Representing Aztec Ritual: Performance, Text, and Image in the Work of Sahagun 0870816829, 9780870816826

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Mesoamerican Worlds: From the Olmecs to the Danzantes GENERAL EDITORS: Davíd

Carrasco and Eduardo Matos Moctezuma

EDITORIAL BOARD: Alfredo López Austin, Anthony Aveni, Elizabeth Boone, William Fash,

Charles H. Long, Leonardo López Luján, and Eleanor Wake After Monte Albán, Jeffrey P. Blomster, editor The Apotheosis of Janaab’ Pakal, Gerardo Aldana Carrying the Word, Susanna Rostas Commoner Ritual and Ideology in Ancient Mesoamerica, Nancy Gonlin and Jon C. Lohse, editors Conquered Conquistadors, Florine Asselbergs Empires of Time, Anthony Aveni Encounter with the Plumed Serpent, Maarten Jansen and Gabina Aurora Pérez Jiménez Fanning the Sacred Flame, Matthew A. Boxt and Brian Dervin Dillon, editors In the Realm of Nachan Kan, Marilyn A. Masson Invasion and Transformation, Rebecca P. Brienen and Margaret A. Jackson, editors The Kowoj, Prudence M. Rice and Don S. Rice, editors Life and Death in the Templo Mayor, Eduardo Matos Moctezuma The Lords of Lambityeco, Michael Lind and Javier Urcid The Madrid Codex, Gabrielle Vail and Anthony Aveni, editors Maya Creation Myths, Timothy W. Knowlton Maya Daykeeping, John M. Weeks, Frauke Sachse, and Christian M. Prager Maya Worldviews at Conquest, Leslie G. Cecil and Timothy W. Pugh, editors Mesoamerican Ritual Economy, E. Christian Wells and Karla L. Davis-Salazar, editors Mesoamerica’s Classic Heritage, Davíd Carrasco, Lindsay Jones, and Scott Sessions, editors Mexico’s Indigenous Communities, Ethelia Ruiz Medrano, translated by Russ Davidson Mockeries and Metamorphoses of an Aztec God, Guilhem Olivier, translated by Michel Besson Negotiation within Domination, Ethelia Ruiz Medrano and Susan Kellogg, editors; translated by Russ Davidson Networks of Power, Edward Schortman and Patricia Urban Rabinal Achi, Alain Breton, editor; translated by Teresa Lavender Fagan and Robert Schneider Representing Aztec Ritual, Eloise Quiñones Keber, editor Ruins of the Past, Travis W. Stanton and Aline Magnoni, editors Skywatching in the Ancient World, Clive Ruggles and Gary Urton, editors Social Change and the Evolution of Ceramic Production and Distribution in a Maya Community, Dean E. Arnold The Social Experience of Childhood in Mesoamerica, Traci Ardren and Scott R. Hutson, editors Stone Houses and Earth Lords, Keith M. Prufer and James E. Brady, editors The Sun God and the Savior, Guy Stresser-Péan Sweeping the Way, Catherine DiCesare Tamoanchan, Tlalocan, Alfredo López Austin Thunder Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, Anath Ariel de Vidas; translated by Teresa Lavender Fagan Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl, H. B. Nicholson The World Below, Jacques Galinier

Performance, Text, and Image in the Work of Sahagún edited by Eloise Quiñones Keber

Louisville

© 2002 by the University Press of Colorado University Press of Colorado 245 Century Circle, Suite 202 Louisville, Colorado 80027 All rights reserved First paperback edition 2020 Printed in the United States of America The University Press of Colorado is a proud member of the Association of University Presses. The University Press of Colorado is a cooperative publishing enterprise supported, in part, by Adams State University, Colorado State University, Fort Lewis College, Metropolitan State University of Denver, Regis University, University of Colorado, University of Northern Colorado, University of Wyoming, Utah State University, and Western Colorado University. ∞ This paper meets the requirements of the ANSI/NISO Z39.48-­1992 (Permanence of Paper) ISBN: 978-0-87081-682-6 (hardcover) ISBN: 978-1-64642-156-5 (paperback) ISBN: 978-1-64642-162-6 (ebook) Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Representing Aztec ritual : performance, text, and image in the work of Sahagún / Eloise Quiñones Keber, editor. p. cm. — (Mesoamerican worlds) Most chapters originated at a session organized for the 1997 meeting of the American Society for Ethnohistory held in Mexico City. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 0-87081-682-9 (alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-64642-156-5 (pbk.: alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-64642-162-6 (ebook) 1. Aztecs—Rites and ceremonies. 2. Sahagún, Bernardino de, d. 1590. Historia general de las cosas de Nueva España. I. Quiñones Keber, Eloise. II. Series. F1219.76.R57 R46 2002 299'.78452—dc21 2002006405 Chapter 8 of the present work appeared in a slightly different version in City of Sacrifice: The Aztec Empire and the Role of Violence in Civilization, © 1999 by Beacon Press. Chapter 4 of the present work is based on an article in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures, © 2001 by Oxford University Press. Cover illustrations: from Florentine Codex 1979, vol. 1, fol. 277v, courtesy Biblioteca Medicea-­ Laurenziana, Florence (front right and background); from Primeros Memoriales 1993, fol. 269r, courtesy University of Oklahoma Press and the Palacio Real, Madrid (left); from Primeros Memoriales 1993, fol. 250v, courtesy University of Oklahoma Press and the Palacio Real, Madrid (bottom); photographs by Eloise Quiñones Keber (spine).

List of Illustrations / vii



1 Representing Aztec Ritual in the Work of Sahagún / 3 E loise Q uiñones K eber

2 Fray Bernardino de Sahagún: A Spanish Missionary in New Spain, 1529–1590 / 21 H. B. N icholson



3 Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan: Ritual and Place / 43 E duardo M atos M octezuma

t Contents

4 Representing the Veintena Ceremonies in the Primeros Memoriales / 63 H. B. N icholson

5 The Hidden King and the Broken Flutes: Mythical and Royal Dimensions of the Feast of Tezcatlipoca in Toxcatl / 107 G uilhem O livier

6 Death and the Tlatoani: The Land of Death, Rulership, and Ritual / 143 K ay A. R ead

7 Sand in Ritual and in History / 175 D oris H eyden

8 The Sacrifice of Women in the Florentine Codex: The Hearts of Plants and Players in War Games / 197 D avíd C arrasco

9 Paper Rituals and the Mexican Landscape / 227 P hilip P. A rnold

10 Painting Divination in the Florentine Codex / 251 E loise Q uiñones K eber

11 Representing Aztec Ritual: A Commentary from the History of Religions / 277 D avíd C arrasco

List of Contributors / 293 Index / 297

vi



1.1 1.2 1.3 1.4 1.5 1.6 2.1 3.1 3.2

Monument to Fray Bernardino de Sahagún / 4 Detail of monument: Fray Bernardino preaching / 5 Detail of monument: Fray Bernardino writing / 6 Mudéjar-style Church of San Tirso / 8 Ex-Franciscan Church of La Peregrina / 9 Decoration in the Church of La Peregrina / 10 Map of Sahagún’s Mexico / 24 Templo Mayor (Main Temple) precinct of Tenochtitlan / 44 Schematic plan of the Templo Mayor precinct / 46

Illustrations

3.3 Sculpture of a seated male from the Templo Mayor / 47 3.4 Ball court beneath the apse of the Metropolitan Cathedral / 48 3.5 Sculpture of a jaguar cuauhxicalli (sacrificial vessel) / 49 3.6 Sculpture of a xiuhcoatl (fire serpent) / 50 3.7 Sculpture of an eagle cuauhxicalli / 51 3.8 Map of architectural remains in the Templo Mayor precinct / 52 3.9 Drums from the Temple of Xochipilli, Templo Mayor / 54 3.10 Staircase of the Tezcatlipoca Temple, Templo Mayor / 56 3.11 Red Temple of the North, Templo Mayor / 57 3.12 Tzompantli (skull rack), Templo Mayor / 58 3.13 Ceramic jar from the House of the Eagles, Templo Mayor / 59 4.1 Relief carving on a stone “year bundle” / 66 4.2 Veintena symbols of Tlacaxipehualiztli and Ochpaniztli / 67 4.3 Tribute register of Tlachinollan-Tlappan / 68 4.4 Snowstorm in 1447 (7 Acatl), veintena of Panquetzaliztli / 69 4.5 Veintena symbols depicting times of conquest events, 1519 to 1522 / 70–71 4.6 Colonial document from Morelos, with symbols for the veintenas of Tlacaxipehualiztli, Etzalcualiztli, Ochpaniztli, and Atemoztli / 72 4.7 Paper banner, symbol for the veintena of Panquetzaliztli / 73 4.8 Head of Tezcatlipoca, symbol for the veintena of Toxcatl / 74 4.9 Paper banner, symbol for the veintena of Panquetzaliztli / 74 4.10 Correlation of veintena images of 365-day year with days of 260-day ritual cycle / 75 4.11 Eighteen veintenas of the solar year in the Boban Calendar Wheel / 75 4.12 Veytia Calendar Wheel No. 5 / 76 4.13 Veytia Calendar Wheel No. 4 / 76 4.14 Eighteen veintenas of the solar year / 77 4.15 Veintena of Cuahuitlehua / 79 4.16 Veintena of Cuahuitlehua/Atlcahualo/Xilomanaliztli / 80 4.17 Veintenas of Xilomanaliztli / 81 4.18 Veintena of Cuahuitlehua / 82

viii

4.19 Veintena of Atlcahualo / 82 4.20 Veintena of Cuahuitlehua / 83 4.21 Veintena of Etzalcualiztli / 84 4.22 Veintena of Etzalcualiztli / 86 4.23 Veintenas of Etzalcualiztli / 87 4.24 Veintenas of Etzalcualiztli / 89 4.25 Veintena of Etzalcualiztli / 90 4.26 Veintena of Etzalcualiztli / 91 4.27 Veintena of Etzalcualiztli / 92 4.28 Veintena of Atemoztli / 93 4.29 Veintena of Atemoztli / 94 4.30 Veintenas of Atemoztli / 95 4.31 Veintenas of Atemoztli / 95 4.32 Veintena of Atemoztli / 97 4.33 Veintena of Atemoztli / 98 5.1 Ixiptla (impersonator) of Tezcatlipoca / 109 5.2 Impersonator of Tezcatlipoca / 110 5.3 Sacrifice of Tezcatlipoca’s impersonator / 111 5.4 Veintena of Toxcatl / 112 6.1 Imaginative rendering of the Mesoamerican cosmos / 150 6.2 Burning of a corpse / 155 6.3 Mictlantecuhtli, Lord of the Land of the Dead / 159 7.1 Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlan / 178 7.2 Maize goddess Xilonen / 183 7.3 Hunting god Mixcoatl-Camaxtli / 184 7.4 Hunting god Mixcoatl-Camaxtli during the veintena of Quecholli / 185 7.5 Solar and war god Huitzilopochtli during the veintena of Panquetzaliztli / 186 7.6 Painal, Huitzilopochtli’s deputy / 187 7.7 Huitzilopochtli carrying a xiuhcoatl (fire serpent) / 188 7.8 Fire god Xiuhtecuhtli-Ixcozauhqui / 189 8.1 Veintena of Ochpaniztli / 213

ix

Illustrations

9.1 Tribute items sent from Huaxtepec, Morelos, to Tenochtitlan / 230 9.2 Incense burner with an image of the rain god Tlaloc, Templo Mayor / 231 9.3 Veintena ceremony of Atlcahualo or Cuahuitlehua / 234 9.4 Techialoyan manuscript made of amatl / 236 10.1 Third trecena panel / 254 10.2 Ancient diviners Cipactonal and Oxomoco / 255 10.3 Ancient diviners Oxomoco and Cipactonal / 256 10.4 Deities Ehecatl Quetzalcoatl (Feathered Serpent) and Tezcatlipoca (Smoking Mirror) / 257 10.5 Third trecena panel / 258 10.6 Third trecena panel / 259 10.7 Third trecena panel / 260 10.8 Third trecena images, including day 1 Deer / 263 10.9 Seventh trecena image, including day 7 Serpent / 265 10.10 Seventh trecena image, including day 10 Rabbit / 265 10.11 Day signs (end of second trecena and beginning of third trecena) / 268 10.12 Tonalpohualli (260-day) chart / 270 10.13 Nineteenth trecena images, including day 1 Eagle / 272

/ following page 142 1 Monument to Fray Bernardino de Sahagún 2 Details of monument depicting Fray Bernardino preaching and writing 3 Schematic plan of the Main Plaza of Tenochtitlan 4 Veintenas of Hueytozoztli, Toxcatl, and Etzalcualiztli 5 Veintenas of Toxcatl and Etzalcualiztli 6 Veintena of Ochpaniztli 7 Techialoyan manuscript made of amatl 8 Seventh trecena image, including day 10 Rabbit

x

Eloise Quiñones Keber

SAHAGÚN BEFORE AND AFTER THE AZTECS Fray Bernardino de Sahagún Sahagún, 1499–Mexico, 1590 Missionary and Educator of Peoples Father of Anthropology In the New World o, translated into

English, reads an engraved inscription on the base supporting a statue of the Franciscan missionary known as Fray Bernardino de Sahagún (fig. 1.1). Erected by his countrymen in a little plaza in the ancient town of Sahagún (originally Sanctus Facundus), located in the rural reaches of the province of León in northern Spain, the modest

Figure 1.1. Monument to Fray Bernardino de Sahagún in the town of Sahagún, Spain. Photograph by author.

Representing Aztec Ritual in the Work of Sahagún

Figure 1.2. Carved detail of monument base depicting Fray Bernardino preaching. Photograph by author.

stone monument pays tribute to the community’s most eminent citizen. In 1529, within a decade after the Spanish conquest, the young missionary arrived in Mexico, then known as New Spain. For the next sixty years he dedicated his life to a collective evangelical mission, whose chief task was the conversion to Christianity of the indigenous population (fig. 1.2). At the same time, the indefatigable friar labored on a personal project that he devised, directed, and resolutely pursued despite immense obstacles: to gather and record information about the life, language, culture, and beliefs of the people among whom he labored (fig. 1.3). 5

Figure 1.3. Carved detail of monument base depicting Fray Bernardino writing. Photograph by author.

Representing Aztec Ritual in the Work of Sahagún

It seems fitting that a street that runs alongside the commemorative plaza has been named the Calle de Informantes, for the voluminous material that Fray Bernardino amassed was truly a collaborative undertaking. No doubt sensing the magnitude of his project, he called upon the able assistance of a small group of indigenous, trilingual (Nahuatl/Spanish/Latin) students that he, among others, had helped to educate in the Colegio de Santa Cruz. The colegio was founded in 1536 in the former Tlatelolca capital of Tlatelolco, which at that time was an Indian barrio adjoining the capital of New Spain that was being built over the ruins of the Tenochca capital of Tenochtitlan. To expand his knowledge about native culture beyond his own experience, Fray Bernardino and his young assistants interviewed scores of anonymous Mexican survivors on various aspects of pre-Hispanic culture as it existed about the time of the conquest. These informants were inhabitants of the still thriving cities of Tepepolco (in the present-day state of Hidalgo) and Tlatelolco and Tenochtitlan (both now part of Mexico City), where Fray Bernardino was assigned to missionary posts. Little exists that informs us about the education, intellectual formation, and missionary training that Fray Bernardino received before arriving in New Spain. But his history-laden hometown and the surrounding region provide intriguing glimpses into the cultural atmosphere in which he spent his formative years. Along with Roman and Mozarabic (“arabized” Christian style) ruins, remains still survive of the former Benedictine monastery in Sahagún that became the center of the Cluniac reform in Spain. Once housing Jewish and Moorish neighborhoods, the town still boasts fine examples of Mudéjar structures (Spanish Christian architecture with Islamic stylistic influences). Among these buildings are the medieval churches of San Tirso and San Lorenzo, whose brick towers even today dominate the town’s architectural landscape (fig. 1.4). One wonders in which ways the multicultural place of his birth may have prepared the young Bernardino for his future evangelistic, ethnographic, and linguistic endeavors. Was this town perhaps the place where he first acquired his intense but discreet curiosity about other peoples and cultures as well as confirmation of his commitment to Christianity—qualities that characterize the great ethnographic project that he initiated in New Spain. One can conjecture as well about whether the location of Sahagún along the medieval pilgrimage route to the shrine of St. James in Santiago de Compostela in northwestern Spain may have exposed the future missionary to different ways of thinking, speaking, and behaving. In the sixteenth century, as they had for centuries before, hordes of international travelers from all corners of Europe and the world beyond constantly plodded along the well-worn Camino 7

Figure 1.4. Architectural details of the Mudéjar-style Church of San Tirso in Sahagún. Photograph by author.

Representing Aztec Ritual in the Work of Sahagún

Figure 1.5. Ex-Franciscan Church of La Peregrina (the Pilgrim) in Sahagún. Photograph by author.

de Santiago that still runs through the small but unexpectedly cosmopolitan town of Sahagún. We cannot discount the intellectual ferment that must have existed in a post-­Reconquista Spain, dominated by Christianity but also permeated by surviving Islamic and Jewish traditions and influences. Certainly the medieval church of La Peregrina, dedicated to Mary as pilgrim, must have had a powerful influence on Fray Bernardino. This Franciscan church and sprawling convent ruins, founded in 1257 but now inactive, sit atop a hill overlooking the town (fig. 1.5). Within the imposing Mudéjar-style complex, the walls of a funerary chapel off the right nave of the church still bear graceful geometric plasterwork (fig. 1.6). This type of ornamentation is more familiar to visitors to such places as the Alhambra, a former Islamic stronghold and palace in Granada in Andalusia, but is rare in northern Spain. This foundation must also have offered the young Bernardino his earliest contacts with Franciscan friars. The Franciscan Order, in which Fray Bernardino was ordained as a priest in the university town of Salamanca, originated as a preaching and missionary group. Within a few years after the order’s founding in early thirteenth-­ century Italy, the Franciscans had established missions not only throughout 9

Figure 1.6. Plasterwork decoration in a funerary chapel in the Church of La Peregrina. Photograph by author.

Europe but also in the Holy Land and Near East, North Africa, Armenia, and China, among numerous places near and far. Into the medieval and Renaissance periods, intrepid Franciscans had embarked on arduous travels to far-off countries, experienced firsthand encounters with distant cultures, and coped with the learning of difficult foreign tongues. Kubler (1948, 2: 5–7), among others, also emphasizes the evangelistic zeal in fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Spain itself, where reformist Franciscans labored among the rural poor and the Muslims of newly conquered (1492) Granada. When in 1529 Fray Bernardino set sail from Sanlucar, near Seville, for the New World—his mastery of the Nahuatl language and Aztec culture yet in the future—he became part of a long and illustrious Franciscan missionary tradition. The complicated story of Fray Bernardino’s evangelical, ethnographic, and linguistic endeavors in Mexico, along with a synopsis of his career, is admirably summarized in Nicholson’s first article in this volume (see also León-Portilla 1999). Of the massive Sahaguntine corpus (Quiñones Keber 1988), the works most cited by contributors to this volume are the Primeros Memoriales (1993b facsimile; 1997 Nahuatl paleography, English translation, and studies) and the later Florentine Codex (1979 facsimile; 1950–1982 10

Representing Aztec Ritual in the Work of Sahagún

Nahuatl paleography, English translation, and studies; 1989 Spanish paleography and studies). The first work, compiled in Tepepolco between 1559 and 1561, is today divided between two libraries in Madrid, the Biblioteca de la Real Academia de la Historia and the Biblioteca del Real Palacio. The second work, copied in Mexico City about 1578 to 1580 and lavishly illustrated for the most part in color, is now in Florence in the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. These two documents, along with the Manuscrito de Tlatelolco, which was compiled in between them and is archived in the same Madrid repositories, comprise stages in Sahagún’s epic ethnographic project, to which he gave the title Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España. The final copy of the Historia was originally taken to Spain in 1580, but exactly how and when it entered the famous Medici library adjoining the Church of San Lorenzo in Florence is not known. Apparently it was there soon after, possibly as early as the 1580s. REPRESENTING AZTEC RITUAL Most of the articles in this volume (Nicholson, Read, Heyden, Arnold, and Quiñones Keber) originated in a session called “Representing Aztec Ritual: Performance, Text, and Image in the Sahaguntine Corpus.” Organized for the 1997 meeting of the American Society for Ethnohistory in anticipation of the anniversary of Sahagún’s birth in 1499, the conference was fittingly held in Mexico City, the present-day megalopolis that engulfs the Mexica cities of Tlatelolco and Tenochtitlan where Sahagún lived and worked. Certainly one of the highlights of this session was the brilliant, improvisational commentary delivered by Davíd Carrasco and reproduced as the final article in this volume. Two other contributions (Matos Moctezuma and Olivier) were later added to complete the volume. The theme—the representation of Aztec ritual in the work of Sahagún— was selected for the session in recognition of the extent to which the subject of ritual performance pervades the images and texts of the Sahaguntine corpus, as it did the world of the Aztecs. This facet of Aztec culture, particularly that of blood sacrifice, has long attracted scholarly attention and popular notoriety. Compared with recent Sahaguntine publications, a unique feature of this volume is the contribution of several historians of religion (Read, Arnold, and Carrasco), who offer the unique insights and methodologies of their discipline to this intense and often enigmatic aspect of human ritual behavior. Numerous questions regarding the representation of Aztec ritual performance were raised before and during the session. For example, because ritual is, above all, activity or “performance,” by what means can ritual be 11

conceptualized and in what ways can it be recorded? How, in fact, can ritual performance be re-presented and represented? Through what media? What is it that rituals represent? Who describes the rituals? For whom are they represented? And for what purpose? In their readings of the resonant ritual images and texts of the Sahaguntine corpus, the individual contributors also raise other ritual-related issues arising from their particular avenues of inquiry. The authors explore overlooked areas, such as the ritual uses of sand and paper (Heyden and Arnold), little noticed references to funerary and divinatory rituals (Read and Quiñones Keber), and well-known but poorly understood ritual practices, including blood sacrifice (Carrasco, “Sacrifice”; Olivier; and Nicholson, “Veintena Ceremonies”). Early maps, images in manuscripts, and textual descriptions, in addition to more recent archaeological discoveries, confirm that the ritual, civic, and cosmological core of the Mexica cities of Tenochtitlan and Tlatelolco was an immense Main Temple (Templo Mayor) precinct (see Matos Moctezuma, this volume). Each of these pivotal sacred hubs was dominated by the most imposing structure in the city, the Main Temple proper, at the summit of which were twin shrines dedicated to the rain and fertility god Tlaloc and to the special patron of the Mexica, the solar god of war Huitzilopochtli. Among other structures within the walled enclosure were temples and shrines to numerous other gods and goddesses that formed the Aztec pantheon, altars, courts where the ritual ball game was played, priestly residences and schools, and countless monuments, figural sculptures, wall paintings, and buried dedicatory offerings. The prevalence of ritual in Aztec religious and civic life is particularly evident in the sequence of eighteen ceremonies, which the Spaniards called veintenas because of their twenty-day length. Observance of the veintena ceremonies insured an almost continuous succession of ritual activities throughout the year, with only five inactive days at the end of the 365-day annual cycle. The constant round of ceremonies; the great number of costumed priests, deity impersonators, and participants from all levels of society; and the numerous activities involving feasting, drinking, dancing, and singing all guaranteed maximum public exposure and spectacle. As the contributors detail, some major ritual performances were carried out in the great open expanses and structures of the Templo Mayor. Others took place in the myriad local temples and shrines within Tenochtitlan or outside the city or were celebrated at various natural sites, such as lakes, mountains, and hilltops throughout the Basin of Mexico. Yet constant as they were, the veintena ceremonies were not the only ritual activities to fill the daily lives of the ancient Mexicans. In addition to 12

Representing Aztec Ritual in the Work of Sahagún

these public ritual performances, other more personal and private ones were practiced, again by all members of society, as the need arose. Unlike the priests who directed the veintena ceremonies, a distinct type of religious specialist—a diviner who mediated between supernatural and natural realms—carried out these rituals. Seeking to align their actions with the will of the gods, individuals consulted a diviner, who used a ritual handbook (tonalamatl) to select a propitious day on which to undertake particular activities (see Quiñones Keber, this volume). These events often related to life’s milestones, such as marriage, childbirth, sickness, and death, but they also encompassed more mundane seasonal or occasional events, such as planting, harvesting, and traveling. Ritual in Aztec life was ubiquitous and constant, quite literally all around and all the time. Much of our knowledge about late pre-Hispanic ritual in Central Mexico comes from the remarkably detailed and in many ways unique texts and images that are found in the Primeros Memoriales and Florentine Codex. The most abundant information on the veintenas is documented and illustrated in Chapter 1, Paragraph 2A, of the Primeros Memoriales and in Book 2 (The Ceremonies) of the Florentine Codex. Information on divinatory rituals is most abundant in Book 4 (The Soothsayers) of the Florentine Codex, and to a lesser extent in Book 5 (The Omens) and in the speeches and recitations in Book 6 (Rhetoric and Moral Philosophy). Other references to ritual are scattered throughout the remaining books of this essential source. The Sahaguntine corpus thus reveals the centrality of ritual in Aztec existence, a fact that is abundantly confirmed by other ethnohistorical sources that were also compiled in Mexico during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries. The most notable of these works is Fray Diego Durán’s Historia de las Indias de Nueva España (1967; English translations, 1971, 1994). Religious and ritual activity is also recorded by other friars— Fray Toribio de Benavente (Motolinia), Gerónimo de Mendieta, and Juan de Torquemada—as well as many other authors. These and other primary and secondary sources appear in the references cited by the individual contributors to this volume. THE AZTECS BEFORE AND AFTER SAHAGÚN Like the memorial in the town of Sahagún, the articles in this volume have as their aim to commemorate the remarkable achievements of the great pioneer ethnographer of ancient Mexico, in this case on the 500th anniversary of his birth about 1499. Although reflecting a variety of disciplinary approaches from the fields of anthropology, ethnohistory, art history, and religious studies, the contributors are united in their debt to the indispensable body 13

of work left by Fray Bernardino and his assistants, artists, and informants. It seems safe to say that without the monumental corpus produced by the Sahaguntine team and the subsequent scholarship that has been informed by the fruits of their titanic labors, our knowledge of late pre-Hispanic Mexico would indeed be impoverished. This is not to say that the surviving Sahaguntine materials are without their problems. For example, the prologues, appendices, and Spanish paraphrase of the Florentine Codex, in which Sahagún had a more direct hand, contrast with the Nahuatl texts collected through interviews with Nahua elders and written down by his Nahua colleagues. The former give us some glimpses into Fray Bernardino’s aims regarding his project, his subjective (Christian-European) attitudes toward some of the native material, and his underlying evangelical intentions, as well as the opposition he faced from those who feared that recording “idolatrous” practices would perpetuate their use. But many significant aspects of the project, such as his overt directives and interventions in the gathering of data on indigenous culture, are not apparent. Although the Florentine Codex offers the most comprehensive information about contact-period pre-Hispanic religion and ritual in Central Mexico, it contains obvious gaps that interest the contributors to this volume. The full meaning of the highly metaphoric Nahuatl text, in particular, invites deeper linguistic investigation (see especially Olivier and Read, this volume). Another unavoidable problem that runs as a subtext through all of the contributions is how to approach materials written by outsiders (Sahagún as well as ourselves) about the culture of another, not only in a colonial situation but in an even more removed contemporary one. The contributors are ever aware that the colonial materials they use come to them through the filter of a European Renaissance mind. Certainly Sahagún could not have foreseen how later readers would make use of the descriptions of ritual recorded and illustrated in the Historia. Uninterested in the establishment of Christianity in a conquered land, (as Sahagún was), modern researchers sift through the mass of details recorded in the Sahaguntine corpus, attempting to recreate on paper the whole of the Aztec world, even the ritual parts that Sahagún the missionary wished to see buried. Making the distinction between the relevant parts and the whole can be fraught with difficulty. What parts of the materials can one ignore with the presumption that their relation to the whole is negligible? Sahagún had a body of indubitable beliefs and practices to use as criteria for the “idolatrous” or “disposable” parts. His later readers do not; quite the contrary, they want nothing buried. They know that exhumations often produce unexpected clues for decoding the conundrums of the past. 14

Representing Aztec Ritual in the Work of Sahagún

All of the contributors to this volume have a deep respect for the work of Sahagún, a respect qualified by an equally deep critical spirit in approaching his work. If they admire the enormously detailed descriptions of the Aztec understanding and appreciation of nature, for example, they are just as interested in the implications of that ethos for understanding the Aztecs themselves. Sahagún (and his collaborators) labored to record Aztec life, culture, and sensibility in as much detail as his European-Christian viewpoint in colonial New Spain allowed. The limits of that viewpoint have been a constant concern for students of Aztec life and culture, and the contributors reflect that concern. When we deal with a culture that is distant from us in time, language, art, religion, and ritual—a distance that is exacerbated by the policy of destruction adopted by Spanish colonial authorities—the question of the trustworthiness of our sources of knowledge about that culture is critical. The antagonistic attitude of Spanish civic and religious officials calls into question the authority of descriptions written under their control. This problem is particularly acute in regard to the study of ritual performance, a deep and defining presence in Aztec life, but one that was a target for extermination by Spanish missionaries in sixteenth-century colonial Mexico. Even in the best of cases, it is impossible to observe directly the rituals of any past culture. We therefore lack access to those qualities of performance that are of most interest to modern students of ritual: the spontaneous as opposed to the scripted, local variations as opposed to standard practice, changes over time as opposed to the persistently structural. We are stuck with our written sources. They provide our only access to Aztec ritual. How do we decide about the trustworthiness of Sahagún’s descriptions? Virtually all of the contributors touch on this question. One way to assess the accuracy of written sources might be called excavative. Sahagún said that he would like to see the ancient canticles sung by the Aztecs “buried as they deserve” (Sahagún 1993a, pp. 8–9). But what is buried can be dug up. What is unearthed can be used to check the accuracy of the descriptions of what had been buried. This excavative testing of the Sahaguntine descriptions is performed by Matos Moctezuma in a literal way. His work reminds us of the scholarly desire to get as close as possible to the physical contours and constraints of Aztec ritual performance. The other contributors participate in this excavative work in a more metaphorical way. Nicholson especially makes us acutely aware of the nature and variety of our sources regarding ritual, which both enable and hinder achieving such closeness. Read warns us that we cannot neglect the language in which the rituals are described. Her detailed analysis allows the medium 15

to stand out clearly so that we cannot take its message for granted. Nahuatl, as Read points out, is a highly metaphoric medium, and it carries with it a particular understanding of natural and human life that is not revealed in the Spanish or Latin texts. Quiñones Keber similarly draws attention to how the European understanding of reading influenced the mode of preserving in the painted manuscripts the divinatory practices that were so crucial in Aztec life and ritual. Reading as an Aztec was not the same as reading as a European. Olivier’s highly detailed description of the veintena ceremony of Toxcatl reminds us of the necessity of understanding and appreciating the concrete objects used in this rite in all their multiple meanings. He brings us closer to Aztec thought and sensibility, for example, by examining the meaning of the flute in ritual through studying its role in myth. Heyden continues this focus on concrete material objects used in rituals in her discussion of “going into sand.” Why sand? What did sand mean for the Aztecs, a meaning that was evidently not recognized by European observers? This focus on the transcendent aspects of concrete objects comes to a climax in Arnold’s essay, which focuses on the use of native amatl paper. In their descriptions, most of the contributors to this volume refer to paper items used in rituals, incorporated in costumes of deity impersonators, and adorning sacrificial offerings. They use paper as an innocent descriptive term. But what is paper? If anything is unproblematic, surely it is that. As Arnold points out, amatl (paper) in all its materiality is a category bridging nature and culture, a category unshared by European understanding. The implications of paper must be addressed, as Arnold does in his chapter. The interest in achieving a closer understanding of the Aztecs is expressed by all of the contributors. This interest requires that one respect Sahagún’s achievement while recognizing its limits and distortional effects. As we try to peel away the misunderstandings that inevitably accompany all attempts to comprehend another way of life in all its complexity, we have the sense of getting closer to the people who led such a life. This work is unending because every detail reminds us of what we might be missing in the seemingly simple and unproblematic. Every detail has the potential to lay bare unrecognized presuppositions. We get closer to the Aztecs, but they elude us in many ways. Yet increased understanding alone does not finish our work as interpreters. We can still ask what this increased understanding means to us. If we allow the sensibility and understanding of the Aztecs to instruct us, can we in some sense criticize them from our perspective? Carrasco undertakes this dangerous task. He describes the ritual sacrifice of women, which is clearly described in 16

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Sahagún’s work, noting that interpreters have not penetrated its full ritual and cosmological meanings for the Aztecs. Informed by recent thinking about gender and sacrifice, he unearths another example of the abuse of women and sharpens our consciousness of this malignant prejudice. Arnold expands the interpretive task through an increased ethical sensitivity to the plight of Native American survivors today. If we can justly criticize Sahagún for his blind prejudices even in his prodigious and admirable attempt to record the Aztec way of life in manifold detail, we can also become increasingly aware of our own unrecognized presuppositions and partialities. The work of interpretation is not really complete until and unless this happens. NOTES Throughout this volume, citations for the English translation of the Florentine Codex (1950–1982) include the edition, the particular book of the twelve that it comprises, and the page or folio number. References to other editions of the Historia (1905, 1975, 1979, 1989) are cited by volume number and folio or page. Pre-Hispanic cities are cited by their pre-Hispanic names, a usage that continued into the postconquest period. Spanish accents have been eliminated from Nahuatl words in an English context, although they are commonly used in Mexico. Publication titles in foreign languages are written according to English rules of capitalization. I will also offer a brief word about nomenclature, which can be confusing. The terms Mexica, Aztec, and Nahua are used in this volume. Although often used interchangeably, they have specific references. The most commonly used term, Aztec, is the most recent to be applied to the indigenous group that dominated Central Mexico in the late pre-Hispanic period. Although it was popularized only in the early nineteenth century by the Prussian naturalist Alexander von Humboldt and the U.S. writer William H. Prescott, Aztec is derived from the historical term Azteca (people of Aztlan), which refers to several groups who migrated from the legendary homeland of Aztlan in the twelfth century. A particular group of Azteca migrants called Mexica settled in Mexico Tenochtitlan, Tlatelolco, and other Basin of Mexico cities. Reference to the people of a particular city, or altepetl—to which indigenous peoples owed their primary loyalty—may thus be cited as Tenochca, Tlatelolca, and so on, to distinguish among them. The Triple Alliance of the Mexica of Mexico Tenochtitlan, the Acolhuaque of Tetzcoco, and the Tepaneca of Tlacopan about 1433 led to the formation of a tribute empire, which spread beyond Central Mexico and encompassed peoples of various cultures and languages. Because the alliance became increasingly dominated by the Mexica of Tenochtitlan, the term Aztec has offered a convenient overall label for this so-called Aztec Empire. By 1521, after its political and military collapse by invading Spaniards and their Indian allies, the “Aztec 17

Empire” no longer existed. Authors generally refer to “Aztecs” who lived after (or sometimes before) the conquest as Nahua (after their language Nahuatl), a name that continues to be applied to Nahuatl-speakers in Mexico today. Sahagún and other sixteenth-century writers used the terms Mexicans (from Mexico), Indians (from Indies), and los naturales as equivalents for indigenes. (Cortés also referred to Culhua Mexica.) Although the word Indian comes from the Indus River, in the sixteenth century it did not refer to a person from India (which did not exist). Indies denoted far-off lands: West Indies was applied to unknown lands west of Europe, and East Indies to distant lands east of Europe and the Mediterranean world (that is, beyond the Indus). Finally, my thanks to my research assistant, Angela Herren, for her capable help in the preparation of the manuscript.

REFERENCES CITED Durán, Fray Diego 1967 Historia de las Indias de Nueva España e Islas de la Tierra Firme. 2 vols. Edited by Angel María Garibay K. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa. 1971 Book of the Gods and Rites and the Ancient Calendar. Translated and edited by Fernando Horcasitas and Doris Heyden. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 1994 The History of the Indies of New Spain. Translated and edited by Doris Heyden. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Kubler, George 1948 Mexican Architecture of the Sixteenth Century. 2 vols. New Haven: Yale University Press. León-Portilla, Miguel 1999 Bernardino de Sahagún: Pionero de la Antropología. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, and El Colegio Nacional. Quiñones Keber, Eloise 1988 The Sahaguntine Corpus: A Bibliographic Index of Extant Documents. Appendix. In The Work of Bernardino de Sahagún: Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-Century Aztec Mexico, edited by J. Jorge Klor de Alva, H. B. Nicholson, and Eloise Quiñones Keber, pp. 341–345. Albany: Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, State University of New York. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. English translation of the Nahuatl text of Sahagún’s Historia.

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1979 Códice Florentino. El Manuscrito 218–220 de Colección Palatina de la Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. 3 vols. Florence: Giunti Barbera; Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. Facsimile of the final copy of Sahagún’s Historia. 1989 Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España, Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. 2 vols. Edited by Alfredo López Austin and Josefina García Quintana. Mexico City: Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes and Editorial Patria. Spanish text of Sahagún’s Historia. 1993a Bernardino de Sahagún’s Psalmodia Cristiana (Christian Psalmody). Translated by Arthur A. O. Anderson. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1993b Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. 1997 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid.

19

A Spanish Missionary in New Spain, 1529–1590 H. B. Nicholson

Mesoamerican scholars would agree that the single most valuable source of information concerning the native culture of the Basin of Mexico and adjacent territory at the time of European contact is the corpus of Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. His early arrival in New Spain only eight years after the Spanish conquest (1521); his mastery of the Nahuatl language; his perceptive selection of knowledgeable informants; and his energy, drive, and remarkable diligence enabled him to produce an invaluable contribution to our knowledge of the indigenous peoples of Central Mexico at the advent of Cortés. Above all, his method of transcribing voluminous amounts of information in his informants’ own language lends the data that he collected exceptional ethnographic value and provides significant linguistic knowledge about Nahuatl, Mesoamerica’s lingua franca in the late pre-Hispanic period. This study summarizes Fray Bernardino’s ost

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exceptional life and missionary career in New Spain, concentrating on the development of his ethnographic and linguistic researches and the writings that emerged from them. LIFE AND CAREER The person who became Fray Bernardino de Sahagún was born, probably in 1499, in a venerable northern Spanish community in the province of León. Known in Roman times as Camala and later as Sanctus Facundus, after a legendary early Christian martyr, the community was eventually called Sahagún. In the Middle Ages it became an important stopover on the Camino de Santiago, hosting pilgrims during their long journey west to the immensely popular shrine of Santiago de Compostela. It was the site of a large Benedictine abbey that had close ties to that of Cluny in central France. Beginning in the thirteenth century, it also contained a Franciscan monastery as well as some handsome churches in Romanesque and Mudéjar styles. No documentation is extant concerning Bernardino’s parents, who were named Ribeira according to a nineteenth-century source (possibly supported by a sixteenth-century University of Salamanca document). Some have speculated, without adducing any positive evidence, that the family members were conversos (Jews who had converted to Catholicism). Bernardino is believed to have studied at the University of Salamanca where, probably in his early twenties, he joined the religious order of the Provincia Franciscana de San Gabriel de Extremadura and achieved the rank of priest. In 1529 Fray Antonio de Ciudad Rodrigo—one of the original Los Doce, the hallowed 12 Franciscans who, led by Fray Martín de Valencia, arrived in newly established New Spain in 1524 to begin their active missionary endeavors—returned to Old Spain. His mission was to recruit additional members of his order to join the evangelistic enterprise. Fray Bernardino de Sahagún, with nineteen others, signed on. In August 1529, at about age thirty, he bade farewell to the land of his birth, never to return. Also on board, bound for La Villa Rica de la Vera Cruz, was a contingent of nobles from various Central Mexican communities. Entrusted to the care of Fray Antonio, this group included two sons of the last pre-Hispanic ruler of Mexico Tenochtitlan, Motecuhzoma II. Upon his triumphant return to Spain the year before, Hernando Cortés had included them in his retinue. By now surely speaking some Spanish, these aristocrats might have begun, at least informally, to instruct Fray Bernardino in their elegant, upper-class Nahuatl. Among his fellow evangelists in Mexico, Sahagún would eventually become one of the acknowledged masters of this language. 22

Fray Bernardino de Sahagún

The young friars arrived in Mexico City at a turbulent time in the new colony, when the conquerors were engaged in fratricidal strife. By the end of 1530, however, with the establishment of the second Audiencia (governing body), New Spain began to stabilize, and the newly arrived Franciscans could begin their missionary work in earnest. Specifics are lacking concerning Fray Bernardino’s activities during the first half-decade of his residence in New Spain, but there can be little doubt that among other tasks he was perfecting his ability to communicate in Nahuatl. He is reported to have been associated with some of the new Franciscan establishments, notably those at Tlalmanalco and possibly Xochimilco, both in the southern Basin of Mexico. During this period or later, he ascended the volcanic peaks of Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl (Iztactepetl), physical feats that highlight his stamina and youthful athleticism. On the feast of the Epiphany in 1536, the first bishop of Mexico, Fray Juan de Zumárraga; the president of the second Audiencia, Sebastián Ramírez de Fuenleal; and the newly arrived first viceroy of New Spain, Antonio de Mendoza, presided over the solemn inauguration of the Imperial Colegio de Santa Cruz de Tlatelolco, a special school for the sons of the native nobility. Fray Bernardino, along with several of his fellow friars, was appointed to teach Latin and probably other subjects. This was a turning point in his career, for he was to spend many years at the colegio during different periods of his life, performing his pedagogical duties. His role as teacher brought him into particularly close contact with the brightest among the native youths, some of whom later became his faithful assistants when he commenced his serious ethnographic and linguistic labors. Also, it undoubtedly enabled him to attain more penetrating insights into the patterns and structure of the indigenous culture than he could have acquired through purely proselytizing activities. In 1540 Fray Bernardino left Tlatelolco to begin a period of missionary activity in the region east of the twin volcanoes in what is today the state of Puebla. He took up residence in the monastery of Huexotzinco, the colonial descendant of a powerful pre-Hispanic polity that had successfully maintained, usually in alliance with Tlaxcallan, its independence vis-à-vis Mexico Tenochtitlan (fig. 2.1). Apparently that same year he completed his first substantial written production, a sermonario in Nahuatl for all Sundays of the liturgical year and for some feasts of the saints, a work that he had probably begun in Tlatelolco. During his residence in Huexotzinco he must have also become well acquainted with nearby Cholollan (Cholula), where he marveled at the enormous size of the Great Pyramid. In 1545 he returned to the Imperial Colegio de Santa Cruz de Tlatelolco, where he remained until 1558. Although still under ecclesiastical supervision, 23

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Figure 2.1. Map of Sahagún’s Mexico. Drawing by Michel Besson.

its academic staff now largely consisted of natives who had attended it as students. That same year, the school received a virtual deathblow, caused by a devastating typhus epidemic that ravaged New Spain with enormous mortality. Sahagún himself nearly perished of the disease. To counter the precipitous drop in the colegio’s enrollment due to the pestilence, the entrance bars were lowered. Any indigenous male youth judged to be of sufficient intelligence, regardless of the social rank of his family, could now be admitted. In 1547 Sahagún seems to have collected and copied in Nahuatl forty huehuetlatolli, “discourses of the old,” which were elegantly phrased, formal set speeches delivered on appropriate occasions. This, in effect, constituted his first significant ethnographic/linguistic written work. It would later appear as Book 6 (Rhetoric and Moral Philosophy) of the Historia General (Universal) de las Cosas de (la) Nueva España. From about 1553 to 1555, Sahagún undertook another investigation that stemmed from his increasing interest in penetrating and recording native culture. This was an account in Nahuatl of the 1519–1521 Cortesian conquest of Mexico Tenochtitlan/Tlatelolco, as recalled by Tlatelolcan survivors of that bloody, epochal event. Eventually this became Book 12 (The Conquest of Mexico) of the Historia. Although the account provides a fascinating window into the indigenous view of the conquest, it is significant that in his prologue Sahagún tells us that his intention was not so much to provide a native account of events, as to record the 24

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native language for the things of war, including the arms that were used. This statement underscores the almost equal importance that Sahagún accorded to the linguistic value of his Nahuatl texts. SAHAGÚN’S FORMAL ETHNOGRAPHIC/LINGUISTIC PROJECT, 1558–1569 Late in 1558 or early the following year, Sahagún was formally commissioned by the new provincial of his province, Fray Francisco de Toral, to write in Nahuatl what he considered useful for the doctrine, culture, and support of the Christianization of the Indians of New Spain and for aiding the missionaries in their evangelism. This was the great turning point in Sahagún’s career, the beginning of his comprehensive investigation of the native culture that has earned him the title of the “Father of Modern Ethnography.” Fray Bernardino moved to the Franciscan monastery of Tepepolco, a large community of Acolhuaque (Tetzcocan) affiliation, about fifty miles northeast of Mexico City in the present state of Hidalgo. His Franciscan predecessor in systematic ethnographic/linguistic investigations, Fray Andrés de Olmos, had reputedly founded the Tepepolco convento. Recruiting as his principal informants the local señor and ten to twelve of his principales, for more than two years, following a minuta o memoria as a guide, Fray Bernardino interrogated them concerning their religious/ritual/divinatory system, their history, their customs, and possibly their knowledge of the plants, animals, and minerals in their environment. Aided by four trilingual (Nahuatl/Spanish/Latin) assistants, whom he had trained as students in Tlatelolco, he obtained a great quantity of ethnographic data, some of it employing the pre-Hispanic pictorial mode, and dutifully recorded it in Nahuatl. Most of this material has fortunately survived in an eighty-eight–folio manuscript that is known today as the Primeros Memoriales. Organized into four chapters (I: Gods; II: Heaven and Underworld; III: Rulership; IV: Human Things) and forty-nine paragraphs and illustrated by numerous native-style drawings, the manuscript is divided between two Madrid repositories, the libraries of the Real Academia de la Historia and the Real Palacio. In 1561 Sahagún again moved back to the Colegio de Santa Cruz in Tlatelolco, where he repeated his Tepepolco operation. He again recruited, with the help of the native gobernador and his alcaldes, a corps of eight to ten highborn Tlatelolca informants. For more than a year they provided him and his assistants with another sizable quantity of ethnographic information. Covering many of the same topics that had been investigated in Tepepolco, they considerably expanded their scope and added a significant number of new ones. 25

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Between 1563 and 1565 Sahagún concentrated on copying and recopying this mass of information, organizing it, as with his Tepepolco materials, into chapters and paragraphs. Most of the information was transcribed in a format that Sahagún planned for the final version of what he hoped would be a veritable encyclopedia of indigenous culture. It was to be written in three columns: on the left, a paraphrastic Spanish translation; in the center, the original Nahuatl; and on the right, scholia, or elucidations of selected Nahuatl words and phrases. Various drafts of these materials, collectively known as the Manuscrito de Tlatelolco, survive, divided between the same two Madrid repositories. They include two examples of the full three-column layouts: Memoriales con Escolias, Chapters 1–5 of Book 7, and Chapters 1–2 and part of Chapter 3 of Book 10 of the final Historia. The remainder of these Memoriales en Tres Columnas, organized into five chapters, contain only the central Nahuatl column. In 1564, also during this period in Tlatelolco, Sahagún and his four principal trilinguals completed the Coloquios y Doctrina Cristiana con que los Doze Frayles de San Francisco Embiados por el Papa Adriano Sesto y por el Emperador Carlos Quinto Convirtieron a los Indios de la Nueva España, en Lengua Mexicana y Española. This incomplete document, now in the Archivio Segreto of the Vatican, features an account that purports to narrate the first dialogue between the original twelve Franciscans and the assembled surviving priests and leaders of the conquered Mexica that took place in 1524. The former explained their evangelical mission and the latter replied, defending their beliefs. Although hardly “historical” in the literal sense, this document, which has been variously published, including an English translation, conveys well the essence of indigenous religious ideology at the initiation of the missionary campaign to destroy it. In 1565 Sahagún moved to the convento of San Francisco in Mexico City, where for the next three years, working alone, he continued to reorganize his materials. By 1568 he had chosen an overall organizational scheme consisting of twelve books subdivided into chapters and paragraphs, with each book devoted to a different basic topic: 1: The Gods; 2: The Ceremonies; 3: The Origin of the Gods; 4: The Soothsayers; 5: The Omens; 6: Rhetoric and Moral Philosophy (the 1547 huehuetlatolli); 7: The Sun, Moon, Stars, Binding the Years; 8: Kings and Lords; 9: The Merchants; 10: The People; 11: Earthly Things; and 12: The Conquest of Mexico (the 1553–1555 account). This massive work, bearing the title Historia General (Universal) de las Cosas de (la) Nueva España, was now essentially finalized. In 1569, with the support of the Franciscan provincial, Fray Miguel Navarro, and Fray Diego 26

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de Mendoza, the guardian of the convento, a complete, clean copy was made. While it was being prepared, the Tenochca amended and added many things (muchas cosas). Most of these additions, which were not really numerous, can be identified. The pages were also laid out in the three-column format, but like the bulk of those in the Manuscrito de Tlatelolco, they contained only the Nahuatl column. It has been suggested that the organizational scheme of this final 1569 version of the Historia may have been influenced by prominent classical or medieval encyclopedias, such as Pliny’s Historia Naturalis, San Isodoro de Sevilla’s Etimologías, and Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ De Proprietatibus Rerum. Certainly Fray Bernardino, who had probably attended the University of Salamanca in the days of its Renaissance flowering, was acquainted with these and similar treatises, but to what extent he used them as models can only be speculated. The scope of the Historia’s coverage of contact-period Central Mexican indigenous culture is remarkable, unmatched by other sixteenth-century works that attempted to describe the native way of life. Unfortunately this Nahuatl version of the complete Historia, the Manuscrito de 1569, has never been found. It may have been sent to Spain, but if so, there is disagreement concerning when and under what circumstances. In 1570, after consummating his dedicated ethnographic/linguistic labors of so many years, Sahagún faced a difficult time. He had asked the father commissary, Fray Francisco de Ribera, to submit the final copy of the Historia to three or four members of their order to seek their opinion of it. In January, at the Provincial Chapter Assembly, they delivered a favorable verdict, affirming that the writings were of great value and recommending that their completion be supported. Others, however, felt that it was contrary to the order’s vows of poverty to spend monies to record Sahagún’s writings. Accordingly, he was ordered to dismiss his scribes and do all the writing himself. This proved to be impossible, however, because of his advanced age (more than seventy) and because he could no longer write legibly owing to the trembling of his hand. Refusing to abandon the project on which he had expended so much effort and in which he believed so fervently, Fray Bernardino decided to appeal to two higher powers, the Council of the Indies, headed by Juan de Ovando, and Pope Pius V in Rome. He prepared a sumario of his great opus, summarizing all of the books and chapters with their prologues. This he entrusted to two loyal supporters, Fray Gerónimo de Mendieta and Fray Miguel Navarro. The latter was the newly appointed custodio of the province and was to represent it at the upcoming General Franciscan Chapter Assembly that was scheduled to be held in Florence, Italy. The two friars 27

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departed about mid-year in 1570. In Madrid they apparently presented Ovando with Sahagún’s Sumario. Although it seems to have succeeded in its aim of reinforcing Ovando’s support of Sahagún, this document has also been lost. For the pope, Sahagún later composed a Breve Compendio de los Ritos Ydolátricos que los Yndios Desta Nueva España Usaban en Tiempo de Su Infidelidad, dated December 25, 1570. After a long dedicatory letter to His Holiness, the Breve Compendio contained assorted summaries and excerpts, focusing on Books 1 and 2 of the Historia. Fray Bernardino’s remarkable appeal to Rome reached its destination, for it still survives in the Archivio Segreto of the Vatican and has been published, but there is no record of any papal response to it. Possibly in reaction to Fray Bernardino’s overseas appeals, the newly appointed provincial, Fray Alonso de Escalona, an opponent of Sahagún’s project, ordered that his writings be confiscated and dispersed throughout the province. Although Fray Bernardino reported that at the time his writings had been seen by many in the order and judged to be valuable and useful, the effect of this removal and dispersal was to paralyze the project. During this hiatus, however, Sahagún was hardly inactive. In 1572 he returned to Tlatelolco, where he became involved in the “resurrection” of the Colegio de Santa Cruz, which in 1546 had been turned over to the students and had gradually fallen into decay. Although never officially appointed rector, Fray Bernardino was put in charge of the colegio’s affairs for about two years and contributed significantly to its revival. Fray Miguel Navarro and Fray Gerónimo de Mendieta returned to New Spain in 1573, the former as comisario general. At Sahagún’s request, Navarro ordered all of his writings returned to him, and after about a year of effort, Fray Bernardino succeeded in recovering them. The next year, to avoid further embroilment in the unsettled affairs of the province, Navarro suddenly resigned and departed. Only a year later a new comisario general arrived, Fray Rodrigo de Sequera, who proved to be an even more stalwart supporter of Sahagún’s project. After perusing the Historia and responding quite favorably to it, he ordered Sahagún to complete its translation into Spanish. Sequera provided the necessary means for him to prepare a bilingual version to send to Juan de Ovando, a long-time advocate of compiling relevant information on the history and resources of Spain’s New World empire. Ovando had become acquainted with Sahagún’s project through his earlier 1570 Sumario. Although Ovando died shortly afterward, depriving Sahagún of his strongest supporter in Spain, with Sequera’s local backing Fray Bernardino forged ahead with the preparation of the bilingual 28

