Two years later, Year 10 of the SuaChie Calendar, Sea of the Floating Islands.
The deck of the Tequendama rocked gently beneath the feet of Nezahualpilli, tlatoani of Texcoco, as the vessel cut through the deep blue waters of the Southern Sea. The salty air filled his lungs, mingled with the scent of polished wood and saturated ropes.
Now 28 years of age, Nezahualpilli, draped in a white cotton mantle embroidered with green and turquoise threads, beheld the complexity of the ship: it was no mere canoe, like those the Mexica used to cross Lake Texcoco, but a marvel of construction. Its decks, wide as plazas, were carved with patterns of waves and seabirds, and the masts rose like trees, bearing sails woven from a resilient fiber he did not recognize.
"It is a building that dances with the sea," he thought, marveling, as his hands brushed the smooth-yet-stone-firm handrail.
He had traveled before on the ships of the Floating Isles Sea Trading Company (FISTC), but this journey to the tenth birthday of the Young Chuta, leader of the Suaza Kingdom, carried a special weight.
Months earlier, Nezahualpilli had visited Great River City, a Suaza settlement so distant it seemed a myth to the Mexica alliance. The city, built upon the banks of a broad, glittering river, was a testament to the Suaza people's boldness. Their ships, guided by expert mariners, had conquered distances the Mexica could barely imagine.
What most astonished him was that Great River City belonged to Chewa, a prominent FISTC merchant and a devout follower of Chuta. Nezahualpilli could not grasp how a leader, especially a child, granted such freedom to his subjects to found settlements.
In Texcoco, his authority as tlatoani was limited by the suzerainty of Tenochtitlán, and the notion of delegating such power seemed inconceivable to him. During that visit, he had met Chuta, a boy of barely ten years whose presence was disquieting: physically he appeared slightly older than ten, yet his words carried the profound weight of a wise elder.
"He seeks not power, but to aid his people," Nezahualpilli reflected, recalling how Chuta spoke of uniting cultures without subjugating them, a vision that resonated with the ideals of his father, Nezahualcóyotl.
The details of that journey still lived vividly in his memory.
The Tequendama docked in a bay encircled by green hills, and Nezahualpilli disembarked, guided by Suaza sailors dressed in white tunics adorned with colorful embroidery.
The road to Central City, Chuta's birthplace, was flanked by villages and towns along a crystalline river. The buildings, of polished stone and carved wood, rose with a solidity that rivaled the temples of Texcoco. The streets, paved with smooth slabs, were filled with markets where merchants offered cacao, exotic feathers, and bronze tools.
What most struck him was the diversity: men and women in varied attire—Muisca tunics, Taíno capes, Tairona headdresses—coexisted in a harmony that seemed impossible.
"It is as if Texcoco had expanded to encompass the entire world," he thought, his heart pounding with a mixture of admiration and envy. The people smiled, their faces illuminated by a joy that contrasted with the constant tension of Tenochtitlán.
Upon reaching Central City, Nezahualpilli was breathless. The streets spread out like a living maze, teeming with thousands of people: artisans, merchants, children running among wooden carts. The city was not just large; its scale rivaled Tenochtitlán, but without the oppression of its blood-stained pyramids.
As a special guest, he was escorted by a Suaza guide, a dark-skinned man wearing a gold collar, toward the Basilica, the spiritual heart of the city. The structure, of gray stone with carved columns, appeared simple from the outside, but upon entering, Nezahualpilli felt an almost tangible presence.
The interior walls were covered with sculptures of unknown gods: a winged sun, a moon with a woman's face, a jade-eyed jaguar. Small sanctuaries, dedicated to the deities of every Suaza culture, filled the halls, and the scent of fresh flowers and exotic resins permeated the air. Laborers worked nearby, stacking stones for an expansion that promised to convert the Basilica into a colossal monument.
"This is more than a temple," Nezahualpilli thought. "It is a testament to their unity."
