No Job for a Lady (27 page)

“It’s not just the history of the medieval and ancient Aztecs and Mayans that’s intriguing. There is something else about those civilizations that is still alive today.”

Gertrude shoots another glance at the men, who are discussing the bloodline of warhorses that died over three hundred years ago. Their discussion has become quite lively as they argue about the best ways to keep from being cheated by fraudulent claims.

In a lower tone meant only for Lily and me, she continues. “They say that there is both dark mystery and magic in the ancient ruins at Teo. Some of it is due to the wrath of the gods that the Spanish trampled upon when their armies conquered the land.”

Lily smothers a giggle. “You’re joking. You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Gertrude gives us a mischievous grin. “One of my professors makes an annual trip to Mexico to study the vestiges of the late, great civilizations. He warned me not to make light of the pantheon of Mesoamerican gods. They were a bloodthirsty lot, with a most vindictive and violent nature. He says the people believe that the gods were vanquished from the cities where the Spanish destroyed the temples but that they still haunt the great ruins, like those at Teotihuacán and Chichén Itzá.”

“Gertrude,” says Don Antonio, interrupting, “those are the bedtime stories told to children.

“Yes, Uncle.” But full of mischief, she slips in another comment. “Wait until you see the grotesque Feathered Serpent in Teo.”

She then goes back to more history: The tops of the pyramids are flat because the Aztecs built temples on top to use for worship. Egyptian pyramids are pointed because they were used only for tombs for their pharaohs.

“Besides having a written language expressed in hieroglyphics, the Aztecs and Mayans made paper, printed books, and were among the finest astronomers of the ancient world.”

Lily claps her hands, as she is inclined to do when she is excited. “Yes. Do you know anything about those people who live in the Utah desert, the ones with many wives—”

“Mormons,” I say.

“Yes, that’s it, Mormons. They believe that people from the Near East came to America before the time of Christ, a people whose written language is called ‘reformed Egyptian.’ Wouldn’t that explain why the Aztecs and the Egyptians were so similar? If the Mormons are right, the Aztecs and Mayans came from Egypt.”

None of us has an answer, but it is an intriguing concept. And like me, Lily is obviously attracted to the mysterious side of Mexico.

“Teotihuacán is a true mystery city,” Gertrude says, despite Don Antonio’s wish for her to stop. “The city was built almost two thousand years ago. At its height, it had a couple hundred thousand people. But this is the really strange and eerie part.”

I can see from the grin she is suppressing and the sparkle in her eye that she is deliberately teasing her uncle by pursuing the conversation on the forbidden subject.

She speaks in a low stage whisper, as if her uncle, sitting a few feet away, can’t hear her. “No one knows who built it or who occupied it. Better yet, no one knows why it was abandoned. Was it war? Famine? Violent weather? What would cause an enormous number of people, the entire population, to abandon their homes and temples? Why would no other peoples for almost a thousand years before the Spanish arrived occupy this amazing city with its towering edifices?

“The one known thing is that the ghost city so frightened the Aztecs that not only did they refuse to live in it but the Aztec emperor would come to Teo once a year and leave gifts for the gods.”

“Blood,” says Thompson unexpectedly, interrupting. He ignores a frown from Don Antonio and goes on. “He brought big barrels of blood taken from sacrifice victims, because that’s how the Aztecs got favors from the gods—by ripping out the hearts of thousands of slaves and prisoners of war to feed to the gods so the gods would do them favors. Didn’t do a bit of good, did it, when Cortés came with a few hundred soldiers and frightened millions of them into submission? Where were their gods then to protect them?”

“You are not being fair to the Aztecs.” Don Antonio is perturbed. “It is true the Spanish scared them, but it was their superstitions that brought them down, not their abilities as warriors. Unfortunately, they thought Cortés was a god, as their legends said a god would return much the way it appeared to them that Cortés did.

“Don’t dismiss the fighting prowess of my
indio
ancestors. As Gertrude said, like the Romans, they were conquerors who demanded tribute from a conquered city. As long as those in the city satisfied their demands, they were left alone. But if they refused, an Aztec legion would descend on them, killing or enslaving everyone in the city, and then raze the city.