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Historia. He was somewhat delayed by the terrible epidemic of 1576, which, like that of 1545, devastated the colegio. But he pushed on. Sahagún’s struggles to complete a bilingual version seemed on the verge of success. Some friars, however, strongly opposed his and other projects that recorded accounts of indigenous rituals and beliefs because they feared that the accounts would promote the survival of those beliefs. These opponents finally converted the Crown to their view. The orders of April 22 and May 13, 1577, signed by King Philip II, commanded Viceroy Martín Enríquez and Archbishop Pedro Moya de Contreras to obtain Sahagún’s writings and send them as soon as possible to the Council of the Indies so that they might be examined. These orders included a general prohibition against anyone writing about the superstitions of the Indians or their former way of life. A flurry of additional royal orders and letters from the archbishop and Sahagún, which ensued up to the end of 1578, indicate that at least one manuscript of the Historia was transmitted to Spain. Opinions differ concerning precisely which one it was. Some believe that it was the Manuscrito de 1569, whereas others have hypothesized the existence of another bilingual version of the Historia that was prepared with Sequera’s support in 1576–1577 and surrendered to the viceroy. In any case, it is agreed that it was not the Florentine Codex, which is a complete transcription of the Nahuatl text of all twelve books of the Historia and a paraphrastic Spanish translation, in double-column format, profusely illustrated by native artists. This extraordinary work was prepared, with Sequera’s backing, in the years between 1575 and 1580 and was taken by him to Spain in early 1580. Possibly Sequera, or someone connected with him after his arrival in Spain, arranged to have a slightly edited and condensed copy made of the Spanish column of the Florentine Codex. This manuscript, in one volume and illustrated with only a single calendar wheel, found its way to the Franciscan convento of Tolosa in Navarra in northern Spain. First reported in 1732–1733, it was finally deposited about 1815–1816 in the library of the Real Academia de la Historia in Madrid, where it is archived today. Until recently, all editions of the Spanish version of the Historia were derived, through direct or indirect copies, from this manuscript, which is usually referred to as the Manuscrito de Tolosa, or Tolosano. FINAL YEARS Although Fray Bernardino, now more than eighty years old, had surrendered most—but by no means all—of the results of his labors, he continued to work on his great ethnographic/linguistic project, but essentially in a revisionist mode. From the very beginning, he had been somewhat suspicious of the 29

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depth and genuineness of the acceptance of Christianity by the indigenous peoples of New Spain. He had become increasingly convinced that only by mastering Nahuatl, the paramount native communication system of the new colony, could the missionaries sufficiently understand and penetrate the indigenous ideology and replace it with the True Faith. As he strove to improve the requisite communication skills of his missionary colleagues, he grew increasingly pessimistic about the success of his own efforts and, more seriously, about the overall success of the Franciscan evangelistic enterprise in New Spain. To continue his struggle to improve his colleagues’ awareness of the tenacious persistence of the pre-Hispanic calendric divinatory system, he prepared and revised—drawing on the information he had collected for the Historia—two related treatises, the Kalendario Mexicano, Latino y Castellano and the Arte Adivinatorio. They were both composed about 1585, but they are preserved only in later copies that reside in the Biblioteca Nacional de México in Mexico City. Unhappy with some aspects of his original version of the Libro de la Conquista, which was composed in 1553–1555 and incorporated as Book 12 in the final Historia, Sahagún prepared a revision of it. He employed his favorite three-column page layout: the first column was in the tosco, or native vernacular speech; the second was a corrected—in both vocabulary and syntax— version of the first; and the third was in Spanish. There are various significant changes and additions in this text compared with the earlier version, notably a more laudatory image of Cortés. Characteristically, Sahagún stated that one of his main purposes in composing this revised version of the Conquista was instructional: to promote the correct usage of Nahuatl, especially among his Franciscan colleagues. Unfortunately the texts of the Nahuatl columns have disappeared. Only the Spanish text survives—in later copies—and has been published, including an English translation. In spite of his advanced age, Sahagún became embroiled in a bitter dispute involving members of his order and high Crown officials in the colony. This dispute involved the official visita, beginning in the fall of 1584, of Fray Pedro Ponce, the comisario general of the order, and occurred at the same time that Sahagún was striving to complete his final ethnographic/linguistic writings. Ponce and the provincial, Fray Pedro de San Sebastián, soon locked horns, at least partly because the former exhibited an overly tolerant attitude toward the growing policy of the archbishop of Mexico, Pedro Moya de Contreras, of replacing members of the monastic orders with secular clergy. In 1585 Fray Bernardino was elected primer definidor of his province and was soon drawn into the acrimonious dispute, which culminated in Ponce’s excommunication 30

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of all four of the definidores. The controversy eventually simmered down, and in early 1589 Sahagún completed his term as definidor, essentially withdrawing from the conflict. At the age of ninety, Fray Bernardino, still a resident of Tlatelolco, knew his end was near. He had labored ceaselessly for sixty years to bring his Christian message to a people whose culture he had penetrated and understood perhaps more successfully than anyone of European origin before or since. He had recorded many aspects of it, particularly its religious and ritual system, with an extraordinary thoroughness. Suffering from a bronchial disorder, he fought to the end, at first resisting the importunities of his fellow ecclesiastics, who tried to persuade him to be taken for treatment at an infirmary in Mexico City, and then reluctantly consenting. Returning to Tlatelolco, he sensed his hour had come. After bidding his last farewells to “his children, the Indians, whom he had raised in the colegio,” he was taken again to Mexico City, where, having received the last sacraments, he died—reputedly on October 28, 1590—and was buried in the convento of San Francisco. THE RESUSCITATION AND PUBLICATION OF THE SAHAGUNTINE CORPUS In spite of his prolific written output, only one work of Fray Bernardino was actually published during his lifetime: a collection of Christian religious hymns in Nahuatl entitled Psalmodia Cristiana, which appeared in 1583. As noted, Sahagún’s writings were scattered in 1570 for some time throughout the establishments of his order, per his superior’s decree. Copies of at least portions of them were likely made at this time. From all that we know about Fray Bernardino and his tenacity, dedication, and spirit, it seems highly unlikely that he ever relinquished all of his writings, orders or no orders. Some of his works, especially those of his later career, were obviously available to others, who used them in their own writings. These included his fellow Franciscans, Fray Gerónimo de Mendieta, who provides us with some of the most valuable biographical data concerning Fray Bernardino, and Fray Juan de Torquemada. Others included Dr. Francisco Hernández, the protomédico of the king, who had sent him to New Spain to study the native materia medica; the Tlaxcalteca mestizo historian Diego Muñoz Camargo; two other missionaries, Fray Juan de Bautista and Fray Martín de León; and the chronicler Juárez de Peralta. Torquemada especially, in his 1615 Monarchía Indiana—the most comprehensive account of the indigenous culture and the Spanish evangelization effort that had been published up to that time—used the writings of Fray Bernardino to good, if somewhat limited, advantage. 31

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Seventeenth- and eighteenth-century bibliographers occasionally referred to Sahagún and his writings, but usually in a confused and erroneous manner. The two surviving copies of his Historia—the Spanish-only version in the Franciscan monastery of Tolosa in Spain and the Florentine Codex in Italy—were mentioned in bibliographies of 1732 and 1793, respectively, but they remained rarely consulted manuscript curiosities. In 1783, the Tolosa manuscript was borrowed and taken to Madrid by Juan Bautista Muñoz, the royal cosmographer who was gathering materials for a history of the Spanish New World empire. After Muñoz’ death in 1799, it was deposited in the Royal Library, although it was finally transferred to the library of the Real Academia de la Historia in 1815–1816. After the Tolosano reached Madrid, various copies of it were made. The earliest, made in 1793 by Brigadier Diego Panes y Avellán, was brought to Mexico two years later and acquired by the Mexican writer and political figure Carlos María de Bustamante. After Mexico’s independence in 1821, Bustamante published this copy of the Historia: Book 12 in 1829 and Books 1–11 in 1829–1830. Remarkably at this same time in England, Lord Kingsborough also published the Historia in volumes 5 and 7 of his massive Antiquities of Mexico (1830–1831). His version was based on another copy of the Tolosano made by a Spanish naval officer, Felipe Bauzá, a political exile who brought it to London. Neither of these first two editions of the Historia was well edited or very accurate. Their virtual simultaneous publication, however, constituted a key turning point in the complicated saga of the Sahaguntine corpus, for they made available for the first time the virtually complete Spanish version of the capstone of Sahagún’s great ethnographic/ linguistic project. The later history of the publication of complete or partial editions, including translations, of the Historia has often been recounted and is relatively well known. Until 1982 all were derived in whole or in part from copies of the Tolosano. As noted, the other slightly variant but also more complete Spanish version of the Historia is the left column of the Florentine Codex. This text finally became available in facsimile in 1979 and in printed form in 1982. The Tolosano text has never been published directly from the original manuscript or critically edited. In 1840 the Spanish column of Sahagún’s 1585 revised version of the Libro de la Conquista was first published by Bustamante from a copy, and in 1989 it was republished in an English translation. The Códices Matritenses, the earlier Sahaguntine drafts in Nahuatl and Spanish that were sent to Spain probably during the 1570s, had by the eighteenth century reached the Madrid libraries of the Real Academia de 32

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la Historia (1762) and the Real Palacio (date unknown). In 1866, after the fall of Maximilian, the Mexican political leader and historian José Fernando Ramírez arrived in Spain as an exile. In Madrid he examined the part of the Codices Matritenses in the Real Academia de la Historia and also became aware of the other portion in the Real Palacio. In 1867 he submitted to the academy a report relating to both. In 1881 the Códices Matritenses were exhibited during the Fourth International Congress of Americanists in Madrid. The following year, two Spanish members of the Real Academia de la Historia, Antonio Fabié and Cayetano Rosell, began to advocate vigorously for a Spanish government publication of a critical edition of the Códices Matritenses, while also duly appreciating the importance of the Florentine Codex. Due in part to Rosell’s death in 1883, these hopes were not realized. However, recognition of the existence and great value of the Madrid Sahaguntine manuscripts, further highlighted by the belated publication in 1885 of Ramírez’s report concerning them in the academy’s Boletín, represented a major step forward in the resuscitation of the Sahaguntine corpus. In 1888 Daniel Brinton, a pioneer U.S. Americanist, sent a paper to the Seventh International Congress of Americanists in Berlin. It constituted the first adequate description of the Real Palacio portion of the Códices Matritenses, which he had inspected in Madrid earlier that year. It was commented on by a formidable newcomer to the Americanist field, Eduard Seler, who had already done some work with the Florentine Codex. Possibly stimulated by Brinton’s report, in 1889 Seler traveled to Madrid to study and copy portions of the Códices Matritenses. As a result, he became one of their foremost translators and interpreters, as manifested in many important publications that appeared throughout the rest of his long career. Three years later in 1892, another outstanding Nahuatl scholar, Francisco del Paso y Troncoso, director of Mexico’s National Museum, arrived in Spain to begin his lengthy mission on behalf of the Mexican government: to collect and publish materials in European archives and libraries relating to Mexican history, ethnography, and linguistics. He particularly focused on the Códices Matritenses and the Florentine Codex. He published excellent black-and-white photographic copies of the Códices Matritenses (collated and rearranged after careful study) and colored lithographs of all of the illustrations of the Florentine Codex. After many delays due to his death in Florence in 1916 at the height of World War I, they were finally distributed by the Mexican government beginning in the 1920s. By this time, most of the Sahaguntine corpus had been published in some form, and in subsequent years scholars began increasingly to turn their attention 33

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to studying and translating different portions of it. As early as 1886, Joaquín García Icazbalceta, in the bio-bibliography of Sahagún in his Bibliografía Mexicana del Siglo XVI, aided by Paso y Troncoso, had begun the reconstruction of the major stages in the evolution of the Historia. In 1938, in a landmark study published as an introduction to the five-volume Robredo edition of the Historia, the best up to that time, Wigberto Jiménez Moreno undertook a more detailed preliminary reconstruction. His effort has been further refined by other students, most notably Luis Nicolau d’Olwer, Howard Cline, Charles Dibble, and John Glass. Since World War II, interest in and publications concerning Fray Bernardino and his work have flourished. Color photographic editions of the Florentine Codex (1979) and the first stage of Sahagún’s formal ethnographic/linguistic project, the Primeros Memoriales (1993), have been of exceptional importance. Of equal significance was the publication of the paleography of the Nahuatl text of the Florentine Codex and its translation into English by Arthur Anderson and Charles Dibble in twelve volumes from 1950 to 1982. The same can be said for the translation of the Primeros Memoriales, undertaken by Thelma Sullivan and completed after her death by Anderson and Dibble in 1997, in a volume coordinated by H. B. Nicholson, with contributions by Eloise Quiñones Keber and Wayne Ruwet. Two volumes stemming from international conferences on Sahagún, one edited by Munro Edmonson in 1974 and another edited by J. Jorge Klor de Alva, H. B. Nicholson, and Eloise Quiñones Keber in 1988, usefully reflect the development of Sahaguntine research in recent years. Valuable modern biographies of the good friar include those of Luis Nicolau d’Olwer (1952; English translation, 1987), Manuel Ballesteros Gaibrois (1973), Florencio Vicente Castro and J. Luis Rodríguez Molinero (1986), and Miguel León-Portilla (1999). Not all of Sahagún’s ethnographic/linguistic writings have been published, but most are now available in some form. Clearly the principal task remaining in the field of Sahaguntine scholarship is one of more penetrating interpretations and critical analyses of the invaluable materials that the remarkable Franciscan so conscientiously assembled during a long and dedicated life that has well earned him the title of the “Father of Modern Ethnography.” THE IMPORTANCE OF THE FLORENTINE CODEX Finally a special word is in order regarding one of the most remarkable accounts of a non-Western culture ever composed, the profusely illustrated version of the Historia now in the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana in Florence, which by unknown means reached this repository perhaps as early as 34

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1588. Comprising 1,210 leaves and 1,846 illustrations, mostly in color, not counting decorative tailpieces and ornamental designs, it constituted the culmination of Sahagún’s decades-long effort to document a culture that had evolved to an impressive level of complexity in virtual isolation from those in the Old World. The Florentine Codex was an extraordinary achievement, one that could only have been accomplished by a dedicated individual who had thoroughly immersed himself in this cultural “other” for well over half his life. It constitutes one of our most precious windows into the structure and patterning of the New World’s most advanced indigenous civilization, including—employing cautious backward extrapolation—the earlier great Mesoamerican cultural traditions of Tollan, Teotihuacan, Monte Albán, Classic Maya, Olmec, and others. After Fray Bernardino’s many tribulations as he sought, in the face of much opposition, to rescue and disseminate the results of his massive ethnographic/ linguistic project, its remarkable survival is one of the more fortunate events in the troubled history of our planet. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS A version of this study was published in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures: The Civilizations of Mexico and Central America, Davíd Carrasco, editor in chief (2001). My thanks to him and to the Oxford University Press for permission to republish it in slightly modified form in this volume, which celebrates the 500th anniversary of the birth of Bernardino de Sahagún, the gifted scholar whose contribution to our knowledge of ancient Mexico was monumental. REFERENCES CITED WITH ANNOTATIONS Note: The published Sahagún corpus and the literature concerning him are extensive. The most comprehensive recent Sahaguntine bibliography can be found in León-Portilla (1999). The following titles include only a sample of the most important recent publications of Sahagún’s works, collections of papers containing analyses and interpretations of them, and accounts of his life and career. Ballesteros Gaibrois, Manuel 1973 Vida y Obra de Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. León: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Concise biography of Sahagún, with discussion and appraisal of his works. Baudot, Georges 1988 Fray Rodrigo de Sequera: Devil’s Advocate for Sahagún’s Forbidden History. In The Work of Bernardino de Sahagún: Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-Century Aztec Mexico, edited by J. Jorge Klor de Alva, H. B. Nicholson, and Eloise Quiñones Keber, pp. 119–134. Albany: Institute for Mesoamerican

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Studies, State University of New York. Interesting study with new documents concerning the career of the Franciscan who, as General Commissary of New Spain, strongly supported Sahagún in his efforts to complete the Historia. By taking the Florentine Codex back to Spain in 1580 and probably arranging to have a modified version of the Spanish column copied (the Tolosano), Sequera saved the Historia from being completely lost when Sahagún’s ethnographic works were confiscated by order of the Crown in 1577–1578. First published in 1969 in French, with appendices, in Caravelle 12: 47–82. Castro, Florencio Vicente, and José Luis Rodríguez Molinero 1986 Bernardino de Sahagún: Primero Antropólogo en Nueva España (Siglo XVI). Salamanca: Ediciones Universidad de Salamanca, Institución Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Synthesis of previous biographical studies of Sahagún that includes texts of some relevant Sahaguntine documents. Edmonson, Munro, ed. 1974 Sixteenth-Century México: The Work of Sahagún. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Symposium volume containing ten essays by leading Sahagún scholars, derived from a week-long 1972 seminar at the School of American Research in Santa Fe. Gibson, Charles, and John B. Glass 1975 A Census of Middle American Prose Manuscripts in the Native Historical Tradition. In Guide to Ethnohistorical Sources, pt. 4, edited by Howard F. Cline, Charles Gibson, and H. B. Nicholson, pp. 322–400. Handbook of Middle American Indians, vol. 15, general editor, Robert Wauchope. Austin: University of Texas Press. Twelve of the census entries (1097–1108, pp. 360–370), as well as two useful tables (4–5), contain some of the best discussions of the Sahaguntine Nahuatl writings, their dates, and their interrelationships. Glass, John B. 1976 Sahagún: Reorganization of the Manuscrito de Tlatelolco, 1566–1569. Part I. Contributions to the Ethnohistory of Mexico 7. Lincoln Center, Mass.: Conemex Associates. Detailed reconstruction of the stages in the evolution of Sahagún’s Historia that resulted in the Manuscrito de 1569. Jiménez Moreno, Wigberto n.d. Fray Bernardino de Sahagún y Su Obra. Reprint, with different pagination (pp. 5–76) of an article that was included in volume 1 of the five-volume Editorial Pedro Robredo edition (Mexico City, 1938) of Sahagún’s Historia, edited by Joaquín Ramírez Cabañas. Important study of Sahagún and his works, especially notable for its preliminary working out of the evolutionary stages of the project that eventuated in the finished Historia. Klor de Alva, J. Jorge, H. B. Nicholson, and Eloise Quiñones Keber, eds. 1988 The Work of Bernardino de Sahagún: Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-­ Century Aztec Mexico. Albany: Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, State

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University of New York. Symposium volume containing twenty-three articles by leading Sahagún scholars, stemming from a conference on Sahagún in honor of Wigberto Jiménez Moreno, which was organized by H. B. Nicholson and Eloise Quiñones Keber for the 1985 annual meeting of the American Society for Ethnohistory in Chicago. León-Portilla, Miguel 1999 Bernardino de Sahagún: Pionero de la Antropología. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, and El Colegio Nacional. Comprehensive account of Sahagún’s life and career and discussion of his principal writings, including the most up-todate Sahaguntine bibliography. Nicholson, H. B. 1973 Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales, Tepepolco, 1559–1561. In Guide to Ethnohistorical Sources, pt. 2, edited by Howard F. Cline and John B. Glass, pp. 207–218. Handbook of Middle American Indians, vol. 13, general editor, Robert Wauchope. Austin: University of Texas Press. Reconstruction of the first major stage of Sahagún’s systematic ethnographic/linguistic project. Specifies which paragraphs have been translated into European languages. Argues that, because so few of these Tepepolco materials were incorporated into the final Historia, the Primeros Memoriales should be considered an essentially independent work (see Sahagún 1997). Nicolau d’Olwer, Luis 1952 Fray Bernardino de Sahagún (1499–1590). Mexico City: Comisión de Historia, Instituto Panamericano de Geografía e Historia. English translation by Mauricio J. Mixco (Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1987). Most comprehensive bio-bibliography of Sahagún up to original year of publication. Nicolau d’Olwer, Luis, and Howard F. Cline 1973 Sahagún and His Works. In Guide to Ethnohistorical Sources, pt. 2, edited by Howard F. Cline and John B. Glass, pp. 186–207. Handbook of Middle American Indians, vol. 13, general editor, Robert Wauchope. Austin: University of Texas Press. Essentially a summary of Nicolau d’Olwer 1952, revised and updated by Cline, including further discussion of the principal stages in the evolution of the Historia. Quiñones Keber, Eloise 1988 The Sahaguntine Corpus: A Bibliographic Index of Extant Documents. Appendix. In The Work of Bernardino de Sahagún: Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-Century Aztec Mexico, edited by J. Jorge Klor de Alva, H. B. Nicholson, and Eloise Quiñones Keber, pp. 341–345. Albany: Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, State University of New York. Useful listing of manuscripts, whose existence and repositories are known, that were certainly or very probably written by or under the supervision of Sahagún.

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Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation of the most complete version of Sahagún’s Historia. The introductory volume contains important articles by the editors and translators concerning Fray Bernardino and the development of his monumental ethnographic/linguistic project. 1964 Códices Matritenses de la Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España de Fr. Bernardino de Sahagún. 2 vols. Madrid: Ediciones José Porrúa Turanzas. Comprehensive description by Manuel Ballesteros Gaibrois and four members of the Seminario de Estudios Americanistas, University of Madrid, of the largely Nahuatl drafts of Sahagún’s Historia in the libraries of the Real Academia de la Historia and the Real Palacio, with transcriptions of the Spanish annotations and comparisons with the Tolosano and Florentine Codex. 1974 Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España. Edited by Angel María Garibay K. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa. One-volume republication of the 1956 four-volume Biblioteca Porrúa edition of the Historia, which was probably the best and most accessible edition before that of 1982, edited by Alfredo López Austin and Josefina García Quintana, of the Florentine Codex Spanish text. 1979 Códice Florentino. El Manuscrito 218–220 de Colección Palatina de la Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. 3 vols. Florence: Giunti Barbera; Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. Color photoreproduction of the original Florentine Codex. 1982 Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España. 2 vols. Edited by Alfredo López Austin and Josefina García Quintana. Mexico City: Fomento Cultural Banamex. First publication of the paleography of the left column, Sahagún’s paraphrastic Spanish translation of the right Nahuatl column of the Florentine Codex, with the Spanish orthography somewhat modified and the Nahuatl orthography standardized. 1986 Coloquios y Doctrina Cristiana con que los Doce Frailes de San Francisco Enviados por el Papa Adriano VI y por el Emperador Carlos V, Convertieron a los Indios de la Nueva España. En Lengua Mexicana y Española. Edited by Miguel León-Portilla. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Photographic reproduction of the original manuscript in the Archivio Segreto of the Vatican, paleography of the Spanish and Nahuatl texts, and extended discussion of the significance of this work. The Coloquios purport to reconstruct the exchange that took place in 1524 between Mexica priests and leaders, who defended their beliefs, and the original twelve Franciscans, who explained that they came to exterminate those beliefs and replace them with the True Faith.

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1989 Conquest of New Spain, 1585 Revision by Bernardino de Sahagún. Translated by Howard F. Cline; edited by S. L. Cline. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Republication of Carlos María de Bustamante’s 1840 edition of the Spanish version of Sahagún’s 1585 revision of Book 12 of the Historia, devoted to the Cortesian conquest of Mexico Tenochtitlan/Tlatelolco. Includes a reproduction of another copy of the text in the Boston Public Library and its English translation, as well as a useful introduction and notes by S. L. Cline. 1993 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Color photoreproduction by Ferdinand Anders of the original manuscripts (Códices Matritenses) in the libraries of the Real Academia de la Historia and the Real Palacio, Madrid, that constitute Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales (Tepepolco, 1559–1561). 1997 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Companion volume to Primeros Memoriales 1993. First paleography of the Nahuatl text and English translation of the entire Primeros Memoriales; includes an introduction and extensive notes, mostly by H. B. Nicholson, and a study by Eloise Quiñones Keber on the images, artists, and physical features of the manuscript.

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Ritual and Place Eduardo Matos Moctezuma All which was [in] the courtyard of [the Temple of] Uitzilopochtli was like this: As it appeared, it was perhaps two hundred fathoms [square]. And there in the center of [the square] were very large temples; they were the temples of the devils. The one which was taller, which was higher, was the house of Uitzilopochtli or Tlacauepan Cuexcotzin. This one was very large, very tall. And this one was in the middle [of the square]. And with it was the House of Tlaloc. They were indeed together; they were indeed joined to each other. And at the very top, [one] stood a little higher perhaps by a fathom. Of both of these, [one] was the taller, the higher. Only they were quite similar. And at the top of each was a temple; at the top was a house. There was the image of Uitzilopochtli, also named Ilhuicatl xoxouhqui. And in the other [temple], there was the image of Tlaloc. —Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 179 hus does the Franciscan missionary Bernardino de Sahagún begin the third section (Relation of the Buildings of the Main Temple of Mexico) in the appendix to Book 2 (The Ceremonies) of his Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España (see also Sahagún 1979, 1989). In later passages in this section, which is unique among sixteenth-century ethnohistorical sources, Sahagún informs us about the seventy-eight structures that he claims were located within the great main plaza, or Templo Mayor, of the Mexica (Aztec) capital of Tenochtitlan (fig. 3.1), now part of Mexico City. Some scholars have expressed skepticism about the great number listed, pointing out that he occasionally repeats some of them and that not all of them can yet be identified. That may be, but what is now certain is that within this great ceremonial precinct archaeologists have been able to locate about thirty-six structures, among them buildings of normal size, small altars, and most

Figure 3.1. General view of the Templo Mayor (Main Temple) precinct of Tenochtitlan. Courtesy, Museo del Templo Mayor, Mexico City.

importantly the Main Temple structure itself. The Sahaguntine reference specifically corresponds to this temple, the Hueyteocalli. The significance of this structure was unsurpassed for the Mexica, both as the site of several rituals described in Book 2 (see Nicholson, “Veintena Ceremonies”; Olivier; and Carrasco, “Sacrifice,” this volume) and for its central place in their vision of the cosmos. ARCHAEOLOGY AND ETHNOHISTORY The unearthing of the ceremonial precinct of Tenochtitlan reveals once again the reciprocity between the two disciplines of archaeology and ethnohistory. Each by its own investigatory techniques brings us closer to knowledge about the past. On one hand, ethnohistory provides us with the written documentation preserved by the chroniclers, like Sahagún, who availed themselves of various sources of information. On the other hand, archaeology puts us directly in touch with the information that has been variously described. On the correspondence between these two disciplines, I have earlier stated: 44

Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan

What has been discussed raises an interesting point: the presence of two branches of knowledge, namely written data and archaeology, which in a given case complement each other, even as they represent two different methodological approaches. Thus, the first of them provides us with information that, because it is the result of the personal interpretation of the chronicler, might exaggerate, distort, or on the other hand, perhaps adhere closely to what he observes and describes. The written and pictorial information thus recorded leads me to propose that such observations can be verified only if we have visual confirmation of what has been described. This is where archaeology comes into play, and it has an important role in the investigative process. (Matos Moctezuma 1984: 15–16)

These observations lead to an unavoidable question: What is the value of the information that comes from each of these disciplines? In the case of written and pictorial sources, archaeology has been able to demonstrate that, insofar as the Templo Mayor is concerned, what was stated by some chroniclers is accurate. In fact, the known verbal and visual representations of the main Mexica temple are very close, and sometimes impressively so, to the structure that has been excavated. Let us take two examples. The initial Sahaguntine quote refers to the great enclosed plaza. The Templo Mayor Project excavations have actually found several superposed floors, all of them constructed with stone slabs. Regarding the most important structure within the greater ceremonial precinct, the Main Temple structure itself, Sahagún says that it was divided at the top so that it seemed to be in two sections, and he notes that two shrines shared the summit. Here the reference is obviously to the two parts into which the structure was divided, that is, to the shrines located at the summit: one dedicated to the ancient Mesoamerican rain and fertility god Tlaloc and the other to the Mexica warrior god Huitzilopochtli, both of which he mentions. The passage further describes the orientation of the structure towards the west and the presence of sacrificial stones, features that have also proved to be correct. To this verbal description can be added the drawing in another Sahaguntine manuscript: the Primeros Memoriales (Sahagún 1993: fol. 269r), which in my opinion shows the Main Temple structure set atop a broad platform, as has actually been found (fig. 3.2). Twin stairways lead up to the top, where distinctive decorative details appropriate to the two gods adorned their shrines. The already mentioned sacrificial stones can also be seen at the shrine entrances. Other architectural examples are given in the work of Sahagún’s Dominican contemporary, Fray Diego Durán. Besides its textual descriptions, Durán’s 45

Figure 3.2. Schematic plan of the Templo Mayor precinct, Primeros Memoriales 1993, fol. 269r. Courtesy, University of Oklahoma Press and the Real Palacio, Madrid.

Historia de las Indias de Nueva España (1967) includes several drawings of the Main Temple structure that are very close to what that building must have looked like. One in particular shows a similar general platform that supported the building as well as two serpents facing each other (1967, 1: fig. 4). Before the excavations of the Templo Mayor Project, these serpentine figures raised some questions. The answer was revealed when a part of the temple was dug and exposed two stone serpents more than eighteen feet long facing each other, their undulating bodies reaching to both ends of the platform. Other graphic representations survive in manuscripts such as the Codex Aubin, Codex Telleriano-Remensis, and Codex Ixtlilxochitl, in which the Main Temple structure is generally delineated in a manner very close to what has actually been found in the Templo Mayor excavations. As far as archaeology is concerned, trustworthy information can be derived from careful excavation techniques, although one must acknowledge that the reliability of some excavations has been questioned because of a lack of rigor in the gathering of data. The trust that scholars place in historical sources (observing the necessary precautions regarding colonial documents), especially in those of the missionary chroniclers, is the result of those sources adhering closely to what the chroniclers saw or what was told to them. The missionaries were indeed cautious in their retelling of old rituals and customs, for they were wary of being deceived by the indigenous peoples, who cleverly tried to bring their gods within the walls of the Christian churches that were being built, as we know did happen. The 46

Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan

Figure 3.3. Sculpture of a seated male figure with the name and day sign 5 Lizard discovered in the Templo Mayor. Courtesy, Marco Antonio Pacheco/Editorial Raíces, Mexico City.

friars needed to be able to discern whether they were witnessing a Christian ritual or an ancient indigenous one, as the prologue to Book 1 (The Gods) of Sahagún’s Historia (1989: 31–36) makes clear. CEREMONIAL ENCLOSURE In the Primeros Memoriales Sahagún’s artist left what I would describe as a schematic plan of the main plaza of Tenochtitlan, although some scholars have identified it otherwise (fig. 3.2). It shows nine buildings and other figures, as well as the large platform with its three limited points of access. Among the buildings that can be identified is the Main Temple structure itself. Seated at both sides of the temple are two figures with their associated name signs: one on the right (south) with a 5 House calendric sign, and one on the left (north) with a 5 Lizard calendric sign. North of the excavation site, workers found the stone sculpture of a seated personage painted blue (fig. 3.3). The name 47

Figure 3.4. Ball court beneath the apse of the Metropolitan Cathedral near Guatemala Street. Courtesy, Museo del Templo Mayor, Mexico City.

and day sign 5 Lizard on its back led Felipe Solís (1991: 37–38) to propose that the piece could be correlated with the 5 Lizard figure in the Primeros Memoriales. Also in the drawing, in front of the Main Temple structure, is a small platform with a priest burning incense. Below it is one of the four skull racks (tzompantli) mentioned by Sahagún, which, because of its placement, could be the one discovered during earlier excavations for the Metro close to the Templo Mayor excavation site. Below it is a ball court oriented from east to west, like the one found under the apse of the Metropolitan Cathedral near Guatemala Street (fig. 3.4), across from the Templo Mayor. To the south of the skull rack and ball court are two other buildings whose façades face east. During excavations carried out by Constanza Vega in 1976, what is presumed to be the Temple of the Sun and another edifice oriented in the same direction were found. Farther north (left) are two more structures that face south, like the stairway that was excavated in the early 1900s under the building of the Marqués de Apartado, also across from the Templo Mayor excavation site. What is somewhat disconcerting in the Primeros Memoriales drawing is the temple situated behind the Main Temple (top), with the figure of Huitzilopochtli at its entrance; when that area was excavated, nothing remotely like this structure or statue was found. It might be considered 48

Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan

Figure 3.5. Sculpture of a jaguar cuauhxicalli (sacrificial vessel) discovered in 1901. Courtesy, Museo Nacional de Antropología, Mexico City.

the artist’s way of reinforcing the importance of Huitzilopochtli within the context of the Templo Mayor, as related in the Florentine Codex passage, but this is uncertain. Regarding the ruins found under the building of the Marqués de Apartado at the corner of Argentina and Donceles Streets, a passage in Book 12 (The Conquest of Mexico) of the Florentine Codex (1989, 2: 848) is worth noting: In this place was a large stone eagle as tall as a man, and for that reason that courtyard was called Cuauhquiyahuac. On one side of the eagle was a tiger, also of stone, and on the other side a bear, also of stone.

It is now clear that Sahagún’s informants are describing the north side of the precinct, which is where I believe these monumental stone sculptures were placed. Three pieces were subsequently discovered in that location. The stone “tiger” is the famous jaguar cuauhxicalli, a sacrificial vessel in the 49

Figure 3.6. Sculpture of a xiuhcoatl (fire serpent) discovered in 1901. Courtesy, Marco Antonio Pacheco/Editorial Raíces, Mexico City.

form of a colossal crouching jaguar (fig. 3.5), which today presides at the entrance to the Mexica Hall of the National Museum of Anthropology. The “bear” can be identified with the enormous stone head of a fire serpent, or xiuhcoatl, which is also housed in that museum (fig. 3.6). Someone who was not well acquainted with pre-Hispanic imagery may well have mistaken this unusual mythical xiuhcoatl for another large and more familiar animal. These two pieces were found in 1901 in the courtyard of the building of the Marqués de Apartado. In 1985, a few feet below this spot, the magnificent sculpture of an eagle cuauhxicalli (fig. 3.7), another huge sacrificial vessel, was discovered. This third major find is today on display in the museum adjoining the Templo Mayor. 50

Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan

Figure 3.7. Sculpture of an eagle cuauhxicalli discovered in 1985. Courtesy, Museo del Templo Mayor, Mexico City.

ARCHITECTURAL REMAINS AND EXCAVATIONS The close relationship that exists between the written sources and the archaeological data has been discussed, leading to yet another question. What has archaeology brought to light during the twentieth century (fig. 3.8)? 1. Templo Mayor. In 1900 Leopoldo Batres (1902) reported that a stairway had been found at the corner of Seminario and Guatemala Streets. We now know that this stairway corresponds to the Main Temple platform in one of its latest building phases. The stairway and floor were further cleared in 1933 during the excavations of Emilio Cuevas. In 1914 Don Manuel Gamio discovered the southwest corner of what he correctly identified as the Main Temple structure itself. The southern façade of the temple was further revealed with the explorations of Hugo Moedano in 1948. Beginning in 1978 and lasting five full years, excavations undertaken by the Templo Mayor Project allowed the Main Temple in all its building phases to be revealed, along with numerous offerings and other buildings nearby. The data obtained from those remains have confirmed the reliability of the written sources as far as this structure is concerned (Matos Moctezuma 1984). 51

Figure 3.8. Map of architectural remains in the Templo Mayor precinct discovered in twentieth-century excavations. Drawing by Julio E. Romero Martínez. Courtesy, Museo del Templo Mayor, Mexico City.

Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan

Guatemala Street (Ex-Escalerillas Street) 2. Temple of Ehecatl. Sahagún does not place this temple on his list, but we know it was located in front of the Main Temple. On October 16, 1900, Leopoldo Batres unearthed four steps that might have been part of the Temple of Ehecatl because two magnificent sculptures of the wind god were found at their base, along with pots and incense burners of polychromed clay and numerous shells. Batres (1902: 69; reprinted in Matos Moctezuma 1984) says, “The hieroglyphs on the polychrome incense burners . . . , together with the two statues of [the wind god] Ehecatl . . . , tell us that this was where the temple of the wind god was located.” Recall also that in the drawing of the Primeros Memoriales this location is occupied by a temple with a costumed personage holding aloft a burning incense vessel. 3. Skull Rack (Tzompantli). Farther west Batres encountered what he called a tower with four projections and behind that three walls running from north to south. It is interesting that he mentions many skull fragments and other human bones, for this statement evokes the tzompantli that is represented in the Primeros Memoriales illustration. Sahagún mentions several skull racks but says that the main one was in front of the temple of Huitzilopochtli. Other racks may refer to the stone altars adorned with skulls and crossed bones, three of which have been excavated to date (fig. 3.8, buildings 4–6). With the construction of the Metro, begun in 1967, Jordi Gussinyer reported (in Vega 1979) that a stairway was found in that area, part of a structure that he identified as a tzompantli. My opinion is that it may be part of the ball court exterior. 7. Ball Court. In his list Sahagún mentions two of these structures. An interesting find made by Batres was that of five stone balls, each about seven inches in diameter, painted blue and red. I would associate them with the ball court because that location coincides with another offering unearthed during the Metro excavations that contained scale models of games and two stone balls, one white and the other black. Between 1991 and 1997 sections of what are believed to be the ball court and offerings of rubber balls were found at the level of the Animas shrine. The proximity of the tzompantli and ball court is obvious, as shown in the Primeros Memoriales drawing, where they are next to each other. That is how they have been found at other sites in Mexico. Clearly there is a close connection between the ritual ball game, decapitation, and the skull rack. 8. Temple of Xochipilli. The Metro excavations extended to the end of Guatemala Street near the corner of Brazil Street, at the location of a small temple (Structure H). It is similar to those found on both sides of the Templo

53

Figure 3.9. Miniature drums found in the Temple of Xochipilli, Templo Mayor. Courtesy, Marco Antonio Pacheco/Editorial Raíces, Mexico City.

Mayor that are known as the Red Temples. This reference is important, for it was there that Batres found the sculpture of Xochipilli, god of flowers, games, and music, along with numerous musical instruments, such as drums (fig. 3.9), small bells, flutes, and tortoise shells similar to the offering found in the southern Red Temple. Southeast Corner of the Ceremonial Precinct 9. Southern Red Temple. Located immediately to the south of the Templo Mayor, this temple is oriented toward the east, with a vestibule in the front. It is completely polychromed, with red as the predominant color. In the upper part, an offering was found with numerous musical instruments and other objects. 10. House of the Jaguar Warriors. To the south of the Southern Red Temple is part of a large building within which can be seen the traces of benches decorated with a mat motif. Because it is in a corresponding location to the 54

Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan

House of the Eagles on the north side of the precinct, the name House of the Jaguar Warriors was given to it. 11. Temple of Tezcatlipoca. Sahagún does not mention this important edifice dedicated to the deity known as Smoking Mirror (see Olivier, this volume). Fortunately other chroniclers do, among them Durán, who places it under the location occupied in colonial times by the archbishop’s residence on Moneda Street. Excavations carried out during the last three decades of the 1900s allowed the location of this building to be identified (fig. 3.10). It is now known that its main façade faced toward the west, as did that of the Templo Mayor, and not in the direction that Ignacio Marquina gave it in his scale model of the ceremonial enclosure. It was painted red. The recent work of the Urban Archaeological Program determined that its south side was about sixty-five meters (two hundred feet) wide. 12. Temalacatl. In 1988 in front of the Temple of Tezcatlipoca, a colossal circular sculpture was discovered. Painted red, its exterior was carved in relief with the conquests of the ruler Motecuhzoma I. A depression in its center appears to be the place where a ring was inserted, to which were bound prisoners who were to face Mexica warriors in ceremonial combat. A similarly shaped and carved stone known as the Stone of Tizoc was found in 1791 near the Metropolitan Cathedral. Sahagún describes this type of stone as looking like a large millstone with a hole in its center. In the Primeros Memoriales drawing, an altar with a circular stone set atop it is also depicted. This temalacatl, or sacrificial stone, is now on display in the Mexica Hall of the National Museum of Anthropology, although other unearthed finds can be viewed at the site itself. Cathedral and Sagrario in the Southwest Corner of the Precinct 13. Temple of the Sun. In 1976 Constanza Vega was commissioned to oversee archaeological salvage work connected with the Metropolitan Cathedral. According to the archaeologist Rubén Cabrera (in Vega 1979), the Temple of the Sun was found under the sagrario, a large structure located immediately to the east of the cathedral. Its façade faced toward the east and it featured a number of amplifications. This structure may correspond to one of the edifices found in the same location in the Primeros Memoriales drawing. 14. Circular Temple. An annex of the preceding structure, a circular temple, is also oriented toward the east. According to Cabrera (in Vega 1979), it measures thirty meters (about ninety feet) in length. Because of its location and characteristics, it resembles another circular structure dedicated to the wind god, Ehecatl Quetzalcoatl, found at the Main Temple of 55

Figure 3.10. Staircase of the Temple of Tezcatlipoca, Templo Mayor. Courtesy, Museo del Templo Mayor, Mexico City.

Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan

Figure 3.11. Northern Red Temple, Templo Mayor, showing Teotihuacan architectural features. Courtesy, Museo del Templo Mayor, Mexico City.

Tlatelolco, Tenochtitlan’s Mexica neighbor, which today is located farther north in Mexico City. 15. Structure A. Cabrera (in Vega 1979) gives this name to an edifice of good size found beneath the main door of the cathedral. It is one of the structures our team found, together with two other bases (fig. 3.8, edifices 16–17). 18. Shrine. This is a small round shrine very close to the preceding ones. 19. Shrine. This is another circular shrine found at the exact center of the cathedral. 20–21. Indeterminate Structures. Under the apse of the cathedral and slightly to the south are two structures. 22–23. Walls and Other Edifices. Cabrera (in Vega 1979) indicates by the designations D and D’ two constructions located beneath the east wall of the cathedral. To the east of the cathedral the excavations undertaken by Emilio Cuevas in 1933 (in Matos Moctezuma 1979), as well as those of the Metro project, have uncovered a number of remains. Gussinyer mentions a wall of serpents that goes from north to south, as well as two circular structures and a wall of rough masonry in front of the east façade of the sagrario. In that area he reports several embedded serpent heads. At least five edifices can be identified. (fig. 3.8, 24–28). Northeast Corner of the Precinct 29. Northern Red Temple. This small temple, located next to the Main Temple structure, faces east and features a vestibule that is similar to its partner on the south side. Its talud-tablero walls are similar to those at Teotihuacan (fig. 3.11), the great city that flourished several centuries before the founding of Tenochtitlan. 57

Figure 3.12. Tzompantli (skull rack) with carved rows of skulls, Templo Mayor. Courtesy, Museo del Templo Mayor, Mexico City.

30. Tzompantli Altar. This structure, a stone skull rack (tzompantli), is located to the west of the Northern Red Temple and parallel to the Main Temple. It features a stairway that faces toward the east. Decorating its exterior are 240 stone skulls mounted in rows (fig. 3.12). 31. Temple A. This edifice, set on a platform with two stairways, one to the west and one to the east, is aligned with the two preceding structures along the north wall of the Templo Mayor precinct. 32. Temple D. Located to the east of the House of the Eagles and oriented toward the west, this small edifice lacks any decoration on its walls. At the top there is a circular depression in the floor, indicating that a sculpture or an altar may have once been placed there. 33. House of the Eagles. This important edifice contains several rooms, corridors, and patios, within which were found large ceramic figures of two Eagle Warriors and the death deity Mictlantecuhtli, as well as other items (fig. 3.13). These finds are now in the Templo Mayor museum. This structure is located north of the three buildings that align the north side of the Templo Mayor precinct. 58

Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan

Figure 3.13. Shrine D plumbate ceramic jar, found in Offering V at the foot of the staircase in the House of the Eagles, Templo Mayor. Courtesy, Marco Antonio Pacheco/Editorial Raíces, Mexico City.

34. Temple of Tlaloc. This small temple, six meters (about eighteen feet) long and oriented toward the east, was excavated in 1965. It has talud-tablero construction, like that associated with the site of Teotihuacan, and the wall is decorated with masks of Tlaloc, the rain god, who was a prominent deity in both that culture and later Mexica culture. It is located beneath the still-standing Porrúa bookstore, to the north of the House of the Eagles and close to the northeast corner of the precinct. Northwest Corner of the Precinct 35. Marqués de Apartado Building. In 1901 Porfirio Díaz Jr. first encountered the ruins of this structure. Jesús Galindo y Villa (in Matos Moctezuma 59

1979) described the find as an alternating stairway, in front of which the large stone sculptures of the jaguar cuauhxicalli (fig. 3.5) and the xiuhcoatl head (fig. 3.6) were discovered, and more recently the eagle cuauhxicalli (fig. 3.7). Because of its orientation toward the south, it may correspond to one of the edifices in the Primeros Memoriales drawing. 36. Great Foundation. In 1996 the Urban Archaeological Program found a sloping wall covered with stucco, 3.4 meters high (about ten feet), which runs from east to west and faces north, together with a stairway on the west side. It is on the property of number 25 on Luis González Obregón (Barrera Rodríguez n.d.). 37. Other Remains. Located on Donceles Street, other remains appear in the excavation plan prepared for the year 2000. CONCLUSION Based on this overview of the discoveries that have been made during the archaeological excavations of the Templo Mayor, it would seem that Sahagún might not have exaggerated the number of edifices contained within the main ceremonial precinct of Tenochtitlan. The site of this precinct has proved to be immense, and ruins of slightly less than half of the structures enumerated by Sahagún can be identified. It is also important to note that some of these ruins lie under still intact buildings, such as the imposing Metropolitan Cathedral and sagrario, the sizable Marqués del Apartado building, the former house of the archbishop, and a Porrúa bookstore, among many others, indicating that much of the Templo Mayor site still remains buried. Outstanding among the many significant results of a century of excavations at the Templo Mayor site is a better understanding of the location where many of the elaborately staged veintena rituals described throughout Book 2 of the Florentine Codex were staged. Little by little archaeology is unearthing the remains of the past, which can be matched with the written documentation left by Sahagún and others. The search, then, is not over yet. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS My thanks to Michel Besson for his translation of this study. An earlier Spanish version appeared in Arqueología Mexicana 6 (36): 22–31 in a special issue dedicated to Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. REFERENCES CITED Barrera Rodríguez, Raúl n.d. Informe Final del Rescate Arqueológico Realizado en Luis González Obregón 25. Program of Urban Archaeology, Archive of the Templo Mayor Project, Mexico City. Unpublished manuscript [1988].

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Batres, Leopoldo 1902 Exploraciones en las Calles de las Escalerillas. Año de 1900. Mexico City: Inspección y Conservación de Monumentos Arqueológicos de la República Mexicana. Reprinted in Matos Moctezuma 1979. Durán, Fray Diego 1967 Historia de las Indias de Nueva España e Islas de la Tierra Firme. 2 vols. Edited by Angel María Garibay K. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa. Florentine Codex See Sahagún 1950–1982, 1979, 1989. Matos Moctezuma, Eduardo, ed. 1979 Trabajos Arqueológicos en el Centro de la Ciudad de México. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Arqueología e Historia. 1984 Los Edificios Aledaños al Templo Mayor. Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl 17: 15–21. Primeros Memoriales See Sahagún 1993. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1979 Códice Florentino. El Manuscrito 218–220 de Colección Palatina de la Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. 3 vols. Florence: Giunti Barbera; Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. 1989 Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España, Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. 2 vols. Edited by Alfredo López Austin and Josefina García Quintana. Mexico City: Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes and Editorial Patria. 1993 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Solís, Felipe 1991 Gloria y Fama Mexica. Mexico City: Smurfit Cartón y Papel de México. Vega, Constanza, ed. 1979 El Recinto Sagrado de México-Tenochtitlan. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Arqueología e Historia.