The guide led him to a closed chamber within the Basilica, the 'Archives of Creation,' a place reserved for few. Crossing the threshold, Nezahualpilli felt a chill. The walls were covered with shelves housing hundreds of cream-colored sheets, like those Painalli had shown him in Texcoco. Each was written with precise symbols; some even translated into Nahuatl.
"These are records of all religions," the guide explained, his voice reverent. "From the Muisca beliefs to those of the Taínos, and including those of peoples conquered by other kingdoms."
Nezahualpilli took a sheet, his fingers trembling as he recognized Mexica symbols: a relief of Huitzilopochtli, descriptions of Tlaloc, even rituals of the Otomí and Zapotec.
"They have studied our faith," he thought, astonished.
But what impacted him most was that the place was focused solely on religious knowledge, and matters like agriculture, kingdom records, and another knowledge were not found here. That meant there were more places like this.
"Did Chuta organize all this?" Nezahualpilli asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
The guide smiled. "The Son of Heaven guides, but our people collaborate. Each culture contributes its wisdom."
Nezahualpilli felt a pang of envy. In Texcoco, his library was a treasure trove with archives spanning many years, but it was limited by the recent censorship of Tenochtitlán. Here, knowledge flowed freely, a river that nourished everyone.
Thinking of the freedoms proclaimed by this kingdom, he recalled his visit to Great River City, where he had seen Tarascans and Mexica, formerly slaves in the alliance, living as free citizens.
"They do not buy them for forced labor," he realized, recalling the Suaza merchants' excuse for buying slaves. "They free them."
Chuta's kindness, his vision of a kingdom where no one was subjugated, disarmed him. In Texcoco, he had abolished the death penalty, but slavery still existed under Mexica pressure.
"Could Texcoco be like this?" he wondered, his mind wandering to his father's dream: a city free from the shadow of Tenochtitlán.
In the central plaza, decorated with flower garlands and colored banners, Chuta's birthday celebration began, though he and other important persons were to be led to the Central Mansion. Nezahualpilli, treated as a guest of honor, was brought to a platform covered in white cloth. Chuta, dressed in a simple tunic yet adorned with a gold necklace, appeared before the crowd. His eyes, deep and serene, seemed to see beyond the horizon.
"Welcome, tlatoani of Texcoco," Chuta said in Nahuatl, his voice clear but charged with authority. "Your presence honors our city."
Nezahualpilli bowed his head, impressed. "Chuta, your kingdom is a wonder. I have seen your cities, your ships, your archives. But tell me, how does a boy guide such a vast people?"
Chuta smiled, a gesture that blended humility and certainty. "I am not merely a boy, tlatoani. I am a bridge between peoples, and I merely take charge of guiding them. My helpers, my advisors, my people... they build the kingdom. I only give them a purpose: to live in harmony."
Nezahualpilli felt a knot in his chest. Chuta's answer was simple, but his vision was revolutionary. While the crowd sang and danced, Nezahualpilli reflected on Texcoco. The alliance bound him to Tenochtitlán, but Suaza offered an alternative: a trade of goods, yes, but also of ideas.
"If I bring this knowledge to Texcoco," he thought, "we could break the Mexica chains."
But he also knew the risk: Moctezuma, with his prophecies and his zeal, would view this as treason. As the sun set over Central City, Nezahualpilli made a silent decision: he would strengthen his bond with Suaza, not only for its culture, but for the freedom it promised.
Several months later, Texcoco.
The palace of Texcoco shone under the light of dawn, its stone walls adorned with frescos of rivers and stars that seemed to come alive with the first rays of sun. Nezahualpilli sat in his office, a chamber whose walls were covered with shelves of codices and Suaza paper, the air impregnated with the aroma of dry ink and polished wood.
On the stone table before him, a map drawn on amate detailed the trade routes of the Floating Isles Sea Trading Company (FISTC), with lines that snaked from Texcoco to the distant Central City of the Suaza Kingdom. Nezahualpilli, in a white cotton mantle embroidered with green threads, traced the contours of the map with a finger, his mind divided between hope and fear.
He was planning a second visit to Central City for Young Chuta's next birthday—his eleventh—with the intention of convincing him to intervene in the growing tension suffocating the Triple Alliance. However, his faith in success was fragile.