“Blood ran like a river down pyramid steps by the time they got through ripping out the hearts of the vanquished. If the person sacrificed was a warrior captured in battle, the Aztec warrior who made the capture ate the victim’s heart.”

“That’s awful,” Lily says.

Don Antonio shakes his index finger at Lily. “Only if you are on the losing side, señorita.”

46

As we come over a rise, we get our first glimpse of the ancient city sprawled out below in the distance.

The sight takes my breath away. A porthole into an incredible period of history has been opened and I am stepping into it.

Lily gives an exclamation of amazement. Even the rich playboy from New York appears moved.

“It’s remarkable.” Gertrude sits on the edge of her seat, looking out the window. “I’ve read about it, seen drawings, but I didn’t realize how incredibly stunning it actually is.”

The large size of the ancient city is a also surprise. I had expected some scattered ruins. Instead, a long, broad, straight boulevard runs down the center of what had obviously been the heart of a great city. The thoroughfare looks to be over a mile long. About as wide as a football field in the beginning, the roadway, in places, is several times that wide.

Teotihuacán is a metropolis of stone, the one building material of the ancients that manages to resist most of the ravages of time. That is all that is left of the city, but the survivors are colossal and magnificent.

No matter how much I’ve heard from others about how enormous and incredible the edifices of pre-Columbian Mexico are, and how similar many of them are to the towering monuments along the Nile, I was not prepared to look out the window and see a vast complex capped by two pyramids, the larger of which has a base of more than twelve acres and is taller than a skyscraper.

There are many large stone structures with sets of steps, maybe a couple dozen at first glance. Any structures or additions to the pyramids and temples not made of stone have been swept away by the ravages of time, while the enormous pyramids themselves appear, to my untrained eye, to be unaltered, though I know they once had temples atop them.

“Avenida de los Muertos,” Don Antonio tells us in regard to the broad thoroughfare that runs down the middle of the stone city. “The Avenue of the Dead. But you must understand that so little is known about the city that we neither know the real name of the street or even the actual name of the city itself. Teotihuacán is the name given by the Aztecs, who believed that the gods who created the world resided here. And the name of the avenue comes from the Nahuatl word for ‘place of the dead,’ not in reference to a burial place, but what they sensed about the city.”

The ancient city is much more mystical and majestic than I ever imagined. I feel as if I am stepping back in time to a place filled with beauty, heartache, war, destruction, and explosions of creativity—and buried secrets.

I now appreciate Traven’s love for archaeology.

The ruins of what Don Antonio tells us were temples built before the time of Christ line most of the boulevard. About two-thirds of the way down the street is the colossus that ranks as one of the largest man-made structures on earth: the Pyramid of the Sun.

“Pirámide del Sol,” Don Antonio says with pride in his voice. “Over two hundred and thirty feet high.”

“Almost twice as high as the tallest building in the United States,” I tell them. “The Home Insurance Company building in Chicago is only one hundred and thirty-eight feet.”

“The largest pyramid in the world is in Cholula, southeast of Mexico City,” Don Antonio says. “The second largest is the Great Pyramid at Giza, in Egypt. The sun god’s pyramid is a hair smaller than the big Egyptian one, making it the third largest in the world.”

He points at the far end, where the boulevard runs up to a second pyramid. “Pirámide de la Luna appears from our vantage point to be as tall as its sister Sun, but that is only because it is on higher ground. It is actually quite a bit shorter than the sun god’s monument, being about one hundred and forty feet, just slightly higher than the building Nellie spoke of.”

“The ruins are spectacular,” Gertrude says, “even after being neglected for over a thousand years since the city was abandoned. But can you image what the city must have looked like when it had a couple hundred thousand people in it and was spread out over miles?”

“Can you imagine the labor it took to build the city?” I ask, exposing the factory girl mentality in me. “Not just those who designed it and the artisans who made it beautiful and unique but the vast army of laborers it must have taken.”

“Using only primitive stone tools to cut and carve the finished stone,” Gertrude puts in. “They had not developed the ability to mine and process bronze or iron.”