61

H. B. Nicholson

2A, Chapter 1, of what Francisco del Paso y Troncoso denominated the Primeros Memoriales of Fray Bernardino de Sahagún consists of descriptions, in Nahuatl, of the principal rituals conducted during each of the eighteen annual veintena ceremonies, accompanied by their pictorializations. Now divided between two Madrid repositories, the libraries of the Real Academia de la Historia and the Real Palacio, the original manuscripts were first published in a black-and-white photo-reproduction by Paso y Troncoso in 1905 (Sahagún 1905), although it was not made generally available until the mid-1920s. More recently, the Primeros Memoriales (hereafter designated PM) was published in an excellent color photoreproduction (Sahagún 1993), followed four years later (Sahagún 1997) by an accompanying volume coordinated by H. B. Nicholson. The 1997 volume consists of the first complete paleography aragraph

of the Nahuatl text of the PM, with an English translation left incomplete by Thelma Sullivan. After her untimely death in 1981, her unfinished translation, including linguistic notes, was revised and completed by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. The volume, to which Wayne Ruwet made contributions, also features an introduction by H. B. Nicholson, which provides a contextual background for and broad overview of the PM; extensive general notes, mostly by Nicholson; and an introductory study of the images, artists, and physical features of the manuscript by art historian Eloise Quiñones Keber. Sahagún had been actively engaged in missionary endeavors in Central Mexico since his arrival from Spain in 1529. From his own testimony, we know that in 1558 his Franciscan superior, Fray Francisco de Toral, formally commissioned him to undertake a systematic ethnographic and linguistic investigation of indigenous culture. He was assisted by four of the trilingual (Nahuatl/Spanish/Latin) students he had taught earlier in the Imperial Colegio de Santa Cruz de Tlatelolco. Sahagún commenced his researches in Tepepolco, a sizable Nahuatl-speaking community in the northern portion of Acolhuacan, the province that comprised the eastern portion of the Basin of Mexico (see Nicholson 1973, 1974). The information he and his assistants collected until 1561 from local informants was neatly transcribed and organized into four extensively illustrated chapters, with a total of forty-nine paragraphs. The PM manuscript has survived in basically good condition, with the exception of the loss of the first paragraph of Chapter 1. As mentioned previously, the initial Paragraph 2A is devoted to the eighteen veintena ceremonies, celebrated every twenty days in the 365-day year, the xihuitl. Concise textual résumés of each were paired with their adjoining illustrations in a double-column format of text and image. Pictorializations of the veintenas in late pre-Hispanic and early colonial Central Mexican sources have been frequently studied and discussed (e.g., Paso y Troncoso 1898; Seler 1899; Kubler and Gibson 1951; Caso 1967; Jiménez Moreno 1974; Brown 1977, 1982; Couch 1985). The PM images were recently described and analyzed by Quiñones Keber (1997) and most intensively by Baird (1979, 1983, 1988a, 1988b, 1993), who concentrated on their sources, style, format, and relationship to adjoining texts. Baird suggests that the copyists of the PM pictorializations were probably Sahagún’s trilingual ex-students, who were not formally trained as artists and occasionally misunderstood what they were copying. Quiñones Keber (1997: 33–34), however, favors their production by local Tepepolco artists. Both see them as relatively free from any significant amount of overt European stylistic 64

influence, while recognizing them as somewhat cruder productions than those that are characteristic of late pre-Hispanic Central Mexican painted imagery in general. Baird believes that the veintena images were copied from pre-Hispanic prototypes, thus differing from the view of Kubler and Gibson (1951: 52), which was expanded by Brown (1977, 1982), that formalized veintena imagery was essentially a colonial invention modeled on European calendric illustrations brought by missionaries. Quiñones Keber (1997: 29 and in Codex Telleriano-Remensis 1995: 136) also favors the view that pre-Hispanic veintena images existed. Using the PM images as a point of departure, this article consists primarily of a comparative analysis of the numerous pictorializations of the eighteen veintenas in surviving primary sources from Central Mexico. It focuses on the three that were most explicitly devoted to the propitiation of the deities who presided over rain and the fertility it promoted. First, however, it addresses the question of the degree of standardization of these veintena images, a topic that has elicited considerable difference of opinion, with some holding that the relatively standardized pictorializations in many sources were the result of the influence of European calendric imagery. WERE FORMALIZED VEINTENA IMAGES A PRE-HISPANIC OR COLONIAL INVENTION? My own view is that the veintenas were almost certainly illustrated in a fairly systematic fashion at the time of the Spanish conquest (1519–1521). Nevertheless, the considerable variability in the performance of these ceremonies among local communities—a point particularly stressed by Couch (1985)—must have been reflected in their pictorializations. This variability very likely occasioned more diversity in veintena imagery than was displayed in the tonalamatl, whose more standardized iconography illustrated the ancient, widespread, 260-day divinatory cycle, the tonalpohualli. The final veintena section of the much used and repaired Codex Borbonicus (1974, 1991; see Paso y Troncoso 1898: 2–11) is of particular relevance in any consideration of this question. Scholars have disagreed on the actual date—pre-Hispanic or colonial—and place of its production, but most favor Mexico Tenochtitlan or the southern Basin of Mexico (see discussions in Robertson 1959: 86–93; Caso 1967: 103–112; Couch 1985: 2–6; Nicholson 1988). In any case, the veintena series, painted by native artists, probably typifies the kinds of “manuals” or “handbooks” employed by the priests in organizing and directing the annual public rituals that played such a vital 65

Figure 4.1. Relief carving on a stone “year bundle.” Drawing by Michel Besson after Moedano Koer 1951, fig. 1.

role in the final manifestation of indigenous Central Mexican culture. The Codex Borbonicus (hereafter designated CB) veintena illustrations are closest in type to those of the PM and consequently will receive particular attention during the following comparisons. Standardization of veintena pictorialization is most evident in a series of quite abbreviated images of the veintenas that appear in various contexts in a diversity of documentary sources, including some that provide the entire series of eighteen in sequence. Such abbreviated images pictorially record the periodicity of payment in “tribute rolls,” and in the painted historical annals they serve as chronological indicators. A probable pre-Hispanic example of the latter is carved on a stone “year bundle,” or xiuhmolpilli, unearthed in downtown Mexico City in 1950 (Moedano Koer 1951; fig. 4.1). Among other images, this piece features a paper banner (pamitl), symbolizing the veintena of Panquetzaliztli (Nicholson 1955: 7–10, 1993: 80–81; Caso 1967: 67). It is known that the last great New Fire ceremony (toxiuhmolpia), that of 1507, was celebrated during Panquetzaliztli (Codex Borbonicus 1974, 1991: panel 34; Mendieta 1980: 100–101; Codex en Cruz 1981: sheet 3 [Dibble text: 40]; fig. 4.7; Códice de Huichapan 1992: pl. 60; fig. 4.9). Other possible—but more dubious—pre-Hispanic examples of veintena images are provided by carvings on the faces of the inner benches that line the walls of the vestibule and cella of the shrine atop the pyramid temple, Casa del Tepozteco, which is situated on a towering cliff overlooking the town of Tepoztlan, Morelos. This temple was devoted to the cult of the leading octli (pulque) deity, Tepoztecatl, the patron of Tepoztlan. Apart from the obvious connection between some of the iconography and the octli cult (Nicholson 1991), attempts have been made to identify many of these bench images as veintena icons (e.g., Seler 1908, Brotherston 1998). Other scholars, however, 66

Figure 4.2. Veintena symbols of Tlacaxipehualiztli, represented by the headdress of Xipe Totec, to whom the veintena was dedicated, and Ochpaniztli, represented by the broom of Teteoinnan, to whom the veintena was dedicated, indicating the periodicity of tribute payment in the province of Xoconochco. Drawing by Michel Besson after Matrícula de Tributos 1991, p. 85 (above); Codex Mendoza 1992, vol. 3, fol. 47r (below).

are skeptical about these identifications (see Kubler and Gibson 1951: 62–63). My own view is that in certain respects some of these images do resemble well-established veintena icons, but many clearly do not. Although the total number of images on the benches of the cella is eighteen, it is not possible to identify them as constituent members of a complete series of eighteen veintena icons in proper sequence. Numerous examples of these abbreviated veintena images, which clearly derive directly from pre-Hispanic tradition, are found in several colonial pictorial manuscripts. These include the following: 1. Matrícula de Tributos (1991: 85) and Codex Mendoza (1992, 3: fol. 47r), Tlacaxipehualiztli and Ochpaniztli (fig. 4.2); 2. Codex Azoyú II Reverse (Glass 1964: pl. 119)/Humboldt Fragment I (Seler 1904: 128–154, pls. 2–6), Tlacaxipehualiztli, Etzalcualiztli, Ochpaniztli, and Panquetzaliztli (fig. 4.3);

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Figure 4.3. Tribute register of the province of Tlachinollan-Tlappan, indicating the periodicity of payment for the year 1507 (2 Malinalli) by (bottom to top) symbols of the veintenas of Tlacaxipehualiztli (head of Xipe Totec), Etzalcualiztli (head of Tlaloc), Ochpaniztli (broom of Teteoinnan), and Panquetzaliztli (paper banner), Codex Azoyú II Reverse/Humboldt Fragment I 1, 3. Drawing by Michel Besson after Seler 1904, pl. 3.

3. Codex Telleriano-Remensis (1995: fol. 32r), Panquetzaliztli? (fig. 4.4); 4. Codex Vaticanus A (1979, 1996: fol. 89), Quecholli/Miccailhuitontli/ Tlaxochimaco, including four repeated (fig. 4.5); 5. Códices de Tlaquiltenango (Mazari 1926; Barlow 1943; Glass 1964: pl. 22); Tlacaxipehualiztli, Etzalcualiztli, Ochpaniztli, and Atemoztli (fig. 4.6); 6. Codex en Cruz (1981: sheet 3), Panquetzaliztli (fig. 4.7); 7. Lienzo de Tlaxcala (1983: pl. 14), Toxcatl (fig. 4.8); 8. Códice de Huichapan (1992: pl. 60), Panquetzaliztli? (fig. 4.9); 9. Codex Mexicanus (1952: pls. 1–8, 89–101), Tlacaxipehualiztli (fig. 4.10).

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Figure 4.4. Lethal snowstorm in 1447 (7 Acatl), possibly veintena of Panquetzaliztli, symbolized by paper banner. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Telleriano-­ Remensis 1995, fol. 32r.

Figure 4.5a. Years 1519 (1 Acatl) and 1520 (2 Tecpatl) depicting conquest events, the period indicated by symbols for thirteen veintenas, Quecholli to Hueytecuilhuitl. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Vaticanus A 1979, 1996, fol. 89r.

Complete series of the abbreviated images of the veintenas are featured in the so-called colonial Calendar Wheels, including 1. Boban Calendar Wheel (Veytia 1907: pl. 8; also Doutrelaine 1867; Caso 1967: fig. 22b; fig. 4.11); 2. Veytia Calendar Wheel No. 5 (Veytia 1907: pl. 5; also Muñoz Camargo 1981: 128; fig. 4.12); 3. Veytia Calendar Wheel No. 4 (Veytia 1907: pl. 4; also Gemelli Careri 1699–1700, 6: 68; fig. 4.13); 4. Jacinto de la Serna’s Manual de Ministros de Indios (1892, passim; fig. 4.14).

Other colonial manuscripts contain more elaborate pictorializations of the veintena ceremonies that are comparable to those of the PM, which include representations of deities, deity impersonators, ritual celebrants, and paraphernalia, usually accompanied by textual labels and descriptions. These include:

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Figure 4.5b. Years 1521 (3 Calli) to 1522 (4 Tochtli) depicting conquest events, the period indicated by symbols for five veintenas, Toxcatl to Miccailhuitl/Tlaxochimaco. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Vaticanus A 1979, 1996, fol. 89v.

1. Codex Borbonicus (1974, 1991); 2. two leading members of the Magliabechiano Group, Codex Magliabechiano (1970, 1996) and Códice Tudela (1980); 3. the cognate Codex Telleriano-Remensis (1995) and Codex Vaticanus A (1979, 1996); 4. the Florentine Codex (Sahagún 1979); 5. The Tovar Calendar (Kubler and Gibson 1951) and Kalendario Mexicano, Latino, y Castellano (1918); 6. Durán’s Historia (1995).

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Figure 4.6. Colonial document from Morelos, with symbols for the veintenas of Tlacaxipehualiztli, Etzalcualiztli, Ochpaniztli, and Atemoztli (fourth column from left), indicating the periodicity of tribute payment, Códices de Tlaquiltenango (Códice de Mauricio de la Arena). Drawing by Michel Besson after Glass 1964, pl. 22.

THE PM VEINTENA IMAGES COMPARED WITH THOSE IN OTHER SOURCES Because spatial limitations preclude a comparison of all eighteen veintenas, the remainder of this study focuses on a comparison of the pictorializations of three of the PM veintenas with those in other primary sources to detect similarities and differences. The three chosen were primarily dedicated to the propitiation of the preeminent fertility deity, Tlaloc, and his congeners. The first was the initial veintena ceremony in the majority of Basin of Mexico sources: Cuahuitlehua (Raising of Poles), also called Atlcahualo (Ceasing of Water) and Xilomanaliztli (Offering of Tender Maize Ears). The other two were the sixth, Etzalcualiztli (Eating of Etzalli), and the sixteenth, Atemoztli (Descent of Water), ceremonies of the annual ritual cycle. First, the principal ritual activities performed in each will be summarized. For Cuahuitlehua, rituals included poles set up and hung with offertory papers (Amatetehuitl); children sacrificed to Tlaloque (rain gods) on hilltops and in the lake, with tears of victims encouraged for magical efficacy (see Carrasco, this volume); a four-day fast for rain; and offerings of tamales and dancing. 72

Figure 4.7. Paper banner, symbol for the veintena of Panquetzaliztli in New Fire year 1507 (2 Acatl). Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex en Cruz 1981, sheet 3.

Figure 4.8. Head of Tezcatlipoca (top, left), symbol for the veintena of Toxcatl, when the “Alvarado massacre” occurred in Mexico Tenochtitlan on May 23, 1520. Drawing by Michel Besson after Lienzo de Tlaxcala 1983, pl. 14.

Figure 4.9. Paper banner, possible symbol for the veintena of Panquetzaliztli in New Fire year 1507 (2 Acatl). Drawing by Michel Besson after Códice de Huichapan 1992, pl. 60.

Figure 4.10. Correlation of abbreviated veintena images of 365-day year with days of 260-day ritual cycle. Tlacaxipehualiztli, apparently symbolized by a human skin, is correlated with day 8 Acatl. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Mexicanus 1952, pl. 94.

Figure 4.11. Abbreviated images of the eighteen veintenas of the solar year in the Boban Calendar Wheel. From Veytia 1907, pl. 8.

Figure 4.12. Veytia Calendar Wheel No. 5, featuring abbreviated images of the eighteen veintenas of the solar year. From Veytia 1907, pl. 5.

Figure 4.13. Veytia Calendar Wheel No. 4, featuring abbreviated images of the eighteen veintenas of the solar year. From Veytia 1907, pl. 4.

Figure 4.14. Abbreviated images of the eighteen veintenas of the solar year. Drawing by Michel Besson after Serna 1892.

Etzalcualiztli rituals consisted of a major sacerdotal fasting period, the priests propitiating the supernatural powers for rain (penitential infractions were severely punished). Other activities included collecting reeds and weaving them into seats and mats; offering and feasting on etzalli (maize and bean porridge); dancing (by the lords) with maize stalks and etzalli-filled pots; making offerings to agricultural implements; and sacrificing impersonators of Tlaloque and the water goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, their bodies buried not cremated. Atemoztli ceremonies involved a preliminary four-day fast of Tlaloc priests; rubber-spattered paper banners offered to Tlaloque; tzoalli (maize dough) images of mountain/fertility deities prepared, “sacrificed” with weaving swords, and eaten; children sacrificed by drowning; slaves sacrificed on hilltops; and food offerings in miniature vessels. The relevant comparisons will now be made to ascertain to what extent the numerous extant depictions of these veintenas differed and to what extent they shared common features. Here, the illustrations (figs. 4.1–4.33) are of paramount importance. Cuahuitlehua/Atlcahualo/Xilomanaliztli Primeros Memoriales. The first veintena of the PM (fol. 250r; fig. 4.15), here called Cuahuitlehua (Raising of Poles), was dedicated to the Tlaloque, the rain deities. Its depiction includes, in the upper left, a profile Tlaloc temple (teocalli) with a crosshatched roof façade and voluted roof merlons. In the lower left, a house in profile is fronted by a pole with an attached red, blue, and blackand-white paper banner, before which two male figures in white mantles carry identical banners and blow on what appear to be conch shell trumpets. In front of them are three other male figures, painted black and displaying the long hair of the priests. The upper figure is blowing on a conch shell trumpet and carrying a child on his back in a mantle. Also painted black, the child wears a white paper headdress trimmed with a yellow and green feather ornament (quetzalmiahuayotl), which represents the male inflorescence of the maize plant and was frequently worn by fertility deities and ritual celebrants. A particular focus of this veintena was the sacrifice of young children, called tlacateteuhme, or “human sacrificial papers,” on hill and mountain tops to propitiate the rain deities (see Arnold, this volume). The two lower figures each carry a tobacco gourd (yetecomitl) and an incense pouch (copalxiquipilli). The leading figure also holds a blue “rattle staff” (chicahuaztli), an important ritual rainmaking implement, while the other figure holds a stone sacrificial knife. A line of footprints leads up to a

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Figure 4.15. Veintena of Cuahuitlehua, Primeros Memoriales. Drawing by Michel Besson after Sahagún 1993, fol. 250r.

depiction of a green hill, on which is superposed a sacrificial victim, painted black and wearing a white paper headband, his midsection smeared with blood. Topping the hill is a rectangular stone enclosure, within which are three heads; the chests of two of them are adorned with the quadrangular, white, ritual paper ornament (amatlaquemitl). These are clearly depictions of the Tepeticton, the mountain fertility deities who were merged with the Tlaloque. No illustration of this veintena is included in the Florentine Codex. Codex Borbonicus. In this screenfold the right half of panel 23 (fig. 4.16), separated by a thick black line from the left half, is obviously also devoted to a pictorialization of Cuahuitlehua/Atlcahualo/Xilomanaliztli, but in a version much simpler than that in the PM. It consists of only the principal rain deity Tlaloc or an impersonator (ixiptla) with his characteristic goggle-eyed and fanged mask. Arrayed in elaborate blue paper ornaments spattered with

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Figure 4.16. Veintena of Cuahuitlehua/Atlcahualo/Xilomanaliztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Borbonicus 1974, 1991, panel 23.

rubber markings, he holds the blue wavy symbol of lightning (tlapetlanaliztli). In front of him is a large rubber-spattered amatlaquemitl, and below him is a multicolored bowl decorated with two dark parallel stripes (which are common in images connected with fertility) that contains four tasseled maize ears: two yellow and two red. In striking contrast to the PM, this depiction shows no ritual activities or celebrants. Magliabechiano Group. This veintena, called Xiloman(al)iztli (Offering of Tender Maize Ears) in the two principal members of the Magliabechiano Group—Codex Magliabechiano (1970, 1996: fol. 29r; fig. 4.17 [above]) and Códice Tudela (1980: fol. 11r; fig. 4.17 [below])—is illustrated by slightly variant images of a seated male figure that appears to be a priest. Painted black, he wears the apparel and ornaments diagnostic of Tlaloc and holds a tender ear of maize (xilotl) in his left hand and a head of Tlaloc in his right. 80

Figure 4.18. Veintena of Cuahuitlehua. Drawing by Michel Besson after Durán 1995, vol. 2, pl. 39.

Figure 4.19. Veintena of Atlcahualo. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Vaticanus A 1979, 1996, fol. 42v.

Figure 4.20. Veintena of Cuahuitlehua, The Tovar Calendar. Drawing by Michel Besson after Kubler and Gibson 1951, pl. 14.

Figure 4.21. Veintena of Etzalcualiztli, Primeros Memoriales. Drawing by Michel Besson after Sahagún 1993, fol. 250v.

plant with water flowing from its roots. The Tovar Calendar’s Cuahuitlehua (Kubler and Gibson 1951: pl. 14; fig. 4.20) features a large red-and-white– striped Amatetehuitl attached to a red pole with a pair of maize cobs (ocholli) tied to it, along with another five-lobed plant. A series of thirteen sequent, abbreviated veintena images in Codex Vaticanus A (1979, 1996: fol. 89r; fig. 4.5a) indicates the period of the first occupancy of Mexico Tenochtitlan by the Cortesian army in the fall and winter of 1519–1520. Here Cuahuitlehua is depicted by a tree with water flowing from its roots. The corresponding folio is missing from the Codex Telleriano-­ Remensis. Calendar Wheels. In the Boban Calendar Wheel (fig. 4.11), a leafy tree also illustrates Cuahuitlehua. In the Veytia (Gemelli Careri) Calendar Wheel No. 4 (fig. 4.13), the icon is a version of an amatlaquemitl topped by a water symbol, while in the Veytia (Muñoz Camargo) Calendar Wheel No. 5 (fig. 4.12), where the veintena is appropriately labeled Xilomanaliztli, the icon is a tender maize ear (xilotl). Like the Boban Calendar Wheel, Serna (fig. 4.14) depicts it as a leafy tree. 84

Etzalcualiztli Primeros Memoriales. The PM illustration (fol. 250v; fig. 4.21) of Etzalcualiztli (Eating of Etzalli) appears in the lower right. In the center top area is the frontal view of a structure whose roof features a crosshatched façade. Superimposed on the doorway are three male figures painted black; the central one wears a paper crown decorated with a quetzalmiahuayotl and a long paper strip across his chest (amaneapanalli) that symbolizes sacrifice. He almost certainly depicts the impersonator of Tlaloc, whose sacrifice was featured in this veintena. Grasping him are two flanking figures; the right one wears a white mantle and carries a yetecomitl. To the right, three female figures wearing white huipils and skirts probably represent the singing women mentioned in the text. At the lower right is the shrine of a frontal pyramid temple with the same crosshatched roof façade. Superimposed on the stairway is a figure that appears to be the same Tlaloc impersonator, bleeding profusely. A house, again with the crosshatched roof façade, appears at the lower left; below this, a figure wearing a white mantle and lying on a reed mat corresponds to a ritual mentioned in the text. Fronting this is the representation of a hill and cave, within which a seated figure in a white mantle and serrated white paper headpiece represents the body of the sacrificed Tlaloc impersonator described in the text. In the upper left, two male figures in net mantles hold up poles with attached birds, as described in the text. Codex Borbonicus. The CB illustration on the right-hand side of panel 26 (fig. 4.22) is quite different from that of the PM. What might be characterized as the most emblematic part of the scene is in the lower section, where a seated Tlaloc figure festooned with the standard blue paper ornaments holds up the blue lightning symbol. This figure is virtually identical to the Tlaloc, described above, in the Cuahuitlehua/Atlcahualo/Xilomanaliztli scene on panel 23, and he is here similarly fronted by a large rubber-spattered amatlaquemitl. At the lower left is a large, plain, handled olla of etzalli (etzalcomitl) that was consumed by ritual celebrants during this veintena and that gave its name to the celebration. In the upper portion is a very different type of scene. At the far left a male figure, painted black, beats on an upright drum (huehuetl) with a jaguar skin drumhead. The white strips of his loincloth, shoulder piece, and headdress (doubled in the case of the latter two), striped in yellow and with rounded ends, constitute key diagnostic items in the costume of the major fertility deity Ehecatl Quetzalcoatl. Before the drum is a similarly attired figure holding a curved baton (ehecahuictli or ehecaxonecuilli) studded with small white circles 85

Figure 4.22. Veintena of Etzalcualiztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Borbonicus 1974, panel 26.

and adorned with another set of double strips with rounded ends, which is another major diagnostic item in the insignia of Ehecatl Quetzalcoatl. This figure is the first of five in a line of dancers in crescentic formation that converges on an impersonator of Quetzalcoatl, who does not wear the Ehecatl buccal mask. He otherwise displays nearly all of the major items of attire and insignia of this deity, including the shell pectoral (ehecailacacozcatl); the black and red, fanlike feather headdress (cuezalhuitoncatl); and the stream of blood that connects the penitential pointed bone in his zigzag headband to the bill of a green bird. 86

Figure 4.23. Veintena of Etzalcualiztli, Florentine Codex. Drawing by Michel Besson after Sahagún 1979, vol. 1, fol. 45v (above); fol. 46r (below).

To the right of the dancers is the large figure of the deity Xolotl, the caninelike “twin” of Quetzalcoatl, arrayed with most of the latter’s ornaments and insignia. He holds a plain white circular shield and the ehecahuictli, and as a back standard wears a tall white banner edged with red and blue feathers. 87

The scenes involving Quetzalcoatl and Xolotl are unique to the CB, although the description of this veintena in the Codex Magliabechiano (1970, 1996: fol. 33v) specifies the former as the principal deity that was propitiated and states that Xolotl was his brother. Florentine Codex. In Book 2 (The Ceremonies) of the Florentine Codex, two illustrations are devoted to a detailed account of Etzalcualiztli as it was celebrated in Mexico Tenochtitlan and Tlatelolco (Sahagún 1979, 1: fols. 37v–46r; fig. 4.23). They depict the final series of rituals, when the priests departed from their temple with the “cloud vessel” (mixcomitl), filled with the hearts of sacrificed Tlaloc impersonators, and poled their canoes out on the lake to a famous sacred “whirlpool,” Pantitlan. After casting the mixcomitl and other ritual paraphernalia into the water, they returned to Tetamazolco (Place of the Stone Toad), where they bathed and removed blue stain from their foreheads. Magliabechiano Group. The Magliabechiano and Tudela codices illustrate this veintena by somewhat different representations of Tlaloc. In Codex Magliabechiano (1970, 1996: fol. 34r; fig. 4.24 [above]), Tlaloc displays his typical blue paper regalia, including his heron feather headdress (aztatzontli) garnished with the quetzalmiahuayotl. He stands on a mat of reeds, which, as the PM account indicates, was among the rituals of this veintena. In one hand he grasps a maize stalk and in the other a staff (oztopilli) decorated with flower-filled paper cups, a device frequently carried by fertility deities. Before him is a handled etzalcomitl. The array of the Tlaloc figure in Códice Tudela (1980: fol. 16r; fig. 4.24 [below]) is quite similar, but here he is seated and holds only the oztopilli. Because this image is almost identical to the one illustrating Atemoztli (fol. 26r) in this manuscript, Boone (1983: 157–159) suggests that it was employed for Etzalcualiztli as well. Other Manuscripts. Durán’s illustration (1995, 2: pl. 44; fig. 4.25) shows a male figure standing in water, wearing the priestly jacket (xicolli) and a back standard with feathered elements, and holding a maize stalk in one hand and a handled etzalcomitl in the other. Codex Vaticanus A (1979, 1996: fol. 45r; fig. 4.26) illustrates this veintena by a typical standing Tlaloc arrayed in his usual blue paper accoutrements, surrounded by raindrops and holding a maize stalk and a handled etzalcomitl. The corresponding Codex Telleriano-Remensis folio is missing. The Tovar Calendar (Kubler and Gibson 1951: pl. 6; fig. 4.27) depicts a standing male figure with “goggle eyes” and a mouth ring, who wears a white mantle and head cloth and holds a maize stalk and handled etzalcomitl. Among the abbreviated images of Etzalcualiztli, the most common is the handled etzalcomitl, exemplified by those in the Codex Vaticanus A (1979, 1996: fol. 89; fig. 4.5); Códices de Tlaquiltenango (fig. 4.6); Boban Calendar Wheel, 88

Figure 4.24. Veintena of Etzalcualiztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Magliabechiano 1970, 1996, fol. 34r (above); Códice Tudela 1980, fol. 16r (below).

plus human figure (fig. 4.11); Veytia (Muñoz Camargo) Calendar Wheel No. 5, plus human figure (fig. 4.12); and Veytia (Gemelli Careri) Calendar Wheel No. 4, plus maize stalk (fig. 4.13). In the Codex Azoyú II Reverse/Humboldt Fragment I (fig. 4.3), a typical Tlaloc head designates the veintena. Serna (fig. 4.14) calls the veintena Etzalli and depicts it by an image that resembles a flower but may be intended to be a maize plant. 89

Figure 4.25. Veintena of Etzalcualiztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Durán 1995, vol. 2, pl. 44.

Figure 4.26. Veintena of Etzalcualiztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Vaticanus A 1979, 1996, fol. 45r.

Atemoztli Primeros Memoriales. The pictorialization of this veintena of the PM (fol. 252v; fig. 4.28) is in the lower right corner. The central upper portion of the scene depicts a frontal pyramid temple with a superimposed profile of a female figure in a blue huipil, white skirt, and blue headband, who holds a round white shield and staff ornamented with ritual papers (impersonator of Chalchiuhtlicue? see Jiménez Moreno 1974: 59). Before her is a male figure wearing what appears to be a blue xihuitzolli, the peaked frontlet or “crown” of the lords (tetecuhtin), and apparently a crudely delineated turquoise nose plug of the lords (yacaxihuitl). He carries a tobacco gourd (yetecomitl) trimmed with red strips and holds a penitential maguey spine and copalxiquipilli. To the right of the temple a profile female figure clad in white, wearing a white headband with red tassels, holds a bowl of octli. Behind her, in a vertical row, are four blue and white circular elements representing raindrops, seemingly connoting the name of the veintena, Descent of Water. In the lower 91

Figure 4.27. Veintena of Etzalcualiztli, The Tovar Calendar. Drawing by Michel Besson after Kubler and Gibson 1951, pl. 6.

Figure 4.28. Veintena of Atemoztli, Primeros Memoriales. Drawing by Michel Besson after Sahagún 1993, fol. 252v.

section of the scene five figures, three males and two females, all clad in white, hold bowls of octli. The men also wear feather headdresses and white paper sacrificial strips (amaneapanalli). All five figures stand on woven mats with handled bowls of octli above them. The Florentine Codex lacks an illustration for this veintena. Codex Borbonicus. In the CB (panel 35; fig. 4.29), Atemoztli is pictori-alized by a Tlaloc temple, Ayauhcalli or “mist house” (see Nicholson 1988: 82–83), with a typical roof façade of four vertical blue stripes, set atop a green hill decorated with a large amatlaquemitl. This depiction is virtually identical to those in the veintenas of Tozoztontli (p. 24), Hueytozoztli (p. 25), and Tepeilhuitl/Hueypachtli (p. 32). In these cases, however, the figure seated in the doorways of these temples is Tlaloc alone, whereas here his spouse, the water goddess Chalchiuhtlicue arrayed in her typical blue garments and insignia, sits behind him. Magliabechiano Group. The images of Atemoztli in the Codex Magliabechiano (1970, 1996: fol. 44r; fig. 4.30 [left]) and Códice Tudela (1980: fol. 26r; fig. 4.30 [right]) feature a seated Tlaloc figure, in typical blue garb and a circular gold pectoral, holding the oztopilli. Blue and white raindrops fall to the right of both figures. In the Codex Magliabechiano, the deity sits on an awkwardly drawn quadrangular seat decorated with the “precious,” or jewel, motif, but this is lacking in the Códice Tudela, as it was in the prototype in Boone’s (1983: 199) reconstruction.

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Figure 4.29. Veintena of Atemoztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Borbonicus 1974, 1991, panel 35.

Other Manuscripts. Codex Telleriano-Remensis (1995: fol. 5v; fig. 4.31 [left]) and Codex Vaticanus A (1979, 1996: fol. 50r; fig. 4.31 [right]) depict a typical Tlaloc head adorned with a full blue headdress, placed at the end of a descending stream of water. In Durán (1995, 2: pl. 54; fig. 4.32), two scenes illustrate Atemoztli. The lower one shows three persons seated on a long woven mat: two men wrapped in white mantles face a woman in a white huipil and skirt. The man on the far left sits on a quadrangular woven seat and holds an oval-shaped green wreath, as does the woman. The upper scene depicts a human figure, dressed in a red cloak and a type of crown with triple lobes, who descends headfirst with outstretched arms from a starry sky surrounded by clouds. The Tovar Calendar (Kubler and Gibson 1951: pl. 12; fig. 4.33) pictorialization features the bust of a male figure wearing the characteristic headdress of Tlaloc (and identified as this deity in the annotation). He holds the wavy blue lightning bolt in one hand and pours 94

Figure 4.30. Veintena of Atemoztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Magliabechiano 1970, 1996, fol. 44r (left); Códice Tudela 1980, fol. 26r (right).

Figure 4.31. Veintena of Atemoztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Telleriano-­ Remensis 1995, fol. 5v (left); Codex Vaticanus A 1979, 1996, fol. 50r (right).

water from a handled globular vessel in the other. Above and to the right is a female profile head. Although the annotation identifies her as Tlaloc’s “mother,” she may, as Kubler and Gibson (1951: 33) suggest, represent his spouse, the water goddess Chalchiuhtlicue, and the circular device above her head may depict a precious greenstone jewel (chalchihuitl). Above the 95

Tlaloc figure is an ensemble consisting of a human arm, whose hand grasps a bunch of grass, directly above a typical amatlaquemitl bearing its characteristic markings of liquid rubber. The abbreviated images of Atemoztli in the Codex Vaticanus A (1979, 1996: fol. 89r; fig. 4.5a) include a profile pyramid temple with a stream of water descending the stairway, the direction of which is indicated by three footprints pointed downward. Similar images stand for Atemoztli in the Veytia (Muñoz Camargo) Calendar Wheel No. 5 (fig. 4.12) and the Veytia (Gemelli Careri) Calendar Wheel No. 4 (fig. 4.13), although the former lacks footprints. The Boban Calendar Wheel (fig. 4.11) image displays two parallel streams of water descending from a stone, with a vertical row of downward-pointing footprints between them. Serna (fig. 4.14) pictures a plant above a device that resembles a stone symbol but is probably a variant of the multicolored circular symbol that signifies ilhuitl, “day,” or more specifically, “feast day” (see Seler 1904: 207–208). In the Códices de Tlaquiltenango (Códice de Mauricio de la Arena) the icon (fig. 4.6) seems to be a version of a Tlaloc headpiece on a hill. CONCLUSION In a more comprehensive study, all eighteen of the veintena pictorializations in the PM could be compared with all relevant examples in other Central Mexican ethnohistorical sources. The three examined in detail—linked by the same deity to whom they were primarily dedicated and the consequent basic similarity of their ritual programs—should provide a useful beginning for a more exhaustive series of comparisons. The similarities and differences that have emerged from this more limited examination are revealing and deserving of further analysis. It must be emphasized that our database is quite limited. With almost no pertinent surviving pre-Hispanic monuments or pictorial manuscripts available to us, all that we have at our disposal is a relative handful of colonial documents that contain depictions of the veintenas in many different contexts and formats. The geographic places of origin of these documents, as well as the identity of those who compiled them, are often unknown. Rarely do we know who illustrated them or much, if anything, about the sources of their illustrations. It is likely that the more complex depictions of the veintenas, which feature deities, deity impersonators, ritual celebrants, and paraphernalia, were derived from “manuals” that the supervising priests used to plan and manage the ritual programs that were appropriate for each twenty-day ceremony. As indicated, the third section of the Codex Borbonicus probably provides some notion of what one of these putative 96

Figure 4.32. Veintena of Atemoztli. Drawing by Michel Besson after Durán 1995, vol. 2, pl. 54.

Figure 4.33. Veintena of Atemoztli, The Tovar Calendar. Drawing by Michel Besson after Kubler and Gibson 1951, pl. 12.

pre-Hispanic sacerdotal guides might have looked like. Sahagún’s PM artists, whoever they were, may well have been carrying on this tradition of veintena illustration. It is worth reiterating that the considerable variety in the depictions of these three veintenas—well evidenced in the array of sources cited and illustrated—clearly reflects the substantial differences in local ritual practice in contact-period Central Mexico. However, their many similarities just as clearly mirror the widespread sharing of basic religious ideological concepts and ceremonial performance throughout the region. In the last few decades before the Spanish conquest, the latter process must have been significantly enhanced by the incorporation of most of the communities of Central Mexico into an overarching political structure, the Triple Alliance empire of Mexico Tenochtitlan, Tetzcoco, and Tlacopan (Carrasco 1999). The likelihood of increasing standardization of ritual practices under the political and military aegis of the Triple Alliance could well have led to a concomitant standardization in the pictorial representation of the many ritual activities and participants depicted in the eighteen veintena ceremonies. In this connection, it is pertinent to note that this iconographic standardization appears to have been as clearly manifested in economic and historical manuscripts as in those devoted to ritual topics. Well-known examples of the former are the abbreviated veintena images that appear in the Matrícula de Tributos, a document recording the payment of tribute to the Triple Alliance, and in the related tribute section of the Codex Mendoza, a document known to have been produced in Mexico Tenochtitlan (fig. 4.2). The symbols for Tlacaxipehualiztli and Ochpaniztli were used to indicate the periodicity of stipulated imperial tribute requisitioned from subject towns and territories and forwarded to the Tenochca capital and its partners. Another prominent example is the Codex Azoyú II Reverse/Humboldt Fragment I, parts of a single document that originated outside the Basin of Mexico in the modern state of Guerrero. It records the periodicity of tribute payment by picturing adjacent to the tribute tally images of the same two veintenas, as well as those for Etzalcualiztli and Panquetzaliztli (fig. 4.3). This document indicates that local records were also kept of tribute collected and forwarded to the dominant Triple Alliance polities. The historical section of the Codex Vaticanus A (fols. 89r, 89v; figs. 4.5a,b) is unique in picturing two series of sequent abbreviated veintena symbols—combined with images of mounted and armed conquistadors and native casualties—to express the timing and duration of events that took place in and around Mexico Tenochtitlan and Tlatelolco during the conquest years of 1519 to 1522. 99

I am convinced that the evidence presented here, although not incontrovertible, is sufficient to support the view that these compact veintena icons were in common use during the late pre-Hispanic period, rather than having been developed in early colonial times in imitation of European calendric iconography. As indicated earlier, at least one indubitable pre-Hispanic example—the paper banner symbolic of the veintena of Panquetzaliztli on the stone xiuhmolpilli found in Mexico City (fig. 4.1)—provides strong support for this position. Abundant evidence for the employment of standardized symbols of the twenty-day periods in pre-Hispanic times is also found in other parts of Mesoamerica. In Classic Lowland Maya writing, the hieroglyphs for the veintenas (uinalob) were as formalized and standardized as those for the twenty day signs. Whether comparable series of standardized veintena images were employed in the calendric inscriptions of other Mesoamerican cultural traditions is uncertain, but some scholars suggest that they might have been a feature of the calendric systems of Classic Monte Albán and Teotihuacan, among others. A case can also be made that veintena icons somewhat comparable to those of Central Mexico may have been employed in the Late Postclassic Mixteca system of western Oaxaca (Jiménez Moreno 1940: 69, 71; Kubler and Gibson 1951: 61–62). Although evidenced only by a colonial inscription in the foundation stone of the Dominican monastery of Cuilapan near Oaxaca City, the two icons represented (paper banner = Panquetzaliztli?; obsidian-bladed club, macuahuitl = Tecuilhuitontli?) almost certainly were derived from pre-Hispanic models. More definitive proof may not have survived owing to the catastrophic loss of most of the extensive pictorial corpus that once existed in contact-period Central Mexico, including all preconquest pictorial manuscripts (though a few examples are contested). This devastating loss, in addition to the deliberate destruction and obliteration through time of pre-Hispanic imagery in other media, has deprived us of what I suspect must have been an abundance of these relatively standardized, abbreviated veintena images. One hopes that future archaeological and documentary discoveries will provide more positive answers to this and the many other problems that confront us as we seek to acquire a deeper understanding of the ritual universe of ancient Mexico. The documents that have survived, including the indispensable Sahaguntine Primeros Memoriales and Florentine Codex, provide us with some invaluable insights into the remarkably rich and complex pre-Hispanic Central Mexican ritual/calendric system. The effort to improve our knowledge of it, to which this volume attests, continues to be actively pursued by contemporary scholarship. 100

REFERENCES CITED Baird, Ellen Taylor 1979 Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales: A Structural and Stylistic Analysis of the Drawings. Ph.D. dissertation, University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. 1983 Text and Image in Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales. In Text and Image in Pre-Columbian Art, edited by Janet C. Berlo, pp. 155–179. Proceedings of the 44th International Congress of Americanists, Manchester, England, 1982. BAR International Series 180. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. 1988a The Artists of Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales: A Question of Identity. In The Work of Bernardino de Sahagún: Pioneer Ethnographer of Sixteenth-­ Century Aztec Mexico, edited by J. Jorge Klor de Alva, H. B. Nicholson, and Eloise Quiñones Keber, pp. 211–227. Albany: Institute for Mesoamerican Studies, State University of New York. 1988b Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales and Codex Florentino: European Elements in the Illustrations. In Smoke and Mist: Mesoamerican Studies in Memory of Thelma D. Sullivan, edited by J. Kathryn Josserand and Karen Dakin, pt. 1, pp. 15–40. BAR International Series 402(i). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. 1993 The Drawings of Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales: Structure and Style. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Barlow, Robert H. 1943 The Periods of Tribute Collection in Moctezuma’s Empire. Notes on Middle American Archaeology and Ethnology 23. Cambridge, Mass.: Division of Historical Research, Carnegie Institution of Washington. Boone, Elizabeth Hill 1983 The Codex Magliabechiano and the Lost Prototype of the Magliabechiano Group. Berkeley: University of California Press. Published with a reprint of Nuttall 1903. Brotherston, Gordon 1998 Los Textos Calendáricos Inscritos en el Templo del Tepozteco. Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl 28: 77–97. Brown, Betty Ann 1977 European Influences in Early Colonial Descriptions and Illustrations of the Mexica Monthly Calendar. Ph.D. dissertation, University of New Mexico, Albuquerque. 1982 Early Colonial Representations of the Aztec Monthly Calendar. In Pre-­ Columbian Art History: Selected Readings, edited by Alana Cordy-Collins, pp. 169–191. Palo Alto, Calif.: Peek Publications. Carrasco, Pedro 1999 The Tenochca Empire of Ancient Mexico: The Triple Alliance Empire of Tenochtitlan, Tetzcoco, and Tlacopan. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press.

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Caso, Alfonso 1967 Los Calendarios Prehispánicos. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Codex Borbonicus 1974 Codex Borbonicus. Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale, Paris (Y120). Commentaries by Karl Anton Nowotny and Jacqueline de Durand-Forest. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt. 1991 El Libro del Ciuacoatl: Homenaje Para el Año del Fuego Nuevo. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Borbónico. Codex du Corps Legislatif, Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale Française, Paris, Y120. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders, Maarten Jansen, and Luis Reyes García. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal Quinto Centenario; Graz, Austria: Akademische Druckund Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Codex en Cruz 1981 Codex en Cruz. 2 vols. Commentary by Charles E. Dibble. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. Codex Magliabechiano 1970 Codex Magliabechiano. CLXIII. 3 (B.R. 232). Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt. See also Nuttall 1903. 1996 Libro de la Vida. Texto Explicativo del Llamado Códice Magliabechiano, CLXIII. 3 (B.R. 232). Biblioteca Nacional de Florencia. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders and Maarten Jansen, with contributions by Jessica Davilar and Anuschka van’t Hooft. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Codex Mendoza 1992 Codex Mendoza. 4 vols. Commentary by Frances F. Berdan and Patricia R. Anawalt. Berkeley: University of California Press. Codex Mexicanus 1952 Commentaire du Codex Mexicanus, Nos. 23–24 de la Bibliothèque Nationale de Paris, by Ernst Mengin. Journal de la Société des Américanistes, n.s., 41: 387–498. Codex Telleriano-Remensis 1995 Codex Telleriano-Remensis: Ritual, Divination, and History in a Pictorial Aztec Manuscript. Commentary by Eloise Quiñones Keber. Austin: University of Texas Press. Codex Vaticanus A 1979 Codex Vaticanus (“Cod. Vat. A,” “Cod. Ríos”) der Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt. 1996 Religión, Costumbres e Historia de los Antiguos Mexicanos. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Vaticano A, Códice Vat. Lat. 3738 de la Biblioteca Apostólica Vaticana. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders and Maarten Jansen. Graz,

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Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Códice de Huichapan 1992 Códice de Huichapan. Commentary by Alfonso Caso. Mexico City: Telecommunicaciones de México. Códices de Tlaquiltenango (Códice de Mauricio de la Arena) See Mazari 1926, Barlow 1943. Códice Tudela 1980 Códice Tudela. Commentary by José Tudela de la Orden, with additions by Donald Robertson, Wigberto Jiménez Moreno, Ferdinand Anders, and S. Jeffrey Wilkerson. Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica del Instituto de Cooperación Iberoamericana. Couch, Christopher 1985 The Festival Cycle of the Aztec Codex Borbonicus. BAR International Series 270. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Doutrelaine, Colonel 1867 Rapport à Son Exc. M. le Ministre de l’Instruction Publique sur un Manuscrit Mexicain de la Collection Boban. Archives de la Commission Scientifique du Mexique 3: 120–133. Durán, Fray Diego 1995 Historia de las Indias de Nueva España e Islas de Tierra Firme. Introduction by Rosa Carmelo and José Rubén Romero. 2 vols. Mexico City: Dirección General de Publicaciones, Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes. Gemelli Careri, Giovanni Francesco 1699– Giro del Mondo. 6 vols. Naples: Stamperia di Giuseppe Roselli. 1700 Glass, John B. 1964 Catálogo de la Colección de Códices. Mexico City: Museo Nacional de Antropología, Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Jiménez Moreno, Wigberto 1940 Signos Cronográficos del Códice y Calendario Mixteco. In Códice de Yanhuitlan, commentary by Wigberto Jiménez Moreno and Salvador Mateos Higuera, pp. 69–76. Mexico City: Museo Nacional, Secretaría de Educación Pública, Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. 1974 Primeros Memoriales de Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Commentary by Wigberto Jiménez Moreno. Mexico City: Consejo de Historia and Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Kalendario Mexicano, Latino y Castellano 1918 Kalendario Mexicano, Latino y Castellano. Boletín de la Biblioteca Nacional de México 12: 189–222.

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Kubler, George, and Charles Gibson 1951 The Tovar Calendar. Memoirs of the Connecticut Academy of Arts and Sciences 11. New Haven. Lienzo de Tlaxcala 1983 Lienzo de Tlaxcala. Commentary by Josefina García Quintana and Carlos Martínez Marín. Mexico City: Cartón y Papel de México. Matrícula de Tributos 1991 Matrícula de Tributos: Nuevos Estudios. Commentary by Victor M. Castillo Farreras. Mexico City: Secretaría de Hacienda y Crédito Público. Mazari, Manuel 1926 Códice de Mauricio de la Arena. Anales del Museo Nacional de Arqueología, Historia y Etnografía, ep. 4, 4: 273–278. Mendieta, Fray Gerónimo de 1980 Historia Eclesiástica Indiana. 3rd ed. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa. Moedano Koer, Hugo 1951 Acatl Igual Ome Acatl, Como Fin de Xiuhmolpilli. Revista Mexicana de Estudios Antropológicos 12: 103–131. Muñoz Camargo, Diego 1981 Descripción de la Ciudad y Provincia de Tlaxcala de las Indias y del Mar Océano Para el Buen Gobierno y Ennoblecimiento Dellas. Introduction by René Acuña. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Filológicas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Nicholson, H. B. n.d. Aztec Style Calendric Inscriptions of Possible Historical Significance: A Survey. Paper presented at the Mesa Redonda of the Sociedad Mexicana de Antropología on Calendric Systems of Pre-Hispanic Central Mexico, Castillo de Chapultepec, Mexico City, December 5–12, 1955. 1973 Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales, Tepepolco, 1559–1561. In Guide to Ethnohistorical Sources, pt. 2, edited by Howard F. Cline and John B. Glass, pp. 207–218. Handbook of Middle American Indians, vol. 13, general editor, Robert Wauchope. Austin: University of Texas Press. 1974 Tepepolco, the Locale of the First Stage of Fr. Bernardino de Sahagún’s Great Ethnographic Project: Historical and Cultural Notes. In Mesoamerican Archaeology: New Approaches, edited by Norman Hammond, pp. 145–154. London: Duckworth; Austin: University of Texas Press. 1988 The Provenience of the Codex Borbonicus: An Hypothesis. In Smoke and Mist: Mesoamerican Studies in Memory of Thelma D. Sullivan, edited by J. Kathryn Josserand and Karen Dakin, pt. 1, pp. 77–97. BAR International Series 402(i). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. 1991 The Octli Cult in Late Pre-Hispanic Central Mexico. In To Change Place: Aztec Ceremonial Landscapes, edited by Davíd Carrasco, pp. 158–187. Niwot: University Press of Colorado.

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1993 Aztec Style Calendric Inscriptions of Possible Historical Significance: Problems of the Paired Dates. In The Symbolism in the Plastic and Pictorial Representations of Ancient Mexico, edited by Jacqueline de Durand-Forest and Marc Eisinger, pp. 74–89. Symposium of the 46th International Congress of Americanists, Amsterdam, 1988. Bonn: Holos Verlag. Nuttall, Zelia 1903 The Book of the Life of the Ancient Mexicans Containing an Account of Their Rites and Superstitions. An anonymous Hispano-Mexican manuscript preserved at the Biblioteca Nationale Centrale in Florence. Edited by Zelia Nuttall. Berkeley: University of California. Reprinted 1983. Paso y Troncoso, Francisco del 1898 Descripción, Historia, y Exposición del Códice Pictórico de los Antiguos Náuas que Se Conserva en la Biblioteca de la Cámara de Diputados de Paris (Antiguo Palais Bourbon). Florence: Tipografía de Salvador Landi. Quiñones Keber, Eloise 1997 An Introduction to the Images, Artists, and Physical Features of the Primeros Memoriales. In Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet, pp. 15–51. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Robertson, Donald 1959 Mexican Manuscript Painting of the Early Colonial Period: The Metropolitan Schools. New Haven: Yale University Press. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1905 Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España por Fr. Bernardino de Sahagún. Edición Parcial en Facsimile de los Códices Matritenses en Lengua Mexicana que Se Custodian en las Bibliotecas del Real Palacio y de la Real Academia de la Historia, vol. 6. Edited by Francisco del Paso y Troncoso. Madrid: Fototipia de Hauser y Menet. 1975 Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España. Escrita por Fr. Bernardino de Sahagún, Franciscano, Fundada en la Documentación en Lengua Mexicana Recogida por los Mismos Naturales. 3rd ed. Edited by Angel María Garibay K. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa. 1979 Códice Florentino. El Manuscrito 218–220 de Colección Palatina de la Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. 3 vols. Florence: Giunti Barbera; Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. 1993 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. 1997 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed

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and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Seler, Eduard 1899 Die Bildlichen Darstellungen der Mexikanischen Jahresfeste. Königliche Museen zu Berlin, Veröffentlichungen aus dem Königlichen Museum für Völkerkunde 6 (2/4): 58–66. Berlin: W. Spemann. 1904 Alexander von Humboldt’s Picture Manuscripts in the Royal Library at Berlin. In Mexican and Central American Antiquities, Calendar Systems, and History, pp. 123–229. Bureau of American Ethnology Bulletin 28. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution. 1908 Wandskulpturen im Tempel des Pulquegottes von Tepoztlan. Gesammelte Abhandlungen zur Amerikanischen Sprach-und Altertumskunde 3: 487–513. Serna, Jacinto de la 1892 Manual de Ministros de Indios para el Conocimiento de Sus Idolatrías y Extirpación de Ellas [1656]. Anales del Museo Nacional de México 6: 261–479. The Tovar Calendar See Kubler and Gibson 1951. Vaillant, George C. 1941 Aztecs of Mexico: Origin, Rise, and Fall of the Aztec Nation. Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, Doran & Company. Veytia, Mariano Fernández de Echeverría y 1907 Los Calendarios Mexicanos. Mexico City: Edición del Museo Nacional de México.

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Mythical and Royal Dimensions of the Feast of Tezcatlipoca in Toxcatl Guilhem Olivier

he eighteen twenty-day veintena ceremonies observed

annually by the people of ancient Central Mexico on the eve of the Spanish conquest undoubtedly constitute an aspect of Mesoamerican religion about which surviving sources, whether iconographic or written, are quite comprehensive. This is not true of other aspects—mythology, for instance—about which, despite glimpses of an extraordinary richness of information, only fragmentary accounts escaped the deprecatory judgments of sixteenth-century writers. The very nature of the documentation and the reasons for its preservation help explain the wealth of information recorded about public ceremonies. The clerics and friars who gathered testimonies about indigenous religion wanted above all to acquire a knowledge that would be as complete as possible about the “evil” they had to fight, that is, the idolatry of the indigenous people.