As a prominent FISTC member, he had learned that the Suaza avoided major wars. There were only rumors of skirmishes with jungle tribes, and their peaceful attitude toward hostile peoples made it improbable that Chuta, the Son of Heaven, would take a side in the alliance's conflict.
"If the alliance collapses or Tenochtitlán tries to conquer us entirely," he thought, "I will need his support to liberate Texcoco."
Nezahualpilli's fear was not unfounded. In recent months, the Mexica warriors, led by the Tlatoani Ahuízotl, were mobilizing with a fury that resonated like war drums. Their demands to join campaigns against the Purépecha, Tlaxcaltec, and the Metztitlán lordship reached Texcoco with an alarming frequency.
Ahuízotl, and in particular Moctezuma, with his relentless ambition, seemed ready to crush any enemy, but something was different this time. Suaza metallurgy techniques and the weapons adopted by the alliance through trade had changed the game, bringing even greater brutality to every campaign.
Bronze spears and more resilient breastplates strengthened the Mexica, but they were not alone. The ingenious and cunning Purépecha and Tlaxcaltec had gone further: they were not just buying raw mineral that took long to fashion into weapons, or buying the weapons themselves, but purchasing Suaza agricultural tools, melting them down, and forging them into deadlier weapons, surpassing the alliance in creativity. This had not only alerted Tenochtitlán to keep watch over its enemies, but also its allies.
To risk visiting Central City, where he could be labeled a traitor by Moctezuma, was an act of boldness, but a necessary one. Texcoco, relegated to a secondary position in the alliance, needed a powerful ally.
His thoughts were interrupted by more earthly problems. The palace buzzed with the energy of his numerous children, whose games and laughter echoed in the courtyards. The family grew each year, and the annexed areas were at their limit. As a passionate architect, Nezahualpilli saw an opportunity in the crisis: with Suaza iron and their construction techniques, he imagined towering structures, hanging gardens, and walls carved with poems in Nahuatl.
"From the stones I will make art," he thought, mentally sketching a design for a new palace wing.
But before he could commit his ideas to a plan, the carved wooden door creaked open, and Chimalatl, his fourteen-year-old eldest daughter, entered with a sparkle in her eyes and a radiant smile.
"Father!" Chimalatl exclaimed, her blue cotton tunic billowing as she approached. "I need to talk to you. It's important."
Nezahualpilli raised an eyebrow, surprised by her enthusiasm. He had neglected his family, absorbed by political tensions and his plans with Suaza.
"What is it, daughter?" he asked, his voice authoritative but softened by affection. "What makes you so joyful?"
Chimalatl sat across from him, her hands playing with a jade necklace.
"It's about a man," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "I want to marry Painalli."
The name struck Nezahualpilli like a drum. Painalli, the twenty-two-year-old Mexica merchant who had brought the first Suaza sheets to Texcoco, was known for his education and pursuit of knowledge. But the idea that his daughter, a princess of Texcoco, had fallen in love with a merchant without noble lineage disconcerted him.
"Painalli?" he repeated, his tone more serious. "He is an honorable man, but he is not of noble blood. How did you meet him?"
Chimalatl smiled, her eyes shining. "I met him in the library, months ago... We talked about books; about the Suaza poems you brought. He is different, Father. He seeks knowledge, like you. I believe our souls are connected—that it is love, like in the Suaza book you read with me, the one about the princess who finds her destiny."
Nezahualpilli frowned, recognizing the influence of a Suaza tale he had shared with her: a love story between a princess and a common man, united by a spiritual bond. "That book," Nezahualpilli reflected in astonishment, "something as simple as a book could change the way people think." The idea both worried and fascinated him. The Suaza writings, with their emphasis on freedom and love, could mold minds, even his daughter's.
"Chimalatl," he said, his voice firm yet gentle, "you are a princess of Texcoco. Marriage must strengthen our house, not merely follow the heart's desires. Painalli is not a noble."
"But I love him!" Chimalatl protested, her voice rising. "He is not just a merchant. He is special and very wise. Besides, he understands me, Father. Don't you always say that knowledge is more valuable than gold?"
