted he had told nobody, in a way that Diving Eagle knew meant he had told somebody. The next day it didn’t matter, because while Eagle was eating with his men on the long boards set up on deck, two small sailboats appeared on the horizon. They approached, then turned and slowly moved off. Eight-Grass, eating in his quarters, came up on deck at hearing the commotion and came to Eagle’s side while they watched. Eagle noticed Grass’s pouting silence as they watched the boat disappear on the horizon, over the crew’s murmuring. Armored rowers on patrol in long canoes came up alongside Diving Eagle’s flagship asking whether they should pursue, but he said no – the little boats were too far away. It could be a trap, Eagle thought, and based on what he’d seen so far, he wasn’t too worried what the locals could do to him, even with advance knowledge.
His face purple, Eight-Grass retired to his quarters. Eagle pretended not to notice.
* * *
That evening Eight-Grass came to Diving Eagle’s quarters. Eagle was meeting with the land-fight-leaders. “We’re almost done,” Eagle said to him when the guard brought him, and turned back to the officers.
“To re-emphasize, we’re doing something different from the way we did it in Guanahani. Yaoyotlcalli, then the animals, then the infantry. Go it?” Murmured assent. Eagle risked annoying them with apparent condescension. “Not good enough. Repeat: yaoyotlcalli, then the animals, then the infantry.”
The land-fight-leaders chanted: “Yaoyotlcalli, then the animals, then the infantry.” They finished their meeting and the landers glanced at Grass as they filed out, like they were looking at the younger kid they had to pick for their Ollama team. Eagle noticed the body language but didn’t need to address it.
“Quickly,” Eagle said to him. Though busy, Eagle knew was anticipating the campaign and could see in himself a jovial mood; that is to say, an abusive one. “I don’t have much time, and I got a splinter from my table during the meeting. Please tell me, what mysterious catastrophes await us now, wise one.”
“This is completely unknown land,” Grass immediately burst out. “We could be walking into suicide. It shows supreme arrogance and naïveté to see a ship and say ‘they’re barbarians’ and let them go. It shows arrogance to assume you’ll be able to march in and dispatch the natives so easily.”
“Every time I’ve marched in before I’ve dispatched the natives so easily.” Eagle bit at the splinter on his thumb. Eagle saw Grass’s eyes go to the strange green-and-gold board sitting on the pine table in front of him.
“Look at that,” Grass said, pointing at the object. “We have no idea what that is or what it does. It may be some kind of machine or weapon. For all we know there may be massive cities of ghosts, men with machines and magic that we can’t understand at all.”
“I’m glad I won’t have to listen to your shit for much longer.”
“What do we do if we land and there in front of us there are huge castles and metal-plated armies? What if these plates were finding are parts to a machine we can’t even understand?” Diving Eagle rolled his eyes and waited for Eight-Grass to finish. “We won’t just be backing away politely and getting back in our ships, that’s for certain.”
“You’re worried about meeting gods, is that it? Gods with weapons like potted thunder that can strike you down in mid-stride from across the battlefield?” Eight-Grass said nothing, annoyed that his objections were being cast into such a ridiculous light when they were controlled by someone else’s mouth. “Listen up, Taino-woman. In the real world there’s no magic. There are no ghosts. We’ve seen no evidence of cities or real civilization. These are just more dog-people, like they always are outside of Mexico, and in the end we’ll be amazed they can make even these trinkets.” Eagle waved at the board on the table before him. “And anyway it’s a little late to indulge these worries unless you’re going to swim back.”
“All I know is charging in like this, trouble is what we’ll get.”
“Fine. We’re not going to get in very much trouble if we don’t know where anyone is and we can’t talk to them. That’s why the first thing we talked about in our meeting before you came was catching us one of those sailboats.”
* * *
It was over quickly. The strange-looking men on the boat didn’t give it up without a fight, if the blood on the men who came back to the Sabertooth was any indication. Eight-Grass had seen sacrifice but never real fighting and he was horrified at the aftermath when the dog-people were brought aboard. The men in the boat appeared to have been fishing. There had been four of them, and now there was only one. They were pale, sick-looking, like the underbelly of fish, and Eagle ordered the bodies and the living one be handled with blankets since they looked so ill. They smelled terrific, that much was certain.