Guilhem Olivier

Among those indefatigable investigators of the antiguallas of the Indians, Fray Bernardino de Sahagún is the one who has left the most extensive data. This is especially true of the accounts in the Nahuatl language, gathered from his Nahua informants, that detail the most varied aspects of ancient Mexica (Aztec) civilization. It is thus not surprising that Book 2 (The Ceremonies) of his Historia is one of the most voluminous. Sahagún (1988, 1: 31) intended, as he explains in the prologue to this book, to describe the “idolatrous rituals” in order to avoid being deceived. His indigenous informants apparently had few hesitations about evoking the public rituals that had long been banned by the Spanish authorities. On other subjects, however, such as the cult of the tlaquimilolli, or sacred bundles (see Olivier 1995), or on several private or agricultural rites (see Quiñones Keber, this volume), their silence reflects the probable survival of practices banned by the Catholic Church. Although Sahagún’s informants generously supply details of all kinds when describing the ceremonies, they generally remain silent about their meaning.1 Because numerous written and pictorial sources complement the work of Sahagún and his Nahua informants, one is confronted by a complex ensemble of ritual acts, whose coherence and symbolic richness are sensed but remain hard to decipher. This partly explains the disconcerting variety of modern interpretations.2 Furthermore, these ritual studies depend on analyses of the structure of the indigenous calendar that vary by author.3 This study focuses on the veintena of Toxcatl,4 when, according to most sources, the feast of Tezcatlipoca, Lord of the Smoking Mirror, was celebrated.5 After briefly describing the main ritual events of Toxcatl, I will consider questions that have puzzled specialists.6 First are the identity and role of the representatives of the deities who took part in Toxcatl. Second is the hypothesis that the myth of the origin of music was reenacted during Toxcatl. Third is the role of the king, whose relationship with Tezcatlipoca was highlighted in a significant way during Toxcatl. DESCRIPTIONS OF THE FEAST OF TOXCATL The following descriptions of the Toxcatl feast are derived from sixteenth-­ century accounts given by Sahagún and the Dominican friar Diego Durán. Toxcatl, the fifth of the eighteen veintenas of the year, was the great feast of Tezcatlipoca (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 66–68). The man who had impersonated him throughout the year was sacrificed, and a new ixiptla—that is, god’s representative or image—was chosen for the coming year (fig. 5.1). During this time the representative of Tezcatlipoca was taught how to play the flute, behave courteously, and talk elegantly. As he went through the 108

The Hidden King and the Broken Flutes

Figure 5.1. Ixiptla (impersonator) of Tezcatlipoca, Florentine Codex. Drawing by Rodolfo Ávila after Sahagún 1979, vol. 1, fol. 30v.

streets playing the flute, smoking, and smelling flowers, people bowed to him and tasted earth as a sign of respect (fig. 5.2). Women presented their children to him and saluted him as a god. While walking about, Tezcatlipoca’s representative might visit a building called Quauhxicalco, where he blew his flute and offered copal incense (p. 182). The king repeatedly adorned the ixiptla of his beloved god (ytlaçoteouh). During the veintena of Huey Tozoztli, which preceded Toxcatl, Tezcatlipoca’s representative wed four young women who bore the names of the goddesses Xochiquetzal, Xilonen, Atlatonan, and Huixtocihuatl. He changed his adornments and stayed with these young women for twenty days (pp. 69–70). During four days, while the king secluded himself in his palace, the representatives of Tezcatlipoca and the goddesses danced and sang in various locations. Then by canoe they traveled to a place called Acaquilpan or Caualtepec. The women left the young man with his guards near Tlapitzauhcan, where there was a little temple called Tlacochcalco. The representative of the god then freely walked up the temple stairs, breaking a flute on each step. When he reached the summit, priests laid him on the 109

Guilhem Olivier

Figure 5.2. Impersonator of Tezcatlipoca, Florentine Codex. Drawing by Rodolfo Ávila after Sahagún 1979, vol. 1, fol. 31r.

sacrificial stone. One of them tore his heart out and raised it in offering to the sun (fig. 5.3). His body was not thrown down the steps but carefully brought down by four persons, and his head was placed on a skull rack (tzompantli) (pp. 70–71; see also fig. 5.4). The account given in Durán (1967, 1: 38–45) offers numerous variations, such as a remission of all sins that occurred every four years, ten days before the feast of Toxcatl. A personage called Titlacahuan, adorned like the statue of the god, holding flowers in one hand and a flute in the other, blew his instrument toward the four cardinal points. Upon hearing the high-pitched sound, the attendants wept and asked that the Wind and the Night not abandon them. Sinners cut their bodies so as not to conceal their faults and begged the Lord of the Smoking Mirror not to reveal their misdeeds. Young warriors addressed themselves to the supreme deity, the Sun, and to the gods Quetzalcoatl, Tezcatlipoca, Huitzilopochtli, and Cihuacoatl, seeking victory over their enemies. On the first day of the celebration, priests carried the statue of Tezcatlipoca (or his representative?) on a litter. Young men and women who were in the temple came out with thick, twisted ropes of grilled maize, with which they surrounded the litter. Around the neck and on the head of the statue or representative, they placed necklaces of grilled maize and gave others to the lords, as well as flowers and food. The statue was again put inside the temple, where it was offered flowers and food. At noon 110

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Figure 5.3. Sacrifice of Tezcatlipoca’s impersonator, Florentine Codex. Drawing by Rodolfo Ávila after Sahagún 1979, vol. 1, fol. 30v.

five priests ritually executed the representative of Tezcatlipoca. Contrary to the account of Sahagún’s informants, Durán avers that his body was then thrown to the bottom of the stairs. Every four years other prisoners, who were called imallacualhuan (prisoners of his nourishment), shared the fate of Tezcatlipoca’s representative. People went to a place called Ixhuacan, where youths played music. The priests and lords danced and sang while holding a rope made of roasted maize. At nightfall, young girls carried an amaranth and honey mixture covered with a cloth adorned with skulls and bones to a courtyard adjoining the room where Tezcatlipoca’s statue was kept. Young men hurled arrows at those bundles and raced to obtain them as relics. According to Sahagún’s informants (1950–1982, 2: 71–77), the second part of Toxcatl was consecrated to Huitzilopochtli (Left Side Hummingbird), the militant solar god of the Mexica. In the temple at Huitznahuac, an image of Huitzilopochtli made of amaranth covering a structure of mesquite wood was set on a dais made of wooden serpents. Placed around the image were bones made of amaranth and a cape (tlaquaqualo) adorned with skulls, hands, feet, and body parts. A “sacred roll” made of white paper served as Huitzilopochtli’s loincloth. Singing and dancing, young warriors and the teachers of the young men carried the image of Huitzilopochtli and hauled it to the top of the temple. Arrows were shot (toward Huitzilopochtli?), then gathered, and the god’s loincloth was tied to the serpent platform. At nightfall the king and his people threw decapitated quail heads toward Huitzilopochtli’s 111

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Figure 5.4. Veintena of Toxcatl, Primeros Memoriales. Drawing by Rodolfo Ávila after Sahagún 1993, fol. 250v.

image. Copal was burned in his honor and in homage to the gods of various neighborhoods. A series of dances followed, including the dance of the serpent (mococoloa) and of grilled corn (momomochiitotia). People said, “[T]hey are doing the leap of Toxcatl (toxcachocholoya).” Men and women mingled during those dances, and it was said that they embraced Huitzilopochtli (Sahagún 1997: 58–59). The next day, the ixiptla of Ixteucale (also called Tlacahuepan and Teicauhtzin), who had lived with the ixiptla of Titlacahuan, freely went to the priests (tlatlacanaualtin), who sacrificed him in the same manner as the representative of Tezcatlipoca. 112

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REPRESENTATIVES OF THE GODS IN TOXCATL Relatively abundant information is available about the representative of Tezcatlipoca, although testimonies about the associated images of Ixteucale-Tlacahuepan7 and the goddesses Xochiquetzal, Xilonen, Atlatonan, and Huixtocihuatl are less available. Regarding the man in whom the deity was incarnated, the ixiptla of Tezcatlipoca,8 the description of his accoutrements by Sahagún’s informants (1950–1982, 2: 69–70) and the available pictorial data are revealing. During the first phase of the veintena, he was adorned by the king, his face was painted with soot, and his head was covered with balls of eagle down (quauhtlachcaiotica) and a crown made of popcorn flowers (izqujxochitl; see fig. 5.1). He wore a precious loincloth and mesh cloak, turquoise mosaic and gold ear ornaments shaped like curved seashells, a shell necklace and breast ornament of white seashells, a lip pendant of snail shell, gold bracelets on his upper arms, turquoise bracelets on his forearms, and gold bells on his ankles atop white sandals.9 When he was married to the four young women, the representative of Tezcatlipoca discarded the clothes in which he had fasted and was garbed as a warrior.10 His hair was cut, leaving a tuft upon his forehead like that of a warrior, and an ornament of heron feathers and a spray of quetzal feathers were attached. Of the fourteen illustrations of the god’s representative during Toxcatl,11 nine are accompanied by a tlachieloni (optical apparatus).12 Of the forty-two Tezcatlipoca figures that appear in other manuscripts, only four are bearing a tlachieloni (Olivier 1997: 70–73).13 Because it resembles a mirror (pp. 282–284), this item probably characterized Toxcatl and the personages who represented Tezcatlipoca. In fact, in The Tovar Calendar (1951: 6), a gigantic tlachieloni and a small head of Tezcatlipoca represent the Toxcatl veintena.14 The identity of the Tezcatlipoca representative, such as his social status, geographical origin, and so on, is hard to determine.15 According to Sahagún’s informants (1950–1982, 2: 66–68), ten prisoners of war (mamaltin) were capable of assuming the role, and the representative was chosen by civil servants (calpixque) according to rigorous esthetic criteria.16 In Tetzcoco the representative of Tezcatlipoca was a brave warrior from Tlaxcallan (Tlaxcala) or Huexotzinco (Pomar 1986: 55). The ixiptla of Tezcatlipoca in Tenochtitlan may have also come from those cities. He was undoubtedly from a province of Nahuatl speakers because the representative had to be able to speak that language elegantly (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 68). Furthermore, Mexica gods did not welcome sacrificial victims with “barbarous” origins, for “our god does not like the flesh of those barbarous people. They are like hard, taste113

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less bread in his mouth” (Durán 1967, 2: 233; 1994: 231). A noble origin is thus more likely. The sacrificing official during the feast was the tlatoani (king). When dancing, the tlatoani wore the skin of a sacrificial victim. “[T]hey kept one of the war prisoners, who was a lord or main personage, and flayed him to put his skin on the great lord of Mexico, Motecuhzoma” (Motolinia 1971: 149). If, as I propose, the representative of Tezcatlipoca was a substitute for the king, he must have been chosen from among the elite war prisoners. Durán (1967, 1: 59) asserts, however, that the image of Tezcatlipoca was a slave promised to the priests by his master.17 Is it possible to reconcile these contradictory data? It is unlikely that Durán would have mistaken a war prisoner for a slave, for elsewhere he insists (pp. 181–183) on the distinction between these two categories of sacrificial victims. He affirms that “these slaves were not strangers or foreigners or prisoners of war, as some have declared, but were natives of the same town” (p. 182; 1971: 280). When he describes the slave market, Durán points out that those who possessed the requisite qualities (beauty, predisposition for singing and dancing, etc.) were bought to represent the gods during the feasts. Thus the representative of Quetzalcoatl in Cholollan (Cholula) was a slave bought by the merchants of that city in the market of Azcapotzalco or Itzocan (Durán 1967, 1: 63–64).18 In contrast, war prisoners “served exclusively as sacrifices for the man who . . . impersonated the god whose feast was being celebrated. Thus these were called ‘delicious food of the gods’ ” (p. 181; 1971: 279). If we consider the testimonies of Sahagún’s informants regarding sacrificial victims whose social status is specified, it is remarkable that Tezcatlipoca’s representative is the only one described as a prisoner of war. When the sacrifice of captives is mentioned, they are never described as the impersonators of a specific deity (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 88, 93, 113–114, 129, 139, 164; 7: 26).19 The informants, however, also note that the images of the gods Tlamatzincatl, Izquitecatl, Mixcoatl, Yeuatlicue, Coatlicue, Ilamatecuhtli, Xiuhtecuhtli, and Ixcozauhqui were purified slaves (pp. 137–138, 155, 162).20 Another exception (aside from the representative of Tezcatlipoca) to the rule that slaves represented gods occurred during the feast of Izcalli, when a prisoner of war was sacrificed as the ixiptla of the fire god Xiuhtecuhtli (Las Casas 1967, 2: 192; Motolinia 1971: 64). It is thus probable that the social origin of the image of Tezcatlipoca changed relative to the cities and years because a noble Nahuatl-speaking captive was not always “available.” According to Motolinia (1971: 52), the Mexica killed a prisoner of war if they had one or else a slave. In Tetzcoco the king might delay the sacrifice of a representative of Tezcatlipoca who had 114

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fulfilled his role especially well, with a slave being ritually executed in his stead. In Tenochtitlan an image of Tezcatlipoca was likewise spared by Motecuhzoma II, who also had him replaced (Durán 1967, 2: 493–497; Alvarado Tezozomoc 1980: 670–681; Olivier 1997: 235–236). Sooner or later, however, the conscientious representative was destined to die on the sacrificial stone (Pomar 1986: 67). What was the comportment of the individual destined for sacrifice? Were ritual executions carried out by force, or did those who were to be sacrificed accept their death, thanks to a fatalism fueled by belief in an inescapable destiny?21 Although it seems pointless to dwell on the significant honors that were heaped on Tezcatlipoca’s impersonator, the freedom of movement attributed to him by Sahagún’s informants (1950–1982, 2: 68) is worth examining. Obviously, it was a relative freedom because the image of the god was accompanied by four servants and four of the young men’s teachers (teachcaoan, tetiachcaoan; pp. 68–69). Durán (1967, 1: 59) claims that twelve persons (priests?) were charged with watching over him, and if he fled, the main guardian would become the representative of Tezcatlipoca in his place. The image of the god spent the night in a wooden cell.22 According to Pomar (1986: 55, 67), the ixiptla of Tezcatlipoca could leave the temple only after midnight and had to return to his abode before sunrise. During that time, however, he could roam freely throughout the city and even outside of town, if accompanied by two servants. And yet, it was never learned, among all those who were chosen, whether anyone had ever fled, even though he could; for it seemed inconceivable for a man who represented such majesty as the idol [to flee], so as to avoid being regarded as cowardly and fearful and with everlasting infamy, not only in this land but also in his own. And so he wished above all to die and earn an eternal reputation, since [that death] was considered a glorious and happy end. (Pomar 1986: 67)23

Although the representative of Tezcatlipoca was undoubtedly aware of the final phase of his divine role, other deity representatives were seemingly ignorant of their fate. The image of the goddess Toci, who was to be beheaded, was told that she was to share the king’s bed (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 119). But two priests told the image of Quetzalcoatl in Cholollan, “Oh Lord, let your worship know that nine days from now your task of singing and dancing will end. Know that you are to die!” And he was expected to answer, “So be it!” (Durán 1967: 63; 1971: 132).24 A report from Diego de Holguín provides an interesting version of the massacre at the Great Temple in Tenochtitlan in 1520. While the Tenochca were preparing for the feast 115

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of Toxcatl, the conquistador Pedro de Alvarado and his men burst into the crowd and took the two prisoners who were to be sacrificed. Interrogated and tortured, both men, undoubtedly representatives of Tezcatlipoca and Tlacahuepan-Huitzilopochtli, replied that they had been taken in order to be sacrificed, and they rejoiced that they were going to their gods (Documentos Cortesianos 1990, 1: 207). Sacrificial victims may have been drugged before their sacrifice, but nothing like that is mentioned about the image of Tezcatlipoca. Sahagún’s informants (1950–1982, 2: 71) affirm that of his own will the ixiptla climbed the steps of the temple where he was to die.25 Similarly, the representative of Tlacahuepan-Huitzilopochtli was said to proceed “purely of his own will. . . . When he chose it, when he wished it, thereupon he delivered himself into the hands of those where he was to die” (p. 76).26 Nevertheless, the despair of some sacrificial victims and the recourse to physical force to compel them to the place of sacrifice cannot be denied (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 47–48, 140; Durán 1967, 1: 147; Motolinia 1971: 148). As seen above, apparently Tezcatlipoca’s representatives (and probably those of other deities such as Tlacahuepan-Huitzilopochtli, Mixcoatl, Tlamatzincatl, and Quetzalcoatl in Cholollan) were chosen from among persons willing to take on the role. It is likely that they were—at least in the case of the image of Tezcatlipoca—prisoners of noble origin.27 Presumably, they were predisposed to adhere to the mystical warrior ideology that insured that if they died on the sacrificial stone (techcatl), they would live a glorious afterlife in the house of the sun (Sahagún 1950–1982, 3: 49). Furthermore, based on the day of birth of an individual, one might have been predestined to die a sacrificial death (Sahagún 1950–1982, 4: 5, 44, 93, 94, 95, 108). One of the episodes that marked the feast was the “wedding” of Tezcatlipoca’s representative to four young women who bore the names of the goddesses Xochiquetzal, Xilonen, Atlatonan, and Huixtocihuatl.28 Like him, the women had lived for a year under the watchful eye of guardians. On the last day, when they all went by canoe to the place where the young man was to be sacrificed, the women offered solace and encouragement, but on their arrival near Tlapitzauhcan, they abandoned him (Sahagùn 1950–1982, 2: 70–71). Who were these companions of the god’s impersonator? According to Heyden (1991: 200–201), Tezcatlipoca’s representative impregnated these young women so the fruit of that “divine union” could be incorporated into society.29 If this hypothesis is correct, were the impersonators of the goddesses of noble origin? Families of high lineage would undoubtedly not have reject116

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ed a partner as illustrious as the image of a god.30 But if those women were members of the Mexica social elite, it is difficult to understand why they were kept under lock for a year by the calpixque, who were charged with watching over prisoners of war and slaves (Sahagún 1950–1982, 1: 32; 2: 138, 155; Alvarado Tezozomoc 1980: 317). The “wives” of Tezcatlipoca possibly were prisoners captured during military campaigns (Seler 1899: 155; Moreno de los Arcos 1966: 25, 28). Other clues suggest that the four young women were actually prostitutes,31 and parallel rituals resembling this “wedding” exist. There is a moving description of the last days of the impersonator of Ixcozauhqui, which were rendered more bearable thanks to the services provided by a courtesan: And a pleasure girl became his guardian. She constantly amused him, she caressed him; she joked with him; she made him laugh; she gratified him; she took pleasure on his neck; she embraced him. She deloused him, she combed his hair, she smoothed his hair. She banished his sorrows. (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 169).32

The function of this courtesan is roughly comparable to that of the companions of Tezcatlipoca’s impersonator. Furthermore, the image of Xiuhtecuhtli (one of whose names was Ixcozauhqui) was chosen, as was Tezcatlipoca’s, from among the prisoners of war (Motolinia 1971: 64). Yet the courtesan who soothed the last moments of Tezcatlipoca’s representative is not described as the impersonator of a goddess. Does that mean that prostitutes were not appropriate for representing deities? It seems unlikely. When describing the ahuiani, Sahagún’s informants declare: Drunk, intoxicated, highly inebriate, completely drunk . . . , confused, perverted. She is a victim for sacrifice, a slave bathed for sacrifice, a captive of the gods. . . . [S]he lives like a slave bathed for sacrifice, she passed herself off as a victim for sacrifice (Sahagún 1950–1982, 10: 55; López Austin 1988, 2: 277–278).

The comparison to a sacrificial victim is undoubtedly meant to establish a connection with their baleful fate (Sahagún 1950–1982, 4: 25), but the passage also indicates that there was a real possibility of ending up as a sacrifice. In Tlaxcallan, prostitutes dressed as warriors offered themselves to be sacrificed during the veintena of Quecholli (Las Navas n.d.: 171–174).33 These young women undoubtedly represented the goddesses Xochiquetzal and Cihuacoatl, who were honored on that occasion, and reenacted their mythic deaths.34 Furthermore, the Quecholli ceremony is parallel to that of Toxcatl (Graulich 1987: 327, 405–407), and during both ceremonies imper-

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sonators of four goddesses intervene.35 The erotic dimension of the ceremony is obvious for Toxcatl, and Quecholli was called the “month of lovers” (Las Navas n.d.: 170). ANALYSIS OF TOXCATL MYTHS AND RITUALS Among the rites celebrated during Toxcatl, the use of the flute by the representative of Tezcatlipoca had an essential place, along with dances and songs. By playing the flute, smelling flowers, and smoking, the image of Tezcatlipoca acted in the manner of noblemen whose existence was dedicated to play and pleasure (Seler 1899: 155; Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 68; Heyden 1983: 49–54). One is also reminded of the older brothers of the hero twins in the Maya Popol Vuh (1985: 119–124), Hunbatz and Hunchouen, who were transformed into monkeys and became the gods invoked by musicians, painters, and sculptors. In Central Mexico, the monkey is associated with the god Xochipilli, who was a solar deity of music, arts, and play,36 and the monkey is one of Tezcatlipoca’s many animal guises (Thévet 1905: 33).37 Tezcatlipoca also shared many ornaments with the group of deities called Macuilli, of which Xochipilli is the prototype (Seler 1899: 136–138; Codex Borgia 1963, 3: 3). Both deities were invoked under the name Tlazolpilli (Sahagún 1950–1982, 6: 4; Codex Magliabechiano 1970: 34v) and were indirectly credited with the birth of maize.38 Xochipilli was the deity of the “people of the palace” (tecpantzinca inteuh), or nobles, and also the god of flowers celebrated during the Xochiilhuitl feast (Sahagún 1950–1982, 1: 31–32; Codex Tudela 1980: fol. 29r). Tezcatlipoca was similarly venerated by the “people of the palace” (Chimalpahin 1965: 130) and had a special connection with flowers. 39 During Toxcatl people adorned his temple and statue with flowers (Codex Vaticanus A 1964: 138, pl. 59; Durán 1967, 1: 41–43), for “to this demon [Tezcatlipoca] were attributed the dances, the songs, the flowers, and the wearing of labrets and feathers” (Codex Magliabechiano 1970: fol. 32v; Codex Tudela 1980: fol. 15v). The characteristics attributed to Tezcatlipoca thus overlap with the functions assigned to Xochipilli. The impersonator of Tezcatlipoca is the prototype of the nobleman whose life of pleasure on this earth ends with death on the stone of sacrifice (Carrasco 1991: 50–51). In this way, he validates the comment made by Sahagún’s informants (1950–1982, 2: 71) about the end of his life: And this betokened our life on earth. For he who rejoiced, who possessed riches, who sought, who esteemed our lord’s sweetness, his

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fragrance—richness, prosperity—thus ended in great misery. Indeed it was said: “No one on earth went exhausting happiness, riches, wealth.”

The Lord of the Smoking Mirror held the key to reversing men’s fate. Through the ixiptla of Tezcatlipoca, ancient Mexicans illustrated the ephemeral character of the deity’s gifts and recalled that this god was capricious and could retrieve his gifts any time he wished (Sahagún 1950–1982, 1: 5). Regarding the flute played by Tezcatlipoca’s representative and especially the reactions of the audience, Durán (1967, 1: 39–40; 1971: 101) notes: On hearing the notes of the flute, thieves, fornicators, murderers, and all sinners were filled with fear and sadness. Some were so abashed that they could not conceal their having sinned and during all those days prayed that their transgressions remain hidden. In the midst of tearful and strange confusion and repentance they offered large quantities of incense to placate the god.

Tezcatlipoca’s capricious character helps explain the reactions Durán attributes to penitents (Olivier 1997: passim), but the sound of the flute plays a more determining role in precipitating these responses. Sources clearly associate the playing of the flute with the practice of penitential rituals, as well as with the preparation for hunting or war expeditions, the return of warriors, the burial of soldiers and kings, and ritual executions.40 The sources are silent about the effects the Indians attributed to music played specifically with wind instruments, but a significant passage in The Chronicles of Michoacán (1970: 217–218) is noteworthy: They spent two days preparing the captives. . . . They held a vigil with all of them that night in the houses of the chief priests and danced with them. At midnight the trumpets were blown so that the gods would descend from the heavens.

Through wind instruments one attracted the attention of the gods and even provoked their descent upon the earth.41 The many passages describing the use of wind instruments before and sometimes after penitential acts and sacrifice can undoubtedly be interpreted as calls to the gods. The instruments alerted the gods to the offerings that were being made for them: one’s own blood or that of immolated captives. In their story of origins, the Mexica and the ancient Quiche identified the east as the place where music was lost or found, toward the coast, “where the sun was born” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 10: 191; El Título de Totonicapán 1983: 183;

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Popol Vuh 1985: 204). An interesting myth collected by the sixteenth-century Franciscan missionary Fray Andrés de Olmos and transcribed by Thévet (1905: 32–33; Mendieta 1980: 80–81) relates that originally music was the property of the sun.42 After the sacrifice of the gods in Teotihuacan, men gathered their remains and made sacred bundles out of them, but they did not know how to adore them. Tezcatlipoca created Ehecatl (Wind), whom he entrusted with the task of going to the house of the sun to bring the musicians there to the earth. Water goddesses, the nieces of Tezcatlipoca, built a bridge [sic] so that Ehecatl could reach the abode of the sun. The musicians were warned not to answer the intruder with the “mellifluous song,” but in spite of these warnings, one of the musicians succumbed to the charm of the song and followed the envoy of Tezcatlipoca. That was the origin of music and prayers on the earth, thanks to which men could adore the gods. This myth also recalls Quetzalcoatl’s descent into the underworld to retrieve the bones of past generations to create a new humankind (Legend of the Suns in Bierhorst 1992a: 88–89, 1992b: 145–146). As a test, the god of death, Mictlantecuhtli, gave Quetzalcoatl a blocked conch to play. Helped by worms that pierced the conch, then by bees that made it sound, Quetzalcoatl overcame that trial and reached the bones. Singing or instrument playing thus has a dynamic effect. The song of Tezcatlipoca’s envoy lures the sun’s musician to the earth. The conch, once pierced and animated, allows Quetzalcoatl to reach the bones in the underworld and bring them back to the earth. Similarly, according to the myth of the origin of the sun and the moon collected by Sahagún (1950–1982, 7: 8), only the breath of Quetzalcoatl allowed the daystar to move. Several modern myths also give that dynamic function to prayers and songs that made the sun rise.43 In the Popol Vuh (1985: 106, 130), the noise of the ball game provokes the ire of the underworld masters of Xibalba; several modern myths give the same function to the song and music played by the hero.44 In myths of the flood, it was the smoke from a fire lit by Tata and Nene that was the cause of the gods’ rage (Legend of the Suns in Bierhorst 1992a: 87–88, 1992b: 144). Thus noise from the ball game, smoke, and music all have parallel functions. They manifest the acquisition of cultural goods, which constitute a kind of usurpation of the power of the creator gods. These myths allow us to better understand the comment by the author of The Chronicles of Michoacán (1970: 207), who affirms that the sound of “trumpets” provoked the descent of the gods to the places of sacrifice. Through the acquisition of music, humans were able to honor their own creators, but in exchange the gods found themselves obliged to establish reciprocal relationships with them. 120

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How does this myth of the origin of music relate to the rites in Toxcatl? Recall that the representative of Tezcatlipoca was a flutist. As he climbed the steps of the pyramid, he probably represented the mythical ascent toward the diurnal star. The manner in which the impersonator of Tezcatlipoca rose toward the stone of sacrifice—slowly, stopping in order to break a flute on each step—recalls the actions of the messenger sent to the house of the sun, as described by Durán (1967, 1: 107).45 The name of the place where the representative of Tezcatlipoca was to be sacrificed, Tlapitzahuayan, means “place where wind instruments are played.”46 This temple was close to the road to Chalco, a region where Tezcatlipoca was adored under his guise of Tlatlauhqui Tezcatlipoca, “as if he was a great king or lord, since in front of him they humiliated themselves as if he were the sun for them” (Chimalpahin 1965: 164).47 One of the main temples of Tezcatlipoca in that region was in Tlapitzahuayan (Durán 1967, 2: 366),48 which probably alludes to the music made by wind instruments and to a place where an aspect of Tezcatlipoca associated with the sun was adored. The significance of Chalco in a toponym associated with the Toxcatl ritual correlates with the myth of the origin of music. In fact, this account is included in a chapter by Thévet (1905: 31) called “Of the Creation of the World According to the People of the Province of Chalco.” If the ascent of Tezcatlipoca’s representative in Tlapitzahuayan is comparable to the trip made by the envoy of Tezcatlipoca to the house of the sun, perhaps these rites also allude to the “nieces” of Tezcatlipoca mentioned by Olmos (Thévet 1905: 32; Mendieta 1980: 80). Are these mythic goddesses analogous to the wives of the representative of Tezcatlipoca during Toxcatl? The three goddesses who help Yohualli Ehecatl in his quest toward the house of the sun—Acihuatl (water woman), the “siren”; Acipactli (saw fish), the “whale”; and Acapechtli (reed mat or raft), the “tortoise”49—probably correspond to the three “levels” that separate the earth from the sun. The traditions that deal with the number and tutelary deities of these “levels” do not always coincide, but the fourth stage is usually assigned to the sun (Thévet 1905: 22; Codex Vaticanus A 1964: pls. 1, 8). In the Codex Vaticanus A, Acipactli is probably the surface of the earth (tlalticpac); Acihuatl may live in the “aquatic paradise” of Tlalocan located at the second level; and Acapechtli, sometimes assimilated with Citlalicue,50 would be the goddess of the third level (ilhuicatl citlalicue). The companions of the representative of Tezcatlipoca may have played the roles similar to the goddesses in the myth. One of the names of the goddesses can be translated as “reed canoe.” One of the young girls bore the name Atlatonan, “our mother of the water,” and might represent Acihuatl, who was, 121

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according to Thévet, “half woman, half fish.” Xilonen, “womb of the tender maize ear” or “mother of the tender maize ear” (Jiménez Moreno in Sahagún 1974: 37) was the name of another young girl. A link between Xilonen and the tortoise of Totonac and Tepehua myths can be made. The tortoise collected xambe (green maize flour) on its shell, from which the maize-child was born (Ichon 1969: 64–65, 72; Williams García 1972: 88). Ayopechtli, identified as Acapechtli, the tortoise goddess cited by Thévet, also presided over the birth of children (Sahagún 1958: 128–129). There remains Acipactli, in whom we might see the goddess Xochiquetzal. Caso (1967: 190) mentions that Cipactli was one of Xochiquetzal’s names, and in the thirteenth trecena of the divinatory almanac (tonalamatl) ruled by Xochiquetzal, she wears a crocodilian helmet (Codex Borgia 1963, 3: 62). Another problem remains: the number of goddesses, three in the myth and four in the ritual. This difference may be explained by a transformation from a vertical model in the myth to a horizontal one in the ritual. The three goddesses of the myth were parallel to the three “cosmic levels” located below the sun, whereas the representatives of the four goddesses correspond to a horizontal spatial model that would have favored the number four. Thus in the myth Tezcatlipoca “appeared in three ways or figures” (Mendieta 1980: 80). In the ritual, Tezcatlipoca played the flute toward the four directions, and with his four companions he sang and danced for four days in four distinct places associated with the four cardinal points (Seler 1899: 156; Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 70; Durán 1967, 1, 38–39).51 The fourth goddess participating in Toxcatl was Huixtocihuatl, the older sister of the Tlaloque, or rain gods. After having offended them, she journeyed to the coast, where she discovered salt (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 91). She is thus linked to the sea and to the fifth “level” of the cosmos, called ilhuicatl huixtotlan (Codex Vaticanus A 1964, pls. 1, 9). According to López Austin (1988, 1: 57), “Huixtocihuatl [is] the goddess of saline waters that rose as an encircling wall until they touched the heavens.” Huixtocihuatl’s space may thus constitute a circular envelope around the earth and the four upper levels, or she may represent the passage through the sea, which leads from a terrestrial space to a celestial one. SYMBOLIC DEATH OF THE KING IN TOXCATL We now turn to the king, the personage whose limited presence and prolonged absence from this rite is significant. In Toxcatl the king personally adorned the representative of Tezcatlipoca, whom he called “his beloved god” (ytlaçoteouh; Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 69), and was the sacrificer at the 122

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ceremony.52 Graulich (1999: 349) suggests that the seclusion of the king in his palace probably meant that he was fasting, as were those who were offering captives for sacrifice. His absence can also be explained by the fact that the representative of Tezcatlipoca was a substitute for the king. Some sources indicate that through sacrificial victims the sacrificers were really offering their own lives to the deities.53 Among other documents, the speeches collected in Book 6 (Rhetoric and Moral Philosophy) of the Florentine Codex express the close relationship that existed between the king and Tezcatlipoca. On the occasion of the sovereign’s election and enthronement, high officials addressed the new king with long speeches that contained important metaphors. When a high priest addressed himself to Tezcatlipoca, asking him to help the new king in his tasks, he said, “Verily now, inspire him, animate him, for thou makest of him thy seat, for he is as thy flute” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 6: 19). Elsewhere he said, “Thou art the backrest, thou art the flute; he speaketh within thee” (p. 50). The seat of power that the king was to occupy was “where thou art replaced by another, where thou art substituted, where there is pronouncing for thee, where there is speaking for thee, where thou usest one as a flute” (p. 43). Finally accepting his fate, the king shouted, “O master, O our lord, verily I am thy backrest, I am thy flute” (p. 45). These texts reveal that on the earth the king represented the god Tezcatlipoca, who acted with persons through his intermediary. Being the god’s interpreter, the king was considered to be “possessed,” that is, the deity was within him.54 The flute used by the impersonator of Tezcatlipoca represents the way to communicate with the deity. Through the flute, the king received the god’s directions and conveyed them to his people. By owning the flute, the king became the mediator between the god and humanity, a function whose origin is obvious in the myth collected by Fray Andrés de Olmos (Thévet 1905: 32–33). Recall that in the myth the envoy-counterpart of Tezcatlipoca descended from the abode of the sun and offered music to people so that they could adore their gods. In the ritual, the representative of Tezcatlipoca returned toward the sun and broke the flutes.55 By breaking them on the temple steps, he foresaw his own death by becoming one with the instrument. With his death the possibility of contact with the god was broken, and only with the coming of a new representative would it be possible to reestablish a link between the gods and humans. The king could then leave his retreat, and the sound of flutes would again make the presence of the god known in the city.56 The second part of the Toxcatl rituals centered on the militant solar god Huitzilopochtli (Sahagún 1950–1982,2: 71–77). His amaranth statue and a 123

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sacred roll representing his loincloth were brought in procession by warriors and the teachers of the young men and raised to the top of the temple. Following a series of banquets and dances, the sacrifice of Tlacahuepan, the image of Huitzilopochtli, took place. Durán (1967, 1: 44) describes how young secluded girls prepared offerings of amaranth and honey, covered by a cloth bearing a motif of skulls and bones, which they carried to the courtyard adjoining the room with Huitzilopochtli’s statue. These offerings recall the ones given to the statue of Tezcatlipoca (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 72). Both Durán and Sahagún’s informants describe a rite that consisted of shooting arrows toward those offerings or toward the amaranth paste statues. One might suppose that an amaranth statue of Tezcatlipoca was also there with the offerings mentioned by Durán. The testimony of Motolinia (1971: 51) affirms that an amaranth statue of Tezcatlipoca was also made in Toxcatl. According to Diego de Holguín’s eyewitness account (Documentos Cortesianos 1990, 1: 207), “[T]here was one [god] called Uchilobos [Huitzilopochtli], of whom they had made a statue of ground maize with human blood and hearts . . . , and that idol Uchilobos had an Indian tied on its back with a rope, and another idol was in the front with an Indian in the same manner.” There were indeed two amaranth statues, one of Huitzilopochtli and one of Tezcatlipoca.57 The Codex Tudela (1980: fol. 15v) specifies that during Toxcatl the clothes worn by the slave or captive who represented Tezcatlipoca were kept in a chest covered with a cloth representing the deity. This set, which I have identified as a sacred bundle (tlaquimilolli; Olivier 1995: 110), was honored in the house of the one who had captured or offered the image of Tezcatlipoca. When the sacrificer was the king, these divine clothes were kept either in the temple of the god or they accompanied the deceased king on his last journey (Durán 1967, 1: 39; Alva Ixtlilxochitl 1985, 1: 351). The mention of sacred bundles is not surprising. If my interpretation of Toxcatl is correct—that it actually signifies the ritual death of the king-Tezcatlipoca—then their presence, whose mythical apparition followed the death of the gods and played a role in the king’s enthronement ceremonies, is logical (Olivier 1995). The sacred roll is also significant (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 72; 12: 52). Warriors and teachers of the young men carried it and the paste statue in procession. The statue of the god was placed atop the temple, whereas the sacred roll was placed upon the “bed of serpents” (coatlapechco; Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 72–73). Mexica migration accounts mention the loincloth of Huitzilopochtli that his devotees carried as a relic (Historia de los Mexicanos 1965: 44, 47); it is also mentioned in Toxcatl. Note that the amaranth bones placed around the statue of Huitzilopochtli had the same name as the sacred 124

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roll: teumjmjlli. The motifs on the cloths that covered the bones are the same as those on the “painted pieces of cloth with skulls and crossed bones” that enveloped the offerings of amaranth and honey described by Durán (1967, 1: 44).58 These motifs are identical to those that adorned the tlaquimilolli of Tezcatlipoca in Tetzcoco (Pomar 1986: 59). Does that mean that these bone wrappings or the offerings mentioned by Durán could be the sacred bundles of Tezcatlipoca? Possibly, for in Tetzcoco a sacred bundle of Tezcatlipoca included his femur (Las Casas 1967, 1: 643).59 Another hypothesis can be proposed regarding mirrors. Tovar, who describes the statue of Huitzilopochtli, claims that “[f]or eyes they gave it two mirrors which were always guarded in the temple, and which they called the eyes of god” (The Tovar Calendar 1951: pl. 6). These “little mirrors . . . , concealed by a very rich cover resembling a low hat” (pl. 9), evoke the sacred bundle of Tezcatlipoca, a mirror wrapped in a piece of cloth kept in the Tlacateco or Tlacochcalco in Tetzcoco (Pomar 1986: 59). If the loincloth of Huitzilopochtli was displayed together with the statue of the god at the top of the temple, could the mirror of Tezcatlipoca also have been present near his statue? If so, Tovar, who speaks only of Huitzilopochtli in his description of Toxcatl, would have confused Huitzilopochtli with Tezcatlipoca (whose head is represented elsewhere in the symbol of the feast in The Tovar Calendar). This conclusion is true, unless the merging of these two deities—who were primarily manifested through their ornaments and representatives (Graulich 1999: 358)—also extended to their respective sacred bundles. Whether as amaranth bones or as wrapped mirror, Tezcatlipoca’s sacred bundle and Huitzilopochtli’s loincloth were present during Toxcatl. The sacred bundles of these gods also played an important part in the king’s enthronement ceremonies, interpreted here as a symbol of the ritual death of the future governor and his rebirth as a king (Olivier 1995: 124– 129).60 It is important to note that the temple at which the representative of Tezcatlipoca was sacrificed bore the same name—Tlacochcalco—as the building where future rulers were secluded before their enthronement and where the bodies of dead ones were kept. The names of these buildings are probably not a coincidence. The temple on top of which the representative of the king-Tezcatlipoca was immolated was analogous to the place where the future king performed the penitential rites related to a symbolic death (Olivier 1995: 128–129). The king was then in contact with the sacred bundles of both Huitzilopochtli and Tezcatlipoca (Pomar 1986: 59, 78–79). Their presence during Toxcatl confirms the parallels between that feast and the rites of enthronement.61 125

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The significant role of smoke during Toxcatl is a final consideration. Toxcatl means “fumigation,” “incense,” or “smoke.”62 During Toxcatl incense was burned in homes and before musical instruments and statues of Tezcatlipoca, Huitzilopochtli, and other gods (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 73–74; Codex Vaticanus A 1964: 138, pl. 59; Durán 1967, 1: 256; Pomar 1986: 55). Copal was considered a food of the gods. Of the “man-god” Andrés Mixcoatl, who had people adore him as Tezcatlipoca, a witness declared “that as he did not see him eat anything, but he was always asking for copal, and he wanted only to eat that; he thought he was a god and as such he venerated him” (Procesos 1912: 61).63 One can establish a link between the incense burning during Toxcatl and the name of the deity that was venerated.64 Of the procession during which the idol (representative?) of Tezcatlipoca was honored with incense, Durán (1967, 1: 41; 1971: 104) writes, “[E]very time the incense was burned, each raised his arm as high as he could. This ceremony was in honor of the god [Tezcatlipoca] and of the sun, who were asked to grant all these prayers and pleas rising to heaven, just as the perfumed smoke rose.” Music was supposed to draw the gods’ attention, especially Tezcatlipoca’s; a similar function can be attributed to the burning of copal. Note the similarity between the speech sign and the signs for music and smoke.65 According to a metaphor recorded by Sahagún’s informants (1950–1982, 6: 244), poctli, aiavitl (smoke, mist) designates “honor and prestige.” This metaphor applied precisely to the king who had just died and whose honor and glory, “smoke and mist,” had not yet dissipated. CONCLUSION In Book 2 of the Florentine Codex, Sahagún informants provide the most notable written descriptions and images of the veintena feast of Toxcatl and of the representatives of the gods honored at that time. Descriptions and images of Tezcatlipoca’s representative highlight the presence of warlike ornaments connected with the solar fate of the sacrificial victim and of the mirrorlike tlachieloni that was the main symbol of this deity. The significance of the flute during Toxcatl rituals correlates with a myth that attributes the origin of musical instruments to Tezcatlipoca, Lord of the Smoking Mirror. The myth of the origin of music was thus reenacted during Toxcatl rituals. The slow ascent of the pyramid by the god’s representative is similar to the mythical ascent towards the sun. Through the name of the place where the final sacrifice was carried out, we find a double allusion to flutes and to Chalco, the same city from which the myth of the origin of music comes. The testimony of Sahagún’s informants indicates that the person performing the sacrifice during Toxcatl was the king. His seclusion inside his palace 126

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signals a substitution: The image of Tezcatlipoca takes the place of the tlatoani during the ritual. Several metaphors in the Florentine Codex reveal the close links that existed between Tezcatlipoca, the flute, and the sovereign. The instrument allowed the divinity to communicate his will to the king, and the king likened himself to the flute of Tezcatlipoca. By breaking his flutes on the stairs of the temple, the representative of Tezcatlipoca not only reenacted the myth of the solar origin of music, but also expressed the temporary break of relations between the people and the gods, which coincided with the death of the sovereign. With the appearance of the new representatives of the gods, the king was reborn, and the sound of the flutes again demonstrated the restoration of contact with Tezcatlipoca. The presence of sacred bundles during Toxcatl also allows us to connect this feast with the rites of the king’s inauguration. In both cases, rituals took place in which the king died symbolically by carrying out penitential exercises and by sacrificing a substitute who represented Tezcatlipoca. This intensive focus on the richness and ramifications of just one of the eighteen veintena ceremonies—Toxcatl—demonstrates the intricacy of the ritual system reenacted annually by the Mexica (see also Nicholson, “Veintena Ceremonies,” this volume). The remarkably detailed descriptions and images of Book 2 convey the numerous ways that Sahagún informants used to represent the complexities of Mexica ritual performance during the Toxcatl ceremony. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I would like to express my appreciation to Michel Besson for translating the text from French into English and to Rodolfo Avila for his drawings. NOTES 1. Sahagún, who above all else was a missionary, wanted to know in detail all the “idolatrous” manifestations of the Indians, essentially to put an end to them. He does not hesitate to call several indigenous rites childish and senseless (Sahagún 1988, 1: 75). On this subject, see Olivier (2002). 2. See Seler (1899), Beyer (1965), Séjourné (1982), Graulich (1987, 1999), Carrasco (1991), and Heyden (1991). These interpretations are analyzed in Olivier (1997: 224–229). 3. Ancient authors are divided between those who maintained that the leap year was unknown to the indigenous people (Motolinia 1971: 44) and those who believed the Mexica used intercalary days (Durán 1967, 1: 226, 293; Sahagún 1988, 1: 98, 278). Seler (1990–1998, 4: 91–92) and Caso (1967: 78) accepted Motolinia’s thesis, whereas Castillo (1971: 75–104) and Aguilera (1982: 185–207) favored the existence of leap years. According to Graulich (1987: 293–329, 1999: 63–85), the veintenas had seasonal significance but were set off from the actual year.

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4. According to Durán (1967, 1: 40–41, 255), the name of that veintena meant “drought and lack of water.” Toxcatl could also be the name of the twisted rope of roasted maize. Most modern authors (Caso 1967: 35; Nicholson 1971: table 1; Carrasco 1976: 276; Heyden 1991: 188; Graulich 1999: 339–340) accept Durán’s translation. Seler (1899: 116) suggests that toxcatl designated one who is adorned with grains of roasted maize. According to Jiménez Moreno (in Sahagún 1974: 31), there is a relation between tozquitl (voice, song, throat) and tozcatl or toxcatl (throat). He also brings together toxcatl and cozcatl (collar) and hypothesizes that tozcatl could be an archaic form of tezcatl (mirror). Serna (1987: 319, 324) translates tochcatl [sic] as “effort,” whereas Las Navas (n.d.: 147–150) translates it as “sliding.” 5. Authors propose dates from April (The Tovar Calendar 1951: pl. 6) to May. According to the Codex Tudela (1980: fol. 15r), the feast started on April 22, although Sahagún (1997: 59) proposes April 27, and the Codex Vaticanus A (1964, 3: 138, pl. 138) proposes May 15. Torquemada (1975–1983, 3: 371) gives April 24 to May 14, Serna (1987: 324) lists May 8 to 28, and Durán (1967, 1: 40) proposes May 9 to 19. 6. Despite its importance, in this study I do not discuss the seasonal dimension of the feast (see note 3). 7. Sahagún (1988, 1: 121) points out that this personage was the image of Huitzilopochtli. Other data concerning the representatives of this god can be found in Sahagún (1950–1982, 3: 7–8; 1974: 237) as well as in descriptions of the veintenas of Panquetzaliztli (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 149; 1997: 64–66; Motolinia 1971: 53) and Tlacaxipehualiztli (Durán 1967, 1: 97). To my knowledge, no document clarifies the social status of the ixiptla of Huitzilopochtli. 8. I have used the words representative and image interchangeably to translate the Nahuatl word ixiptla. About this term, see Garibay (in Sahagún 1958: 177–178), Broda (1970: 243), López Austin (1973: 119; 1988, 1: 376–378), and Graulich (1994: 112). 9. About the fasting clothes of the god’s representative, the description given by Sahagún’s informants coincides largely with Durán’s account and illustration (1967, 1: 47, pl. 8). Both include the shell necklace, labret, cape in embroidered mesh, loincloth, gold bracelets, and ankle bells. 10. Curiously, the image of Tezcatlipoca is represented by the skin of a sacrificial victim in the Florentine Codex (Sahagún 1979, 1: fols. 30v, 31r). The only text that might explain this peculiarity is the testimony of Serna (1987: 356), who asserts that the representative of Tezcatlipoca was skinned and his flesh distributed among the main personages of the city, including the young man who would replace him the following year. Did the newly elected representative also inherit the skin of his predecessor? Would the personages depicted as being covered with skins in the Florentine Codex represent these new personifications? 11. These fourteen representations appear in Codex Borbonicus (1979: 26); Codex Magliabechiano (1970: fol. 33); Codex Vaticanus A (1964: 138, pl. 59); Codex Tudela (1980: fol. 15); Codex Ixtlilxochitl (1976: fol. 96r); Durán (1967, 1: 8); Florentine Codex (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: pls. 15, 16, 17, 19, 20, 21); Primeros Memoriales (Sahagún 1993: fol. 250v); and The Tovar Calendar (1951: pl. 6).

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12. On at least three figures (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 17, 19, 21), representing the instrument was hardly possible, given the pose of the personage. Only two Toxcatl images would thus lack the tlachieloni (Codex Borbonicus 1979: 26; Codex Vaticanus A 1964: 138, pl. 59). 13. Two are represented in Sahagún’s manuscripts (1950–1982, 1: pl. 3; 1993: fol. 261r), but the personages who wear them may be representatives of Tezcatlipoca (Nicholson 1988: 229–230). The two other Tezcatlipoca figures (or his images) that bear the tlachieloni appear in Duran (1967, 1: pl. 8) and the Codex Ramírez (1980: pl. 21). As noted, the ornaments of the personage represented in Durán corresponded roughly to those described by Sahagún’s informants. 14. One is also tempted to connect the tlachieloni, the “optical apparatus with a hole to look through” (Sahagún 1997: 95), to the pierced shields with which the dead warriors looked at the sun (Sahagún 1950–1982, 3: 49). 15. Many modern authors have not taken into account contradictory data about those men. Most scholars (López Austin 1973: 152; Séjourné 1982: 157; Carrasco 1991: 34; Heyden 1991: 196) follow Sahagún and speak of a war prisoner. Beyer (1965: 307) believes he was a slave. Seler (1899: 154, 158) sums up the testimonies of Sahagún and Durán but does not remark on their differences. Only Brundage (1979: 99) has mentioned both possibilities. 16. The Nahuatl text gives a long list of physical defects that those young men should lack. What emerges is a fundamental text for the Pre-Columbian conception of masculine beauty. See also the way in which the merchants chose their slaves for the sacrifice during the feast of Panquetzaliztli (Sahagún 1950–1982, 9: 46) or the representative of Quetzalcoatl in the city of Cholollan (Durán 1967, 1: 63). 17. According to González Torres (1972: 194), “This explains why all the ‘images’ that represented the gods have been purified slaves except in the case of Tezcatlipoca, even though that may be reconsidered if one takes into account the reference to the selection of Tezcatlipoca’s images in the Florentine Codex, whose confused context permits other possible interpretations.” The evocation of “confusion” in the account by Sahagún’s informants probably refers to the following passage: “[T] hese were indeed selected captives; they were selected when captives were taken. There one was chosen if he was seen to be suitable, if he was fair of body. Then he was taken. They entrusted these to stewards. But one destined to be a slave, him the captor slew” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 66). Did prisoners not selected to represent Tezcatlipoca become slaves, who were then sacrificed by those who captured them? Or, as Carrasco (1976: 256) proposes, did warriors who abandoned their captives to the calpixque receive in exchange slaves whom they sacrificed? 18. It also fell upon the merchants to offer slaves to be future images of the gods Yacatecuhtli, Chiconquiahuitl, Cuauhtlaxayauh, Coyotlinahual, and Chachalmecacihuatl, who were sacrificed during the veintena of Xocotlhuetzi (Durán 1967, 1: 120). The gods Xipe Totec, Xilonen, Toci, and Camaxtli were also personified by purified slaves (pp. 96, 126, 145, 289). For Xipe Totec, see also Motolinia (1971: 51). 19. See also Motolinia (1971: 49, 61). 20. The slaves who represented Mixcoatl and Ixcozauhqui are cited in the Codex Tudela (1980: fols. 24r, 28r). One can add to that list and Durán’s the slaves

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who impersonated the gods Tlaloc and Chalchiuhtlicue (Motolinia 1971: 64) and Tonan and Xochipilli (Codex Tudela 1980: fols. 17r, 27r, 29r). 21. See the observations of Séjourné (1982: 18–23), González Torres (1985: 252–254), and Carrasco (1991: 50–51). 22. About future sacrificial victims locked in wooden cells, see Sahagún (1950–1982, 9: 46) and Durán (1967, 1: 63). 23. Several testimonies relate to prisoners who refused exception and chose to die in sacrifice, such as the famous Tlaxcalteca warrior Tlahuicole (Durán 1967, 2: 455–457; Muñoz Camargo 1984: 186–188); the Mexica king Huitzilihuitl; the noble Mexica prisoners of the Colhua (Chimalpahin 1991: 148–149); and Tamapucheca, son of the Purepecha lord Tariacuri (The Chronicles of Michoacán 1970: 225–227). Without demeaning the ideological function of these accounts, undoubtedly meant to strengthen the spirit of warriors or young men destined for a military career, one cannot deny offhand the veracity of this attitude before death. For instance, the Quiche warrior made prisoner in the Rabinal Achi (1994: 312–315) is authorized to go back home before being sacrificed. According to Motolinia (1971: 419–420), “[I] f a lord or noble among the war prisoners were to escape, those of his own people would sacrifice him, and if he was of a low status, which was called macehual, his lord would give him pieces of cloth.” Sahagún’s informants (1950–1982, 1: 32) mention the flight of prisoners destined to be sacrificed, but their social status is not specified. 24. According to Serna (1987: 356), the one who was to succeed him the following year accompanied the representative of Tezcatlipoca. The former interrogated him, telling him that he was born to die in this way and had to accept his destiny. 25. According to Carrasco (1991: 50), “This ascent toward his death is marked by astonishing self-control and a commitment that is hard to believe.” 26. Mention of the voluntary ascent of a pyramid by a representative of a god occurs only in the feast of Quecholli. The images of Mixcoatl and Tlamatzincatl went of their own accord toward the sacrificers (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 139). Although it is exceptional, the attitude of Tezcatlipoca’s representative is thus not unique. 27. According to Chimalpahin (1997: 124–125), until 1415, noble war prisoners from Chalco and Mexico were freed after battles, and only common captives were sacrificed. Things changed thereafter, and nobles apparently were not spared. An inverse situation existed in Yucatán, where, according to Gaspar Antonio Chi (in Strecker and Artieda 1978: 101), noble war prisoners were sacrificed while the others were bound for slavery. 28. Torquemada (1975–1983, 3: 376) writes, “[F]our beautiful young courtesans [were] raised only for that purpose.” 29. Heyden (1991: 200–201) believes there were several ixiptla of these goddesses. Those who were sacrificed would have been virgins and thus could not be the same as those destined to be married to Tezcatlipoca in Toxcatl. Some goddess representatives, however, apparently did have sexual intercourse before being sacrificed (Motolinia 1971: 63–64). 30. To bolster this interpretation, one can cite the testimony of an indigenous man in the minutes of a trial by the Holy Inquisition against the “man-god” Andrés

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Mixcoatl: “[T]hese people believed so much in the man called Andrés that the nobles used to give him their daughters . . . ; they thought that perhaps this would create a caste of gods.” (Procesos 1912: 58). 31. Moreno de los Arcos (1966: 17, 27) regards the four young women as courtesans and raises the possibility of a “sacred prostitution,” but he acknowledges that this text is not explicit. 32. The payment to the young woman was peculiar; she received the blanket and clothes that had adorned the image of the god. In the Primeros Memoriales (Sahagún 1997: 67), in Izcalli, “His guardian was a pleasure girl who always slept with him during the twenty days, and after the bathed one [Ixcozauhqui] had died the pleasure girl took all the bathed one’s possessions.” The Rabinal Achi (1994: 304–309) shows a warrior on the verge of being sacrificed, to whom the king Job Toj offers a young woman “as the great sign of your death, of your disappearance.” 33. This passage is also reproduced by Torquemada (1975–1983, 3: 427). 34. Xochiquetzal was the first to die in the war (Historia de los Mexicanos 1965: 34). Cihuacoatl is sometimes presented as the mother of Quetzalcoatl who died while giving birth to him (“Relación de Ahuatlan,” in Relaciones Geográficas . . . Tlaxcala 1985: 73). We know that women who died in labor were likened to warriors who died on the battlefield (Sullivan 1966). Furthermore, Chimalma, who is merged with Cihuacoatl (also the mother of Quetzalcoatl in the Legend of the Suns [Bierhorst 1992a: 94, 1992b: 153]), is called “the one who fought in the war” (Motolinia 1971: 52). 35. Xochiquetzal and Cihuacoatl, represented by courtesans during Quecholli, also acted in Toxcatl (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 70; Durán 1967, 1: 256; Codex Borbonicus 1979: 26). 36. The sign ozomatli (monkey) is under the patronage of this deity in the Codex Borgia (1963, 3: 13) and the Codex Vaticanus B (1902–1903: 32). On Xochipilli, see Seler (1899: 137–140; 1963, 1: 102–107), Nicholson (1971: 417–418), and Graulich (1999: 392–401). 37. In the Codex Borgia (1963, 3: 49), a monkey is represented with the face painting of Tezcatlipoca. 38. Piltzintecuhtli and Xochiquetzal conceived the god of maize, Centeotl (Thévet 1905: 31; Sahagún 1958: 108–109; Historia de los Mexicanos 1965: 40). But the son of Piltzintecuhtli and Xochiquetzal is sometimes called Xochipilli (Thévet 1905: 30). Other sources assert that Tezcatlipoca was the seducer of Xochiquetzal and father of maize (Seler 1963, 1: 155–156; Olivier 1997: 140–148). 39. “It is not our right to smell in the midst, the center, of them [the flowers]; he alone who pervadeth all, Titlacahuan, may smell that place. Our right is only to smell them at the edges” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 5: 184). 40. The many references to the use of flutes are collected and analyzed in Olivier (1997: 244–245). Just for the Florentine Codex, see Sahagún (1950–1982, 2: 52, 81, 88, 94, 105, 129, 134, 148; 3: 22; 7: 35, 62, 81; 9: 4, 63; 12: 115, etc.). 41. At the turn of the century the Lacandons venerated censers that represented their deities. The head of the community used to blow a conch while turning in all di-