Nezahualpilli felt a knot in his chest. His daughter's passion was an echo of his own struggle: the search for something beyond the chains of the alliance. Painalli, with his commercial connection to the Suaza, represented that new world he longed for for Texcoco. But the risk was high.
"If I allow this," he thought, "the Mexica nobles will see it as a weakness, a betrayal."
He looked at Chimalatl, her eyes pleading, and sighed. "We will speak with Painalli," he conceded. "But I promise nothing. Love cannot ignore politics."
Chimalatl nodded, her face illuminated by hope. "Thank you, Father," she said, embracing him before running out.
Nezahualpilli was left alone, looking at the map of the FISTC trade routes. The Suaza influence was already changing Texcoco: in its weapons, its buildings, and now in his daughter's heart. His journey to Central City was more crucial than ever. If Chuta did not intervene in the imminent war, Texcoco could face the fury of Ahuízotl alone.
"If I separate from the alliance," he thought, "Suaza will be my only hope." But the shadow of Moctezuma, with his prophecies and his jealousy, pursued him. As the sun rose over Texcoco, Nezahualpilli felt the destiny of his people hung by a thread, woven with the knowledge and kindness of a distant kingdom.
Several months later, Year 11 of the SuaChie Calendar, Texcoco.
The Texcoco palace, bathed in the soft light of dusk, seemed a refuge of calm amidst the whirlwind of thoughts tormenting Nezahualpilli. He sat in his office, a stone chamber with walls adorned with frescos of rivers and constellations, his white cotton mantle embroidered with green threads slipping over the back of his carved wooden chair.
On the table, papers were scattered across the surface, their aroma of ink and fiber evoking memories of his recent trip to Central City for Chuta's eleventh birthday. But far from alleviating his worries, the trip had amplified them.
Nezahualpilli closed his eyes, recalling his encounter with Chuta months earlier in Great River City, just before the celebration. Under a sky streaked with pink clouds, on a dock where the river shone like liquid jade, he had warned the young leader about the tensions in the Mexica alliance.
"If Ahuízotl attacks a Suaza city," he had told him, "What will you do?"
Chuta, with his deep eyes that seemed to contain centuries, replied calmly but firmly: "We do not seek war, tlatoani. But if they attack our cities, we will defend ourselves with all our strength."
Those words, though reassuring in their promise of non-aggression, now resonated as a warning. Nezahualpilli knew that Ahuízotl's fury, fueled by campaigns against the Purépecha, Tlaxcaltec, and Metztitlán, could unleash a conflict that the Suaza, with their advanced weapons, would win effortlessly.
Then he remembered Chuta's birthday celebration. In Central City, during the birthday feast, the streets crowded with people in a thousand different garments vibrated with chants and drums. But one piece of news had silenced Nezahualpilli's enthusiasm: a new people, beyond the Sea of the Floating Isles, in what the Suaza called the Dawn Ocean, had emerged. Their ships, according to rumors, were as advanced as the Tequendama.
"The world is larger than I imagined," he thought, his fingers clutching a codex. If these people were hostile, their technology could arm the enemies of the alliance—the Tlaxcaltec, the Purépecha—with weapons that would surpass even the bronze Suaza copies they already used. Worse still, Ahuízotl's campaigns had exhausted the citizens of the alliance, forcing them to pay oppressive taxes. Hatred was growing, even in Texcoco, where whispers of discontent reached his ears like a cold wind.
"If our enemies and these new peoples ally, Texcoco will be crushed," he reflected. His dream of independence, inspired by the ideals of his father Nezahualcóyotl, seemed farther away than ever. The alliance, led by Ahuízotl's ambition and Moctezuma's extreme prophecies, was tottering. His only hope was Chuta, but his pacifism made him an uncertain ally.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. A servant, in a simple tunic, announced: "Lord, Painalli requests an audience."
Nezahualpilli nodded, adjusting his mantle. "Let him enter."