Diving Eagle came down to one of the dank cells in the ship’s belly, flanked by two jaguar-knights, and played the game he liked to play with the people on the islands of the Carib Sea. Grass watched through a knot in the wood. In the torchlight, the frightened dog man’s eyes were a bizarre blue color. As Eagle and his guards sat in the cell inspecting the dog-man, another of the knights entered with a small wooden chest, from which he produced a gourd.
“Water,” Eagle enunciated to the frightened man, poking him with a tepozmacuahuitl. “Water.” The knight poured water out of the gourd onto the boards. The man made some noise. “Water!” Eagle shouted, and a knight slapped the dog-man’s face. The dog-man looked up again and painfully, gutturally sounded out “water”.
“Heart.” Eagle pointed at his own chest. Again the man stammered the word. Eagle laughed. The grunting native was obviously having had trouble with the –tl’s at the ends of words.
Diving Eagle smiled, and pointed to his bracelets. “Gold,” he said. The fish-bellies would learn the connection between those last two.
* * *
“On deck will be fine,” Eagle said.
“Fine,” Eight-Grass aid. “On deck, in front of your men. I defy you to explain the things your men are reporting.”
“Like what?”
“Soldiers flying like birds. Chariots that can go up or down hills by themselves, talking treasure chests, even half-man half-beast soldiers. That’s just the beginning. You–”
“Where are they?” Eagle demanded. His voice rose to a shout and he gestured grandly at the coast. “Where are they?! All these ridiculous hallucinations you’re having!”
“Then explain the function of any of the artifacts that were confiscated from the tribe on the peninsula! It won’t seem so academic a question in the middle of a battle!”
“Tell you what, Grass,” Eagle said. “I’ll command my fleet, and you spend your day trying to learn what ridiculous spirits the fish-bellies pray to. That’s the last time I tolerate your disrespect. Now go talk to more dog-people.”
* * *
Diving Eagle asked Three-Bat, “Are the yaoyotlcalli ready?” The exchange was purely ceremonial; the real inspection had passed in the morning.
Three-Bat said, “They’ve been ready.” One of the massive things stood in its bay behind Three-Bat, rude bronze angles and planes glowing dully in the sun.
“The war-animals are fed and dressed?” Before Bat answered, something heavy rumbled against the stall behind Eagle and stomped. He turned to crane his head upward to the top of the stall behind him and despite themselves his men laughed.
“Yes, and impatient,” Three-Bat said.
“I can see that. Me too.” Eagle had planned and rehearsed for every contingency, every mistake, but now was not the time for such thoughts. He breathed deeply. He thought about Mexico, and he pictured the upflung obsidian-streaked skyscrapers of glorious Tenochtitlan, the tallest in the world, and he thought about the glory that would be his.
“Two days, men.”
* * *
“Where are those ships going?” Diving Eagle said.
“I don’t know,” Three-Bat said. “We expected them either to stay or to attack us.”
“Maybe they lost,” Eagle said.
“The fish-bellies seemed pretty sure that the ones coming by sea would win.” Bat paused to count. “There are a lot of them,” he said cautiously.
“Look at these ships.” Diving Eagle gestured to their own fleet. “Now look at those.” He tossed his head toward the numerous but small and tattered canoes they were watching drift out of the steep-sided harbor. He paused for effect. “I don’t think it will be a fair fight either way.”
“We’re proceeding as planned.”
* * *
For months you could have looked south from the Caucasus and seen the cooling crater rim glowing red at night if you’d survived the shockwave and onrush of burning air after the impact; you would have heard hissing where the waters of the Mediterranean and the Persian Gulf and the Caspian rushed together and boiled above the huge wound in the Earth. There’s a new sea at the crossroads of the Old World, but no Fertile Crescent, and no Silk Road. This new sea is encircled with high mountains, keeping the few surviving neolithics in the surrounding continents from crossing the crater, or even the singed wastelands of shocked quartz and melted glass that surround it. The dust and steam block the sun, the Earth cools, and most of what’s left of Eurasia is glaciated within a few years. The ice sheets finally roll back maybe a dozen centuries ago, leaving mammoths and lions still wandering around landscapes you might even recognize. Unless of course you’re in the Middle East.