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rections. “This is done to call the gods so they could partake of the offerings that have been deposited on the lid of the incense burner” (Tozzer 1982: 94–95, 132). 42. The solar god of the ancient Mayas was also considered a great singer and musician (López de Cogolludo, cited in Thompson 1939: 140). 43. Stresser-Péan (1962: 22); Ichon (1969: 58); Williams García (1972: 93–94). 44. Thompson (1930: 131); Foster (1945: 192); Ichon (1969: 64, 67); Williams García (1972: 89–90). 45. “[A]nd he began his ascent up the steps of the temple, little by little, pausing at each step. He lingered for a while, and, after going up to the next step, he tarried again. He did this according to instructions he had received regarding the time he was to spend on each step. He was also supposed to illustrate the movement of the sun by going up little by little, imitating [the sun’s] course here upon the earth. Thus it took him a long time to ascend the steps” (Durán 1971: 189). Note that this messenger is a prisoner of war and that he was sacrificed at noon, that is to say, at the same hour as the representative of Tezcatlipoca (1967, 1: 59, 106–108). 46. Alfredo López Austin, personal communication, August 18, 1994. 47. Chalco was called “the glorious and famous place of the turkey” (Chimalpahin 1965: 123), and Tezcatlipoca was known to manifest himself in the shape of a turkey (Olivier 1997: 138). Serna (1987: 280) avers that Tezcatlipoca was originally the god of Tlalmanalco (near Chalco) and that the Mexica adopted that deity after contact with that community. 48. Carrasco (1991: 34, 36) suggests that the sacrifice of the representative of Tezcatlipoca was made at the ceremonial center of Chalco. Durán (1967, 2: 366; 1994: 358) writes, “an imposing, splendid temple called Tlapitzahuayan. . . . This was a highly revered and sumptuous temple where everyone in the Chalco area went when there were ceremonies, such as offerings and sacrifices. In the temple were statues of Huitzilopochtli and Tezcatlipoca . . . , although the main devotion was to Tezcatlipoca.” The coincidence between the toponyms is remarkable, but it is not enough to identify both edifices. The “sumptuous” temple described by Durán may even be a double temple (as Huitzilopochtli was also honored there), which does match the “small temple” (teucaltontli) of Sahagún’s informants (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 71). The Spanish version (Sahagún 1988, 1: 117) mentions a “small and badly set up temple that was on the side of the road and far from any inhabited place.” 49. I propose to transform Acapachtli into Acapechtli (“reed mat or raft,” according to Molina [1977: fol. 1v], which could be an aspect of the goddess Ayopechtli [“tortoise bed”; Sahagún 1958: 138–139]). This translation corresponds to the function that many modern myths assign to the tortoise: to carry the hero on its back and allow him to cross a water expanse (Foster 1945: 193; Ichon 1969: 65, 72; Williams García 1972: 88). Tezcatlipoca is associated with this peculiar means of transportation in the Lienzo de Jucutacato (in López Austin 1990: 441): “Now they want the sun to rise. Tezcatlipoca deigned to tell them, ‘Let us go to a new land.’ Immediately in this manner they climbed on the tortoises.” 50. A constellation of the ancient Mayas was called tortoise (Thompson 1985: 111). The relationship between the tortoise and the sky is found among the Maya-­

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Kekchis, whose sun-hero is actually transformed into a tortoise to escape from his father-in-law (Thompson 1930: 128). About the relationship between Acapechtli and Citlalicue, see Olivier (1997: 251–252). 51. Ruiz de Alarcón (1984: 70–72) explains the importance of the number four in the rituals by quoting the myth of the birth of the sun, which appeared briefly three times without leaving enough time for his adorers to offer him gifts. At last he appeared to the east and his devotees could celebrate his coming with offerings. 52. I must point out, however, that Durán (1967, 1: 59) and the authors of Costumbres (1945: 43) and the Codex Tudela (1980: fol. 15v) affirm that an individual could offer the prisoner or slave who would impersonate Tezcatlipoca. 53. According to Graulich (1987: 105), “[I]n Mexican rites, the sacrificer who ‘kills’ [i.e., offers for sacrifice] a human victim thus succeeds in ‘looking the great god Huitzilopochtli in the eyes’ (Sahagún 1950–1982, 9: 55). This is one of the factors that leads me to believe that the victim is a substitute for the sacrificer, that the former dies in the latter’s place, and that the latter offers his life vicariously.” 54. When he evokes the lords chosen by Tezcatlipoca, the new ruler describes them as “thy friends, thy chosen ones. . . . [T]hou hast opened their eyes, thou hast opened their ears. And thou hast taken possession of them, thou hast inspired them. Just so were they created . . . ; their day signs were such that they would become lords, would become rulers. It is said that they will become thy backrests, thy flutes” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 6: 41). 55. The Mexica ritual does not here reenact a myth that can be found in Mexica mythology. It seems rather to invert the Chalca myth (to give back or to destroy the instruments instead of acquiring them). One can only regret the lack of knowledge concerning Chalca feasts. Here one could eventually find a system that Lévi-Strauss (1958: 257–266, 1968: 252) has demonstrated in several Indian groups in North America, where “a people poses the same problem in ritual that a neighboring one ponders through mythology.” 56. There is an interesting parallel to the association between a deity and a musical instrument. Durán (1967, 1: 63–65; 1971: 134) tells of a priest who lived in the temple of Quetzalcoatl in Cholollan and was in charge of playing the drum. “This drum was so big that its hoarse sound was heard through the city. . . . Thus, when the Indians heard the sound of the drum, they said, ‘Let us retire, for Yecatl has sounded.’ ” The relationship between Quetzalcoatl and power is well known, and musical instruments are among the command insignia that Nacxitl, his Quiche equivalent, transmits to future lords (El Título de Totonicapán 1983: 183; Popol Vuh 1985: 204). A puzzling similarity exists between the representative of Quetzalcoatl sacrificed in Cholollan and the image of Tezcatlipoca who died in Toxcatl: Both were described as beautiful young men “without blemish,” who were exhibited in the streets of the city. According to Durán (1967, 1: 63; 1971: 132), the impersonator of Quetzalcoatl “sang and danced in order to be recognized as the impersonator of the god. These things [were] substituted [for] the flute, which the other [Tezcatlipoca] played for the same reason, that of being recognized.” According to Román y Zamora (cited in Seler 1899: 121), the feast of Quetzalcoatl in Cholollan occurred in May

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at the same time as Toxcatl. Graulich (1999: 351) suggests that Quetzalcoatl was originally celebrated at the same time as Tezcatlipoca in Toxcatl. 57. This is enough to invalidate the modern interpretations that postulate the replacement of Tezcatlipoca, as a young warrior, by Huitzilopochtli, who was represented by a statue made of amaranth (Beyer 1965; Séjourné 1982; Heyden 1991). 58. Sahagún’s informants describe preparations for Toxcatl made in the presence of the Spaniards (Sahagún 1950–1982, 12: 51–56). See the illustrations in the Florentine Codex (Sahagún 1979, 3: pls. 57, 58, 60, 61, 63). The statue of Huitzilopochtli wore a sleeveless jacket (xicolli) adorned with motifs in the shape of human bones (Sahagún 1950–1982, 12: 72; 1979, 3: pl. 52). 59. Are the wrapped amaranth bones identical to replicas of the sacred bundle? When the young men fight to reach the wrapped bones, they are actually training for the task for which they are destined: waging war. Catching and keeping these parcels as “relics” correspond to the capture of an enemy, whose femur was kept as a trophy (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 60; Durán 1967, 2: 165). 60. In this regard, one can cite the example of the Mixtec rulers, who spent a whole year locked up in a temple, where they had to endure rigorous penance. Before a ruler was confirmed in his new function, “they went to fetch him with great rejoicing and pomp . . . , and they carried him to be washed; and four young girls, daughters of noblemen, washed his body with soap because he was blackened by the smoke of the torches” (Herrera, cited in Dahlgren 1954: 306–307). The presence of four young girls is significant, as is the ritual bathing. The latter recalls the ceremony of “baptism” but also the crossing of an expanse of water, which is found in the origin stories of most peoples (López Austin 1973: 56, 92–93). These rites could correspond to the symbolic rebirth of the lord. 61. The veintena during which the enthroning ceremonies occurred must have varied. Alva Ixtlilxochitl (1985, 2: 177) affirms that the enthroning of Motecuhzoma II was held during Toxcatl. For a critical view of that opinion, see Graulich (1994: 441). 62. Tepopochhuiliztli (Motolinia 1971: 45; Codex Tudela 1980: fol. 15r); Tepopochtli (“Relación Geográfica de Teutitlan,” in Relaciones Geográficas . . . Antequera 1984: 199); Popochtli (“Relación Geográfica de Meztitlan,” in Relaciones Geográficas . . . México 1986: 56). For the translation of these terms, see Caso (1967: 35), Molina (1977: fols. 83r, 106v), and Graulich (1999: 340). 63. When discussing the Indians of the province of Suchitepequez (Guatemala), Antonio Margil calls copal the “main nourishment of the demon” (in Dupiech-Cavaleri and Ruz 1988: 245). According to the Chontales of Oaxaca, the smoke from the offerings is transformed into a flat maize cake as it reaches the abode of the gods (Carrasco 1960: 107). 64. Seler (1899: 161–162) saw in the production of smoke an argument in favor of his own interpretation of Toxcatl as the feast of New Fire, but see Graulich (1999: 308–309). According to Heyden (1991: 655), smoke corresponded to the smoke of the fields that were burned in May before sowing. Graulich (1999: 351) states, “[I]f one burned much incense in Toxcatl or Tepopochhuiliztli (Fumigation), it was not only to purify everything but also to build a smoke screen between the sun and the earth.”

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65. In Codex Becker I (1961: 28), two personages play a flute from which two volutes escape, reproducing the motif generally interpreted as the symbol for smoke. One can compare the volutes emanating from a conch blown in the Codex Vindobonensis (1992: 20), the glyph for speech in front of Quetzalcoatl (p. 38), and the symbols for smoke (pp. 12, 18, 21, 32, 50).

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Plate 1. Monument to Fray Bernardino de Sahagún in the town of Sahagún, Spain. Photograph by Eloise Quiñones Keber.

Plate 2. Carved details of monument base depicting Fray Bernardino (a) preaching and (b) writing. Photographs by Eloise Quiñones Keber.

Plate 3. Schematic plan of the Main Plaza of Tenochtitlan, Primeros Memoriales 1993, fol. 269r. Courtesy, University of Oklahoma Press and the Palacio Real, Madrid.

Plate 4. Veintenas of (a) Hueytozoztli, (b) Toxcatl, and (c) Etzalcualiztli, Primeros Memoriales 1993, fol. 250v. Courtesy, University of Oklahoma Press and the Palacio Real, Madrid.

Plate 5. Veintenas of (a) Toxcatl and (b) Etzalcualiztli, Codex Borbonicus 1974, panel 26. Courtesy, Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale Française, Palais Bourbon, Paris.

Plate 6. Veintena of Ochpaniztli, Codex Borbonicus 1974, panel 31. Courtesy, Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale Française, Palais Bourbon, Paris.

Plate 7. Techialoyan manuscript made of amatl in the seventeenth century to support an indigenous title to land, Códice de San Antonio Techialoyan 1993, pp. 15–16, pl. 9. Courtesy, Instituto Mexiquense de Cultura, Toluca, Mexico.

Plate 8. Seventh trecena image: day 10 Rabbit, midwife and child with diviner holding a paper with a drawing of the day 10 Rabbit, Florentine Codex 1979, vol. 1, fol. 277v. Courtesy, Biblioteca Medicea-Laurenziana, Florence.

The Land of Death, Rulership, and Ritual Kay A. Read

THE TEXT: GOING TO THE LAND OF THE DEAD n the appendix to Book 3 (The Origin of the Gods) of the Florentine Codex,1 that intelligent and meticulous sixteenth-century Franciscan friar Bernardino de Sahagún (1950–1982, 3: 41–46; 1979, 1: 224v–228r) recorded the following well-known passage in Nahuatl about the Mexica (Aztec) dead. Usually thought of as a passage describing where the dead went when they died, it also contains highly useful information about what happened to a ruler when he passed away. [Those Going to the Land of the Dead] [Preface] 1. Here begins the third book, the appendix, in which is told about the souls of those who died, and the further services for their lord. The

first chapter is the part that tells about their souls, their dying, [their] going there to Mictlan [the Land of Death], and how they were buried, what they knew—the natives, the old men, and the ruler—when everyone was dying. They go to three places when they die. The first place is Mictlan. There in Mictlan was seated Mictlantecutli [Lord of Mictlan], also known as Tzontemoc, and Mictecacihuatl, the woman of Mictlantecutli. And only those on earth who die of sickness are there in Mictlan. The lords as well as the commoners who die. [Address to the Deceased]2 2. And when they were dying—[whether] man, woman, or child— they would entreat him, the dying one, the honorable dying one. They talk to him, the one who is still lying down, the one who just now is stretched out:3 3. “Oh my child, you made yourself known by your breath. You have worn yourself out.4 Our lord looked after your welfare because our entire home is not here on earth. Indeed only a moment, indeed only a quick little while do we keep warm; only by his means5 did we come to know our lordship. And now indeed Mictlantecutli, Acolnaoacatl,6 Tzontemoc, and Mictecacihuatl spread you out.7 Indeed here they have built a foundation for you, indeed here they have seated you because here is [situated] our one home, our place of perishing. There they arrange everything on the ground because, finally, it ends there.” 4. “Indeed, you went along with the others to the Place of Immortality8 the Place of Carving,9 the place of one’s leave taking, the place where no smoke escapes, the place of no chimney. Indeed, not even once more will you make your return, your turning back. Indeed, no longer will you come hither, your presence here, your past.10 Indeed, for the five and the ten11 you abandoned orphans, you abandoned progeny, your children, your grandchildren. Indeed, no longer will you come to know how people perish. Indeed, we reach you; indeed we settle you for the five and the ten.” [Address to the Progeny] 5. And this is how they/he entreated the mourner: 6. “Oh my child, may you spread it out, may you be of good cheer, may you grow to a great age, may you have abandoned the atole, the half portion, may you be straight as a tree.12 You are the speaker of what to do,13 if someone wishes us ill or if someone mocks us. Indeed our lordship wanted it for us, he spoke about it. Indeed now his work is there; indeed now his growth and death14 are there. How may you do the little that still remains? May one whole day be yours on earth.”15 144

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7. “And this one brief moment16 your heart and flesh suffer that way, they feel pain. One brief moment our lordship had darkened17 it there where he abandoned it, there where he awaits orders. Hurry up! Everything is done, find yourself in a state of fatherlessness.”18 8. “What to do? We are poor, oh my son! Be of good cheer! One hopes that likewise he would be merciful to our bowed heads.19 Indeed, only here for a little bit do you thus make your heart and flesh grow vigorously. Indeed, here the motherhood and fatherhood are restored and delivered. Indeed our lordship desolated it. Certainly your mothers and fathers, who named it well, have gone, they who related well their weeping, their tearful speeches. And thus your mothers and fathers address you. May you be peaceful.”20 [The Ritual] 9. Right then the paper artisans, the old ones who were knowledgeable about paper, adorn him. They were incising it, cutting it, and tying it up when they had prepared the paper vestments, then they adorned the dead one. They arranged the cut pieces. They pour water on top of him. 10. They say: “Here is what you came to enjoy, what you drank when you lived on earth.” 11. And then they pour water in a little jar. They give it to him there. They tell him: “Here is how you will travel there.” 12. Then they dress him up, then right away they wrap the dead one up,21 they wrap him well, they tie him up securely, they bind him well. They apportion his paper vestments. And when they had apportioned them, they give the whole thing there. They lay it out in front. They say: 13. “Here it is22 how you will pass where the mountains meet. And here it is how, if you pass by that way, the snake guards the road.” 14. “And here it is how you will pass between the green lizard, Xochitonal.” 15. “And here it is how you will follow along the eight fields.” 16. “And here it is how you will pass by the Place of Eight Alders.” 17. “And here is it how you will pass by the Place of the Obsidian Wind.” 18. And there in that Place of Obsidian Wind, it’s said that one is in much misery. All are blown away by the wind, the obsidian, and the sand rock. And because of this, when the men died, they always would burn their insignia baskets, their shields, their obsidian edged cudgels, and all their captive gods and all their robes, and whatever were their many possessions. 145

19. Likewise [for] a woman. Everything, her basket, her backstrap loom, her divided cord, her weft threads, her warp threads, her beater, her cane sticks, her comb, all also burned with her. 20. It is said that one will wall oneself up and, in that way, be hidden from the wind at the Obsidian Wind Place. One will not suffer much. [But] he who has no belongings goes by himself. He endures much hardship, he suffers much. In this way, one leaves the Obsidian Wind Place. 21. And they send a little dog along with him, indeed a yellow one. They adorn him with jewels using fine feather-working thread. It is said that he will cross Nine River23 in Mictlan. 22. And when one arrives there by Mictlantecutli, one apportions that with which they adorned the dead on earth, the pinewood image of the dead,24 the pine incense. And they wrapped up the reed stick with chili-red feather-working thread, perhaps his robe, also his loin cloth; and [for] the woman, her skirt, her blouse, right then also all her things, the things that were left behind, all were wrapped up. 23. After eighty [days], then it burns. Likewise they do it after one year, and after two years, and after three years, and after four years. Only then do they complete it. 24. And it is said, when four years have ended, all who arrive there by Mictlantecutli go to 9-Mictlan25 [where] the wide water stands up. Then at that place, the dogs crossed one over. It is said that the dog looked toward whoever was going to leave. And when he recognized his lord, right then he was ready to throw himself into the water. In this way, he would carry his lord over. Because of this, the men here raise a lot of dogs. And it is said that the white dogs and the black, it is said that they cannot cross over to Mictlan. It is said that the white ones say: “I’ve just washed myself.” And the black says: “Indeed, I’ve just carried myself over there.” Only the yellow one can cross over well. 25. And there in 9-Mictlan, there they completely disappeared. 26. And likewise, those who got him ready, then they immediately carried him to the fire. And as for the little dog, first they kill him there; thus he burns. 27. The two Dryland People take good care of him. And when some Dryland People were going to sing, and when his flesh was burning well, they cared for him. They go along stamping it. And as for our flesh, it is sizzling, it is crackling, and it is stinking; like this they burned it. Then they would roll it into a ball; they would begin placing [forming] the red hot remains [of the body]. And it’s said: “May he be bathed there.” Right then they bathe him, they sprinkle him with 146

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water, they drench him, they squeeze him out. When he has cooled, again they would roll up the charcoals into a ball. Right then, they bury the round thing,26 they set it in the tomb. They used to call this [tomb] the cave. Right then they cover up the charcoal. They bury it there that way.27 28. As for the nobles and the commoners, when they had burned, they gather their bones and dispose of them together inside a small vase, inside a small clay jar. They cover up the bones; on top, they place greenstone. They bury him in his home, inside his great house.28 And when they bury them there, they always lay them out in order. And when the lords and the nobles were dying, they made them swallow jade, but the commoners only greenstone and obsidian. It is said that these became their hearts. [Additional Information] 29. And as for the lords, with many things they decorated them. They would make paper vestments. They used to make cut banners, either four hands or three hands [long]. They stuck the paper together. And on it, they hung various feathers: heron, troupial, parrot, macaw, motmot, hawk feathers, and even more feathers. 30. And others were made companions: the most honorable slaves, probably one score of men, also as many women. Likewise, they used to say that whoever cared for their lord by preparing cornmeal, as well as the men he sent as messengers; likewise, they would care for him in Mictlan. 31. And when the tlatoani was finished burning, they killed the slaves with bird darts in their necks. But they did not burn together with the tlatoani; they buried the slaves separately. All alone the tlatoani burns very well.

A RITE FOR THE DEAD Scholars have neglected to explore this text as a source of coherent but sometimes hidden information on the funeral for the Mexica tlatoani (Chief Speaker or ruler), although it is frequently cited for its cosmological and mortuary references (e.g., López Austin 1988). This is understandable because its introduction says that it will tell about the souls who died from disease—[whether] man, woman, or child, lord or commoner—where they went, and what services were performed for them (nos. 1, 2). In fact, however, it concentrates primarily on rites for nobles, offering only tidbits on practices for commoners. More particularly, several explicit and subtle references to the Chief Speaker appear, and the whole text ends with a line on the tlatoani’s cremation. Perhaps for reasons involving its compilation, 147

this text presents not so much a picture of funerals in general (as it initially claims), but a quite coherent description of a noble’s funeral, including information that is useful for understanding a Chief Speaker’s funeral. Because a royal rite was very likely a variation of a more general elite rite, this passage might shed light on what happened when a tlatoani died.29 My main goal in this study is to come to some understanding of death for a Chief Speaker. First, drawing on resources both internal and external to this Sahaguntine text, I will analyze it as a rite with some import for a tlatoani’s funeral. Next, I will discuss what death may have meant for the tlatoani; and finally, I will propose a few broader implications that this rite might have had for royal funerals. Fray Bernardino de Sahagún was one of the most sympathetic, competent, and thorough collectors of information on native culture in the sixteenth century. The Florentine Codex, his twelve-book, medieval-like encyclopedia from which the funereal text is drawn, was produced in three languages—Latin, Spanish, and Nahuatl—and inscribed in clear, beautiful handwriting. With the help of Nahua informants and assistants, this massive work was collected, recorded, and edited over a major portion of Sahagún’s life (López Austin 1974; 1988, 1: 31–46). Because of its breadth and depth of information, it stands as one of our most valuable resources. Nevertheless, because the conditions surrounding its collection and production varied considerably, one must retain a cautious eye.30 Although the text cited is presented as a simple description of where people go when they die and what rites they receive, it is actually a bit more complicated than that. The conditions of its collection and editing can be inferred from the text’s internal order and its inconsistent references to the rite’s recipients. Moreover, the passage is arranged in five parts whose connections to each other are not immediately obvious: (1) an introductory preface, which explains the purpose of the appendix and this particular chapter (this part was probably added much later); (2) an address to the deceased; (3) an address to a single mourner, called “my child” (possibly a tlatoani’s heir, or at minimum, an elite leader’s heir); (4) a chronological description of the ritual events; and (5) additional information expanding on those events. This passage does not immediately identify whose rite this is. It begins by explaining that the dead went to three different places31 and then says that these particular rites were performed for those who go to the Land of Death, anyone who died from illness, lords and commoners alike. Although later references describe variations of the rite used for commoners and nobles, most of the text refers to the deceased as a lord (tecutli) or nobleman.32 Explicit 148

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references to the tlatoani appear in the final lines of the passage, and the whole text ends with a statement about the ruler’s cremation. One can also read the figure called “lord” throughout much of the text as the deceased tlatoani himself, and his mourner as the heir of his rule. Two conclusions can be drawn from this. First, it seems likely that the information was collected from several different sources and combined at later editing stages to create a complete text.33 Second, this passage refers primarily, though not exclusively, to noble funerals and contains (at the very least) some useful information on royal rites. The passage is also filled with subtle metaphors referring to cosmological topographies and principles. These metaphors go beyond merely describing the mythical landscape in which the ritual takes place. They also poignantly remind the listener of the conditions under which one moved from Tlalticpac (Earth’s Surface) into Mictlan (Land of Death). Just as the dead moved into Mictlan, so did the Land of Death’s life-sustaining watery resources move onto Earth’s Surface (fig. 6.1). One can imagine Mexica cosmic topography as a great container in which water, a great variety of beings (gods, people, animals. etc.), and numerous diverse powers continuously cycled, living and dying as they moved (López Austin 1988, 1: 52–68; Read 1998b: 135–144). Horizontally, the dry Earth’s Surface was divided into quadrants in the shape of a four-petaled flower; the cardinal and intercardinal directions marked the flower’s sides and corners. Each quarter was governed by a set of sixty-five calendrical dates and particular gods, and in each sprouted a great tree with a bird perched on its top. A powerful center punctuated this terrestrial flower, acting as its greenstone heart, sometimes demanding sacrifice for its continued sustenance. Mountains standing at the edge of the Mexica capital of Tenochtitlan, like great pots, held water that the rain gods periodically released in the form of springs, rivers, rain, and snow. The oceans surrounding Tlalticpac’s edges stretched out until they met the watery skies. These Sky-Waters (ilhuicatl) rose like great moist walls arching over the dry Earth’s Surface. Beneath Tlalticpac extended the dank, river-laced, cavern-pocked underworld. Hence all water was contained above, below, or around Earth’s Surface, upon which people dwelt. An orderly flow of existence was maintained through a multitude of intimate connections among the watery upper and lower realms and dry Earth’s Surface. During the day, the sun moved along its assigned path through the sky’s watery walls; during the night, it traveled through the winding passages of the moist underworld, while the moon, planets, and stars took the sun’s place in the upperworld. The Land of Death was the underworld place where 149

Figure 6.1. Imaginative rendering of the Mesoamerican cosmos. Sky-Waters arch over the dry upper world and Earth’s Surface and form the roof over the damp underworld. Drawing by author.

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things rotted away, and seeds fed on this moist corruption to become full plants (López Austin 1994: 160–164). Water coursed through this entire cosmos like blood through a body. But it did far more than bring life in the form of rain, rivers, streams, and springs to Tlalticpac’s parched landscape; it also caused the deathly corruption necessary to ongoing life. As did rain’s partners—drought, floods, thunderstorms, frost, sleet, and hail—Mictlan caused death, which led to rottenness and life-sustaining fertilizer (Read 1998b: 141–144; Read and González 2000: 20–23, 228–232, 258–265). Because Tenochtitlan’s fields relied on the rich fertilizer dredged from its dark canals, life on dry Tlalticpac could not exist without Mictlan’s deadly matter. THE RITUAL The funerary rite appears to have been divided into five stages, which took place in five distinct rituals over a period of four years. Before the funeral proper began, a speaker or speakers (see n. 2) addressed the two main participants. First the deceased was addressed, then the mourner or heir: two short speeches for the deceased and three for the mourner. The deceased was spoken to as though “still alive” (Durán 1994: 383), which, as we will see, was in some sense true. Stage One: Addresses to the Deceased and Mourner The Nahuatl language is famous for its metaphoric nature, and this funereal text proves no exception. In paragraph 2, the dead one is more than merely “stretched out”; metaphorically he lies on the dry sand like a beached canoe. The root of the word acantoc also means “to run aground,” “pull out on dry land,” and “to beach a boat,” all of which call up a rich array of imagery (see n. 3). Rather than seeing him as pulled out of the waters of life like a canoe from the lake, the reverse makes more sense in the Nahuatl cosmos. Said at the beginning of the rite, this wonderful metaphor suggests that the deceased is lying on the beach, waiting for the funeral to launch him into the moist underworld waters of Mictlan.34 In paragraph 3, another metaphor enriches our understanding of death. As a variation of a traditional, formal address to the living, the dead one is told that he was known by his ihiyotl, or the force of his bodily air (see n. 4). This was a force centered in both the air that one breathes and that which one passes as gas. It refers to both the control the deceased had over his emotions and perhaps the final gasp that comes when the lungs expel their last remaining air.35 The speaker notes that the deceased has worn himself out while on Tlalticpac and that one remains warm there for only a time. 151

Yet another metaphor builds the cosmological picture. Traditionally translated as “by his means” (3), the word ipalzinco is probably rooted in “to moisten” or “to wet” (paltia). Thus an alternative translation might be “only by his honorable wetness did we come to know ourselves,” a metaphoric interpretation that makes perfect sense cosmologically (see n. 5). If this were true, the dry warmth of Earth’s Surface would be contrasted again to the moistness of Mictlan.36 Without water, existence was impossible because the life-giving rotting of the dead could not occur. It would have been considered a part of the natural order that this metaphoric canoe was about to be pushed off into the moist Land of Death, and that no escape existed from its cold dampness; chimneys are not even used there because no fires exist to keep one warm (4). The speaker then turns to the living to note his present state of fatherlessness (7). He hopes that the deceased’s progeny or heir (4) will mature nicely, giving up the small portions of childhood meals and growing straight as a tree (6). This last image reminds one of the classic metaphor for a ruler, which describes the tlatoani as a cypress or a silk cotton tree (Sahagún 1950–1982, 6: 252; see n. 12). Although any noble might be the object of address, it is also possible to read the heir as someone destined to lead a family at minimum, or a future ruler destined to take charge of a whole city at maximum. This young mourner is told that now it is his job to say what to do when trouble arises, when others challenge and mock them. Moreover, his deceased ancestor wanted it that way (6). After all, the deceased’s work is in Mictlan, and there (not Tlalticpac) is now the place of his growing and dying. This last image of growth and death might refer to another of the animistic loci occupying a person’s body, the tonalli (see n. 14). The tonalli both warmed the body, giving it vigorous growth, and resulted in illness if it departed for some reason (López Austin 1988, 1: 204–229; Furst 1995: 63–125). The fact that the deceased’s new home is Mictlan indicates that he died from illness (1). The dead has moved his powers to another place, becoming an ancestor. The speaker then wonders how the mourner will use his own life, wishing him a long one (6). The heir’s painful grief is recognized. Another classic metaphor for rulership subtly appears (7), this one likening the ruler to the sun. The death of the Chief Speaker meant that the old sun ceased to shine, darkening life on Tlalticpac; a new one appeared only with the new tlatoani (Read 1994). The speaker then tells the heir that it is time to get on with it (indeed, the impending ceremony will do just that) and to accept his new state of orphanage. The particular relationship the living had with their dead, a relationship based on genealogy, is highlighted in this last speech (8). As was suggested in 152

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the previous speech, the deceased will continue to play a role in Tlalticpac’s affairs. A dead ancestor’s powers—whether merely noble or royal—could be harnessed by the living relatives, both by concrete means such as his ashes and by means of petition. A continuous flow of power ran between dead ancestors and living descendants. This was especially true for a Chief Speaker, who had responsibilities for an entire city. In fact, the funeral of the old tlatoani was but one step in the installation of a new one, for a lengthy speech to the dead ruler was delivered just before the installation speeches were given (Sahagún 1950–1982, 6: 21–24). [The dead ruler] has approached, has known his great-grandfathers, his progenitors, those who had already gone beyond to reside, those who had come to establish the realm—the lords, the rulers, the man Acamapichtli, Huehue Motecuhzoma, Tizoc, Axayacatl, Ahuitzotl, and the one who followed, Motecuhzoma Ilhuicamina (2).37

Later the installation speaker clarifies this unbroken royal genealogical line by telling the new ruler that he “has come to know, has followed, has arrived with his great-grandfathers, his progenitors; for he has followed by means of Our Mother/Our Father, Mictlantecutli” (pp. 47–48). Our text’s speaker therefore advises the new noble or tlatoani about what his ancestors want of him. The funeral rite proper then begins. Stage Two: Pouring Water The body of the deceased was adorned in paper ornaments (9). Water was poured over his body for the life he had on Earth (10); then more water was poured into a jar for his travels to Mictlan, which were about to begin (11). They then wrapped the body inside a blanket and tightly bound it with cords (see n. 21). Stage Three: Journeying to the Five Stations As though reading a road map, the speaker points to the first of five different places to which the dead will journey (12; see n. 22). Scholars today almost always describe the ancient Nahua cosmos as having thirteen skies, which rise above Earth’s Surface, one on top of the other, and nine underworlds that descend below it. The primary source for this interpretation is the Codex Vaticanus A (1964), in which the commentator’s description of the Nahua cosmos bears a disturbing similarity to the medieval worldview that he himself most likely held. Indeed, it is so close that one might think Dante had lived in Tenochtitlan (Quiñones Keber 1995; Read 1998b: 137–144; Read and González 2000: 21–23, 238–244). Although a

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few other resources also list the presence of different skies, they do not refer to vertically arranged levels. Instead, these lists are more likely associated with calendrical material. One such list in the History of Mexico (Histoyre du Mechique 1905: 22–23, n. 1; Garibay 1985: 69–70, 102–103) closely repeats the day gods in the tonalpohualli of the Codex Aubin (1893) and the Codex Borbonicus (1974). To make things more confusing, the Florentine Codex not only lacks a reference to levels but also fails to list nine different lands of the dead, although it calls the final destination by the calendrical name 9-Mictlan (24, 25) or Nine River (21). Although different places in the under and upper worlds may have existed (perhaps vertically arranged, but we cannot be sure), more importantly they may have held considerable calendrical value.38 These sites may have been ritually present on Earth’s Surface.39 In other words, as part of the ritual, the participants and the deceased together may have visited each of these five places in turn.40 Another sixteenth-century missionary writer, Fray Diego Durán (1994: 385–386, n. 29), reports that a ruler’s body was placed on a litter and carried to “places of rest,” to “stations” like those of the cross, where songs, chants, and dirges were played. He mentions that at Chief Speaker Ahuitzotl’s funeral, Tetzcoco’s ruler, the most important ally of the Mexica, placed an investiture mantle and the royal diadem on the body at the penultimate station. Tetzcoco’s ruler then “tied many feathers in his hair,” like the participants in the Florentine Codex ritual who tied feathers on the body (29). Durán mentions a total of only three stations, but in the Florentine Codex five are listed (13–17), if one assumes they are more than just symbolic locations: (1) the Place Where the Mountains Meet and where the Snake Guards the Road;41 (2) the Place of the Green Lizard, Xochitonal; (3) the Eight Fields; (4) the Place of the Eight Alders; and (5) the Place of the Obsidian Walls, also called the Place of the Obsidian Wind. It is possible that the first four stations were associated with the four cardinal directions, for the Nahua often ritually marked the directions, as do many indigenous peoples today. If that were true, the fifth place would then mark the center of the cosmos. This makes sense, for it was at the center that the old fire god dwelt, and at this fifth station that they performed several cremations of the deceased, his possessions, and his wooden effigies. Stage Four: The Cremation of Disappearance In these poignant ritual acts at that central Place of the Obsidian Wind, it is said that “all are blown away by the wind, the obsidian, and the sand rock” (18). At this place of “misery,” the deceased “walls” himself up with his possessions, 154

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Figure 6.2. Burning of a corpse, Florentine Codex. Drawing by author after Sahagún 1950–1982, Book 3, fig. 16.

which are then burned. Thus, the concretely ordinary and particularly potent symbols of one’s man- and womanhood disappear before the mourner’s eyes (18–20). The body is burned at this time (fig. 6.2), along with an effigy made of resinous pinewood and dressed in the deceased’s clothing (22–23; Durán 1994: 122, 293, 308, 466). If the deceased were a tlatoani, Durán (p. 293) tells us that this ritual took place at the domain’s ceremonial center, the Templo Mayor, at the point of godly patronage for the royal line on the Huitzilopochtli side. There, for example, the deceased Chief Speakers Tizoc and Axayacatl were dressed in the vestments of four different gods. Axayacatl’s deities included Huitzilopochtli, Tlaloc, Yohualahuan, and Quetzalcoatl (pp. 294, 307). Chief Speaker Ahuitzotl’s body was anointed with “divine pitch.” Accompanied by war captains, officials, and dignitaries, the mourners carried Ahuitzotl’s body up the steps to a flaming brazier and cast it in (pp. 385–386). This ceremony was attended by a host of mourners, including both allies and “enemies” with 155

whom the Flowery Wars were fought,42 although the latter arrived in secret and left early. All brought sumptuous gifts; the enemies brought gifts of war goods (pp. 245, 293, 383–384). In this cremation, a yellow dog, the only kind that would not avoid the task, swam across the “wide waters” to carry over the deceased (24). Likewise, the dead crossed over Nine River in Mictlan (21). The yellow dog, richly adorned, was killed and burned (21, 26). In a tlatoani’s funeral the dog was followed by slaves, both men and women, who either had served him well or were funeral gifts. These “companions” of the deceased were shot in the neck with a bird dart, and their hearts were extracted before being burnt (30–31; pp. 383, 386). Then their hearts were thrown on the funeral pyre to burn along with that of the ruler (p. 386), perhaps to ensure a mingling of their heart souls or teyolia. Once in Mictlan, the women would prepare maize for the tlatoani, and the men would serve as his messengers (30). Durán (pp. 385, 466) says that these slaves agreed to be sacrificed because they would become “great nobles” in the “other world.” The red-hot coals were carefully stirred by two Dryland People (tlalhuaque). They gathered the ashes into a pile, placing them in a vase. Covering the bones up, they laid greenstone on top and buried it in the “great house” (28; see n. 28). Two such pots with human remains were found buried in the Templo Mayor near the place where Huitzilopochtli’s statue stood (López Luján 1994: 223–227, 478, n. 76). Neither urn bears the name of the deceased; instead both display reliefs of gods. It was at 9-Mictlan that the deceased “completely disappeared” (25). Stage Five: Five More Cremations Eighty days later the same ritual was repeated using another effigy, and this cremation was performed once again each year for the next four years (23),43 after which the dead arrived at 9-Mictlan, where “the wide water stands up” (24). This may have been at the very edge of the cosmos, where the Sky-Waters met those of the ocean; elsewhere in the Florentine Codex (1950–1982, 11: 247), the text tells us that one crossed over the ocean’s waters to die at their edge. Our text says that the deceased were made to “swallow” jade, which became their “hearts” (iniollo); commoners consumed only greenstone (28). Like the ihiyotl and tonalli, the teyolia (powerful heart)44 was a locus of power within a person’s body. López Austin (1988, 1: 230–232) says it was linked with the “ideas of the inner man, sensibility and thought,” for these heart forces caused the ruler to acquire special abilities and the powers of particular gods. By placing the jade within the proxy body, the priests animated it with the same godly forces the deceased had had in 156

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earthly life. López Austin (pp. 322–323) also suggests that the cremation of these wooden effigies may have served to gather in the tonalli forces that scattered at death. DEATH AND THE TLATOANI Death for the tlatoani meant both a disintegration of his individual and social personhood and a realignment of his forces with the living. With so many loci of power, the dead tlatoani did not have a single soul or essence go to Mictlan, as a Christian soul goes to heaven. His powers instead scattered to many different locations. The tlatoani’s body, like everyone else’s, contained multiple animistic loci situated in various corporeal parts, which were associated with diverse physical and psychic functions. The ihiyotl, tonalli, and teyolia are three such loci (López Austin 1988, 1: 181–236). We can add to these forces other person-forming potencies, such as an individual’s various ancestral, calendrical, and ritual names; his or her own self-willed actions; and the actions of gods upon that individual. All of these things, from body parts to names and actions, carried concrete powers that simultaneously shaped one’s body, capabilities, personality, and destiny (Read 1998b: 114–116). A tlatoani, like all people, was an ever-shifting but always unique conglomerate of various powers and potentialities. The garments of the four gods in which Chief Speaker Axayacatl was dressed invested him with at least some of the powers of those deities. Tlaloc gave him the powers to control agriculture; Huitzilopochtli, the powers of war; Yohualahuan, the powers of night, sacrifice, and perhaps sexuality (which helped him control the Mexica royal genealogy); and Quetzalcoatl, the powers of cooperative leadership (Read 2000: 160; 1998a). Just like all other humans, a Chief Speaker was not invincible; his access to various powers and his own and other godly choices could result in failure as often as success (Read 1994: 52–57; 1998a). The powers of the Chief Speaker Tizoc appear to have been shaped differently than were those of Ahuitzotl. Tizoc was a less than effective tlatoani. Durán (1994: 307) tells us, those who were “angered by his weakness and lack of desire to enlarge and glorify the Aztec nation, hastened his death with something they gave him to eat.” Thus out of the way, Tizoc, like Axayacatl, was “dressed in the likeness of four gods,” although Durán does not report which four. Then a “remarkable thing” happened. The Dryland People who were in charge of the fire appeared naked except for breechcloths, their bodies were painted black and their hair was frizzy, and they stirred the fire with red sticks. These people were followed by Mictlantecuhtli, who also carried a 157

red stick. His hair was curled; he wore a huge, fierce mouth, shining mirrors for eyes, and mirrors on each shoulder (fig. 6.3). It was he who directed the cremation of Tizoc’s body (Durán 1994: 307). The Lord of Death himself seems to have come personally to claim Tizoc’s teyolia, perhaps because this tlatoani had failed so miserably during his brief, warm moment on Tlalticpac. Durán does not report that the Mexicas’ most important ally dressed the dead ruler in the vestments of a newly installed Chief Speaker. Perhaps, unlike Ahuitzotl, it was expected that Tizoc, who had failed to marshal his forces on Earth, would also be less than effective after death. The social aspect of an individual also played a key role. Once the nascent heir had “abandoned the atole, the half portion” (6) and was officially installed, the tlatoani lived as part of an extensive web of interlocking social obligations and possibilities bounded by both the demands of his office and his own personal powers to fulfill them. These obligations were absolutely necessary if society were to continue functioning adequately. It was for this reason that Tizoc was encouraged to move to Mictlan before his time; he had threatened the entire social fabric. In fact, the web was so tightly spun that a Chief Speaker could not operate alone. A kind of dual leadership may have even existed in which the tlatoani operated as an “outside ruler,” while the official called the cihuacoatl (Snake Woman) acted as an “inside ruler.” On the one hand, the Chief Speaker’s duties largely focused on concerns, such as the agricultural fields, battlefields, sacrificial offerings, marriage alliances, and affairs with foreign interests, that frequently required him to interact with powers outside of Tenochtitlan’s immediate boundaries. On the other hand, even though the Snake Woman occasionally participated in war, his particular duties focused largely on carefully planned strategy, distribution of agricultural and tribute goods, and the arranging of high state rituals—all duties that functioned mostly within the confines of the city. Other such spheres of influence existed among the Chief Speaker, Snake Woman, other Mexica nobles, and the nobles of foreign urban centers. The duties of the cihuacoatl sometimes overlapped with those of the tlatoani (usually in ritual matters or when the Chief Speaker was absent), but most of the time they were quite distinct.45 In this way, the tlatoani’s own unique powers always operated within a tightly defined social sphere that was intimately interlocked with other social spheres. This web of personal and social powers suggests what death meant for the tlatoani. As with all people, death meant he “disappeared” (poliui) in such a manner that the transformation of his outer forms caused his inner forms to change and vice versa. Powers incorporated within various body parts altered 158

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and were altered by external conditions that reacted with the body parts harboring them (López Austin 1988, 1: 204– 236; Read 1998b: 114–116, 144–146, 151, 157–161). The Chief Speaker was thus physically constituted by numerous power loci, which changed as his physical form changed, thereby determining his ever-shifting potentialities throughout life. At death the tlatoani’s individually and socially integrated personhood on Tlalticpac disintegrated; for example, the ihiyotl emanated from the corpse and remained in the upper world, still capable of doing harm. People who went out at night protected themselves with signs of mourning and death to ward off any such encounters (López Austin 1988, 1: 232– 234, 323–324). López Austin (pp. 324–325) Figure 6.3. Mictlantecuhtli, Lord of the also notes that the burning of Land of the Dead. Drawing by author after the effigies must have served a Codex Magliabechiano 1970, fol. 79r. double function: to capture inside the deceased’s ashes pieces of the tonalli that had scattered at death, and to aid the teyolia in its postdeath tasks. Cremation sent vital forces to Mictlan and kept some of those forces on Tlalticpac, where they protected and invigorated life. Furthermore, ancestral names could be passed on to the living. Chief Speaker Motecuhzoma the Younger, for example, bore Motecuhzoma the Elder’s name and thus some of his attributes. People’s actions could also affect their families for generations to come. One who in life failed to earn adequate support for his family forced himself and future

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generations into slavery (Sahagún 1950–1982, 7: 23–24; Read 1998b: 152). As their bodies transformed at death, so too did the powers and influence of the dead change. Yet something of the Chief Speaker remained beyond death through his heart force, or teyolia, albeit in altered form. In the funeral’s first cremation, his body was dressed in the costumes of four gods, and his heart was still within. His body and a wooden effigy animated by a jade teyolia were burned together with his worldly goods and the teyolia of some slaves. Then a dog and the slaves’ bodies were burned separately. In this ritual act, the tlatoani’s teyolia retained something concrete from his former earthly self. With the help of his ritualists, and after journeying to five places of the dead, the Chief Speaker took, as part of his own self, all of the accoutrements of his earthly existence to his future underworld abode, Mictlan (18–23; Durán 1994: 293–296). Mictlan, however, was a reverse of the world on Tlalticpac. Tlalticpac was dry, Mictlan was wet; maize was the food of choice on Tlalticpac, rotten things in Mictlan; when it was light above, it was dark below. Even towns may have been placed upside down in Mictlan, like so many mirror images of their earthly counterparts (Lok 1987: 219). Life continued below but was quite different from life above. The cremation fire transformed the tlatoani’s powers from earthly to underworld forces. This funereal conflagration reminds one of the fires required to burn the fields before seeds could germinate, and of the fires that burned the Maya Hero Twins of the Popol Vuh (1985: 147–149) before they could transform, like seeds, into new forces in the cosmos. Mictlan was the underworld source of nourishment for earthly crops. At the beginning of the Fifth Age, the Nahua god Nanahuatzin had to burn in a similar “oven” before rising as a new sun (Sahagún 1950–1982, 7: 3–9; Read 1998b: 53–54). According to the Florentine Codex, the ancestor’s underworld life was baked into existence. His house’s walls were germinated from his worldly goods and populated by the teyolia of slaves. As with mythological beings elsewhere in Mesoamerica, cremation allowed the tlatoani’s teyolia to take the stuff of earthly life into its newly transformed existence. This was not a single transformational moment, but only the first of a series of such fires. Eighty days after the first cremation and annually for four more years, the burning of similar effigies was repeated (23). This may have been done, as López Austin suggests, to continue aiding the dead ancestor in his transformed existence and to ensure his potency on Tlalticpac. Surely this series of fires also transformed the tlatoani’s teyolia into a new entity, just as the Maya Hero Twins and the Nahua Nanahuatzin went through a series of transformations before becoming new suns. In the Mexica world, 160

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a new sun also rose in the form of the Chief Speaker’s heir. Although the tlatoani’s personhood, along with his body, radically transformed at death, in the end, through these ritual burnings, something of his former self remained, though not entirely visible. The new sun and tlatoani owed gratitude to his recently departed ancestor for both his past existence and his future assistance. Such assistance arrived unseen but had the powers to transform visible and present circumstances on Earth’s Surface. The old sun’s disappearance at the waters of 9-Mictlan was a simultaneous transformation of visible and invisible forces that created new forces and relationships while retaining some of the old. ROYAL FUNERALS Mexica royal funerals served numerous individual and social functions by operating according to cosmic principles of transformation. As with other funerals, individually they accounted for human fears and the need to mourn, while moving young heirs to new positions and reconfirming old models of leadership. This particular ritual appears to address the dangers of both illness and death. The ihiyotl is released upon death as a bad smell; the tonalli, which departs during illness, is recaptured and, along with the teyolia, strengthened through burning to ensure strong potency in death. The speaker sympathetically tells the grieving mourner that for “this one brief moment your heart and flesh suffer that way, they feel pain” (7). The cremations of the next four years not only strengthen the deceased’s powers, but probably allow for a gradual release of grief by the living. The funeral speaker also encourages the heir to recognize the brevity of this period of darkness and to acknowledge his orphanhood so he can assume the rigors of rulership (6, 7). The ancestral model of leadership was passed on to the heir from his lineage’s leaders, for “here the motherhood and fatherhood are restored and delivered” (8). It also accounted for unexpected events that might call for creative responses. The new heir must now be the Chief Speaker who says “what to do if someone wishes us ill or if someone mocks us.” The funeral speaker muses over how the new leader will handle all of this in “the little that still remains” before the leader’s own death, although he hopes that will not come too quickly (6). Ample evidence for the changing and creative role of governance exists in the various historical annals. The roles of both the Chief Speaker and the Snake Woman changed through time (see n. 45). Durán fills his pages with stories of how, for better or worse, both of these figures resolved problems. Socially, royal funerals established new familial relationships, temporarily reestablished old political alliances, and momentarily renegotiated potentially 161

divisive ones. Clearly the relationship between the old tlatoani and the new one was established via the former’s funeral. The funeral itself was part of a seamless flow of rituals from the death of the old ruler, through his burial, to the induction of the new ruler. Book 6 (Rhetoric and Moral Philosophy) of the Florentine Codex offers a coherent sequence of speeches that joins the living with the dead in the installation of a ruler. After asking for relief from suffering, for mercy, and for aid in war, the speakers prayed for help for the newly chosen ruler and the old ruler who had just died. After this prayer for the dead came a warning to the new ruler about the possibility of his own failure and that of his cosmos. This was followed by more installation speeches, many of which confirmed the social relations between the new tlatoani and his ancestors, counselors, and subjects (Sahagún 1950–1982, 6: 1–77). Royal funerals did more than just establish internal relationships; they also temporarily reestablished alliances and renegotiated potentially disruptive political relationships. Durán reports huge gift exchanges among the Mexica and their allies at funerals and installations. Major allies, such as Tetzcoco and Tlacopan, played key ritual roles. The willing participation of other allies indicated their support, whereas refusal to participate was a sign of disintegrating relations. Even avowed enemies sometimes participated in willing but clandestine exchanges. This was especially true of those who fought the Flowery Wars, with whom relations were insecure at best. These wars could eventually explode into wars of conquest, such as the Flowery Wars with Chalco, which, after eight years of conflict, worsened for many more years (Codex Chimalpahin 1982: 182; Codex Chimalpopoca 1992: 73–74). After its conquest, however, Chalco appeared prominently as an ally at Axayacatl’s funeral, whereas the flowery warring enemies of Tlaxcallan, Huexotzinco, and Cholollan attended in secret (Durán 1994: 292–293). Of course, any of these diverse political relationships, both positive and negative, could and did change during the next tlatoani’s reign. Royal funerals reconfirmed both the cosmic landscape within which all this action happened and its principles of transformation.46 The ritual practitioners moved the deceased symbolically and maybe even bodily through five places of the dead, which may have marked the spacio-temporal four quarters of the cosmos and its center. The dead then moved into the ancestors’ place while the living remained on Tlalticpac, a shift that established the appropriate relationship. As the old ruler disintegrated, he retained some of his powers, although in altered form, allowing the living and dead to share their newly developing existences. The dead remained as counselors, as sources of aid and tradition from which the living, in 162