Painalli, the twenty-three-year-old Mexica merchant who had captivated his daughter Chimalatl's heart, crossed the threshold with a firm step. His blue cotton tunic was embroidered with Mexica motifs, and his face, usually serene, showed an unusual seriousness. Without preamble, he said: "Tlatoani, we must speak of the destiny of Texcoco."
Nezahualpilli raised an eyebrow, surprised by the audacity. He knew Painalli was greatly concerned about Chimalatl, whose relationship he had not yet approved. But the young man's tone suggested something larger.
"Speak. What brings you with such urgency?" Nezahualpilli said.
"The situation in the alliance, and above all, your closeness to the Suaza, has drawn cautious gazes from Tenochtitlán," Painalli told him in a serious tone.
"I know, but the situation is more complex than you think," Nezahualpilli commented.
Painalli took a deep breath, his hands clenched. "I know, I know that things are not only wrong in the alliance, but now a distant danger is also approaching. As a member of the FISTC, Lord," Painalli continued, "I have also heard the news from the Dawn Ocean. The Suaza merchants speak of ships like the Tequendama with weapons that spit fire. If they reach our coasts, or if the Tlaxcaltec acquire them, the alliance will not resist."
Nezahualpilli felt a chill. Painalli's words confirmed his worst fears. "And what do you propose?" he asked, his tone measured but tense. "Texcoco cannot face the alliance or these new peoples alone."
Painalli took a step forward, his eyes shining with determination. "Strengthen our alliance with Suaza, Lord. Not only in commerce, but in knowledge. If our bond is strong, their knowledge and weapons, similar to those of these new peoples... could give us an advantage. And if I may be so bold, Chimalatl and I believe in a free Texcoco, like the Suaza Kingdom."
His daughter's name stoked a spark of irritation in Nezahualpilli. "Chimalatl is young," he said, his voice hardening. "And you, Painalli, are a merchant, not a noble. Do you believe your love justifies putting Texcoco at risk?"
Painalli did not back down. "It is not just love, tlatoani. It is a vision... The Suaza do not enslave; they do not conquer. Chimalatl sees a future where Texcoco flourishes without the shadow of Tenochtitlán. And so do I."
Nezahualpilli stood up, walking toward a fresco of a river flowing among stars. Painalli's passion was an echo of his own struggle, but the risk of challenging Ahuízotl was immense.
"If I openly ally with Suaza," he thought, "Moctezuma will call me a traitor."
But the alternative—to remain under the Mexica yoke while new enemies emerged—was untenable.
"Return tomorrow," he finally said, turning to Painalli. "We will speak of Chimalatl and of Texcoco. But keep silent. No one must know of this."
Painalli inclined his head, a spark of hope in his eyes. "As you command, tlatoani."
Painalli withdrew, leaving Nezahualpilli alone with the weight of his decisions. The sun was setting, staining the frescos a fiery red. Texcoco, his cultural jewel, stood on the edge of a precipice. The threat of the Dawn Ocean, the fury of Ahuízotl, and the promise of Suaza intertwined in his mind.
"Chuta will not fight," he thought, "but his knowledge could save us."
As silence enveloped the office, Nezahualpilli knew that his next visit to Central City would be more than a renewal of friendship: it would be a gamble for the survival of Texcoco.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
First, I'm sorry for the delay, but I decided to get a proper rest after just over a month of work. It wasn't that long, but it was a physically demanding job, much more so than when I was a farm machinery operator.
Back to the novel.
We continue with the perspective of Nezahualpilli, as I mentioned before, a real historical figure, and in my opinion, the true protagonist of the harems.
He will be the protagonist of the internal history of Mesoamerica in the following years, while at the same time we see how Chuta deals with European advances.
UFD: The Tlaxcalans were located in the Tlaxcala region, east of the Valley of Mexico, surrounded by Aztec territories. The Lordship of Tlaxcala maintained its independence and was a persistent enemy of the alliance, being the focus of the ritual so-called "Floral Wars." This enmity would be crucial to the subsequent Spanish conquest, as the Tlaxcalans allied with Hernán Cortés.
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Read my other novels.
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You can find them on my profile.]