Of course, had this happened, you also wouldn’t exist to read this story. And I wouldn’t exist to tell it. The impact, both literal and historical, would be enough to render the subsequent passage of history unrecognizable. For millennia after such an impact, if you listened, whether from the tortured remnants of the Peloponnesus or within the upflung obsidian skyscrapers of the great metropolis Tenochtitlan, tallest in the world, you would not even hear the sound of the floodwaters hissing as they boiled away. Whatever immortal lines the pre-literate bards of Eurasia had written about it would be inconsequential. You would hear only the sound the impact had made in the heart of the world, still ringing.
* * *
Chairete! Nikomen!
He ran and ran and ran, past more trees and wooden fences and small farms and over hills now safe from crushing foreign feet. He ran so far that he couldn’t possibly remember the whole route. When finally he looked upon the hazy white figure of the distant Acropolis, the bridge in front of him into the city almost surprised him. It snapped him back to the reality of his body; his chest hurt and his throat was swelling shut. There was a taste in his throat like blood and bad shellfish. He was dizzy; his chest felt like a bull was sitting on him. He wondered if this was what it felt like when your heart fails.
Feet still pounding, he called with precious breath to the boys guarding the bridge into Athens:
“Rejoice! We–”
“Philippides! Haven’t you seen them?”
His blurry mind didn’t follow what the boy was saying. Philippides realized dimly that he knew the boys, that he had paid them to break horses for his family. The boy was pointing past the pines and the rocks and the breakers on the rocky beach, out into the sea past the mouth of the small river. Philippides ground to a stop and painfully turned toward the bay, squinting, and finally he saw pointed clouds over the water – no, he saw that the bay of Athens was filled with massive, high-sided ships with monstrous sails. They seemed to spread to the horizon, and they were definitely not Greek. The Persians must have had a second navy.
Philippides’s eyes rolled in his head and he collapsed. The boys rushed to his side, and in their arms his heart ceased its labors.
* * *
Unable to contain himself, Eight-Grass finally said to them, “Your arrogance is about to pay off. I think we’re about to see our war-animals cut to pieces by this village’s weapons.” Grass pointed to the village, where they could already see the roofs spread out from the coastline, and high on a hill behind them, hazy with distance, a monument of snowy white stone, sitting on gray cliffs.
Eagle didn’t look at him. “Shut up.” Then to his personal guards, “Take this idiot down and lock him up with the surly Zapotecs. We won’t be needing an ambassador, I think.”
* * *
As the minutes passed, the wet skin and lean muscles against Lysimachos turned ashen, cooled, and stiffened. With tears in his eyes, he set the runner’s light body gently down. He imagined it seemed lighter now that the soul had left it. Numbly, he closed the man’s eyes.
“He did well,” Nikostratos said, trying to ease his friend’s tears. Lysimachos’s robe was stained with the sweat and dust of the fallen messenger. “Philippides died in service to Athens.” Lysimachos looked down at Philippides and wept.
The sound of shouting broke through their mourning. It was the men posted on top of the great rock jutting from the beach, calling up to the hills to the west for more men. The strange Persian ships were moving. They were coming for the land. The wide-eyed adolescents turned to see dust rising from the inland hills. The tired army had been called by messengers from the coastal forts, and they were forced-marching to the landing sites.
“We should get swords,” Nikostratos said earnestly.
“How could the Persians have brought another fleet here so quickly?” Lysimachos said.
“I don’t know, but we should get swords. We have to fight.”
“There aren’t any swords left,” Lysimachos said quietly. “They have them all,” he said gesturing to the sun-streaked dust-cloud rising from the hills. In fours and fives small groups of shouting men were running past them through the meadows down onto the beach and drawing their bows.
“If we can’t fight here then we go to the hills,” Nikostratos said. “We can drop stones on them. Anything.”