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their new positions, drew to transform the changing circumstances of their world. Their relationship was a dynamic one, for it drew on old powers while creating new ones. One of the most striking aspects of Mexica culture is that the worth of the dead ancestors is recognized but not exalted. They disappear both physically and in personal honor, which is primarily connected with the forces they offered rather than their worth as individuals. The urns with their bathed ashes remain buried out of sight (27, 28), marked only by the gods whose powers they embodied. Surprisingly little has been unearthed at the Templo Mayor or elsewhere that extols an individual ruler’s might or accomplishments. Unlike individual Maya rulers, whose whole bodies lay entombed in great temples in the center of their cities and whose lineages, lives, and deeds were glorified on numerous grand stelae, Mexica rulers rotted unmarked in Mictlan, along with the commoners and all else that dies (1), their familial deeds remembered in small painted books but largely ignored by Tenochtitlan’s most obvious billboard, the Templo Mayor. Once his “brief moment” was finished, a tlatoani, like other noble dead, went to the “place where no smoke escapes, the place of no chimney,” where “not even once more will [he] make [his] return” (4, 7). A Mexica Chief Speaker remained “hidden” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 6: 10–47; Read 1995: 376); he and his lineage were largely invisible in the face of far greater cosmic forces. Transformations such as these governed the Mexica world; genealogy offered a major paradigm for this process (Read 1998b: chaps. 1–3). All beings changed, as did ancestry. This is a very natural metaphor. Genealogically, children are similar to their parents and grandparents but are not exactly like them. Their children will also be unique conglomerates of their ancestral heritage. Change was thus piecemeal and incremental. Each person was an individual yet was simultaneously linked with past forms and forces and able to mold what was to come in the future. To hide or disappear meant one’s old forms no longer appeared, but some of one’s powers might still be there, lurking in the new form of ashes. Rituals operated in like fashion, rearranging the pieces of the past to mold new shapes for the present and future. The deceased was removed from Tlalticpac step by step. First, he was sprinkled with Earth’s waters and then given those waters for the journey. Second, he moved through five cosmologically coordinated places of the dead. Third, after his corporeal form moved through some of its natural decay, releasing the ihiyotl, he was burned in order to capture his other powers, some for the living and some for himself. Fourth, the rite was slowly completed over a period of four years through five more cremations of a wooden proxy animated with some of the 163

same forces the deceased had borne in life. This progressive ritual released the mourner from grief, established a link between living and dead, and marked a temporal and cosmic topography with its motions. It also used old powers to create new forms; change happened through both maintenance and innovation. This funeral drew on a dynamic yet conservative model used elsewhere in Mexica rituals (Carrasco 1991: 33; Read 1998b: chap. 5). The model neither slavishly copied past traditions nor radically altered them. This was not a Turner-like ceremony of maintenance, nor a tidy van Gennep, three-stage rite of passage, although transformation certainly occurred, as it did in both authors’ notion of liminality (Turner 1979: 235; van Gennep 1960). It seems rather more complicated than those, involving a progressive series of intricate ritual events. The rite appears to be ritual as Tambiah (1979) has described it: a combination of multiple, complex, often creative and pragmatic moves that both maintain traditional structures and allow for their change. Unlike the ritual of Tambiah (1979: 165–166), however, this rite offered no tension between revivalism and ossification, otherwise understood as change and no change. Instead, by using the old to create the new, this ritual progressively transformed things without having to rely on any such dualism; ongoing transformation itself was the cosmic pattern. This ritual also did not seek to overcome change through the creation of cosmic unity (Carrasco 1991: 51). Although it sought to overcome unhealthy emotional attachments, this was only a minor issue, as were death’s transformations. In the ritual, death’s changes not only cannot be overcome, they may also be desirable. Both the new and the old tlatoque are often reminded of death’s cold, wet inevitability, which the texts juxtapose against the positive advantages of ancestral roles to the larger society. As with Nahua sacrificial ethics, death is the duty-bound source for a continued and dynamic existence. Without death, life could not exist. There was order in this cosmos, but it was neither static nor stable (Read 1998b: chaps. 1, 4, 5). Change was ever present, was controllable to some degree, and could be hastened or slowed as the need arose. Hence Tizoc’s death and funeral were handled differently than those of Axayacatl. As Bell (1992: 81–82) observes, this dynamism allowed for strategically and situationally powerful moves in all spheres, from the personal to the political and cosmic. The funeral sought to alter everything from the deceased’s and heir’s positions and attitudes to friendly and not-so-friendly political relations. Yet not all was up for grabs in the Mexica ritual model, especially in royal funerals. Here the intricate social web depended on at least some conservancy, which was provided by a cosmic model that overreached any one individual or even group of individuals. The 164

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cosmos provided an accessible, manipulable system for controlling transformation, but only temporarily. Just as each tlatoani disappeared, so would the Mexica and their age disappear in earthquake rumbling and famine’s pain (Read 1998b: 83–84). Although intimately linked with his heirs and slaves, “all alone, the tlatoani burns very well” (31). ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This study was completed with much needed encouragement and good insights from Doug Howland, with whom a comparison with Chinese royal funerals may someday be completed. Thanks as ever go to friend and Nahuatl partner Jane Rosenthal, with whom the translation of the Mictlan passage was done. Both of us appreciate the comments from an anonymous reader. Although we disagree on several key points over how one glosses Nahuatl translations in general and over the translation, glossing, and interpretation of some specific passages, nevertheless it is always helpful to receive commentary from another. We especially appreciate those criticisms with which we do agree. And special thanks go to Alfredo López Austin for his complex and careful studies of Nahua physiology and death and for being such a good teacher and friend over the years. For better or for worse, this small essay could not have been written without past and present access to his vast knowledge. I am also grateful for the very helpful and supportive responses from those attending the Sahaguntine session at the annual meeting of the American Society for Ethnohistory in Mexico City in 1997. As always, the essay’s problems are my own. NOTES 1. I offer a note on my approach to translating, glossing, and interpreting Nahuatl. Nahuatl makes the most of metaphoric language, especially in highly formal texts such as the Florentine Codex. To ignore the polysemous nature of Nahuatl often means ignoring fundamentals of Nahua worldviews. One should not translate, therefore, only a passage’s conventionalized messages, but should also gloss further possible meanings of the passage using other contexts drawn from multiple textual and nontextual resources. Hence, I will frequently gloss the metaphoric levels in order to suggest a passage’s meaning within particular religious and social contexts; otherwise I could not understand a passage’s religious import. One further note of caution: The Spanish passages in the bilingual Florentine Codex are not simple translations of the Nahuatl, but explanatory summaries and sometimes opinionated commentaries. We no longer know the conditions under which these summaries were produced, but it is clear that some passages are more freely glossed than others. In many cases, the Spanish commentaries may provide valuable information that is lacking in the Nahuatl, but we do not know for sure. At the same time, we do know that modern ethnographic standards did not apply in the sixteenth

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century. Hence, the Spanish commentaries cannot be used as a simple substitute for, or even a secure expansion on, the Nahuatl passages. They too need to be supported by other evidence. This text’s source is Sahagún 1979: 1, 224v–228r. I have also used Sahagún 1950–1982, 3: 41–46 for the transcriptions of Anderson and Dibble. 2. We cannot know how many address the dead and mourner because the plural is indicated in the present tense by a glottal stop, which early scribes did not mark. We also cannot know exactly who the speaker (or speakers) is, although he is probably a ritual specialist skilled in formal oratory. 3. Metaphorically the dead person is lying stretched out like a beached canoe. “To stretch out” (acantoc) builds on two roots: “to run aground,” “to pull out on dry land,” or “to beach a boat” (acana); and “to be extended” (oc) (-ti; -lig-). Acana builds on “water” and a locative postposition (-can-a; -in some place or time-pres) (Molina 1977: 1v; Siméon 1981: 8; Karttunen 1983: 13, 24, 175). 4. This appears to be a subtle variation on a conventionalized greeting, which itself may rest on an extended meaning of breath (ihiyotl). The ihiyotl is one of a person’s several animistic loci that give him/her life (López Austin 1988, 1: 232–236). Metaphorically it suggests that, because much of one’s breath and vitality have been used to meet the speaker, one needs to be thanked. The usual phrase is “you have expended your breath on it [getting here]” or “you have worked hard at it,” and “you have worn yourself out” (ticmihiyohuiltih oticmociahuiltih) (Karttunen and Lockhart 1987: 23). This innovation separates “breath,” joining it with “you have made yourself known (or revealed yourself).” Nopiltze oyhjiotl ticmomachiti, oticmociavilti (no--tze (m)o-IHIYOTL ti-c-mo--ø, o-ti-c-mo-l(i)-ti-ø; my--hon, your-, you-it-refl--pret, ant-you-it-refl--caus-imperf-pret) (Karttunen 1983: 98, 128). 5. “By his means” (ipaltzinco) possibly contrasts with the metaphor of the dying beached one (see n. 3) and the comment about being warm for only a while. The root of this frozen form proves interesting given the Mexica symbolic universe. Molina (1977: 41v) translated ipalzinco as “by him,” or “by means of him,” yet its possible root means “to wet or soak something” (paltia), which is consistent with the wet underworld. The phrase is not about “grace.” The translation “by his mercy or grace” may rest in the sermonlike Spanish of Sahagún’s commentary. This language was picked up two hundred years later by the Jesuit grammarian Horacio Carochi and again by Siméon in the nineteenth century (Andrews 1975: 461; Carochi and Paredes 1979: 37; Siméon 1981: 370). Although “by means of him” is an appropriate translation, “grace” is a Christian theological term involving centuries of controversy over the relationship of a human being’s free will to God’s influence, a debate unrelated to preconquest Nahua worldviews (i-¢in-ko; his--hon-psp,in) (Karttunen 1983: 107, 186). 6. Acolnaoacatl is probably an underworld god called “Crayfish Nahualli Man,” given the word’s position among three other underworld deities. A nahualli was a kind of alter ego that gave particular powers to an individual (López Austin 1988, 1:

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362–375). If this is a crayfish god, he has the nahualli, and therefore the powers, of a creature appropriate for the watery, dark underworld (see Read and González 2000: 20–26, 215, 258–265). The Maya depicted a crayfish deity as a god of water; a beautiful example appears in the murals at Bonampak (--; --). The place name Acolnahuac might form the root (“man from the place next to the crayfish”), although the man would be more godlike than human (-(na) huac-). “Shoulders” makes no sense (-(na)huac-, -next to-) (Siméon 1981: 14; Karttunen 1983: 5, 157, 253). 7. The underworld lords are spreading out or arranging a place for the deceased person, which may echo the proper arranging of the funeral ritual space. This word’s root, manilia, is related to mana and mani, which frequently appear as ordering words in ritual texts. Echoed again at the end of the paragraph, they “spread everything on the ground” (omitzalmanili; ø-o-mitz-(hu)al-MANILI(A)-?; subj-ant-you-dir--pl) (Karttunen 1983: 136). As a root, ana, “to take forth,” makes less sense in this ritual context (ø-omitz-(hu)al-m(o)--.ili(a)-?; subj-ant-you-dir-rev-take forth-appl-pl). 8. This word might point out cosmological differences between the Nahua and their Western interpreters, for it could mean both the “place and way of being thirsty” and “immortal.” The watery underworld of death was the source of water for a thirsty world on the dry Earth’s Surface. In Molina’s world, the place of death is also that of immortality; the second translation, therefore, also makes sense if one first filters it through his Christian lens. Mexica immortality needs to be understood differently from Christian concepts, however (Read 1998b: 110–114; Read and González 2000: 20–26). Molina (1977: 5r) gives two meanings for quenamjcan’s possible root amiqui: “to be thirsty” and “immortal thing” (quen-can or “how-to be thirsty-place”) (Karttunen 1983: 10). It is also possible that quenamih is the root, which could be stretched to mean “place of mystery,” although this interpretation fits less well with Nahua cosmological concepts than with Western ideas about the afterlife’s mysterious nature (-can or “how, in what way-place”) (Karttunen 1983: 209). 9. The bones are shaved free of flesh. Ximooaian is based on the root xima, “to shave or carve” (Karttunen 1983: 325). 10. “Your here, your back” (in mo- mo--ca). 11. “The five and the ten” (in macuil in matlac) apparently refers to a time period, perhaps a life span. 12. Maybe the heir has grown up, abandoning the small portions given a child. Trees are metaphors for royal ancestry. Mixtec rulers emerge from trees, and in the Codex García Granados, rulers and towns are linked together by a tree, while the Mexica royal lineage forms the branches of a nopalli cactus (Boone 2000: 88). “Straight as a tree”: melaua, “to stretch oneself,” “straighten something out,” “get straight to the point or destination”; and cuahuitl “tree,” “stick,” or “wood” (ximelaquaoa; xi--a; you/imp---pres).

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Ellaquaua, or “strengthen and animate oneself,” is a possibility but requires an extra “l” not in the manuscript. (Molina 1977: 28v; Karttunen 1983: 58, 143). 13. The object of admonishment here could be the future Chief Speaker, who is being told to take charge, although the pronouns are a bit difficult. “You who speak it” (tiqujtoani) is a variation of the Chief Speaker’s title tlatoani, or “he who speaks it” (ti-qui--ni; you-it--agent; and Ø-tla--ni; subjit--agent). Quennel (what to do) is the object that he needs to speak about, and “you” (ti, not “we”) is the subject, for the speaker is addressing the heir as “you.” The “us’s” (tech) are the object of the heir’s future responsibility. 14. Interestingly, the animistic center called the tonalli both warmed the body, giving it vigorous growth, and caused illness when it departed; it was associated with hair and was influenced by calendrical dates. Similarly, “his death” (itzonqujçaia) means both “to die,” “terminate,” or “finish” and “to increase” or “grow”; the latter two speak of hair (Siméon 1981: 735; López Austin 1988, 1: 204–229; Furst 1995: 63–125). 15. “One whole day” (cemilhujtzintli) may be a metaphor for a complete life span. 16. This is either “brief span of time” and “quick” (cuel), or “hurry up” (tlacuele) (inin tlacuelehuatl; inin, -hua-tl; this one, -imper end-n) (Andrews 1975: 435; Molina 1977: 119v; Siméon 1981: 580; Karttunen 1983: 106; Sullivan 1983: 126, 292). 17. “To get dark” or “for night to fall” (yohua) (ontlaiooatica; ø-on-tla-ti-ca; he-dir-obj--lig-pst perf) (Karttunen 1983: 340). 18. “Fatherlessness” (icnopilotl) is based on “fatherless child,” “person deserving of one’s compassion,” “one’s fate,” “future,” and “lot in life” (icnopilli) (-(y)o-tl; --abst-n) (Karttunen 1983: 94). 19. Perhaps the speaker hopes for the same good life enjoyed by the heir. Anderson and Dibble translate this difficult phrase (ma no cuele iuhquin tlaocoli tocontolo) as “Do not once again hang thy head as if in grief” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 3: 42). However, ma no cuele appears to be a variant of macuele (“let it be that,” “one hopes that,” “cheer up”), intensified by no. Iuhquin means “like,” “in the manner of,” not “once again” (occeppa) (Andrews 1975: 449; Karttunen 1983: 109, 129, 175; Sullivan 1983: 96, 98;). Tlaocolia means “to be merciful” and is the applicative of tlaocoya, “to be sad” (ø--ø; subj.-be merciful to-past imp). Tocontolo is “difficult.” Totzontecon is “head,” and ololli means “sphere or ball,” suggesting a rounded head, as in Anderson and Dibble’s translation. But that means one would have to drop tzontli, “hair,” from the phrase, keeping only comitl, “pot” (to--OLO(LTI)-ø; your-head-rounded-poss.). Anderson and Dibble, perhaps for want of anything better, seem to be relying heavily on the Spanish (Andrews 1975: 478; Molina 1977: 22r; Karttunen 1983: 286, 287). 20. “Peace” or “sweetness” (tle ticmatcatzintli; tle, ti-ø-c--tzin-tli; opt, you-[be]-it--hon-n) (Siméon 1981: 256, 702; Karttunen 1983: 281). 21. Sahagún’s Spanish commentary says that he is being wrapped in a blanket. Indeed, many pictures exist depicting the dead tied up in blankets. 22. The following five passages earmark an oral description of a pictorial manuscript. The speaker appears to be pointing to different pictures in a manuscript with the phrase

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“here it is” (izcatqui). He may be showing whoever collected this text the lands to which the dead will go. Although the only representations of the lands of the dead (along with the thirteen Sky-Waters) appears in the pictorial Codex Vaticanus A, some Spanish texts describe, in like manner, similar lists of the Sky-Waters (Garibay 1985: 69–70, 102–103). The Spanish commentary says that the ritualists distributed the paper vestments in front of the body and pointed to each because this is what the dead would wear in each of the following places. Yet the Nahuatl does not say this anywhere. It may be wise to remain a bit suspicious of the Spanish at this point, especially because Durán (1994: 385–386) speaks of three stations to which they carried the dead ruler. Something else may have been going on. We need to remember that we don’t always know the circumstances surrounding the Spanish commentaries. 23. The Spanish commentary says that this is a river called Chicunaoapan (chicunaoapan; --pan; --place). 24. A pinewood image was made as a substitute for the body in warrior and merchant funerals and adorned with the same clothes as the body (Sahagún 1950–1982, 4: 69–70). 25. 9-Mictlan (chicuna mictlan) has the character of a calendrical or date name. 26. This “round thing” (iaualtic) is probably the ball of ashes appearing earlier in the passage (tlatataca iaoaltic in quitlalia tlatatactli; ø-tla--?, YAUALTIC, in, ø-qui--?, tla--tli; they-it--pl , art, it- it--n end) (Siméon 1981: 163, 438, 649; Karttunen 1983: 215, 334). 27. “Bury” also means “to sow” (toca) (Karttunen 1983: 242). Burying the dead and sowing seeds are considered comparable acts; both go to the underground, rot, and produce new life. One need only remember how Cihuacoatl ground the bones of the underworld like maize kernels to produce human beings (Codex Chimalpopoca 1992: 146). 28. If this were a noble, it might mean the house in the center of one of the four neighborhoods in Tenochtitlan. But if this were a ruler, it might mean the Templo Mayor itself, for two incised clay urns containing human ashes were unearthed from the Huitzilopochtli side of the Templo Mayor (López Luján 1994: 223–227, 478, n. 76). This is based on “house” (calli) and “great house” or “neighborhood” (calpulli) (icalpulco, i--co, his--psp, in) (Molina 1977: 11v). 29. Mexica Chief Speakers were not glorified as individuals in the same way as, for example, Maya rulers. Yet even though a ruler’s individual importance was not marked visually after death, speeches in the Florentine Codex and elsewhere make it clear that dead rulers continued to influence the living through their capacity as dead ancestors. Moreover, sources such as Durán’s Historia demonstrate that their funerals were treated differently from the average noble ceremony, for they included enormous gift exchanges and considerable political maneuvering. In fact, it makes good social and political sense that a ruler’s death would be marked in special ways. So the idea, as some have broached, that a royal rite is no different from an elite one seems unlikely; it is more likely that royal rites were marked variations of noble ones because rulers served different purposes in both life and death. 30. For example, see n. 1.

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31. The Codex Vaticanus A lists four places. Given that the manner of death determined the place, there may have been many more rites that simply were not collected by the Spanish. For example, rites for merchants were altered depending on whether they died in war while away from home or at home from disease (Sahagún 1950–1982, 4: 69–70). 32. References to commoners appear only three times in the body of the text, and then only as asides. On only one occasion is a deity of the underworld referred to as “lord.” 33. Elsewhere López Austin (1974; 1988, 1: 31–46) has noted the complex method of collecting, compiling, and editing that went into producing the Florentine Codex. 34. Such imagery may have pan-Mesoamerican roots. Four incised bones, unearthed from a burial below Temple I at the Classic Maya site of Tikal, Guatemala, depict death as a canoe voyage. They are incised with images of the dead ruler; an iguana, monkey, parrot, and dog; and two gods paddling the canoe. Death occurs when the canoe sinks beneath the waves (Schele and Miller 1986: 270). 35. The breath force (ihiyotl) meant more than breathing, for its root ihiyotia means “to inhale or exhale loudly” or “to break wind” (Karttunen 1983: 98). Received at birth and seated in the liver, the ihiyotl stimulated growth and could be used for one’s own good as well as that of others. Good people had clean livers. If left uncontrolled, however, the liver became the seat of anger and caused malicious actions. It required constant revitalization through the air one breathed or the food one ate (which of course produced gas; López Austin 1988, 1: 232–236; Furst 1995: 153–159). 36. Dry and wet imagery is common in the Mexica symbolic world: for example, in the image of fire and water, war and sacrifice, and battlefields that are considered both dry like deserts and wet with sacrificial blood-water, the sustenance for the gods. 37. This is the complete list of Mexica rulers up to the conquest. 38. The ancient Maya saw clouds form thirteen layers, seven up and six down. Friedel et al. (1993, n. 65, 436–437, citing J. Eric S. Thompson) also think these layers are linked with the nodes or knots in a string and constellations in the Milky Way when it girdles the horizon. Such astronomical connections fit with a calendrical interpretation. 39. Linking earthly ritual sites with cosmological sites is a common phenomenon in the Americas. For example, the Tewa of the southwestern United States coordinate their local topography with their mythic geography, which includes the places people visited when they emerged from the Earth and to which they journey when they die (Ortiz 1969). 40. Two places of the dead may be missing (or one if the first two are not the same); nevertheless, the rite makes excellent sense with just five places, as we will see (see n. 22). 41. Other translators have counted this first one as two different places. But instead of repeating the stock phrase used for the other five, “here is how you will pass” (izcatquj inic tonqujçaz), the speaker alters this second phrase to say, “and here is how, if you pass by that way, the snake guards the road there” (auh izcatquj ic itla tonquiçaz, in utli qujpia in coatl). This second phrase thus may not be a distinctive place but an identifying characteristic of the first. 42. The Codex Chimalpahin (1982: 182) says that only commoners were killed in the Flowery Wars; the nobles were set free.

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43. These confusing passages make sense if the body was burned at the first cremation along with a wooden effigy, and if more effigies substituted for the body in later cremations. Because bodies begin to smell very quickly, people would not want to keep the actual one for as long as eighty days, much less four years. A proxy body was also used in other Mexica funerals (Sahagún 1950–1982, 4: 69–70). Moreover, such practices are not unusual worldwide. In the Ivory Coast of Africa, for example, the body (which is laid out in a bed) is replaced with a photo when the smell becomes too strong (Laura Grillo, personal communication, January 1997). 44. Teyolia (--lia or ). 45. Walzer’s (1983: 3–30) idea of “complex equalities” may describe these “spheres of influence.” He says that tensions are endemic to such a system, in spite of its obvious cooperation (Read 2001: 61). The cihuacoatl’s influence, in fact, did change over time through such tensions, and in the years just before the conquest, the office seems to have lost much of its power. 46. See Read (1998b) for an in-depth treatment of Mexica concepts of transformation.

REFERENCES CITED Andrews, J. Richard 1975 Introduction to Classical Nahuatl. Austin: University of Texas Press. Bell, Katherine 1992 Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Boone, Elizabeth Hill 2000 Stories in Red and Black: Pictorial Histories of the Aztecs and Mixtecs. Austin: University of Texas Press. Carochi, Horacio, and Ignacio Paredes 1979 Arte de la Lengua Mexicana: Grammática Náhuatl. Mexico City: Editorial Innovación. Carrasco, Davíd 1991 The Sacrifice of Tezcatlipoca: To Change Place. In To Change Place: Aztec Ceremonial Landscapes, edited by Davíd Carrasco, pp. 31–57. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Codex Aubin 1893 Histoire de la Nation Mexicaine. Paris: Ernest Leroux. Codex Borbonicus 1974 Codex Borbonicus. Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale, Paris (Y120). Commentaries by Karl Anton Nowotny and Jacqueline de Durand-Forest. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt. Codex Chimalpahin 1982 Relaciones Originales de Chalco Amaquemecan, Escritas por Don Francisco de San Antón Muñón Chimalpahin Cuauhtlehuanitzin. Translated by Silvia Rendón. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica.

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Codex Chimalpopoca 1992 History and Mythology of the Aztecs: The Codex Chimalpopoca. Translated by John Bierhorst. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Codex Magliabechiano 1903 The Book of the Life of the Ancient Mexicans Containing an Account of Their Rites and Superstitions. An anonymous Hispano-Mexican manuscript preserved at the Biblioteca Nationale Centrale in Florence. Edited by Zelia Nuttall. Berkeley: University of California. Reprinted 1983. 1970 Codex Magliabechiano. CLXIII. 3 (B.R. 232). Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt. Codex Vaticanus A 1964 Explicación del Códice Vaticano Latino 3738. In Antigüedades de México, vol. 3, commentary by José Corona Núñez, pp. 7–314. Mexico City: Secretaría de Hacienda y Crédito Público. Durán, Fray Diego 1971 Book of the Gods and Rites and the Ancient Calendar. Translated and edited by Fernando Horcasitas and Doris Heyden. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 1994 The History of the Indies of New Spain. Translated and edited by Doris Heyden. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Feldman, Lawrence H. n.d. A Guide to the History, Morphology, and Lexicon of Nahuatl. Unpublished manuscript [1964]. Friedel, David, Linda Schele, and Joy Parker 1993 Maya Cosmos: Three Thousand Years on the Shaman’s Path. New York: William Morrow. Furst, Jill Leslie McKeever 1995 The Natural History of the Soul in Ancient Mexico. New Haven: Yale University Press. Garibay K., Angel María, ed. 1985 Teogonía e Historia de los Mexicanos: Tres Opúsculos del Siglo XVI. 4th ed. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa. Histoyre du Mechique 1905 Histoyre du Mechique. Edited by Edouard de Jonghe. Journal de la Société des Américanistes de Paris, n.s., 2: 1–41. Karttunen, Frances 1983 An Analytical Dictionary of Nahuatl. Austin: University of Texas Press. Karttunen, Frances, and James Lockhart, eds. 1987 The Art of Nahuatl Speech: The Bancroft Dialogues. Los Angeles: UCLA Latin American Center.

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Lok, Rosanna 1987 The House as a Microcosm. In The Leiden Tradition in Structural Anthropology, edited by R. D. Ridder and J. A. J. Karremans, pp. 211–223. Leiden: E. J. Brill. López Austin, Alfredo 1974 The Research Method of Fray Bernardino de Sahagún: The Questionnaires. In Sixteenth-Century Mexico: The Work of Sahagún, edited by Munro S. Edmonson, pp. 111–150. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. 1988 The Human Body and Ideology: Concepts of the Ancient Nahuas. 2 vols. Translated by Thelma Ortiz de Montellano and Bernard Ortiz de Montellano. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1994 Tamoanchan y Tlalocan. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. López Luján, Leonardo 1994 The Offerings of the Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlan. Translated by Bernard R. Ortiz de Montellano and Thelma Ortiz de Montellano. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Molina, Fray Alonso de 1977 Vocabulario en Lengua Castellana y Mexicana y Mexicana y Castellana. 2d ed. Preliminary study by Miguel León-Portilla. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa. Ortiz, Alfonso 1969 The Tewa World: Space, Time, Being, and Becoming in a Pueblo Society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Popol Vuh 1985 Popol Vuh: The Definitive Edition of the Mayan Book of the Dawn of Life and the Glories of Gods and Kings. Translated by Dennis Tedlock. New York: Simon & Schuster. Quiñones Keber, Eloise 1995 Constructing a Nahua Cosmology in the Codex Vaticanus A. Latin American Indian Literatures Journal 11 (2): 183–205. Read, Kay A. 1994 Sacred Commoners: The Motion of Cosmic Powers in Mexica Rulership. History of Religions Journal 34 (1): 39–69. 1995 Sun and Earth Rulers: What the Eyes Cannot See in Mesoamerica. History of Religions Journal 34 (4): 351–384. 1998a Tenochtitlan and Teotihuacan: Considering Rulers and Ethical Implications. In Acts of the XVII International Congress of History of Religions, edited by Elio Masferrer. CD-ROM. Mexico City: Latin American Association for the Study of Religion. 1998b Time and Sacrifice in the Aztec Cosmos. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. 2000 Sex, War, and Rulers: Mexica Royal Images of Boundary Breaking and Making. In In Chalchihuitl in Quetzalli, edited by Eloise Quiñones Keber, pp. 159–168. Lancaster, Calif.: Labyrinthos.

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2001 More Than Earth: Cihuacoatl as Female Warrior, Male Matron, and Inside Ruler. In Goddesses and Sovereignty, edited by Elisabeth Benard and Beverly Moon, pp. 51–68. New York: Oxford University Press. Read, Kay Almere, and Jason James González 2000 Handbook of Mesoamerican Mythology. Santa Barbara, Calif.: ABC-CLIO. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1979 Códice Florentino. El Manuscrito 218–220 de Colección Palatina de la Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. 3 vols. Florence: Guinti Barbera; Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. Schele, Linda, and Mary Ellen Miller 1986 The Blood of Kings: Dynasty and Ritual in Maya Art. Fort Worth: Kimbell Art Museum. Siméon, Rémi 1981 Diccionario de la Lengua Náhuatl o Mexicana. 2d ed. Translated by Josefina Oliva de Coll. Mexico City: Siglo Veintiuno. Sullivan, Thelma D. 1983 Compendio de la Gramática Náhuatl. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Tambiah, Stanley 1979 A Performative Approach to Ritual. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Turner, Victor 1979 Betwixt and Between: The Liminal Period in Rites of Passage. In Reader in Comparative Religion: An Anthropological Approach, 4th ed., edited by William A. Lessa and Evon Z. Vogt, pp. 234–243. New York: Harper & Row. van Gennep, Arnold 1960 The Rites of Passage. Translated by Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Walzer, Michael 1983 Spheres of Justice: A Defense of Pluralism and Equality. New York: Basic Books.

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from sealed buried offerings and from ethnohistorical accounts, but it appears in only limited ritual contexts among the Aztecs of ancient Mexico. Describing veintena rituals in Book 2 (The Ceremonies) of the Florentine Codex, the informants of the Franciscan missionary writer Fray Bernardino de Sahagún employ an enigmatic phrase to describe certain ritual acts performed by some sacrificial victims: “entering the sand.” Speaking of the impersonator of the goddess Xilonen, Book 2 (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 103) states, “In four directions she entered, or she entered the sand. For this reason it was called xalaqui: in this way she foretold her death—that on the morrow she would die.” To the best of my knowledge, scholars have neglected to explore the significance of this enigmatic ritual practice of “entering the sand.” Moreover, the use of sand found in buried ritual offerings has never been fully explained. In and is known archaeologically

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this study I offer my own interpretation of the presence of sand in certain ritual contexts. The peculiarity of the expression in Nahuatl, the deliberate placement of sand beds in offerings, and the lack of any explanations in the ethnohistorical sources aroused my interest to the extent that I made sand a main research project. I began by reviewing the descriptions of the eighteen annual veintena ceremonies described in Book 2 to see which deity impersonators “entered the sand” and why. Soon I found it necessary to analyze sand within a wider context. This involved consultations with geologists and biologists, as well as with the archaeologists who work at the Templo Mayor in downtown Mexico City, where so many Aztec sacrifices recounted by Sahagún probably took place, and where many offerings containing different sands have been discovered (see Matos Moctezuma, this volume). The Templo Mayor, the most sacred structure in the Aztec capital of Tenochtitlan and in the empire as a whole, yielded abundant evidence of the ritual use of sand. Specialists working there were very helpful and showed a genuine interest in solving this mystery. “Going into the sand” was evidently an important part of some veintena rituals. In descriptions of sacrificial rites in Book 2 it is mentioned in four of the eighteen veintenas; both male and female offerings were parts of these ceremonies in a variety of contexts. To try to elucidate the significance of sand in ritual contexts among the Aztecs, I will describe these ceremonies in greater detail after first examining geological and other characteristics of sand, its archaeological occurrence in Templo Mayor offerings, and ethnohistorical descriptions of sand. WHAT IS SAND? What exactly is sand? Sand is a loose, noncohesive, granular material resulting from the decomposition of rocks. The type of sand common to Mexico is pyroclastic sand, which is derived from the products of volcanic explosion and is composed of ash, lapilli, scoria, and pumice. This composition gives volcanic sand its dark color. Likewise, sand on Mexico’s Gulf Coast has a white color because of its shell content, and a cream-colored sand is produced from feldspar and quartz (Pettijohn et al. 1987: 5–7). Sand is found virtually everywhere on the earth, except perhaps in the deep oceanic basins. The ultimate destination of most sand, depending on the way it is deposited (by air or by water), is not the sea, but an alluvial environment, that is, in rivers. Nevertheless, the association of sand and sea was apparently as ubiquitous in ancient Mexico as it is today and was an important aspect of pre-Hispanic thought and ritual. 176

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Sand is a porous, permeable material often found in conjunction with water. Fluids are contained in the pore system of sands and sandstones, making them natural reservoirs for storing both fresh and salt water. Sand strata are also conduits for artesian flow (Pettijohn et al. 1987: l). In the past, as well as today, sand has been useful as an abrasive and as a cleanser. Its relatively fine texture and hardness make it an ideal substance for polishing and smoothing surfaces. All people who are close to the earth are observant of nature and probably are aware that birds clean themselves by rolling in the sand, that chickens remove lice in this way, and that most animals roll themselves in sand to remove burrs, bugs, and dirt. For this analysis of sand in Aztec ritual, it is important to remember the following facts. Sand is a porous material that facilitates the storage or passage of water. It is primarily deposited in bodies of water (rivers, lakes, and oceans). Depending on its place of origin, it varies in physical characteristics, particularly color and texture. As a fine-grained, dense material, it is commonly used to abrade, cleanse, and polish. SAND IN THE TEMPLO MAYOR OFFERINGS In the Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlan (fig. 7.1), the floors of many of the ritual offerings were covered with a layer of sand.1 The archaeologist Leonardo López Luján reports the presence of sand in nineteen Templo Mayor offerings: 1, 6, 7, 11, 13, 17, 20, 23, 48, 49, 50, 52, 57, 61, 78, 81, 86, 88, and K (1994: 193, 310, 347, 352, 355, 359, 368, 376, 412). This represents about 16 percent of the total number of offerings excavated. The earliest appearance of sand appears to date to Stage IV (Offering 48), about 1440 to 1469. Evidence of this practice continues throughout subsequent stages until Stage VII (Offerings 19, 50, 52, 57), about 1509 to 1520. The majority of its appearances date to Stage IVb (Offerings 1, 6, 7, 11, 13, 17, 22, 23, 61, 88), from 1469 to 1481 (López Luján 1994: 308, 343, 351, 353, 357, 366, 375, 411). Authors disagree on how to correlate the stages with the reigns of different Mexica (Aztec) rulers (pp. 66–70), but what is perhaps more significant to this study is the continued, although selective, use of sand in Templo Mayor offerings through time. Sand was not placed in all offerings, yet some deposits from the same construction stage seem to display patterns in location, suggesting that they were conceptually buried in groups at different times. Details on the ritual deposit of sand in offerings differ considerably. Sand is found as a thin bed in stone boxes (Offerings 1, 7, 13, 17, 23, 48, 61, 78, 81, 88, K), in building fill below the floor (Offerings 6, 11, 20, 49, 50, 52, 57), and in building fill below the main platform (Offering 86). Its location is not restricted to one axis, area, side, or part of the Templo Mayor. It is 177

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Figure 7.1. Reconstructed view of the Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlan, set in the context of later architecture. Drawing by Alberto Beltrán from Heyden and Villaseñor 1984, p. 23.

found in all sectors, including the front platform (Offerings 1, 6, 11, 13, 23, 48, 81), the north and south sides (Offerings 61 and 7, respectively), and the back side in both the platform and the floor (Offerings 17, 20, 49, 50, 52, 57, 80, 88).2 Deposits containing sand were even found in two of the smaller temples flanking the Templo Mayor on the north (Offering K) and on the south (Offering 78). Based on a checklist of 109 attributes, López Luján (1994: 153–170) conducted a computer analysis to aid in classifying the 118 Templo Mayor offerings into twenty complexes. Of these, seven complexes (labeled A, F, G, J, K, and unique deposits) contained sand. López Luján (p. 266) identified a significant number of offerings in Complex A as deposits made in conjunction with the consecration ceremony of Stage IVb of the Templo Mayor, which took place in 1487. Due to the consistent patterning of the offering contents, these complexes can be interpreted as representing “scale models” of three cosmic levels: aquatic, terrestrial, and celestial. Interestingly, the sand found in the Templo Mayor offerings came from different locations. Much of it was also found in association with faunal remains, such as the bones of fish and the shells of mollusks. The white sand in Offering 1—associated with the colossal stone relief of the goddess Coyolx178

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auhqui on the side of the Templo Mayor dedicated to the solar god of war Huitzilopochtli—comes from the Tamiahua Lagoon on the Gulf of Mexico, although some was deposited on beaches by river flows. Offering 23 contains gravel from one of the lakes in the Basin of Mexico, and it also includes marine remains, such as fish, shells, and sea urchins. Although the analysis of sand origins is still underway, biologists have been able to determine that in general gravel-like sand from local lakes is black, sand from the eastern Atlantic Coast is white, and sand from the western Pacific Coast is yellow. Based in part on the materials found in association with sand, López Luján (1994: 310, 347, 352, 355, 368, 412) offers an intriguing explanation for the ceremonial use of sand in the Templo Mayor offerings. In several cases, sand was found in close relation to marine objects, including different varieties of shells and fish. In one offering the layer of sand was tinted with a blue-green pigment (p. 352), reinforcing its association with water. He therefore suggests (pp. 192–193) that sand was used to symbolize sacred space in the Templo Mayor offerings by simulating an aquatic environment. It seems plausible that the persons who prepared a layer of sand in an offering were trying to create a symbolic fragment of the cosmos with aquatic characteristics. In this case, the marine sand would represent the world of the tlaloque (water deities). Sahagún’s informants seem to confirm this idea. In the marginal annotations to a song in honor of the deity Yacatecuhtli, the expression xalli iteuhyan (“scattering the sand”) was used as a synonym for Tlalocan, a subterranean paradise of agricultural riches inhabited by individuals who died in watery circumstances (Sahagún 1950–1982, 11: 69). It thus appears that the bed of sand may have served metaphorically to connect the bottom layer in Templo Mayor offerings with an aquatic environment and the sacred region of Tlalocan. Johanna Broda (1987) also stresses the importance of aquatic symbolism, as revealed by the presence of sand and abundant marine objects (shells, fish remains, turtle carapaces, and parts of stingrays, sharks, alligators, and other animals) in Templo Mayor offerings (see also Nagao 1985: 79).3 The presence of sand in earth, landscape, and ritual reveals its significant place in the concept of cosmovision, which Broda (1991: 79) defines as our understanding of a coherent structural whole of nature and society. Cosmovision is characterized by an intimate fusion between the observations of nature and the belief systems of myth, religion, and ritual. The offerings at the Templo Mayor are part of a “natural philosophy” in which the Aztecs worshipped nature and their deities (Broda in López Luján 1994: 102). The image of the sea was important in Aztec cosmovision as expressed in the offerings, even though the sand did not necessarily come from the ocean. 179

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What then was the significance of sand to the Aztecs? This brings us to an examination of sixteenth-century ethnohistorical accounts that elucidate Aztec cosmovision, beliefs, and ritual practices, particularly with regard to the use of sand. SAND IN ETHNOHISTORICAL SOURCES Throughout ancient Mexico, every element of nature was seen as sacred, as part of the cosmovision of society. Sixteenth-century ethnohistorical sources, particularly those written or compiled by Spanish friars, have shed considerable light on the Aztec view of the natural world. The Dominican Diego Durán (1971: 317) noted that the Aztecs made invocations to the hills, water, springs, cliffs, trees, animals, snakes, sun, moon, stars, clouds, and rainstorms—in other words, to every living thing. Everything on the earth and in the sky was animate, and each part of this great universe was a shrine where the gods were worshipped. Thus, it is illuminating to review Aztec perceptions not only of sand, but also of the sea because of its association with sand in Templo Mayor offerings. The account of “Earthly Things” in Book 11 of the Florentine Codex includes the sea. It provides an interesting perspective on how in ancient times the Aztecs perceived this great body of water, called teoatl (divine water), huey atl (great water), or ilhuica atl (place where the sky [ilhuicatl] and water [atl] meet; Sahagún 1950–1982, 11: 247). Trying to avoid the taint of idolatry, Sahagún is quick to add that despite these appellations, the sea is not a god but something that inspires awe. He goes on to say that “It terrifies, it frightens one. It is that which is irresistible; a great marvel; foaming, glistening with waves.” Recording a similar honorific title in his Historia, Durán (1971: 168) calls the great lake in the Basin of Mexico “Our Mother” (Tonan hueyatl). Like the sea, the lake could also be terrifying; it was frequently the scene of tempests, it became angry and turbulent, and the water at times “boils and froths.” When Durán asked some elders about the origin of the lake, they answered, “It comes from the sea.” It appears that the ritual creation of a watery environment in the Templo Mayor offerings is a symbolic allusion to a large body of water, perhaps the lake surrounding Tenochtitlan, but more probably the sea itself or the watery subterranean realm of Tlalocan. So important was classification of the material world to the Aztecs that Book 11 dedicates space to different varieties of soil, especially soils containing sand (Sahagún 1950–1982, 11: 250–252, 258, 265). Within the text many descriptions relate to sand. Sandy soil is xalalli, from xalli (sand) and tlalli 180

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(earth). Sahagún states that this soil type “does not germinate much, it has no substance.” Sand that is borne by water is xalatoctli and is said to be porous. Also described are different kinds of water, including water that emerges from sand, which is “good tasting, very healthful.” In his sixteenth-century Vocabulario, Fray Alonso de Molina (1944: 159) mentions xaltetla as “a place where there are many tiny stones,” that is, sand. Molina also translates xallo as “something filled with sand,” while Sahagún (1950–1982, 11: 258) says of the volcano Popocatepetl, “It is sandy. It smokes” (xallo popoca). Today geologists call a volcano xalapazco, or “a hole in a sandy place” (Claus Siebe, personal communication, December 1997). Other descriptive terms incorporating xalli (sand) as either a prefix or suffix are axalli (atl-xalli), a kind of sand in a watery environment used for cutting and working precious stones; azcaxalli, “anthill”; xalapan, a sandy place, “on the sand.” Teocuitlaxalli (gold dust) derives from teotl, meaning “something sacred or godly”; cuitlatl, meaning “excrement” (that is, gold); and xalli, meaning “sand.” Thus, teocuitlaxalli is “excrement of the gods,” or gold in the form of dust or sand (Campbell 1985: 407). Because sand formed a part of religious rites, it was considered to be a sacred element, and the place on the earth where it was deposited became a sacred space. Although Sahagún dismissed xalalli (sandy soil) as being useless for agriculture, the economic value of sand in ancient Mexico was enormous. So important was sand for the Aztecs of Tenochtitlan that it drove them to declare war on regions that contained certain desirable sands. In the time of Motecuhzoma II (Xocoyotzin) the demand for sand as an abrasive and stone polisher, mainly for sculptures of deities, was so great that the Aztec ruler sent envoys to the provinces of Quetzaltepec and Tototepec, in what is today the state of Guerrero, to request sand for Aztec lapidaries. The sand in this region came from a great river called the Quetzalatl (River of the Quetzal or Precious Bird), today called the Papagayo (Durán 1994: 418). The request was refused and the envoys killed, thereby giving the Aztecs an excuse to wage war. The Aztec army defeated the people of the region at a place called Xaltianquizco (Sand Market Place), thus ensuring their continued access to the highly valued river sand (Durán 1994: 417–423). Sahagún (1950–1982, 11: 237–238) also describes these valuable abrasive sands in a chapter on “really fine stones.” Teoxalli (divine sand), or emery of different colors and textures, is said to come from mountains. It is described as a “grinder . . . which wears away, which thins things.” Similarly, tecpaxalli (flint sand), or flint emery, is used for cleaning, polishing, thinning, scouring, and smoothing. Such deposits reinforce the universal use, past and present, of sand as an abrasive and cleanser. 181

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In addition to its pivotal role in the concept of cosmovision and its practical economic value, sand appears to be an integral component of the ritual performances in four veintena ceremonies described in detail in Book 2 of the Florentine Codex. There xalaquia is enigmatically described as an act performed by sacrificial victims who “enter the sand” after having been ceremonially bathed the night before the actual sacrifice. To my knowledge, Sahagún is the only chronicler to mention this act, although Siméon (1981: 35, 761), perhaps based on Sahagún, translates aqui or aquia as “to enter a place” or “to place something within a hole.” By extension, xalaquia would mean “to enter a place in the sand” or “to place something in a hole in the sand.” As it pertains to the present discussion, this phrase could apply either to the act performed by sacrificial victims prior to their death or to the placement of offerings in sand in the Templo Mayor. I will now summarize the general features of the four veintena ceremonies to give a sense of the context in which “entering the sand” occurs. THE VEINTENA CEREMONY OF HUEY TECUILHUITL Ceremonies for the eighth veintena of the year, Huey Tecuilhuitl (Great Feast of the Lords), began with much feasting.4 Singing and dancing continued for many days. On the tenth day the ritual shifted focus to the impersonator (ixiptla) of the young maize goddess Xilonen (fig. 7.2), as it was her time to die. Women who served her in the temple danced and sang in the courtyard through the night until dawn, at which time nobles and warriors also danced in the courtyard with Xilonen’s impersonator. Xilonen’s face was painted the colors of maize—yellow and red—and she wore quetzal feathers in her headdress to represent maize tassels (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 103; Durán 1971: 223). Thus adorned as the living representative of maize, the girl “entered the sand” in four directions, at four sacred sites, and at four times, possibly representing the cardinal directions.5 This ceremony was called xalaqui, “to enter the sand” (Siméon 1981: 351).6 The first location was Tetamazolco, which was in Lake Tetzcoco at the point where priests took boats to go to Pantitlan (Place of a Whirlpool) during rites to the water deities (Durán 1971: 164). The second site was Necoquixecan (Muddy Place?), possibly from necoquiguiliztli (enlodarse, or “to muddy oneself”; Siméon 1981: 312). Atenchicalcan (Where the Water Flows; p. 37) followed in third place, and the fourth place of “entering the sand” was Xolloco, a site near Tenochtitlan located over water (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 103). The final rite in Huey Tecuilhuitl was the sacrifice of the young maize-goddess impersonator (see Carrasco, this volume). After she had gone into the 182

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Figure 7.2. The young maize goddess Xilonen. Drawing by Aarón Flores after Codex Magliabechiano 1970, fol. 31r.

sand, she was taken up to the temple of the maize god Centeotl and placed in a supine position upon a priest’s back. She was then decapitated and her heart was removed. Her heart was offered to the sun before it was placed in a blue gourd, the color perhaps symbolizing water. Thus ended the Huey Tecuilhuitl feast (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 96–107). THE VEINTENA CEREMONY OF QUECHOLLI During the fourteenth veintena, Quecholli (Roseate Spoonbill), held in honor of Mixcoatl (fig. 7.3), the god of the hunt, who was also called Camaxtli (fig. 7.4) and Amimitl, weapons were prepared for hunting and for war. The first part of Quecholli was dedicated to the making of arrows and darts, followed by feasting, ritual hunts, the offering of game to the statue of Mixcoatl, and the sacrifice of captives and slaves at a temple called Tlamatzinco. The impersonator of Mixcoatl-Camaxtli and his consort Yeuatlicue were to be sacrificed, as well as the “wives” of Tlamatzincatl and Izquitecatl, other gods also honored at this time. When twenty days had passed and Quecholli was coming to an end, more sacrifices took place, including “going into the sand” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 138). Those to be sacrificed were ceremonially bathed, many of them by the makers of pulque, the ritual beverage made from the maguey agave. When it 183

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Figure 7.3. The hunting god Mixcoatl-­ Camaxtli. Drawing by Aarón Flores after Codex Magliabechiano 1970, fol. 42r.

was time, “there was going into the sand there; those who were to die went into the sand there” (p. 138), after which they were guarded all night in the different sectors of the city assigned to them. At midnight the bathed ones had a lock of hair cropped from each of their heads and their clothing and belongings were burned. Those to be sacrificed were then carried up the steps of the Temple of Mixcoatl by their arms and legs and with their heads hanging, as if they were game. It was said that because men slay deer, humans at this ritual should die the way deer do (p. 139). In the same way, the animals sacrificed on Zacatepec Hill were killed as if they had been human, with the heart extracted (Durán 1971: 147). Thus, symbolically people were animals and animals were people. The females who had performed the ritual of going into the sand went to their deaths at the Temple of Coatlan, and the impersonator of Mixcoatl-Camaxtli was sacrificed at the temple of this god.7 THE VEINTENA CEREMONY OF PANQUETZALIZTLI The Quecholli feast was followed by Panquetzaliztli (Raising of Banners), held in honor of the Aztec tutelary god, Huitzilopochtli (fig. 7.5). In some circles of Aztec society Huitzilopochtli was also associated with vegetation and the earth’s bounty, as can be seen by the placing of little flags on fruit trees and plants 184

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Figure 7.4. The hunting god Mixcoatl-­ Camaxtli during the veintena of Quecholli. Drawing by Aarón Flores after Durán 1995, vol. 2, pl. 14.

at this time to ensure their growth and well-being (Durán 1971: 459). Men and women danced and sang the song of Huitzilopochtli. On the ninth day, before the slaves were sacrificed, they were ceremonially bathed with sacred water from a spring called Huitzilatl, located in a cave next to Huitzilopochco (Place of Huitzilopochtli). Each of the slaves, men and women alike, had a jar of the sacred spring water poured over his or her head and clothing. The wet clothing was then exchanged for ceremonial paper garments in which the slaves were to die. On the last or twentieth day, the most important one of the veintena ceremonies, the bathed ones said farewell to their bathers, the merchants or buyers of slaves (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 143–144). Singing loudly, the bathed ones dipped their hands into a basin of blue, black, or ochre dye and left their imprints in color on the posts, lintels, and doors of their bathers’ houses (p. 143). The bathed ones then donned their garments of paper and carried banners. At the calpulco, the calpulli shrine, gifts were placed inside and the bathed ones danced in the courtyard. Each of the guests, both men and women, was offered a garment as a gift (p. 144). Then it was time for the bathed ones to perform the rite of entering the sand. Subsequently, climbing to the top of the temple, the bathed ones circled the sacrificial stone. After they descended, their paper vestments were removed, and they were fed and allowed to drink all the pulque they 185

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Figure 7.5. The solar and war god Huitzilopochtli during the veintena of Panquetzaliztli, Codex Telleriano-Remensis. Drawing by Michel Besson after Quiñones Keber 1995, fol. 5r.

wished. Seated on reed mats, they kept vigil by the fire until midnight, when a lock of hair was cut from each of their heads, and they waited in the cold for dawn. At the first light, a priest carrying a figure of Painal (fig. 7.6), Huitzilo-pochtli’s deputy, came down from the temple of Huitzilopochtli. He went directly to the teotlachco, the sacred ball court, where four bathed ones were sacrificed. In the Spanish version, Sahagún (1969, 1: 212) calls them cautivos, “captives,” not slaves. In this connection it should be remembered that Huitzilopochtli (fig. 7.7) was the god of war. A priest from the temple brought down the statues of Painal and Huitzilopochtli, both made of tzoalli, or amaranth dough (Durán 1971: 80). Then the sacrifices took place at the summit of the temple. The captives died first. The remaining bathed ones, the slaves who had entered the sand, followed them at the temple of Huitznahua. 186

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Figure 7.6. Painal, Huitzilopochtli’s deputy, Primeros Memoriales. Drawing by Michel Besson after Sahagún 1993, fol. 261r.