I let out a sigh. “I am so envious of Traven. To explore and unravel the past of a great civilization.”

Gertrude gets misty-eyed. “That is what I want to do.”

“Which is?” Don Antonio asks.

“Explore ancient cities. The unknown. The mysterious. Perhaps even go to places no one has ever been.”

“Or at least where no woman has gone,” I have to add.

“Your father would not approve,” Don Antonio says.
8

Gertrude turns to me. “How many men approved of your being a reporter?”

“Only the editor who took a gamble and hired me.”

“It frightens me,” Lily says.

The comment comes out of the blue and catches us by surprise.

She slowly shakes her head as she stares fixedly at the city. “There is something not evil, but … but otherworldly, as if it really were built by gods from the heavens rather than mortals. No wonder this ghost city so frightened the Aztecs.”

I understand how she feels. I sense a spiritual essence, as if the ancient gods were not all vanquished by the conquering Spaniards. It’s easy to imagine how it frightened the mighty Aztec warlords and their emperors.

Like them, I feel the presence of the bloodthirsty gods.

I just wish she hadn’t called it a “ghost city.”

47

“This is so exciting,” Gertrude says after we pile out of the carriage and walk over to where tents have been set up for visitors.

She leaves me to supervise the unloading of her luggage, which is a trunk and a valise, while she speaks to her uncle about getting us a tour of Traven’s dig. My baggage does not need much management; I just have the coachman hand the carpetbag down.

The tents for guests, tourists, or whatever they call us, are set up in a circle like a wagon train taking a defensive position against attacking Indians. That suits me fine, because the tents are all within shouting distance of one another. Chocolate brown and caked with dust, they remind me of army tents, and the relationship is confirmed when I look closer and see faded Mexican army insignias on them.

Having learned that most of the country runs on the fine art of bribery and corruption à la
mordida,
it’s not hard for me to assume that while the tents are “rented” to guests by locals here at Teo, somewhere in the food chain is a general whose troops are now sleeping on the ground. Not exactly honest, but as I’ve discovered on this trip, all’s fair in love and money.

A Mexican woman is giving instructions to workers as to where luggage goes, which is the clue to which tent my head will be lying in tonight. I already know that Gertrude and I will share one.

There are two large tents. The trunks and wardrobes of the rich and famous are taken to one, while Don Antonio’s luggage goes to the other. Thompson gets a small one all to himself and I follow Gertrude’s luggage to another small one. There are more tents and, I suppose, more visitors to the site.

Sundance and the other cowboys head to a stand of trees to set up camp. I heard Don Antonio tell the foremen that his men are to keep their hands off their guns and go easy on the beer, tequila, and women.

As I go by the small tent next to ours, its door flap is half open and I get a whiff of tobacco, which stops me dead in my tracks, and I find myself staring at the opening. My heart picks up its beat; my breath becomes shorter.

Cherry-flavored pipe tobacco.

It’s a very popular favor of pipe tobacco. I’m sure my father smoked it. Walk into any smoking lounge on a train and you will smell it. Some of the boys in the newsroom favored it, though the pleasant smell was usually overwhelmed by pungent cigar stink. One of my brothers even smokes a cherry blend. There is nothing unique or distinguishing about it. But my feet are frozen and I can’t take my eyes off the half-open tent door.

I have an irresistible urge to step over and pull the flap back and stick my head in, but I find my feet not cooperating.

What if it isn’t Roger? Or he is lying on a cot, not fully clothed, or, worse, another woman is in there with him?

As I ponder my next move, the flap is jerked open and I nearly jump out of my shoes.

“You!” I snarl.

“Well, bless my britches, it’s the girl reporter in the flesh.”

“You fol—” I start to tell him he followed me, but it is obvious he’d gotten here ahead of me.

“You have once again gotten lucky. There are two cots in here.”

I hear a gasp. Gertrude is approaching us. She’s staring at me wide-eyed with surprise—and glee.

“I see you’ve made other lodging arrangements,” she blurts out as she flies by with a sound that is either giggling or gasping.