Scrambling up the hill toward a jumble of rocks, they watched over their shoulders as the boats came toward the beach, large square things with oars coming out like beetles’ legs, and the first ones were entering the breakers. Arrows fired from the thin line of men assembled on the beach, sticking into the wooden sides of the great squares like men’s whiskers. Then the square boats were aground, and they opened like the mouths of horses. Things thundered forward from the boats, things like squat bronze elephants of metal surrounded by swirling pointed blades, lumbering up onto the sand, cutting the charging Greek defenders into red flying meat. Then behind those there were other elephants, mounted, shaggy, huge, bigger than the Persians’. Then there were dark men wreathed in bright armor and feathered hats coming in another wave, leaping from the boats into the water and forging forward out of the breakers and onto the sand. Arrows bounced from their shields. There was the sound of splashing and alien screaming. The invaders cut into the line of Greeks, and through it.
“The Persians must have brought an army from India,” Nikostratos said. “Look at their skin.”
“Look at those elephants,” Lysimachos said. “Look at those bronze land-ships. These aren’t men. These can only be gods. They’ve come down from Olympus to punish our hubris.”
Nikostratos told him to be silent, and clutched a rock in his sweating palm.
* * *
It should seem stranger to us now, living in Elenatlan or Itlia five centuries later – not all that long on the scale of all human history – that we see so few white faces in all of North Grassland, notwithstanding the Set-Aside Districts in northern New Michoacan. For that matter, even the Goteca of that region don’t quite live like kings, unless it’s as kings of coca powder. Unfortunately it’s hard to imagine how history could have turned out differently for the soft and naïve cultures we found. There were no sacrifices to maintain community, indeed no discernible social order at all – insanely, Elenatlan was a place where any landowner could speak to a king as an equal. This seems to us today a frightening and unsustainable social mess. The Yurotecs frequently governed themselves in “council” form, making group decisions, and the Elenatecs were only one example. It’s still debated how they ever managed to fight off the Parsatecs, and in fairness we probably treated them better than the Inca would have. But much of our concern is the result of our own cultural myopia. Of course, we’re reflexively most comfortable in the world as it actually happened.
Looking back, even in the hardships that they encountered post-contact, the Yurotecs managed to rally behind heroes. Two significant rebel leaders have been studied to death. Of course there’s Aleksatl – the White Moctezuma – whose tactical brilliance has only recently come to be appreciated – and of course Annipal, mostly taught by his native white mother. Annipal is more recent and captivates us more, not only because of his clever use of our war-animals, but because he set in motion the events that would break colonial Cartago free from the imperial rule of faraway Mexico. Despite their brilliance, both men were doomed. They were like foam on the waves of the ocean. History is inevitable; yaoyotlcalli, disease, and obsidian can’t be resisted for long.
Today, there’s a new consciousness of the culture which passed before us, the ruins of which in the case of Elenatlan City are literally under our feet. The recent popularity of the plays of Esctli are testament to this, and suddenly we’re scolded if we call them fish-bellies, as we did in a less enlightened time. Would Aleksatl care about our new manners? But it’s always easy to be respectful to a safely vanquished foe. The fact is, Yurotec culture in general is a museum piece, and what we have today are the trappings of the moribund civilization – its bas relief carvings, its metalwork, and its haunting marble temples. It’s often pointed out that their blood survives in us – and it’s likely that you and I are both part Yurotec, though we don’t usually discuss it in polite company – but this is a meaningless observation. The surviving purebloods play by our rules, allowed to express themselves only within closely proscribed, largely academic boundaries. That’s why we still use third person to refer to the Yurotecs, centuries after we overran their land and absorbed their genes. We can spend our days trying to imprint the past with modern morality, but we still have to live in the present. I don’t know about you, but I like Elenatlan and I’m not moving back to Mexico anytime soon.
For the Yurotecs, unfortunately, the only choice is to get over it, because this year marks the five hundredth anniversary of the distance-rowing race that commemorates the canoe-messenger Tonatiuh. After the Battle of Elenatlan, he raced 36 xicatetli to carry the news back out to the Sabertooth, with the words that still ring in the heart of the world: Xiahahuiacan, tipehuah!