THE VEINTENA CEREMONY OF IZCALLI The ceremonially bathed ones who went into the sand during the eighteenth and final veintena of Izcalli (Growth, Resuscitation) were the impersonators of Xiuhtecuhtli (Turquoise Lord), who was also called Ixcozauhqui (Yellow Face) (fig. 7.8), both names for the fire god. These were male slaves, who were sacrificed together with their wives after both had been ritually bathed and had gone into the sand. Captives were also sacrificed at this time (Sahagún 1969, 1: 222). These deaths occurred only every four years. The statue of the fire god was made of pieces of wood joined together. On his head was placed a crown called the quetzalcomitl (jar of feathers). From it protruded two narrow bunches of feathers that in some representations symbolized maize, but on Xiuhtecuhtli they symbolized fire drills. On his head was also a tuft of yellow parrot feathers (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 159, 161). There were no sacrifices in the first, second, and third years of Izcalli, but other ceremonies took place; the most important was the eating of tamales filled with amaranth greens. Later at midnight on the tenth day, the priest made 187

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Figure 7.7. Huitzilopochtli carrying a xiuhcoatl (fire serpent), Primeros Memoriales. Drawing by Aarón Flores after León-Portilla 1992, p. 112.

a fire with the fire drills. As dawn approached, boys brought game they had caught the day before and gave birds, snakes, lizards, salamanders, and other creatures to the old men present, who cast them into the fire as food for the god. Meanwhile, women made and offered amaranth-green–filled tamales to the statue of the deity (p. 164).8 On the twentieth day, another statue of the god was made of sticks and was given a shell mosaic mask; the lower half was covered with black mosaic that was probably made of obsidian. The god’s crown displayed yellow parrot feathers, like flames, from which feathers of turquoise color descended. Boys again brought birds, snakes, and other creatures they had caught to be offered to the fire that would “consume” them. For three years no sacrifice took place during Izcalli, but in the fourth year, some slaves, impersonators of the fire god Xiuhtecuhtli, were sacrificed. These were the ceremonially bathed ones. As the feast of Izcalli dawned, they performed the rite of “going into the sand” at the Temple of Tzonmolco. Both 188

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Figure 7.8. The fire god Xiuhtecuhtli-­ Ixcozauhqui. Drawing by Aarón Flores after Codex Magliabechiano 1970, fol. 46r.

male and female slaves, arrayed in paper garments like those the gods wore, circled around the sacrificial stone. Then they were taken to the calpulco, where their paper attire was removed and put away. At midnight, hair was cut from the crowns of the slaves’ heads, and white feathers, symbolizing sacrifice, were pasted on them. The belongings of the bathed ones were burned or given to their family members. When daylight came, those who were to die were again dressed in paper and were taken in procession to the place of sacrifice. They sang and danced as they went up to the temple. Past midday, a priest came down from the temple and passed before them while carrying an image of Huitzilopochtli. Then he led them up the steps to the shrine. The captives were to die first, before the bathed ones. Those who had entered the sand followed them in death. These were the slaves who were the image of Ixcozauhqui (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 164). This was the end of the sacrificial rites in the four-year period, but much celebrating followed. The ruler led the nobles in dancing. He wore the tur-

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quoise miter used by the supreme tlatoani, and he and his noble subjects wore turquoise ornaments in their noses. They also wore jackets, the xicolli made of turquoise blue cloth, with turquoise jewels at their necks in the form of the dog Xolotl. Only the ruler and his noblemen were permitted to dance at this special ceremony (p. 164). Thus ended Izcalli.9 THE MEANINGS OF SAND IN AZTEC RITUAL Among the sixteenth-century chroniclers, Fray Bernardino de Sahagún is the only one to mention ceremonies in which certain sacrificial victims are ritually bathed with water from special springs and “go into the sand” before their deaths. Why the Florentine Codex alone records these events will probably remain a mystery. Nevertheless, one might focus on the unique role of Sahagún when attempting to understand the reasons for their inclusion. As a student at the University of Salamanca in Spain, Sahagún had been meticulously trained in methods and techniques, knowledge that he applied to the questionnaires he devised and used when systematically collecting data from his native informants. He apparently strove not to overlook any detail, no matter how insignificant it might have seemed to others. Aside from the Relaciones Geográficas of 1570 (Acuña 1982–1988), which addressed a battery of fifty questions about different aspects of life in New Spain, Sahagún may have been the only colonial chronicler who was so systematic and methodical in his research. Therefore, the use of sand, which may have seemed unimportant to other observers and writers, did not escape his attention. Another factor that may have permitted the preservation of the term xalaquia was Sahagún’s linguistic concerns. The Florentine Codex was written in Nahuatl, Spanish, and Latin. In fact, Sahagún’s opus offers the most extensive corpus of information on the Aztecs in Nahuatl. The word xalaquia, “going into the sand,” would have appeared in the Nahuatl version in a relatively minor place, given the complexity of the rituals described. Were it not for the use of parallel texts in Nahuatl, Spanish, and Latin, the term might have been overlooked or lost entirely. Differences in regional practices might also elucidate the singularity and detail of the ritual descriptions in the Florentine Codex. Many of Sahagún’s informants were well-educated members of the former Aztec elite of Tlatelolco, sister city to the capital and a place where the veintena rituals would generally have been the same as those in neighboring Tenochtitlan. The ritual importance of sand at one site would very likely have been part of ceremonies at the other site. Then again, “going into the sand” may have been a rite practiced solely in the area of the capital, which might explain why other writers do not mention it, for not all of the chroniclers lived in or 190

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described the Lake Tetzcoco region. Diego Durán, for example, resided in Tetzcoco as a child and in the city of Mexico as a youth, but as an adult and friar he lived in the Marquesado, now the state of Morelos to the south of the capital. It was in this area that he gathered much of his material, and he derived it not from the Aztec elite, but from simple people in markets, from farmers, and from his neighbors. He did not use a formal questionnaire to collect data, so he may have overlooked details of rites that he considered nonessential, if they even existed in his region. Some of Durán’s information, furthermore, came from a lost document called the Crónica X, an official history of the Aztecs but of unknown origin, which concentrated mainly on rulers, wars, and conquests (Durán 1994). The writings of other chroniclers whose data on ritual came from places outside Tenochtitlan—such as Diego Muñoz Camargo (1984), who was the main historian of Tlaxcallan (Tlaxcala), and Motolinia (197l), who also wrote about that area—reveal regional variations in ritual practices (see Nicholson, “Veintena Ceremonies,” this volume). We now return to the Templo Mayor. What is the significance of sand and the ritual of “entering the sand” at this sacred location? A geological analysis of sand as well as Sahagún’s detailed descriptions of ritual shed some light on this central question. The Templo Mayor offerings contained sand from different origins: the eastern and western coasts of Mexico, lakes, and rivers. The presence of sand in the Templo Mayor seems to have been intended to invoke the presence of the sea and the image of the watery paradise of plenty known as Tlalocan. It reinforced the notion of the Templo Mayor as a cosmic model that may have functioned symbolically on a variety of levels in which water played an essential role. “Entering the sand” is described in rituals that took place in four of the twenty-day veintena periods: Huey Tecuilhuitl, during which the impersonator of the young maize goddess Xilonen went into the sand and was sacrificed; Quecholli, during which the likeness of the god of the hunt Mixcoatl-­ Camaxtli and his consort were ritually bathed in honor of Huitzilopochtli; Panquetzaliztli; and Izcalli, during which the sacrificial victim who entered the sand was the impersonator of the fire deity Xiuhtecuhtli. The human sacrifices who entered the sand in these ceremonies apparently had nothing in common, yet they shared an association with the importance of water in rituals and the goal of agricultural fertility. Not only were the deity representatives bathed in water from sacred springs—for example, the huitzalatl in Panquetzaliztli in honor of Huitzilopochtli—but water was also ever present. The four sacred places that the Xilonen impersonator visited were all part of an aquatic environment that “may be identified in modern Mexico City and are associated with water and sand” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 104, n. 23). 191

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At these sites, victims may have been purified by water before entering the sand. The role of sand as a cleanser or purifier in the natural world should also not be overlooked. The Aztecs undoubtedly observed the way animals used sand to cleanse themselves and may have devised the ritual of “entering the sand” as a second step to ensure that the one who was to be sacrificed was without blemish. Other sacrificial offerings may have also gone through this ritual cleansing process, but Sahagún does not describe them. The importance of agricultural fertility in relation to xalaquia is revealed in the identity of deity impersonators who were honored in the four ceremonies. In Huey Tecuilhuitl, Xilonen is the incarnation of Mexico’s basic food grain, maize, in its stage as a tender young plant. Her attire represents the importance of maize: The long feathers in her headdress symbolize maize silk, and she carries maize cobs in her hands. In Quecholli, the person who goes into the sand is the impersonator of the god of the hunt Mixcoatl-Camaxtli, whose feast was held during the season when agriculture was little practiced: in the dry winter, when it was too late for harvesting and too early for planting. Agriculture, of foremost importance, left this season to the procurement of food through hunting at a time when it was not practical to till the soil. During Panquetzaliztli, an important act practiced by all the farmers was the honoring of fruit trees and plants by placing little banners on them. In Izcalli, which means “growth,” children were stretched so they would grow; this action seems to have been a metaphor for the successful growth of vegetation. One final notion regarding sand deserves mention: its association with transition and, by extension, its possible significance as a portal to another world.10 “Entering the sand” marked the imminent demise of certain sacrificial victims, for it occurred shortly before the actual sacrifice, a culminating act that generally took place at the end of the twenty-day veintena period. In these cases sand can be said to signal the boundary between life and death in both time and space. “Entering the sand” took place at the end of the twenty days, a conceptually transitional phase that may have served as a ritual underscoring of the transition of the sacrificial victim from the world of the living to the world of the dead. Because life and death were closely related concepts in Aztec belief—death by sacrifice was necessary to continue life itself—the hypothesis that sand connoted a place of transition between the two realms is comprehensible. Furthermore, the identification of sand with passage is a notion that is partly derived from the physical properties of sand. Just as sand serves as a conduit for life-giving water owing to its porosity, the Aztecs may have metaphorically conceived of sand as a correspondingly permeable place. They may have regarded it as a substance permitting the passage between life and death, between this world and that of Aztec dei192

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ties, in both sacrificial rituals and the offerings dedicated to the gods. Our belated recognition of the Aztecs’ use of sand as a richly evocative ritual substance—gleaned from information found only in the Florentine Codex—is another example of the debt that modern scholars of ancient Mexico owe to this indispensable source. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I thank Eloise Quiñones Keber for her invitation to participate in her session “Representing Ritual in the Sahaguntine Corpus” at the 1997 annual meeting of the American Society for Ethnohistory, where a version of this paper was first presented. I am also indebted to Jeanette Peterson and Debra Nagao for their careful reading of the text and for their helpful comments. Finally, I am grateful to Aarón Flores of Mexico’s National Institute of Anthropology and History for drawing the illustrations included in this paper. NOTES 1. I am grateful to Eduardo Matos Moctezuma’s team at the Templo Mayor for generously sharing all the information about sand that surfaced during the excavations of the offerings. Leonardo López Luján, Oscar Polaco, Norma Valentín, Francisco Hinojosa, and Elena Caraminana, archaeologists and biologists, gave me both their time and their insights. Much of their information is from unpublished research, although López Luján (1994) and Polaco (1991) are excellent sources of information. 2. López Luján (1994: 120–121) implies that the location of an offering, more than the time it was deposited, determines its contents. The offering’s location could be in a temple, in the floor, or in the platform of the Templo Mayor. The offering’s age is estimated from its placement within a specific construction level. 3. Broda (1987: 214–217) also mentions that the Inca ruler had sand from the Pacific Coast brought to Cuzco for the sacred plaza. 4. Durán (1971: 436) says that Huey Tecuilhuitl was called the Great Feast of the Lords because the image of the god at this time was large and lavishly adorned in contrast to the small statue of the god in the former month, Tecuilhuitontli, Little Feast of the Lords. 5. Anderson and Dibble (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 104, n. 23) note that the Spanish text suggests that these sites were chosen in reference to the four “characters” of the year count, that is, the four year bearers. 6. When describing Huey Tecuilhuitl, Sahagún does not mention the ritual bathing of Xilonen. All sacrificial victims, however, were first subjected to this purification by water, so this omission should be regarded as an oversight rather than a discrepancy. Furthermore, because the four sacred places where the girl went into the sand were described as being over or near water, perhaps the act of ritual bathing took place at one or all of these locations.

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7. Durán (1971: 147–148) gives a different description of the sacrifice in his chapter on Quecholli. He states that the sacrificial victims were a man named Mixcoatontli, who was the impersonator of Mixcoatl, and a woman called Yoztlamiyahual. The woman was killed first. Her head was knocked against a large rock in the temple, and while she was barely conscious her throat was slit, the blood flowing over the rock. Mixcoatontli took her decapitated head by the hair and carried it around the courtyard four times before he was sacrificed “in the usual way” by heart extraction. In the Codex Telleriano-Remensis (1995), the artist of the veintena section stresses the characterization of Mixcoatl (Cloud Serpent) as a stellar deity, and the commentator states that the “demons,” or pre-Hispanic gods, were once stars. He adds that a purpose of this feast was the “fall of Mictlantecuhtli” (Lord of the Place of the Dead), who evidently was one of the stellar “demons.” After the fall of these demons or stars, they were called tzitzimime, “frightening monsters.” The name of this fourteenth veintena, Quecholli, is translated in the Codex Telleriano-Remensis (1995: 146–147) as “Precious Feather.” 8. An entire chapter on the feast of Huauquiltamalqualiztli (The Eating of Tamales Filled with Amaranth Greens) follows the last veintena in the Florentine Codex (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 167–172) and in the Spanish edition of Sahagún’s Historia (Sahagún 1969, 1: 225–227). 9. For the eighteenth veintena, Durán (1971: 465–468) joins Izcalli to Xilomanaliztli (When the Ear of Maize Is Born) and Cuahuitlehua (When the Trees Bud and Grow Green). He describes the practice of stretching parts of children’s bodies but relates the process of growth to vegetation. 10. I am grateful to Robert Bye (personal communication, December 1994) for having called my attention to the significance of sand in another ritual space, the sipapu in the kivas of the Hopi in the southwestern United States, which Underhill (1965: 209) calls the “opening to the Underworld.” This small keyhole-shaped opening in the kiva represents the place through which the Hopi entered when passing into the world of the living. En route they passed through a sandy place filled with hedgehog cactus, which is one of the spirits of the earth. When a kiva is abandoned, its sipapu is filled with river sand. (Rivers with sandy bottoms form part of the local environment.) Thus, sand delimits the boundary or transitional zone between life and death.

REFERENCES CITED Acuña, René, ed. 1982– Relaciones Geográficas del Siglo XVI. 10 vols. Mexico City: Instituto de 1988 Investigaciones Antropológicas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Broda, Johanna 1987 The Provenience of the Offering: Tribute and Cosmovision. In The Aztec Templo Mayor, edited by Elizabeth Hill Boone, pp. 211–256. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks.

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1991 The Sacred Landscape of Aztec Calendar Festivals: Myth, Nature, and Society. In To Change Place: Aztec Ceremonial Landscapes, edited by Davíd Carrasco, pp. 74–140. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Campbell, R. Joe 1985 A Morphological Dictionary of Classical Nahuatl. Madison: Hispanic Seminary of Medieval Studies, University of Wisconsin. Codex Magliabechiano 1903 The Book of the Life of the Ancient Mexicans Containing an Account of Their Rites and Superstitions. An anonymous Hispano-Mexican manuscript preserved at the Biblioteca Nationale Centrale in Florence. Edited by Zelia Nuttall. Berkeley: University of California. Reprinted 1983. 1970 Codex Magliabechiano. CLXIII. 3 (B.R. 232). Biblioteca Nazionale Centrale di Firenze. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt. Codex Telleriano-Remensis See Quiñones Keber 1995. Durán, Fray Diego 1971 Book of the Gods and Rites and the Ancient Calendar. Translated and edited by Fernando Horcasitas and Doris Heyden. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 1994 The History of the Indies of New Spain. Translated and edited by Doris Heyden. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. 1995 Historia de las Indias de Nueva España e Islas de Tierra Firme. Introduction by Rosa Carmelo and José Rubén Romero. 2 vols. Mexico City: Dirección General de Publicaciones, Consejo Nacional para la Cultura y las Artes. Florentine Codex See Sahagún 1950–1982. Heyden, Doris, and Luis Francisco Villaseñor 1984 The Great Temple of the Aztec Gods. 2d ed. Mexico City: Editorial Minutiae Mexicana. León-Portilla, Miguel, ed. 1992 Ritos, Sacerdotes y Atavíos de los Dioses. Textos de Informantes de Sahagún 1. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. López Luján, Leonardo 1994 The Offerings of the Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlan. Translated by Bernard R. Ortiz de Montellano and Thelma Ortiz de Montellano. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Molina, Fray Alonso de 1944 Vocabulario en Lengua Castellana y Mexicana, 1571. Madrid: Ediciones Cultura Hispánica.

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Motolinia, Fray Toribio de Benavente 1971 Memoriales o Libro de las Cosas de la Nueva España y de los Naturales de Ella. 2d ed. Edited by Edmundo O’Gorman. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Muñoz Camargo, Diego 1984 Descripción de la Ciudad y Provincia de Tlaxcala. In Relaciones Geográficas del Siglo XVI, vol. 4: Tlaxcala, vol. 1, edited by René Acuña, pp. 23–218. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Antropológicas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Nagao, Debra 1985 Mexica Buried Offerings. A Historical and Contextual Analysis. BAR International Series 235. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Pettijohn, F. J., P. E. Potter, and R. Siever 1987 Sand and Sandstone. 2d ed. New York: Springer-Verlag. Polaco, Oscar J., ed. 1991 La Fauna en el Templo Mayor. Asociación de Amigos del Templo Mayor, Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Mexico City: García y Valadéz. Quiñones Keber, Eloise 1995 Codex Telleriano-Remensis: Ritual, Divination, and History in a Pictorial Aztec Manuscript. Austin: University of Texas Press. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1969 Historia General de las Cosas de la Nueva España. 4 vols. 2d ed. Edited by Angel María Garibay K. Mexico City: Editorial Porrúa. 1993 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Siméon, Rémi 1981 Diccionario de la Lengua Náhuatl o Mexicana. 2d ed. Translated by Josefina Oliva de Coll. Mexico City: Siglo Veintiuno. Underhill, Ruth M. 1965 Red Man’s Religion. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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The Hearts of Plants and Players in War Games Davíd Carrasco

A human’s life is a continuous debt to the gods. Humans eat, and when that happens, they take on an obligation. It is the gods’ obligation to nourish their creatures. The hands of the gods are symbols of their capacity to create and sustain . . . , but the human consumption of food must be reciprocated. The gods give sustenance on loan. —Alfredo López 1997: 186 When they had gone reaching the place of the skull rack, then [the wearer of Toci’s likeness’s skin] tramped upon her drum. And the seasoned warriors already stood awaiting [Centeotl]. For there he departed with his thigh [skin] mask in order to leave it in enemy land. —Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 122

t is in the ritual killing of females that we gain valuable information about Aztec ritual sacrifice, social order, and, to some extent, gender relations.1 This statement may come as somewhat of a surprise because, in regard to human sacrifice, scholars have traditionally focused on the sacrifice of enemy male warriors. However, a closer reading of the eighteen annual ritual performances (veintenas), as described by the informants of Bernardino de Sahagún in Book 2 (The Ceremonies) of the Florentine Codex and by other sixteenth-century writers, shows that women were ritually slaughtered in one-third of these yearly festivals. If we want to gain a better understanding of the Aztec cosmo-magical practice of ritual sacrifice in ancient Mexico, the ceremonial landscape in which these rituals were performed, and the social ordering of male and female relations, a revealing place to look is in the short and long descriptions of four ceremonies in Book 2, in which young women

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were explicitly the victims.2 In the discussion that follows, I attempt an alliance between verbal picture-making and an interpretation of selected materials drawn primarily from Book 2 to give the reader a richer understanding of how the sacrifice of women among the Aztecs of Tenochtitlan strove to combine, in distinctive ways, their religious commitment to the regeneration of plants and their commitment to the regeneration of warfare.3 While other authors have noticed the combination of plant renewal and warfare in these rites, I hope to carry the discussion further by illustrating the meanings of this dual focus in the sacrifice of women. It is in the Aztecs’ consistent, sometimes desperate, ritual search for plant regeneration that we gain some access to their understanding of the nature of human existence. They were a people obsessed with the structured nearness of death,4 but they also possessed the ritual techniques to manipulate, dance with, and periodically transform death into the forces of life. Those sacrifices, referred to as nextlahualtin (debt payments), were the ritual strategy for encountering this mystery of metamorphosis. The sacrifice of women, as much as any other kind of sacrifice, dramatized for their priests and participants and served up to their gods the hope that they could use ritually controlled death to regenerate their plants, their children, and even the forces of war that brought death to enemies. In what follows, I employ the concept of the “cosmo-magical circle”5 from the perspective of the history of religions in order to develop a tentative ritual and social map of the sacrifice of women. We will see that the rituals for sacrificing women were highly mobile ceremonies marked by cosmo-magical circles. By that I mean the symbolic spaces where gods and humans actively exchanged their coessences in order to participate in the rejuvenating forces of earth, animal, plant, and sky. By using cosmo-magical circles, I mean to emphasize the circular, rejuvenating purposes of these rituals; the flow of exchange between cosmic levels of sky and earth, male and female, life and death; and the focused style of sacrifice inclined to collect in various concentrated moments and spaces the crucial elements of sacrificial change. I also emphasize another feature of the notion of ceremonial landscape, namely that in the Aztec imagination all of these elements—people, plants, ritual buildings, costumes, hills—were perceived as living participants, each with a spiritual identity, power, and volition. As surviving narratives make clear, these cosmo-magical circles gathered together the sacred symbols, potent cosmic forces, and key participants along a prescribed ritual route so that the debt payments could be accomplished and the populace could witness and participate in the rites of passage. In the sacrifice of women, the female body—marked by sexual and regenera198

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tive powers, layered with cosmic colors, jewelry, and mythic and memory clothing6—was one such circle. The sacred women who gathered around the intended female sacrifice—sometimes dancing, sometimes whispering, and sometimes waving hands—were another cosmo-magical circle. These cosmo-magical symbols and acts are instruments in what Rosemary Joyce, drawing on the work of Judith Butler, calls “making bodies.” In her insightful work on performing the female body in Central America, Joyce writes about sculptures in ways that are analogous to the ritual making of the female body in Aztec rites of sacrifice. She writes, Central American sculpture displays the construction of bodies as the culmination of many separate social acts. The endowment of the head with unique character through the embellishment of hair and headdress, the sensory engagement for which the parts of the face serve as vehicles, and the performance of embodied and sexed action, even marking of the skin as body boundary through painted designs, are re-presented in durable sculptures. The bodies constructed through the body processing and its public representation are a record of and instrument for experience. Stone and pottery human images form a record of the bodily practices particularly significant in these societies. By giving permanent material form to selected practices, pre-Hispanic Central American artists exposed fleeting aspect of human experience to reflection, shifting bodily practices to inscribed practices (Joyce 1998: 161).

I hope to show that similar work of construction of gendered bodies and their performance in ritual was carried out in the supposedly more ephemeral festivals of female sacrifice. It is in the ritual repetition of these sacrifices of women (as much as in the permanent material forms of sculpture), carried out periodically during each year and repeated again and again every year, that a permanent material and ritual intelligibility about the female body was decorated, re-mapped, layered, dismembered, skinned, and transported—in Joyce’s terms “endowed,” “engaged,” “performed”—as means of making the sacred Aztec version of the female gender. The temples they visited, the places of sacrifice, the marketplace, the ruler’s palace, and the spot on the enemy frontier where her skin was deposited were also magical circles or parts of larger cosmo-magical places. All these were the places of crucial religious change that confined, focused, and released sacred forces in order to regenerate plants and warriors. This sense of circular rejuvenation, focus, and place, linking at least plants and war, is well reflected in the ritual procession of the ixiptla (impersonator, 199

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representative, image) of the young maize goddess Xilonen, who visited four cosmic locations that were also associated with the cyclical motion of the four sacred year-bearers. “[These] just sustained, just carried along the four year-bearers: Reed, Flint knife, House, Rabbit; thus do the year-bearers go describing circles, go whirling around [as they measure time]” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 104). COSMOVISION AND COSMO-MAGICAL The need to maintain harmony between the world of the gods and the world of men—what A. J. L. Wensinck called the dramatic conception of nature—required that man should participate in cosmic events by accompanying them with appropriate rituals (Wheatley 1971: 436). A further word about terminology will help the reader. Scholars of Aztec religion use the term cosmovision to refer to the worldview or coherent and rational arrangement of space and time communicated through religion and mythology.7 I have found this term and the discourse around it to be useful for describing the indigenous models of space and time as represented in rituals, architecture, and mythology. I also use the term cosmo-magical to emphasize two dynamic aspects of the more general cosmovision. First, there is the capacity of rites and places to dramatize, with maximal potential sacredness, the interactive relationships that people in the social realm have with the gods and creative forces of the cosmos. In this sense, cosmo-magical draws attention to the parallelism between various levels and realms of the cosmos as well as the power of rites to bring these diverse realms into contact and exchange. In other words, cosmo-magical means that divine energy and force inhabit buildings as well as people, hills as well as temples, granaries as well as pyramids, costumes as well as animal skins and feathers, stones as well as bones. All of these elements, as well as others, participated and performed in the ritual life of the ceremonial landscape of the Aztecs. Second, cosmo-magical refers to the creative juxtaposition of opposites in which the destruction (by knives, fire, water, arrows, etc.) of sacred objects contributes to the re-creation of the forces of fertility in the underworld, on the earth, or in the heavens. In both cases, the term cosmo-magical foregrounds the metamorphosis of ritual action. SACRIFICIAL THEORY AVOIDS AZTECS AND SAHAGÚN The startling practice of the sacrifice of women is one of the major religious patterns of central Mesoamerica that anthropologists and historians

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of religions have often avoided in their constructions of the theory of and approaches to ritual life. It is remarkable that even the most recent and compelling theoretical statement on sacrifice, Nancy Jay’s Throughout Your Generations Forever: Sacrifice, Religion, and Paternity (1991), makes only passing reference to the vivid descriptions, practices, and logic of the killing of young women by male priests at the Templo Mayor and other ceremonial centers. Why would a major comparative study from the perspectives of feminist scholarship, which strives to “illuminate aspects of sacrifice that have been regularly left in darkness,” turn its back on the Sahaguntine corpus (and other rich descriptions of female sacrifices from Mesoamerica), the most detailed and reliable record of actual sacrifices, especially sacrifices that speak to the issue of the patriarchal control of creative forces? Perhaps Jay, like many of us, is struck dumb, hermeneutically speaking, in the face of the direct, sustained, and vivid descriptions of the preparation of young women’s bodies for sacrifice; the ritual deceptions and masquerades they were led through; the occasional sexual use of these young women by warriors and rulers; and the brutal ways in which they were stretched out on sacrificial stones by male priests, who beheaded them with the beaks of swordfish, extracted their hearts, and sometimes wore their skins.8 Jay, like the rest of us, is apparently unable to deal directly with the Aztecs’ sustained concentration of mind, resources, and physical action on the powers of blood and body parts as cosmo-magical objects of change. It is also important to ask why Mesoamericanists writing about ritual sacrifice hesitate to test the work of Jay and others against the Aztec and Maya record. See my commentary in this volume for references to useful general works on ritual. Why the development of ritual techniques of cruelty? Why the cultivation of the public eye for horror? Is it the meanness of these people’s practices alone that stops scholars and lay people from looking into these narratives? Or is there something delicate, optimistic, and disapproving in our own views and understandings of religion and the history of religions? Or, to move in another direction, have the indigenous sacrificial practices of the ancient Americas been left out and ignored by theorists of ritual sacrifice for intellectual, chauvinistic reasons? Is our refusal to look at the Aztec record of sacrifice in general and the sacrifice of young women in particular a refusal to acknowledge with Girard (1977) that the secret heart of the sacred, if not human culture, is violence? Is Aztec grossness really grossness or just a more complex, sobering, and terrible story about some dimensions of the history of religions that is too hard to tell and too hard to sell? Is there a level of sacred cruelty in Tenochtitlan that shocks our most effective categories of understanding? Or is this 201

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sacred cruelty an unmasking of the residues of the violences that contributed to the creations of religion in general and other religions? A METAMORPHIC VISION OF PLACE AND RITUAL I do not know the answers to these questions, but I believe they are important to consider in the study of Mesoamerican religions and cultures. It has taken me a long time to begin reading with some intensity the existing record of these ritual debt payments in the form of the public ritual killing of adolescent girls. A great deal more remains to be done in reconstructing the text and tracing the pictures of the Aztec sacrifice of children and women. One useful entry into the meanings and purposes of these practices—especially those involving the ritual movement of females and the dismemberment and movement of their body parts and skins—can be found in using the “metamorphic vision of place and ritual” that I have written about elsewhere (Carrasco 1991). Metamorphic vision of place is a useful alternative to both Mircea Eliade’s notion of “central place” and Jonathan Z. Smith’s insistence on the “locative” and “utopian” models of place that guide ritual action. In the Mesoamerican world, human understanding of the cosmovision was informed by a metamorphic vision of place. Writing about patterns of regeneration associated with the mythical places of Tamoanchan and Tlalocan, López Austin (1997) outlines facets of the metamorphoric vision of place, which I have reduced to six for the purposes of this study. Metamorphosis depends on (1) the dynamic coessence of the gods,9 in which gods can change into humans, animals, and plants, and animals can change into humans; (2) the sexual activity of the gods, which enclosed earthly beings in heavy, mortal skins and introduced death into the world; (3) the ways in which gods and humans nourish each other through providing food and practicing sacrifice; (4) the axis mundi of the cosmic tree/ cosmic mountain, which provides abundant “hearts” or animistic powers for agriculture, humans, and gods; in other words, it is the source of metamorphosis; (5) humans who construct microcosms of the divine society of the gods in their ceremonial centers, which house symbolic “hearts” and ritual actions that animate those “hearts”; and (6) the chief representatives of divine hearts, who are the hombres-dioses, ixiptlas, rulers, and artists who contain divine duality within them. López Austin writes elsewhere (1997: 153) about these various kinds of replications and their cosmo-magical power: [T]he images do not represent the gods; they are not symbols of the gods. They are containers of the divine essence. Rock formations have

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shapes where an ancestor (a “giant,” “old one,” or “wealthy one”), who was trapped there at the moment of the Sun’s original appearance, can be seen. . . . Fossils, archaeological objects, rock crystals, and rocks with particular shapes are “containers” of the “ancients”. . . . When a native priest finishes cutting a paper figure, the image is not animated; but the priest invokes the divinity, raises the moveable sheets of the figure, and anoints it with blood of a domestic fowl in order to give it energy [italics mine].

It is with this model of cosmo-magical metamorphosis in mind—with its emphasis on divine coessence, sexuality, nourishment through sacrifice, the cosmic mountain, and the human containers of divine essence—that I turn to four of the veintena rituals dedicated to the sacrifice of women. The young women we are about to track in their swaying, singing, running, whirling vortex toward death were understood as the human coessences of the vital maize plant, whose hearts had come alive through visits to the symbolic cosmic mountain that prepared them for an ultimate transformation in sacrifice. In my reading of these ceremonies, female capacities to transform and participate in the transformation of plants sometimes opened out into their powers as reconceived by males to inspire and participate in the transformation of boys into warriors and to stimulate, in at least one ritual, the militarization of society. TELLING A STORY AND MAKING A PICTURE OF SACRIFICING WOMEN I read the four ceremonies related to female sacrifice in Book 2 of the Florentine Codex as parts of an unfolding text. By this I mean that these parts of Book 2, with its diverse sources and complex production, present an evolving disclosure of potent information and details about the treatment of women’s bodies during sacrificial rituals. This potent information regarding how female bodies were treated, whether the girls were sacrificed, how their bodies were dismembered, appears as though it was gradually disclosed in interviews with Nahua elders or in Sahagún’s reworking of the interviews. As examples of this “unfolding” of information about female sacrifice consider the following pattern. The section relating the first feast of female sacrifice, Huey Tozoztli (The Great Vigil, fourth veintena), describes the young woman’s appearance on the ritual stage and her transformation through adornment and dancing into a teotl ixiptla (image or representative of the god), but it avoids any reference to her death or the use of her body. We are also introduced to the 203

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male-female tensions and antagonisms that play important roles in these sacrifices. The second ceremony of female sacrifice, Tecuilhuitontli (The Small Festival of the Lords, seventh veintena), repeats the repertoire of the first but adds a more vivid description of the girl’s change into the goddess and a dramatic presentation of her death. But it is not until we read the fourth ceremony of female sacrifice, Ochpaniztli (The Sweeping, eleventh veintena) that we discover how her body was ritually treated after her death. We also learn new details about what women’s bodies meant to the Aztec priests, warriors, and king. Women were ritually constructed and understood as the supreme givers: They gave words, seeds, virginity, hearts, and skin in order to regenerate plants and stimulate males to war. It is also remarkable that we are given alternate images of the purposes of these sacrifices in the short and longer descriptions found in Book 2.10 If, as López Austin argues, the rituals “focus” social energy and attention, the short descriptions in Chapters 1 through 19 differ in emphasis if not focus from the longer, more elaborate narratives of these ceremonies in chapters 20 through 38. The short accounts state repeatedly that the focus is the ritual death of the ixiptlas. The longer accounts—several of which do not describe killing—emphasize not the prodigious acts of slaughter but adornment ceremonies; movements according to etiquette; singing choruses; mock battles in the streets; swerving entourages; offerings of blood, plants, and foods to gods; vigorous dances and dashes; periods of profound silence; human touching; and displays of human compassion. We do not find descriptions of orgies of aggression and murder. These longer accounts displace the act of killing to a peripheral, if still potent, role. They emphasize the pivoting of the cosmo-magical circles of ritual change around the ceremonial landscape of the city and beyond its confines while minimizing the ritual violence against females and males. Children First To begin to understand the sacrifice of women, we must first briefly examine the ritual killing of children, who were sacrificed in the first quarter of the Aztec year. Here we see evidence of several basic patterns that prepare us for the encounter with the beheading and skinning of the female deity impersonators. All the child sacrifices appear as complex, dynamic rituals within rituals. Although I cannot focus on the complexities here, it is important that during the first veintena of the year, Atlcahualo (Abandoned Water), in which the children were killed, we read that “There was much compassion. They made one weep; they loosed one’s weeping, they made one sad for them, there was sighing for them” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 44). These 204

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sounds of sorrow suggest that the Aztecs had profound emotional responses to the ritual dramas of killing children. That the Aztecs felt ambivalence is also suggested in the report that offering priests, especially the elder ones, left the scene at certain moments. “And if any of the offering priests avoided them, they would call them ‘the abandoned ones.’ No longer did one join others in singing; nowhere was he wanted; nowhere was he respected” (p. 44). The Spanish gloss on this text emphasizes that the priests did not return to the place where the killing of children was carried out. This may refer primarily to the inability of priests to carry out the rigors of the rite, which demanded long hours of walking, chanting, concentration, and staying awake. Not keeping the vigil meant the priests were castigated, but the text may also be telling us that the killing of young children was emotionally painful, a heavy sorrow for priests and others to witness and participate in. Too often scholars emphasize that the Aztecs sacrificed children during this yearly feast, starting the year with the freshest, youngest, and most potent humans. Another passage, however, tells us that some children were killed during the first four veintenas of the year, some in each month. This means that until the rains began in abundance, in all the feasts they sacrificed children (p. 8). Perhaps the sorrow and feelings of avoidance were experienced during this entire period. Enter the Women Changing Into the Hearts of Maize They formed her image as a woman. They said: “Yea, verily, this one is our sustenance,” that is to say, indeed truly she is our flesh, our livelihood; through her we live; she is our strength. If she were not, we should indeed die of hunger (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 64).

During the fourth veintena the Aztecs celebrated Huey Tozoztli (The Great Vigil), in which we see the dramatization of two of the chief characteristics of human sacrifice: (1) the prime importance of the cycle of debt payment referred to by López Austin in the opening quote; and (2) the practice of cosmo-magically dressing humans so they can die as gods die and regenerate the “hearts” of plants. We also see evidence, which increases in later rituals, of male and female aggression. The animation of plant forces begins when young men set up sedges covered with blood taken from their legs and ears in front of images of the gods in the homes of the populace (p. 61).11 In the morning, the priests spread out in the city: “[T]hey went taking all the roads to the houses,” going from house to house asking for alms.12 The introduction of male competition and aggression associated with these ceremonies appears in the ritual walks that followed. 205

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Apparently, the priests of each temple priesthood had their assigned routes for these ritual walks, and if they met another group, there was “ill feeling over it, there was dislike because of it, there was continued wrangling over it” (p. 62). After returning to the temple with the day’s offerings, the priests went out into their fields “to get Cinteotl” (Maize Cob Deity), in the form of a stalk of green maize that they took back to the temple and decorated with flowers. The god was nurtured with an offering of five foods in a basket upon which stood a “hard-baked frog: hard, stiff, its face painted blue, a woman’s skirt about its hind quarters” (p. 62). The frog’s blue paint symbolizes the cosmo-magical force of the precious first rains, which frogs announce with their first croaks. This plant-nurturing symbolism is extended to the young females who carried the “cobs of maize in groups of seven” on their backs to the temple of the maize goddess Chicomecoatl (Seven Serpent; p. 63). The young girls correspond to the young maize seeds and together they represent the earth, the feminine part of the cosmos, which stores and releases the powers of growth in the plants. This cosmo-magical change intensifies when the young girls and maize cobs are adorned and painted red. The corn is wrapped in reddened paper, and the girls’ arms and legs are pasted with red feathers. Powerful Female Words As living fertility images, these girls walk in the city toward the temple of Chicomecoatl, attracting glances and occasional taunts but, we are told, not the eyes of young males. This edgy situation introduces suggestions of important gender relations between males and females. On the one hand, the story told to Sahagún reveals that a prescribed set of verbal insults were sometimes spoken to the girls as they walked in the city. On the other hand, Aztec girls had sets of verbal flourishes to respond to flirtations or insults. Sahagún (p. 63) records such an insult: And if someone joked with one of them, they chide him. One said to him: “He with the occipital tuft of hair can speak! Canst thou talk? Be thou already concerned over how thy tuft of hair will fall off, thou with the little tuft of hair. It is an evil-smelling tuft of hair, it is a stinking tuft of hair. Art thou not just a woman like me? Nowhere hath thy excrement been burned!”

Also important is the passage stating that men’s insults were weak in comparison with what women could produce. Elderly women’s words had the power to criticize masculine weakness and stimulate demonstrations of 206

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strength and the warrior potential. “For verily thus the women could torment [young men] into war; thus they moved them; thus the women could prod them into battle. Indeed we men said, ‘Bloody, painful are the words of the women; bloody, penetrating are women’s words’ ” (p. 64). The girls walked in procession to the temple and granary, where two more changes took place. First, the ears of maize “were made hearts. They became their granary hearts. They laid them in the granary” (p. 64). In Aztec botanical thought, the maize seeds were composed of two elements: the visible seed and the invisible substance called the “the heart of maize.” The hearts of maize, animals, and plants were recycled through a great granary in the underworld of the dead, the place called Tlalocan, a colossal receptacle enclosed within the cosmic mountain. López Austin (1997: 190–191) summarizes these places of abundance. The gods’ dwelling . . . is a great hill. Inside the hill enormous agricultural wealth, animals, minerals, and currents of water are kept. The wealth of the hills is a collection of “seeds”. . . ; they act as the invisible source of the classes. When they are brought into the world, they can reproduce their respective classes. The great hill is, at the same time, the “heart” of the earth. Contemporaneous Nahua call it Talokan, and other groups identify it as a Table of Gold. It is the great source from which the “seeds” come, and to which they return when they have completed the terrestrial part of their cycle. One of the great hill’s representations is a tub, an image that is also used for the hill’s goddesses.

For a grain of maize to be converted into an active seed, it had to be united with the “heart” through the work and technique of rituals. This procession of the young girls, the living symbols of maize, to the temple and granary and the rites that take place there achieve this union. The physical and spiritual grains come together, and we are told that “when the seed was sown, when it was time for planting, thus they sowed.” In this first action at the temple, we see the repetition of the archetypal hill symbolized in the temple granary, and the earthly seed is a repetition of the seeds from Tlalocan, the watery underworld that supplies the forces of life. The second change comes when one of the girls is magically transformed into the teotl ixiptla, the living receptacle of the “heart” of the goddess, by being adorned with cosmic symbols, though the description given is muted. She is dressed “all in red—completely red on her arms, her legs, her face” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 65), and she becomes the image of Chicomecoatl, the heart of the maize. Her powers are prodigious, for Chicomecoatl “made all 207

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our food—white maize, yellow maize, green maize shoots, black maize, black and brown mixed, variously hued; large and wide; round and ball-like; slender maize, thin; long maize; speckled red and white maize as if striped with blood, painted with blood. . . . Then the beans . . . amaranth . . . chia” (pp. 64–65). This is a goddess who makes foods. In the longer narrative of this sacrifice in Book 2, there is no description of the killing of the girl, though it did in fact take place. Women have thus appeared on the ritual stage and have possessed the sacred power of words and plants. They have been gradually transformed into the “heart” of maize, the invisible substance that gives maize, amaranth, beans, and chia the power of regeneration. We see the cosmo-magical correspondence of how young women, under the spell of ritual, become young maize. We know that this woman has been dressed to be killed and that her death pays some kind of debt that restarts the germination of plants, but it is only when we turn to the seventh ceremony, beginning forty days later, that we are told of the actual ritual slaughter of girls. We Are Told How the Woman Is Killed: She Dies Like a God And they bore down upon her neck with the beak of a swordfish (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 94).

A yellow and green woman in the veintena ceremony of Tecuilhuitontli (The Small Festival of the Lords) replaces the red woman of the Great Vigil. We find a luscious image of the dressing of the female ixiptla in the text. We are told in Anderson and Dibble’s translation that a young woman “died a sacrificial death” (p. 91). But the Nahuatl term is teomiqui, which means to “die divinely” or to “die as a god,” as though one were the incarnation of the god. In this case, the teotl ixiptla was the female receptacle of the heart of the goddess of salt, Huixtocihuatl, the elder sister of the rain god, and she was sacrificed or died for that goddess in order for that goddess to be regenerated. She was first dressed from head to foot with an organized array of cosmic symbols of the sea, sky, felines, plants, birds, and flowers. Yellow ochre the “color of maize blossoms” was painted on her face below a vivid green paper cap with many outspread quetzal feathers in the form of maize tassels. Golden earplugs flashed on the sides of her face like “squash blossoms,” and she wore a shift designed with waves of water and an image of green stones and billowing clouds (p. 91). This image of water and sky was repeated in the skirt, which partially covered the calves bound with jaguar skins covered with bells. Her ankles wore golden bells so that when she walked she rustled, clattered, and tinkled. She moved on “foam sandals” 208

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lined with cotton yarn. All this color, design, and symbol was the bright backdrop for her shield with water lily flowers and leaves painted on it. This fertility image was adorned with yellow parrot-feather pendants made into tassels “like the forepart of a locust” and eagle, quetzal, troupial, and ruddy tail feathers of parrots (p. 92). The representative of Huixtocihuatl went dancing for ten days with women wearing artemisia flowers and linked together by the xochimecatl, or flower rope. “When she danced, she kept swinging the shield around in a circle; with it she crouched around . . . ; she walked leaning on [the staff], she walked thrusting it into the ground” (p. 92), as though opening the earth for planting. Gender relations are hinted at again. This prodigious show of female power and talent with a goddess at the center was led by old men, the conductors of the procession: “[T]hey went directing them in their song . . . the chief men of the calpulli . . . ; they were named keepers of the god[dess]” (p. 93). In fact, an elderly man carried a brilliant feather ornament, called Huixtocihuatl’s brilliant plumage, in front of the goddess. After ten days of dancing there was an all-night dance, at which the old women kept the girl dancing so she would not sleep. Following these delirium-producing rites, the sacrifices began when war captives, who had also been transformed into gods’ images, were forced to dance all night and were referred to as the goddess’s “fundament.” Dying just moments before her death, these individuals served as beds or supports for the goddess after she was sacrificed. Their bodies were arranged like beds or foundations, and her body was placed on top of them. But before the killing began, the participants underwent changes of name and place. First, the captives and priests were given the names of huixtotin, or salt people. This naming signified a metamorphosis of place within the ritual, for these participants were “considered as belonging to a remote archetypal place, which is located on the sea coast, the mythical place of origin of the salt people” (Alfredo López Austin, personal communication, 1999). Their mythic identities were symbolized by their head insignias of claws of eagles, quetzal head feathers, and eagle down. Second, this powerful, mythical entourage walked in a procession through the ceremonial center to the cosmo-magical circle of the temple of the rain and fertility god Tlaloc and ascended to the summit. The drama and tension that had been building were now released in a short, compact, and explosive description of the sacrifice. First the fundaments were put to death; then the goddess was brought to the sacrificial area. “And when this was done, thereupon they laid her down on the offering stone. They stretched her out upon her back. They each laid hold of her; 209

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they each pulled tightly her hands, her feet. They bent her breast up greatly; they bent down her back. And her head they pulled tightly so that they took it nearly to the ground” (p. 94). This female example of total vulnerability, this heart of the goddess, was then beheaded. “And they bore down upon her neck with the beak of a swordfish, barbed, serrated, spiny—spiny on either side” (p. 94). Why the swordfish? The use of the swordfish as the instrument of death brings forward the mythic episode in which the great aquatic figure of Cipactli, the crocodilian creator goddess who inhabited the sea, was torn apart to create elements of the earth. When she was torn apart, she screamed at the universe. In fact, the female body, now gushing with blood, was further torn apart. This was a cosmo-magical moment when a parallelism was established between an event in mythic time and a contemporary event in ritual space. “And the slayer stood ready; he arose upright for it. Thereupon he cut open her breast. And when he had opened her breast, the blood gushed up high; it gushed far. It was as if it rose; it was as if it showered; it was as if it boiled up” (p. 94). The heart was taken from the body and placed in a chalchiuhxicalli, a green stone jar that had cosmic images carved on it. The explosion of the chest and the recovery of the heart of the goddess must have been the cathartic release of the profound tensions, hopes, and fears building since the time the goddess had been adorned as a cosmic image of fertility two weeks before. It is striking that only three small paragraphs are dedicated to the action and reaction of killing. Was this Sahagún’s revulsion or the circumspection of the informants? Or is the point that the ceremony, for the participants, was as much about the many rites of transformation leading up to this explosive finale as the act of death itself? Trumpets announced the swift taking of the goddess’s heart and the regeneration of the spirits of the maize. Then her body was covered with a precious cape and brought down from the summit of the temple in the early dawn. The salt people returned to their neighborhood for feasting, heavy drinking, skirmishes, insults, shared exhaustion, apologies, pardons, and muddled amnesia. In this second sacrificial ceremony focused on women, we see again the themes of women as hearts of plants, the enhanced picture of the ixiptla’s cosmo-magical costume, suggestions of gender control, and the additional violent imagery of the thrusts of sacrificial knives and the profound release of tensions in the drunkenness and feasting afterward. But the most thorough picture of the ritual use of the female body awaits us in the ceremonial feast of Ochpaniztli, where we learn astonishing things about the complex use of the 210

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body after the sacrifice. Before that revelation of ritual metamorphosis, let’s turn briefly to the eighth veintena of Huey Tecuilhuitl, when the tender maize goddess Xilonen was regenerated through sacrifice. In this ceremony the male pursuits of female sexuality are important elements. We Are Told How They Lord It Over Her [T]he masters of the youths . . . asked for the women only in secret, not before others (p. 102). The Aztec focus on the ritual regeneration of the hearts and matter of vegetation deepened in Huey Tecuilhuitl, the Great Feast of the Lords.13 An important narrative episode describes the techniques of male sexual dominance and the manipulation of moral codes between males and females. The dancing women were gathered together into a kind of female herd. The masters of the youth “grouped them, rounded them up, placed them together, grouped them together, indeed hunted them out, lest one might go somewhere, lest one be forced to accompany someone, lest some perverse youth might take one away” (p. 102). This passage speaks to a control of adolescent male and female passions, and it is likely that both males and females were looking for ways to get at each other. Yet male privilege had the upper hand, for the noblemen spoke to the female guardians, asking for access to the girls. “None the less, the noblemen addressed the matrons that they might go releasing some [of the women]. . . . And when they released them [the girls] were given gifts . . . ; gifts were given to . . . the matrons” (p. 102). This gift exchange, sex with young women for gifts for older women, was carried out in secret. The frontrank nobles “asked for the women only in secret . . . ; he went to await her in his home . . . ; they ate in secret” (p. 102). The eating in secret refers no doubt to sex as well as food, for the text reads, “And the woman came forth only at night; she spent only the night [with him]; she departed when it was well into the night” (p. 102). This ambivalent moral code, protecting young women and then dispensing them in secret for sex and food, was surrounded by strict prohibitions for those who flaunted or made these liaisons the basis for public discussion. Scandals led to assemblies in the song house, where the punishments for identified culprits included beatings, stripping of warrior rank, blistering of the body with fire, or total social rejection. A similar punishment went to the woman: “[N]evermore was she to sing and dance with the others; nevermore was she to hold others by the hand” (p. 103). The central female was then cosmo-magically transformed into the goddess Xilonen by ritual dressing, dancing, and “entering the sand” in four directions (see Heyden, this volume). Entering the sand was a symbolic act of dying, 211

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joining water and earth as a passageway into the underworld. She traveled with a consort of women to four sacred sites associated with the four year-bearers. The Sahaguntine text describes these cosmo-magical circles as “Reed, Flint knife, House, Rabbit; thus do the year-bearers go describing circles, go whirling around [as they measure time]” (p. 104). She participated in collective dances with offering priestesses, who “went encircling . . . , went enclosing her.” The priestesses, who were called “the hanging gourd,” conducted her to the temple of sacrifice. Along with offering priests blowing trumpets, she scattered powdered yauhtli into the presence of the fire priest, who awaited her at the spot of sacrifice with the “mist rattle board” (pp. 104–105). In a remarkable display of physical dexterity, the priest lifted her up on his back, her body bent backward over his body bent forward, and she was sacrificed in this posture. The phrase used to refer to this death was “she performed her service” (njman ic tlacoti), meaning that as a slave she had made the debt payment by completing the circle of reciprocity crucial to the regeneration of the plants and foodstuffs that drove this ceremony’s events. Her heart was extracted and placed this time in a blue gourd (perhaps a symbol of the cosmic mountain), and her head was severed. A telling phrase follows immediately upon this destruction of her body: “And at this time were eaten, for the first time, tortillas of green maize. For the first time was offered, for the first time was chewed the cane of green corn. And for the first time were cooked amaranth greens. And for the first time the sweetness of flowers— tagetes, tobacco flowers—[was smelled]” (p. 105). It is the emphatic series of “first time” references that reveal the creative power of this act of “dying as a goddess dies.” It brings the green maize to life for humans and thereby signifies hope for human life to continue. The ceremony ends with descriptions of intense drinking bouts and punishment for unlicensed drinking by anyone except elderly women and men.14 We Are Told How She Is Skinned, Transforms a Man into a Goddess, and Leads War Games—She Gives! Thus they banished her sorrow, they kept gaining her attention, they kept making her laugh that she might not be sad (p. 119). And when they flayed her, then a man [a priest] quickly put on her skin. He was called Teccizquacuilli—a very strong [man], very powerful, and very tall (p. 120).

The most spectacular display of the female in the service of dying like a god appears during the veintena of Ochpaniztli, in which we discover several

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Figure 8.1. Veintena of Ochpaniztli, during which female deity impersonators were sacrificed, Codex Borbonicus 1974, panel 31. Courtesy, Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale Française, Palais Bourbon, Paris.

uses of her body after death (fig. 8.1). Again we find that sex was a crucial part of the rite. These sexual and militant uses of her body reveal the combined commitments to the regeneration of plants and warfare and to female and male cosmic forces. I will focus on two aspects of the ritual: the deception of the young girl by her handlers, and the movement of her skin in the social order of the city and into the foreign geography of the empire. During this ritual we are taken on a tour of cosmo-magical circles, places that are sacred or sacralized by her presence and her actions of giving. In each of her ritual

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stops, at each magical circle, she gives. She gives her seeds in the marketplace, she gives up her virginity in the palace of the tlatoani, she gives up her life at the temple, and she gives up her skin to the males, who carry it into the heart of the warrior society and to the edge of the empire. Much of this “giving” is forced on her by males who are driven by their privilege of gender and force her to conform to the cosmo-magical imperative I have outlined. The ritual use of her skin makes her a player as part of the city becomes a site of war games and contributes to the militarization of society. The central image in this complex, dynamic rite is Teteoinnan, the Mother of the Gods, also known as Toci (Our Grandmother) and Tlalli iyollo (Heart of the Earth), who appears on the ritual stage after five days of silence. Following the hand-waving dance that involves rows of circling dancers and “perverse” drunken youths, a four-day mock battle breaks out between various groups of women, including women physicians, pleasure girls, and older women. The women are divided into two equal groups and dash after each other in the streets, hurling balls of reeds, cactus leaves, and tagetes flowers. These battles serve to mentally focus the women on the purpose of the ritual, which is to sustain a heightened, positive mood in the group and especially in the Teteoinnan ixiptla. “Thus they banished her sorrow, they kept gaining her attention, they kept making her laugh that she might not be sad. But if there were weeping, it was said, it would be an omen of evil” (p. 119). If this elevation of mood were not achieved, the consequences could be disastrous, and the disasters would spread to warfare. For it was said that if she wept, “many eagle-ocelot warriors would die in war or that many women would become mociuaquetzque when from their womb [children] would go” (p. 119). The dancing women escort her to two important locations before she is killed. First “the [women] physicians came encircling her,” escorting her to the marketplace, where she scatters cornmeal in order to ensure fertility (p. 119). This scattering of her seeds undergoes a dramatic reversal in the second stop on her tour toward death. She is taken aside “to where she was guarded in her temple,” and the women physicians deliver a portentous message. She is told, “My dear daughter, now at last the ruler Moctezuma will sleep with thee. Be happy” (p. 119). It was likely assumed that this announcement of royal sex and the dissemination of his seed would ensure her elevated mood. This ritual union may have also initiated the reenactment of a mythic hieros gamos, the sacred sexual union of the Sky, in the form of the Chief Speaker, and Earth, in the form of the goddess. Motecuhzoma’s powers, and perhaps his mood, are elevated by the juices of Earth, and his seed is scattered within the “heart” of the plants that she embodies. 214

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There is deception woven into this sexual union of an adolescent girl/ goddess and the adult male god/king. The next line in the text states, “They did not tell her of her death; it was as if she died unaware. Then they adorned her, they arrayed her” (p. 120). The coincidence of meanings here is enigmatic. Does having sex with the ruler, his penetrating her body, become an imitation sacrifice of the final penetration ahead? Or is the sex a prophylactic to sorrow? For both adult ruler and adolescent goddess, this was a numinous sexual act. For the girl, it was undoubtedly an overwhelming experience of being opened up by the most holy man in the society, distracting her up until the last moment of life from feelings of sorrow. But are we really to imagine that the young woman felt only happiness and not confusion, panic, or sorrow in being forced into sexual intercourse with the ruler? The purpose of this distraction was to protect the ruler’s representatives of battle: the jaguar and eagle warriors and women in childbirth. When Sahagún’s informants describe the killing scene, there are few details. The decapitation, heart extraction, and skinning take fewer than four lines. What does receive extensive attention—and demands ours—is the ritual use of her skin after death. Gender identities become confused, and a masquerade takes place that may help us understand why these women were ritually transformed, deceived, penetrated, and killed. She was killed and her body was used to provoke and prepare men for warfare. “A very strong [man], very powerful, and very tall” puts on her skin and is given the name Teccizquacuilli (tonsurado del caracol grande). From this moment on, as long as he wears the skin, he is understood as she, that is, the image of the living goddess. One ixiptla’s death has given birth to another ixiptla, though the second is a male transformed into the female deity. Immediately, another human circle is formed, which takes on a militaristic style that spreads out into the city. The male who is now a female begins to act: “[T]hen she quickly placed herself here upon the edge [of the pyramid] . . . ; it was with great speed. Then she quickly came down. . . . And the offering priests went helping her . . . , they went guarding her. And a number of noblemen and great brave warriors were awaiting her. . . . Much did they run . . . as if they flew” (p. 120). But Teccizquacuilli does not wear the entire skin. A crucial subtraction takes place when the thigh skin of the goddess is cut away to generate yet another god. The thigh skin is taken to the community of Pochtlan, where another ixiptla, a male impersonator of the maize god Centeotl (Maize Cob Deity),15 the son of the goddess Toci, receives and wears what is called the “thigh [skin] mask.” These two male deity images, empowered by the skin fragments of the sacrificed girl, eventually meet at the Temple of Huitzilopochtli. But 215

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first the Toci impersonator hurries down the pyramid guarded by offering priests; together they dash through the streets, followed by groups of great warriors and noblemen. Then “they fight with grass,” meaning they fight with brooms. “They were bloody; they were covered with blood. . . . They flew . . . ; they went striking their shields . . . ; they swiftly turned to her . . . , crowding . . . , pressing as they ran” (p. 120). Then he, who is a shegod, appears before the populace with the noble warriors, displaying the imagery of the complete metamorphosis of a young girl into the covering of a strong warrior, minus the thigh piece but enlarged by the sounds and gestures of attack. We are told, “There was much fear; fear spread over the people; indeed fear entered into the people” (p. 120). The city has become a war game spurred on by the first appearance of this female goddess who encloses a male priest. This rushing procession ends at the foot of the Great Temple, where Toci meets her son Centeotl. When the Toci impersonator stands at the foot of the temple, she raises her arms and spreads them as well as her legs, as though embracing the god. Many years ago Eduard Seler suggested that this gesture was a simulation of sexual intercourse that commemorated the historical union of the Colhuacan princess and the Aztec leader during the early years of Mexica wanderings. If so, the triad of plants/sex/war appears at this cosmo-magical circle of the Templo Mayor. The Centeotl impersonator wears his peaked cap, which has the name “curved obsidian knife,” the god of frost. The two go side by side to Toci’s temple and “took their places there” (p. 121). The following day, the sacrality of Toci is heightened when all the noblemen greet her and provide her with another layer of cosmo-magical skin. They attach feathers and soft eagle down to her arms and legs, paint her face, and dress her in a shift with an eagle design and a painted skirt. Quail are beheaded in her honor and incense is set before her, all in a series of swift gestures. Then several layers of “great vestments” are draped on her, including her paper crown, five marketplace banners, and a row of maguey leaves for a headdress. All this layering of sacred powers—the skin of the goddess, the colors, feathers, and great vestments—transforms the impersonator into a sacrificer. She, who was sacrificed to pay the debt, is now the sacrificer who collects it back. She is now dressed to kill others as four captives are brought before her (him). She slays them by opening their chest cavities and extracting their hearts. She retrieves her son Centeotl and together they travel, spreading their cosmo-magical dual imagery of plants and combat across the ceremonial pathways to one of the most impressive ceremonial centers, the skull rack. This 216

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grand trophy case of the head-collecting aspect of Aztec religion becomes the launching ground for the most eloquent statement of the center-periphery dynamics of the ritual. Centeotl prepares to leave the Aztec city by “tramping on his drum” and is joined by seasoned Aztec warriors for a symbolic journey outward to the frontier of enemy territory. Surrounded by a troop of strong, agile, swift warriors, the male wearing (or carrying) the female thigh-skin mask leaves the city, crosses the lake, departs the valley, and goes high into the mountains. He travels to the “land of the foe” on one of the side peaks of Iztactepetl (literally, “White Mountain,” the female mountain) and implants the thigh mask at the frontier. This bold, provocative display, in which a piece of female skin is planted in the face of the enemy, is not without human cost. Enemy scouts set upon them, and on “both sides there were deaths” (p. 122). Again there is a relationship expressed between the skin of the goddess and war. While the marking of the frontier with the thigh-skin mask and the bloodletting from the skirmish take place, the impersonator of Toci returns to her home at Atempan, a neighborhood on the shore of Tenochtitlan. Meanwhile, the bravest warriors, “the leading warriors, the generals, the commanding generals . . . , the respected brave warriors, those valiant of their own will, who set no value upon their heads, their breasts, the fearless of death who in truth hurled themselves upon our foes,” all gather before Motecuhzoma (pp. 122–123). All the warriors are placed in rows before the ruler who, seated upon the flayed skins of eagle and jaguars, dispenses sacred war devices, adornments, the costly array of gold and quetzal feathers, the insignia of great achievements. There are salutes, dances, and displays of bright powerful warriors, who “[move] like flowers” around the temple. The beloved old women raise a ritual tearful cry over the warriors who, like the Centeotl impersonator, will soon go to the periphery of the empire to do terrible battle in the conflagration of war (p. 123). It is important to ask what is the relationship between the ritual uses of the flayed skin of the Toci impersonator and the awarding of war emblems and insignia to the brave warriors by the ruler. And why does Toci withdraw from this award ceremony only to return near the conclusion of the festival? The ceremony begins to disperse when Toci, with her Huaxtec handlers, sings in a high falsetto (like a woman’s) till sunset. Among the other gestures of the closing ceremonies during the next several days is the public display of dancing by the arrayed warriors, with Motecuhzoma, “in great glory,” their devices gleaming and scintillating in the sun (p. 124). There are processions from the temples and the strewing of maize seeds in the streets and from the heights of temples. 217

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This grand, athletic display of goddesses dismembered and re-created on the bodies of males—one who becomes a divine female and the other the divine son of the female—the processions, sacrifices, and gift giving to warriors; and the display of the dancing king come to a close with one final public skirmish between the goddess Toci and the city. Brave warriors race away from the Main Temple in search of feathers until they come to the figure of Toci, who enters into a collective, combative race in which her own entourage battles others. Motecuhzoma, at an appointed spot, enters the race for a brief spell and then slips into a nearby temple. The offering priests lead the impersonator to a final cosmo-magical circle, a sacred wooden building, where s/he is stripped of the adornments and the skin. The skin is placed on a wooden support with its head looking forward into the city. The metamorphosis is now complete. The vital hearts of plants are restored and the warriors are prepared to launch themselves outward to that frontier marked with blood and skin. The metamorphic vision of place recedes and the locative view of the world is revived in the final phrases: “And when they had gone setting it in place, then there was a turning about; there was a quick departure” (p. 126). CONCLUSION I have combined verbal picture-making and interpretation, from the perspective of the history of religions, of selected Sahaguntine materials in an attempt to enlarge our understanding of how the ritual sacrifice of women strove to combine cosmo-magical efforts to regenerate plants and warfare in Tenochtitlan. Using the model of the “metamorphic vision of place and ritual,” I have mapped out the ritual movements of women through a series of cosmo-magical circles that transformed them into the “hearts of plants” and occasionally the players in war games. The routes of these women, which, in a cumulative sense, move from house to temple to granary to marketplace to palace to stone of sacrifice to military frontier, spreading sacred powers and changing the cosmos, were managed by male warriors, priests, and the ruler. It is significant that, although women play key roles in the sacrifices of women, males direct them, seduce them, insult them, sacrifice them, and wear them.16 Women, when they have power, express it in their capacities to, among other things, become hearts of maize or “torment young men into war.” In my view, these sacrifices of women illustrate that females were not only travelers along a route of cosmo-magical circles or sacred circles themselves, but they were also the living pivots, especially in the ritual of Ochpaniztli, who linked the hearts of plants with the preparation for war and the male striving 218

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for the clamor of war. There is so much more to be understood about the political significance and religious meanings of the sacrifice of these women. It is as though we are trying to decipher codes of great significance in reading Sahagún and the puzzles and mysteries are more complex when it comes to understanding the performances of female bodies and genders. Is it the case that rituals of sacrifice were cosmo-magical constructions of female gender in ways similar to how Rosemary Joyce understands the construction of the female body in Central American sculpture? What are the Aztecs telling us about their gender constructions when male priests take total control of a female body by skinning it and then overlaying the skin on the body of a “very powerful, very tall” male? What is being masked when a male teotl ixiptla wears and carries a female “thigh-skin mask” out to the frontier to provoke war? It will take future studies to help us understand these codes, meanings, and performances in which female powers, bodies, and genders were managed by males in strange ways that drew the regeneration of plants into the purposes of war. NOTES 1. This essay is a tentative exploration of ways the female person is described by Sahagún’s informants as participants in ritual human sacrifice. In the last ten years there have been significant advances in gender studies in Mesoamerica as summarized in a series of articles in the recent Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures. See especially “Gender Studies” and “Gender Roles: Pre-Hispanic Period” by Cecelia Klein, vol. 3, pp. 435–438; “Gender Roles: Colonial Period” by Susan Kellogg, pp. 430–432; and “Gender Roles: Contemporary Cultures” by Christine E. Eber and Robin O’Brian, pp. 432–434, for excellent summaries of issues, developments, and bibliography. Few studies, however, address the problem of understanding the ritual sacrifice of females in the Sahagún materials. For instance, Betty Ann Brown, in whose steady steps I attempt to follow here, wrote “Seen But Not Heard: Women in Aztec Ritual—The Sahagún Texts” (1983, pp. 119–154), showing in impressive detail the depictions of women in Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales. This foundational article shows important information, in written text and imagery, about females as deities, ritual participants, and the diverse ways they made offerings to gods. She may have missed an opportunity to see even more when she wrote, “Although women are neither illustrated nor clearly discussed in terms of the more bloody aspects of Aztec ceremonialism (as animal and human sacrificial slaying, or the drawing of straws and thorns through the body in self-inflicted penance) . . .” (p. 130). In fact, her descriptions do make references to women and these sacrificial practices without adding interpretation. The performance of women’s lives and bodies receives two excellent treatments by Rosemary Joyce, “Performing the Body in Pre-Hispanic Central America,” and Susan Toby Evans, “Sexual Politics in the Aztec Palace: Public, Private and Profane,” in a remarkable issue of RES entitled Pre-Columbian States of Being

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(1998). Joyce’s work in particular offers a valuable theoretical approach to the making of female gender for and during sacrificial rituals in the Aztec capital. 2. There are six ceremonies dedicated to the killing of women, including Huey Tozoztli (The Great Vigil, also known as the time of The Taking of the God of Maize), Tecuilhuitontli (The Small Festival of the Lords), Huey Tecuilhuitl (The Great Festival of the Lords, also called The Eating of Fresh Maize Tortillas), Ochpaniztli (The Sweeping, also called The Hanging of the Gourds), Tepeilhuitl (The Festival of the Mountains), and Tititl (The Stretching). The translations of the names of these ceremonies are from the highly valuable Primeros Memoriales (Sahagún 1997: 56–66). This one-third proportion finds an interesting parallel in Betty Ann Brown’s discovery that twelve of the thirty-six deities depicted in the illustrations of the Primeros Memoriales are female. The percentage changes significantly, however, in the illustrations of ritual actions where females participate in thirteen of the nineteen festivals depicted. They appear as deity impersonators, deities, dancers, singers, and priestesses. In terms of the combination of war and plant themes I am emphasizing, most of the goddesses have a circular war shield in their left hands while sometimes holding a plant or plant-related symbol or object (such as a broom) in their right hands. 3. I am by no means the first to draw attention to this combination of regenerating fertility and warfare in these rituals. Eduard Seler, representing the work of specialists, and Mircea Eliade, representing the work of comparativists, drew attention to this combination. Broda (1970: 197–273) also provides a valuable overview of these patterns. Brown (1984) provides a useful interpretation of the historical basis of Ochpaniztli. Eliade (1958: 344) wrote, “A whole series of ceremonies followed upon these: the warriors marched by (for, like many eastern gods and goddesses of fertility, Toci was also the goddess of war and of death), dances were performed and, finally, the king, followed by all his people, threw everything that came to hand at the head of the person representing Toci and then withdrew.” The most eloquent invocation of women’s powers in Aztec society comes from Clendinnen (1991: 153–212), when she writes about the “female being revealed.” 4. See López Austin (1997) for a concise outline of the ways in which death played a creative role in cosmic creation. Also see López Austin’s succinct “Cosmovision” in vol. 1 of the Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures, especially pages 271–272, for insight into the complimentary relations between death and life among the Mexicas. Jill Leslie Furst’s Natural History of the Soul in Aztec Mexico (1997) is an excellent discussion of this theme of the nearness of death. 5. My use of a “cosmo-magical circle” that pivots differs from van Gennep’s idea of the “magic circle” (1960). While I admire the dynamic sense of ritual in van Gennep, I do not emphasize in this essay that rituals pivot humans from the profane world into the sacred realm or from one place in society to another. I mean that within the ritual work of these festivals that travel and pivot within a ceremonial landscape, a series of exchanges take place linking gods, humans, objects, and locations in various stages of metamorphosis guided, in part, by an agricultural worldview of cycles of life and death. The ritual power of these cosmo-magical circles is in their contribution to changes in states of being.

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6. One of the most useful essays on the symbols of sacrifice is by Anawalt (1984). 7. See Broda (1982, 1989), among many other articles illustrating the nature and power of the cosmovision. See also López Austin (1997), especially pp. 9–13. He describes cosmovision as a “concept of the world sufficiently organized and coherent . . . , present in all of the acts of social life, chiefly in those that include the different kinds of production, family life, care of the body, community relationships, and relations with authorities.” “Cosmo-magical” is a term used to great effect by Paul Wheatley in his classic study Pivot of the Four Quarters: A Preliminary Inquiry into the Origins and Character of the Ancient Chinese City and elsewhere. He meant that underpinning the social organization in traditional urban societies such as Mesoamerica there existed a sophisticated cosmo-magical form of thought that presupposed an intimate parallelism between the mathematically expressible regimes of the heavens and the biologically determined rhythms of life on earth. In this essay I explore this category by emphasizing the ritual exchanges between these various regimes and intimate parallelisms. I use the term “circle” as a metaphor for the work of rejuvenation and not as a statement of architectural or ritual design. The sources make clear that ritual participants danced in lines, rows, winding pathways, and many other shapes as well. 8. See Jay (1991) and Reeves Sanday (1986). Significant studies about Mesoamerican sacrifice, which could be resources for scholars interested in developing a general model of sacrifice, include Johanna Broda’s classic “Tlacaxipeualiztli: A Reconstruction of an Aztec Calendar Festival from the Sixteenth-Century Sources” in Revista Espanola de Antropología Americana, vol. 5, 197–274, as well as Christian Duverger’s La Flor Letal: Economía del Sacrificio Humano (1983), Yólotl González Torres’s El Sacrificio Humano Entre los Mexicas (1994), Martha Ilia Nájera C.’s El Don de la Sangre en el Equilibrio Cósmico: El Sacrificio y el Autosacrificio Sangriento entre los Mayas (1987), and Eduardo Matos Moctezuma’s Muerte a Filo de Obsidiana (1978). Inga Clendinnen presents an eloquent interpretation of human sacrifice, including important material on the sacrifice of women in Aztec: An Interpretation (1991). Valuable essays appear in Elizabeth Boone’s Ritual Human Sacrifice in Mesoamerica (1984). For autosacrifice see Cecelia Klein’s “The Ideology of Autosacrifice at the Templo Mayor” in The Aztec Templo Mayor, edited by Elizabeth Hill Boone, pp. 293–370 (1987) and also Davíd Carrasco’s City of Sacrifice (2000). Perhaps, as Wendy Doniger remarked after I described the flaying ritual of Ochpaniztli to her, “There is an extraordinary meanness in these rituals.” Jay’s work may offer a useful perspective for understanding these sacrifices. She argues that gender dichotomy is fundamental to sacrifice, which works to reconstruct descent structures to favor males. Men sacrifice in order to do birth better, that is, to overcome the profound problems for males of having been born of women. Male control of sacrificial rituals recreates social relations that were biologically established in childbirth; thus, social reproduction of all types will be in the hands of men. She writes, “Opposition between sacrifices and childbirth, or between sacrifice and childbearing women, that is, mothers or potential mothers, is present in countless different sacrificial traditions. This opposition is manifested in a number of different ways; for example, the gender roles of sacrificial practices.

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It is a common feature of unrelated traditions that only adult males—fathers, real and metaphorical—may perform sacrifices. Where women are reported as performing sacrifice it is never as mothers, but almost always, in some specifically nonchildbearing role, as virgins (or dressed as if they were virgins), as consecrated unmarried women, or as postmenopausal women” (p. xxiii). 9. López Austin (1997: 123–199). On the complex matter of the unity and diversity of gods, he argues that (1) there is a hidden, primordial essence expressed in nature and history through, and balanced by, countless oppositional pairs (death/ life, cold/hot, female/male, water/fire, rainy season/dry season) of divine beings who are capable of uniting and separating with other essences, creating a widely shared coessence; and (2) these gods can be in more than one place at the same time and can share their power with other beings. Essence undergoes orderly but continual and complex metamorphoses. 10. Betty Ann Brown (1983: 133) has an interesting discussion of other important internal differences in Sahagún’s presentations of material related to females and rituals in the Primeros Memoriales. She asks, “Why doesn’t the Primeros Memoriales text correspond to (and therefore elucidate) the ceremonial illustrations, particularly in reference to women’s roles? A major factor must have been Sahagún’s research techniques. If he used the questionnaire reconstructed by López Austin, he was not actively pursuing information about women’s participation in the ceremonies. Sahagún’s own cultural heritage—the Catholic exclusion of women from the priesthood—may have blinded him (as ethnocentrism of various sorts has biased many subsequent anthropologists).” She continues, “But there is another possibility. It appears the native informants and scribes Sahagún employed were all male. Were Aztec men privy to the knowledge of women’s ritual activities?” 11. Book 2 states that in nobles’ houses, the liquid of life and revitalization—blood—was sprinkled on fir branches and balls of grass, the latter with maguey thorns placed in the middle. In the evening, all the neighborhood temples were swept clean, and women prepared the “shining . . . scintillating” atole (maize) drink. In Durán’s description of rites to Chicomecoatl (1971: 225), a blood offering rite at a later stage of the ritual, we read that after the female ixiptla is carried into a chamber where a wooden effigy of the same goddess is waiting, she stands on ears of maize and vegetables. “While she stood there, the lords and nobles came in, forming a line and one by one they approached her. They squatted on their knees and removed the dry blood they had preserved on their temples and ears during the seven days. They scratched this off with their hands and flung it in front of the girl consecrated as a goddess . . . ; the women came in to perform the same ceremony.” 12. It appears that these alms or offerings included different types of atole, such as cuauhnexatolli, nextamalatolli, and xocoatolli. 13. The eighth ceremony was a time when the plants were growing but supplies of foodstuffs were scarce. Rulers and nobles appeared on the ritual stage to provide gifts of foods—mainly different kinds of tamales—for the community. The rulers claimed they were showing benevolence to the common folk, who were also referred to as the “greedy poor.” Cheaters, those who took more than offered, were

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beaten and the food was taken from them. People jostled in crowds and had to be pushed apart. There was public weeping among the poor, who expressed their sense of misery, and they broke out in near riots. 14. The ruler meted out the harshest of punishments, including the actual killing of people, when Motecuhzoma’s slayers, his executioners, struck the back of each of the criminals’ heads, which created terror. These punishments reflect again the cycle of debt payments that animate this religious system. The gods gave, in mythic time, alcoholic drinks to humans to bring them happiness. Humans were required to consume this happiness in moderation because drunkenness meant one was possessed by the god of the pulque; he who drinks pulque imbibes the god into the body, of which the god then takes possession. To take too much of the god into one’s body is a dangerous offense to the gods. 15. Centeotl sometimes referred to the fertility goddess Chicomecoatl, or Seven Snake, but more frequently referred to the male aspect of the maize god. See Sahagún (1997), among others. 16. Clendinnen (1991: 208) makes her claim that “[t]he identification of the woman’s womb with the great womb of the earth was the foundation of the Mexican system of thought. It was that understanding which sustained the meanings played out through the medium of the human body in each ‘human sacrifice,’ by a dismemberment and analysis at once physical and conceptual.” There were, of course, more ingredients in the foundation of Aztec cosmo-magical thought, but Clendinnen’s illumination of female roles has opened the way for many new considerations.

REFERENCES CITED Anawalt, Patricia Rieff 1984 Memory Clothing: Costumes Associated With Aztec Human Sacrifice. In Ritual Human Sacrifice in Mesoamerica, edited by Elizabeth H. Boone, pp. 165–193. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks. Broda, Johanna 1970 Tlacaxipehualiztli: A Reconstruction of an Aztec Calendar Festival From Sixteenth-Century Sources. Revista Española de Antropología Americana 5: 197–327. 1982 El Culto Mexica de los Cerros y del Agua. Multidisciplina 3 (7): 45–56. Mexico City: Escuela Nacional de Estudios Profesionales Acatlan, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. 1989 Geography, Climate, and the Observation of Nature in Pre-Hispanic Mesoamerica. In The Imagination of Matter: Religion and Ecology in Mesoamerican Traditions, edited by Davíd Carrasco, pp. 139–153. BAR International Series 515. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Brown, Betty Ann 1983 Seen But Not Heard: Women in Aztec Ritual—The Sahagún Texts. In Text and Image in Pre-Columbian Art: Essays on the Interrelationship of the Verbal and Visual Arts, edited by Janet Catherine Berlo, pp. 119–154. BAR International Series 180. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. 223

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1984 Ochpaniztli in Historical Perspective. In Ritual Human Sacrifice in Mesoamerica, edited by Elizabeth H. Boone, pp. 195–210. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks.

Carrasco, Davíd 1990 Religions of Mesoamerica: Cosmovision and Ceremonial Centers. San Francisco: Harper & Row. 1991 The Sacrifice of Tezcatlipoca: To Change Place. In To Change Place: Aztec Ceremonial Landscapes, edited by Davíd Carrasco, pp. 31–57. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. 1995 Give Me Some Skin: The Charisma of the Aztec Warrior. History of Religions 35 (1): 1–26. 1999 City of Sacrifice. Boston: Beacon Press. Clendinnen, Inga 1991 Aztecs: An Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Codex Borbonicus 1974 Codex Borbonicus. Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale, Paris (Y120). Commentaries by Karl Anton Nowotny and Jacqueline de Durand-Forest. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt. Durán, Fray Diego 1971 Book of the Gods and Rites and the Ancient Calendar. Translated and edited by Fernando Horcasitas and Doris Heyden. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Eber, Christine E., and Robin O’Brian 2001 Gender Roles: Contemporary Cultures. In Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures, editor-in-chief, Davíd Carrasco, 1: 432–434. New York: Oxford University Press. Eliade, Mircea 1958 Patterns in Comparative Religion. New York: Meridian. Furst, Jill Leslie 1997 Natural History of the Soul in Aztec Mexico. New Haven: Yale University Press. Girard, René 1977 Violence and the Sacred. Translated by Patrick Gregory. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Jay, Nancy 1991 Throughout Your Generations Forever: Sacrifice, Religion, and Paternity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Joyce, Rosemary A. 1998 Performing the Body in Pre-Hispanic Central America. RES 33: 147–165. Cambridge: Harvard University.

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Kellogg, Susan 2001 Gender Roles: Colonial Period. In Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures, editor-in-chief, Davíd Carrasco, 1: 430–432. New York: Oxford University Press. Klein, Cecelia F. 2001 Gender Roles: Pre-Hispanic Period. In Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures, editor-in-chief, Davíd Carrasco, 1: 427–430. New York: Oxford University Press. 2001 Gender Studies. In Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures, editor-­ in-chief, Davíd Carrasco, 1: 435–438. New York: Oxford University Press. López Austin, Alfredo 1973 Hombre-Dios. Religión y Política en el Mundo Náhuatl. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. 1997 Tamoanchan, Tlalocan: Places of Mist. Translated by Bernard R. Ortiz de Montellano and Thelma Ortiz de Montellano. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. 2001 Cosmovision. In Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures, editor-in-chief, Davíd Carrasco, 1: 268–274. New York: Oxford University Press. Reeves Sanday, Peggy 1986 Divine Hunger: Cannibalism as a Cultural System. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1997 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1987 To Take Place: Toward Theory in Ritual. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. van Gennep, Arnold 1960 The Rites of Passage. Translated by Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wheatley, Paul 1971 The Pivot of the Four Quarters: A Preliminary Enquiry Into the Origins and Character of the Ancient Chinese City. Chicago: Aldine Publishing.

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his study explores the use of paper as a primary means of human orientation to the landscape, as seen in three distinct yet interrelated ways. First, it examines some of the ritual contexts and meanings of pre-Hispanic uses of paper as described in Fray Bernardino de Sahagún’s contact-period Florentine Codex (1950–1982). Surviving descriptions indicate that Aztec (Nahua) ritual uses of paper were radically different from the uses of paper by colonial Spanish authorities. Yet both groups used paper to legitimize the ways in which they meaningfully inhabited the land of Central Mexico. Second, using interpretations of Aztec and Spanish uses of paper, this study offers an interpretation of the colonial Techialoyan manuscripts. Nahua people created these documents in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Mexico in response to colonial threats to their traditional lands. Third, this study discusses the methodological challenges that indigenous uses

Philip P. Arnold

of paper—in contrast to colonial or immigrant uses of paper—present to the field of ethnohistory from the perspective of the history of religions. Ethnohistory has been described as a tenuous connection between history and anthropology because of the problematic relationship between textual representation and culture (Axtell 1981; Fogelson 1989; DeMallie 1993). Some scholars have also been struck by the centrality of religion to the cultures about which they write. I believe that ethnohistorians have underutilized methodologies developed in the history of religions and would argue that these methods might alleviate some of the interpretive difficulties faced by scholars who write about performative traditions. INDIGENOUS USES OF PAPER IN THE FLORENTINE CODEX Produced by the native peoples of Mexico from pre-Hispanic times until the present, amatl is an indigenous paper made from native trees and plants. It is difficult, however, to reconstruct Aztec uses of amatl from the written record. Early sixteenth-century Christian missionaries in Mexico so closely identified amatl with indigenous religious practices that its manufacture and use were outlawed until the eighteenth century. Amatl was associated with the veneration of earth deities, the most prominent of whom was Tlaloc. A deity of the earth and fertility, ruler of the tlaloque, or “Tlalocs,” and of a watery underworld called Tlalocan, Tlaloc was the pan-Mesoamerican god of rain and fertility. According to Sullivan (1974), his name translates as “he who is the embodiment of the earth,” and he was one of the most important deities in the Aztec world.1 Rituals to Tlaloc were performed at critical points during the agricultural cycle to ensure adequate rainfall. Either too much rain or too little could have had disastrous consequences for the chinampa system, regarded as the agricultural backbone of the Aztec empire (Armillas 1976). These ritual events articulated a fundamental relationship between the Aztec people and Tlaloc, the living embodiment of the earth. His body was likened to a crocodile floating in a primordial sea, with his back associated with mountains, hills, valleys, and lakes (Broda 1987). Because of his eminence, Tlaloc was regarded as one of the primary impediments to the missionary task of converting the Aztecs to Christianity; consequently, colonial law strictly forbade the use of all material attributes associated with his veneration, including amatl. Colonial forces in Mexico emphasized book production. Books utilizing paper of Spanish origin further authorized the colonial project. One important source for missionization was Bernardino de Sahagún’s encyclopedic work, the Florentine Codex (1950–1982), which was intended to reveal Aztec culture so 228

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it could be Christianized. This project was an endeavor to identify and record all pertinent aspects of Aztec culture. Sahagún’s persistence in completing it over fifty years was probably due to his fascination with the Aztec “other.” An evangelistic rhetoric and the eventual destruction of Aztec traditions nevertheless impelled the overall project. Although Sahagún may have had a personal interest in Aztec traditions, his justification for Spain’s occupation of New Spain was founded on a culture of colonial dominance through missionization. Even though the Florentine Codex reveals ritual uses of amatl, the text’s construction was ultimately intended as a means of eliminating those uses. Consequently, the Florentine Codex simultaneously represents the most important primary source for understanding the meaning of pre-Hispanic uses of paper and for obstructing that understanding. When working with the Florentine Codex, it is necessary to be sensitive to the indigenous and colonial cultural constructions embedded in the text. This mode of reading is what historians of religions call a “hermeneutics of suspicion.” Relationships between cultural constructions can be fruitfully compared by examining the activities surrounding paper. Although colonial and indigenous understandings of paper could not coexist as authoritative cultural structures in the same place and at the same time, they did coexist at the level of practice. Thus the Florentine Codex represents a use of paper that justifies a colonial occupation of land in a way that is directly antagonistic to an indigenous occupation of land. The sixteenth-century Basin of Mexico became an area of intense and sustained contact between Aztec and Spanish peoples. Both groups were oriented toward powerful urban centers that dominated large geographical areas. Despite that similarity, there were significant differences in their relationships to the land. The Aztecs expressed an “indigenous” religious understanding— one in which physical places were emphasized—while the Spaniards manifested a “utopian,” or immigrant, religious understanding—one in which “no place” was emphasized. The Aztecs were religiously and culturally distinct from the imperial projects of the Old World. Indigenous religious practices were directed toward deities that were intrinsic to material attributes of their landscape. Thus, the “materiality” of paper—what it was made of and how it was made—was just as important as what was inscribed on it, and possibly even more important. Amatl was created out of the destruction and recombination of various forms of life, and, as a material object, it articulated a human connection to the land. Paper was one of the primary tribute items requisitioned by Tenochtitlan from other areas. The Codex Mendoza (1992, 3: 41–46), for example, shows 8,000 reams of amatl coming every six months from the tribute districts of 229

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Figure 9.1. Detail of tribute items, including amatl (paper), sent from the province of Huaxtepec, Morelos, to Tenochtitlan. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Mendoza 1992, vol. 3, fol. 25r.

Quauhnahuac and Huaxtepec, which were both located south of Tenochtitlan in the modern-day state of Morelos (fig. 9.1). In addition to sheets of paper, the Aztecs procured as tribute paper costumes, paper banners, and paper streamers. Aside from using paper to create books, the Aztecs employed it primarily as a ritual item. Book 2 (The Ceremonies) of the Florentine Codex describes how impersonators of Iztaccihuatl (White Woman), a goddess whose name was given to one of the two highest volcanic peaks in Central Mexico, wore white pleated paper at the nape of the neck to symbolize water, hills, and vegetation. Similar pleated headdresses were worn by other deities, including a red one for the maize goddess Chicomecoatl (Seven Snake), a blue one for the goddess of water Chalchiuhtlicue (Jade Skirt), and a green one for Tepeyollotl (Mountain Heart), god of the mountains (fig. 9.2). Other paper head adornments were used during the veintena ceremony of Etzalcualiztli (see Nicholson, “Veintena Ceremonies,” this volume). During this period priests were arrayed in ornaments known as tlaquechpaniotl (paper neck ornaments) placed at the nape of the neck; amacuexpalli (pleated paper neck ornament), a type of long paper fringe placed behind the head; and amacalli (paper house), a paper cap. A paper cap was often used to indicate an intimate connection with earth deities. Paper was also fashioned into incense bags and decorated with representations of the jaguar, ocelot, and duck. These bags carried yauhtli, an herb burnt in censers at the men’s houses during this ritual period (Arnold 1999). Offerings to Tlaloc also involved the ritual use of paper during the veintena of Tepeilhuitl, or Feast of the Mountain (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 131–133). 230

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Figure 9.2. Incense burner with an image of the rain god Tlaloc wearing a paper headdress, Templo Mayor, Mexico City. Photograph by Eloise Quiñones Keber.

This practice was a Pre-Columbian precursor to “Day of the Dead” ceremonies currently celebrated throughout rural Mexico (Carrasco 1990: 143). During this feast the Aztecs fashioned images of ancestors and deities out of food, particularly amaranth, in the shape of mountains. These representations were devotional offerings to the tlaloque, or Tlaloc’s rain dwarfs, who were responsible for bringing snow, hail, mist, and lightning from deep mountain caves or Tlalocan. The images were adorned in paper costumes, feathers, and rubber. With most of the significant geological features being accounted for, an assemblage of ancestor/mountains would produce a deified map of the Basin of Mexico on family altars. Over the course of several days the people would feed these mountain images and finally eat them in a ceremonial meal. Later, they would ceremonially burn the paper adornments. There was a ritual connection for the Aztecs between food, paper, and land, which was epitomized in Tlaloc veneration. Through ritual activity to Tlaloc, the Aztecs legitimized their connections to the Basin of Mexico. The ritual exchange between the world of the Aztecs and that of Tlaloc was thus negotiated with the help of paper. Traditional papermaking was, and still is, a labor-intensive activity that utilized the bark of the amatl tree. 231

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Lenz (1961) recorded connections between paper and food during his visits to twentieth-century native papermakers. These people were descendants of the Aztecs and spoke Nahuatl (the Aztec language). They are generally referred to as Nahua. The bark from the amatl tree was left to soak or rot in a slow-moving stream. It was then boiled for several hours with wood ash (carbonate or potash) taken from the stoves used in making tortillas. The use of wood ash or lime transforms the maize into a complete protein source for human consumption. Harder fibers might require the nejayote water (ground maize soup water), which contained lime used for cooking maize. The fibers were allowed to cool and were then washed with clean water. As with maize, amatl is prepared with water, ash, and fire. Nahua people regard it as materially analogous to food for humans. Offering amatl to the deities therefore connects the Nahua to a living landscape. The rendering of plant life (i.e., the amatl tree) in the manufacture of paper was regarded as similar to the rendering of plant life in the creation of food. Traditional papermaking still goes on in many parts of Mexico. Pieces of amatl can be bought at local markets, but other types of amatl are produced strictly for ceremonial purposes. According to Sandstrom (1991), some Nahua people use industrially produced tissue papers in a variety of colors. These papers are cut into the shapes of earth deities and placed on altars that are assembled during key periods in the agricultural cycle, such as planting and harvesting. Other objects used are flowers, feathers, and food. Tobacco and liquor are offered to these paper images as gifts. Food is offered directly to the paper figures, and the deities they represent are directly connected to significant features of the landscape, such as hills, caves, gardens, plants, and seeds. A shaman, or curandero, who has the ability to divine communications from these deities by interpreting dreams, oversees their ritual feeding (Tedlock 1982; Sandstrom 1991). The connection between amatl and food is present in both pre-Hispanic and contemporary contexts. While paper is one of the primary ritual objects used in ceremonies to Tlaloc, its manufacture is also closely connected to food preparation. Just as human beings rely on the daily gifts of Tlaloc’s body through their consumption of maize and other foodstuffs, paper seems to serve an analogous yet distinct symbolic relationship to food as another processed cultural object important for the sustenance of human and Tlaloc-related life. In rituals to Tlaloc, each element held a place of prominence as a symbol of the human connection to the land. Both food and paper required the violent activity of killing the fruits of Tlaloc’s body and were therefore related to each other. Through rituals to Tlaloc the Aztecs expressed an ongoing relationship to their landscape (Arnold 1995). 232

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The appearance of tetehuitl (paper banners) during the veintena ceremony of Atlcahualo (Ceasing of Water) or Cuahuitlehua (Raising of Poles), for example, brings together the symbolic relationships between paper, the human body, and food (fig. 9.3). It was only during this ceremony that the word tlacatetehuitl (human paper streamers) appears in the Florentine Codex. There it refers to the seven children sacrificed at seven different locales. The sacrificial children physically constituted the central theme of an indigenous relationship between human life and the landscape: blood and water. The former is bodily water and is the basis of human life; the latter is earthly or heavenly blood and is the basis of the landscape’s life. The reciprocal nature of life and death was a central theme in most Aztec ritual practices. The acquisition of water required paying the high price of children’s blood, referred to as a “payment of debt,” which offset the pain and sacrifice given by Tlaloc. The exchange was a liquid one. Blood and tissue interacted to create life (children), and so it was with the land: The blood of Tlaloc (water) interacted with his body (earth) to create life (animal and vegetal sustenance). This system of bodily connections was widened to include other bodily fluids, namely tears. Tears were symbolically represented by rubber spatters on the paper banners and faces of children. The Florentine Codex (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 44) explicitly mentions the tears shed by both children and participants. Ritual weeping and sorrow over the deaths of these children provided the emotional stimulus that resulted in rainfall. Both the sacrificial killing of children and the shedding of tears were seen as reciprocity of material life forms that partook in a larger ecological and cosmological structure (see Carrasco, “Sacrifice,” this volume). The seven children arrayed with different colored papers went to the tlaloque adorned with the destroyed plant life for which their lives were given. The use of paper physically combined the significance of paper, as connected to human life and food, with the sacrificial act. Earth, water, and plant life coalesced through human intervention and created a sign. “Human paper streamers” was a fitting name for these children. The Aztec understanding of paper, as revealed in Book 2 of the Florentine Codex, was one that arbitrated between various realms of being. It thus symbolized the processes by which one form of being could be rendered; that is, life was violently transformed from one living form to another. Rituals to Tlaloc articulated interaction between life and death, blood and water, land and body. Amatl, as a ritual object, articulated this ritual process of rendering life and was therefore an indigenous symbol that placed human beings in a reciprocal relationship with the land. Its meaning is opposite to that of colonial paper, which, while legitimating an occupation of land, is “utopian” (that is, 233

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Figure 9.3. Veintena ceremony of Atlcahualo or Cuahuitlehua, with paper banners prominently displayed, Primeros Memoriales. Drawing by Michel Besson after Sahagún 1993, fol. 250r.

“no place”) in orientation. Therefore, the degree to which the Florentine Codex reveals an indigenous religious view of the landscape also becomes a critique of the colonial world in which it was formed. TECHIALOYAN TEXTS AND THE NAHUA DEFENSE OF LAND The Spaniards used various forms of paper to legitimize or authorize their colonial occupation of New Spain. Ethnographic texts such as the Florentine Codex, as well as other colonial documents (court records, deeds, etc.), including paper money and letters of credit, were other uses of paper that justified the colonial project. Like the Aztecs, the Spaniards used paper—although in a dramatically different performative fashion—to orient themselves in the Mexican world. The orientation of the Spaniards, however, was without reference to specific spaces. While the Aztecs understood the sacred to be 234

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directly involved in material life, the Spaniards held a more “modern” view of God as transcendent to material life. Deus otiosus took a more radical form in Protestant theology, but it also held considerable influence in fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Catholicism. During the colonial period the Nahua enlarged and transformed the pre-Hispanic meanings and uses of paper. Pre-Hispanic understandings of amatl became embedded in the creation and use of what are now called the Techialoyan manuscripts. These texts were created at a specific time to articulate an indigenous understanding of land in order to resist a threat to native lands. Nahua people used indigenous interpretations of occupying the land, as articulated by amatl, to counter these colonial claims. The Techialoyan manuscripts form a corpus of roughly forty-eight texts generated by native Nahuatl-speaking people of Central Mexico during the mid- to late colonial period (ca. 1630–1730; Robertson 1975; Harvey 1986). Robertson characterizes Techialoyan texts as (1) being made of amatl material; (2) representing a formalized set of genealogies, landscape features, and Nahuatl phrases that determine their relative authenticity; and (3) coming into existence at a particular historical period in response to colonial acquisition of land (fig. 9.4). These texts came to wider scholarly attention with their publication in the early part of the twentieth century (Codex Cempoallan 1890; American Art Association 1936; Frost 1937; Barlow 1943; 1945; 1947; 1948; Diffie 1945; Barlow and McAfee 1946). According to Wood (1994), the Techialoyan manuscripts are a subset of a larger corpus, known as Títulos, which describes indigenous histories, genealogies, and landscapes dating from before the coming of Europeans to the time of the work’s creation. Unlike other Títulos written on European papers in phonetic form, the Techialoyan texts are made of amatl, on which painted images and phoneticized Nahuatl communicate their messages. Local Nahuatl-speaking people used these texts to support indigenous titles to lands in colonial law courts run by ecclesiastical bodies. From the written record these court cases seem to have had mixed results, going against as well as favoring the Nahua. Of primary importance for colonial authorities was determining the authenticity of these texts through a “composición investigation.” The Techialoyan manuscripts were sometimes judged to be fakes that were created only to propagate an image of Pre-Columbian land occupation with no historical basis. At other times, they were seen as accurately depicting the histories of local communities, thereby establishing an indigenous title to the land. Judges used the oral statements collected by various witnesses at the court to determine the factuality of the texts. 235

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Figure 9.4. Techialoyan manuscript made of amatl in the seventeenth century to support an indigenous title to land, Códice de San Antonio Techialoyan 1993, pp. 15–16, pl. 9. Courtesy, Instituto Mexiquense de Cultura, Toluca, Mexico.

As waves of people arrived in New Spain, colonial pressure mounted for acquiring more land, and adjudicating the authenticity of these texts became more critical. According to Harvey (1986: 159; see also van Zantwijk 1969; Wood 1989, 1998a; Borah 1991; Harvey 1991), the “major event which affected Indian settlements in the later sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries was congregación. Congregación relocated and concentrated the Indian population to facilitate administration.” The authenticity of the Techialoyan manuscripts was determined by examining what was inscribed on them. Questions of authenticity primarily focused on the amatl, its age, and its date of manufacture, that is, on whether it was judged to be pre-­ Hispanic or not.2 Descriptions in the Florentine Codex of pre-Hispanic performative uses of amatl as an indigenous ritual artifact to meaningfully occupy living landscapes suggest an alternative interpretation of the Techialoyan manuscripts. This interpretation puts less emphasis on what is inscribed in these texts and more on their physical constitution. In their material composition, these papers embodied the ritual connections to the land, which, for the Nahua, superseded the legal jurisdiction of colonial New Spain. 236

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Rather than relying on translations from Nahuatl, important innovations in reading texts have come through a reassessment of images encoded in native documents (Gruzinski 1993; Boone 1994). For the Techialoyan texts, Galarza (1980) has suggested more nuanced readings by integrating both written and pictorial messages in a structuralist framework. More important for this discussion are the innovations in reading the texts as sociopolitical documents, a view advanced by Harvey (1966, 1991) and Wood (1998a). Aztec and contemporary Nahua uses of amatl suggest another opportunity to interpret the “materiality” of the Techialoyan manuscripts. This line of investigation follows recent work on the consequences of the materiality of the book, with reference to late medieval and early modern European book production (Febvre and Martin 1958; Piedra 1988; Chartier 1989; Chartier 1994; Arnold 1995). Unlike an analysis of book development in Europe, an understanding of the materiality of the Techialoyan texts promotes an appreciation of how they ritually oriented Nahua communities toward meaningful landscapes. With an interpretive shift away from the messages printed in these texts and toward their material construction as it is associated with the Nahua occupation of land, a Nahua view of colonial authority and ultimate power becomes more apparent. In the book culture of early modern Europe, authority was primarily invested in the antiquity of written texts (Grafton 1992). As noted above, scholarly interpretation regarded the use of amatl as a device by the creators of the Techialoyan texts to promote the look of antiquity to emphasize their authority in colonial courts of law. According to contemporary scholars, the Nahua were using amatl to signify the authority of what was inscribed in the manuscripts, and in doing so, demonstrated an understanding of the colonial legal authority connected to written documents. The irony of the colonial situation in the Americas lay in adjudicating the legal status of indigenous or aboriginal title. Land title was widely recognized in the Old World in connection with kingly succession. In the colonial New World, however, the prestige of aboriginal title shifted to indigenous inhabitants and cultures. The colonial problem of effectively creating legal title to lands not traditionally one’s own required amassing significant amounts of data. These included geographical surveys (mapping “unknown” lands), amassing theories of just conquest (complete with missionization and subjugation efforts), and legal actions to effectively control lands that were deemed unoccupied. The colonial situation in Mexico required that Old World paradigms of occupation be reorganized for the New World context. That indigenous inhabitants had a legal basis for their 237

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land claims indicates that their survival required that they creatively depend on their understanding of European legalistic paradigms, and in particular on the concept of “owning” land. Colonial courts, therefore, were arenas of cultural contact that were often organized around the occupation, and therefore the meaning, of land. Challenged by colonists to produce “proof of ownership,” some Nahua communities created texts that embodied their understanding of an indigenous connection to land. Nahua ritual life was organized around activities that addressed the landscape as a coherent material being upon which material life was contingent. Ritual activity, as it was associated with material survival, was intimately tied to an indigenous identity. Native paper used in the construction of the Techialoyan manuscripts was a medium that articulated the connection to the land, not as a commodity, but as a living being (that is, Tlaloc). At the same time, the manuscripts responded to the new colonial situation by addressing the issue of the commodification of the land. From an indigenous perspective, the commodification of land represented a traumatic conceptual and religious shift. That an indigenous connection to New World landscapes was embodied in the material construction of the Techialoyan texts did not occur to the investigators of the colonial courts or to contemporary scholars interpreting these texts. In many cases, colonial and contemporary scholars have regarded these texts as fake. For those whose world is organized around the authority of books (lawyers and scholars, for example), the Techialoyan manuscripts indeed appear to be fake. Religions of the book generally emphasize the placeless, or “utopian,” quality of authority. For indigenous people, however, the emphasis on the meaning of places is critical, and it is articulated in the use of amatl for the Techialoyan texts. A contemporary example illustrates the disjunctive character of indigenous and utopian uses of paper. According to Wood (1994: 3), a current custodian of community records in San Antonio la Isla knows that government officials, anthropologists, and historians regard his Techialoyan manuscript as false, but he insists it is not. Rather than surrender these texts to governmental officials, he keeps the documents in a metal box in his home. His community is still contesting some land boundaries as it continues a centuries-long struggle with a neighboring community. For many native peoples of Mexico, the performance of ritual obligations to beings of the land supports the material conditions of their lives and thus constitutes their identity and their rights to occupation (Sandstrom 1991). In contrast, legal title in the New World reconstructs the right of occupation of lands as authorized by written histories, deeds, and court records. The disjunction between these connections is dramatized in the colo238

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nial courts, which were, by necessity, occasions for the collision of worldviews. Moreover, it is through this disjunction of cultural understandings that some self-consciousness regarding the underpinnings of our modern assumptions can be reconceived. INTERPRETIVE CONTRIBUTION OF THE HISTORY OF RELIGIONS TO ETHNOHISTORY FOR UNDERSTANDING AMATL AND THE MEXICAN LANDSCAPE The Aztecs used paper as a ritual object charged with religious meaning. During the colonial period, the Techialoyan manuscripts represented a creative use of amatl to defend the indigenous Nahua occupation of land from incoming populations. In both contexts amatl was directly related to earth and fertility deities and therefore arbitrated between human and sacred landscapes. The connection to land was determined not only by what was inscribed on paper but also by the properties of the paper itself. While pre-Hispanic and colonial uses of paper responded to different material challenges, a meaningful connection existed between their distinctive eras. In contrast, colonial writers like Sahagún, as well as contemporary writers (in whose company I would include myself), place much more emphasis on the written text than on the medium of writing—that is, the paper. Writings such as ethnographies, legal documents, and letters of credit were the means by which colonial people “authorized” their creation and occupation of New Spain. There is an important, yet disjunctive, symmetry between Aztec (Nahua) people and European uses of paper, and it is to this disjunction that we now turn. This final interpretive move directs us toward the history of religions and the methodological consequences of examining the religious dimensions of Nahua paper. According to White (1997: 87), “Methodology is at the heart of any historical endeavor because methodology goes directly to the most critical of historical questions: How is [it] that we claim to know about the past?” This question is particularly important to ethnohistory, in which a claim to knowledge is made about a past that is culturally distant and radically other. Expanding on White’s insight, part of the methodological challenge to ethnohistory is to bridge the distance between the scholar and native (in this case, the Pre-Columbian Aztecs and colonial Nahuas). This distance is expressed by the scholarly task of writing (i.e., inscribing words on paper) about an “other” who did not “write.” The strategy of this study is to bring the task of the ethnohistorian into more direct comparison with the ritual activities of the Aztecs. 239

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Methodological discussions about processes of interpretation (that is, hermeneutics) in the field of the history of religions have tended to emphasize the opacity of the “other.” At the turn of the century, scholars interested in other religious traditions sought to define “the sacred” in essentialist terms associated with absolute power, such as mysterium tremendum. For Otto (1923), van der Leeuw (1986), and Eliade (1954), archaic people (people who are primarily concerned with archetypal meanings embedded in material life) meaningfully evaluate their world with reference to various manifestations of a sacred Other by negotiating the hierophany, or manifestation of the sacred. Ultimate and absolute power is opaque to direct human comprehension because human life is understood as being wholly contingent on the sacred Other. The hierophany—a presentation of absolute and therefore sacred power—is the experience that organizes or founds the world. A meaningful orientation to the world is understood only in reference to this wholly significant Other. Important for this discussion, however, is that the sacred Other was never knowable because one’s life and one’s world were understood to be completely contingent on the other’s existence. A community’s understanding of the Other was always deemed to be approximate and could never completely articulate the nature of the sacred. The solution, therefore, was to negotiate a relationship with the sacred, primarily through ritual activities, to ensure continued connection with the sacred Other. Interpreting the Other always occurs through a radical empirical methodology because the sacred Other is embedded in material existence. Like Aztec and Nahua uses of amatl, articulations and divinations of the material world were intimately associated with the deity Tlaloc. The opacity of the sacred has been an interpretive starting point for work on empirical others in the history of religions (Long 1986). As is the sacred Other, the empirical other, which constitutes our human and/or cultural object of study, is opaque. Fogelson (1989) mentions in his discussion of Ricoeur that history (to which I would add ethnohistory and the history of religions) has tended to assume that objectivity and factuality are embedded in texts. Mesoamericanists confidently believe that by using various methods to filter out peripheral noise and interference, the historian can perceive his or her object of study with clarity. In other words, this confidence assumes that the object of study can be rendered transparent. Gadamer (1989) connects these assumptions to a historicism generated out of an interpretive tradition of the Enlightenment. He suggests that to accept historicism over a rigorous hermeneutical method is to be mired in a fiction that limits understanding. In the history of religions, assuming that human others are transparent or can eventually be rendered transparent is an impediment to understanding. Only 240

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when the other’s opaqueness is seriously considered does it exert a pressure on the interpreter’s world. Put negatively, there is no real possibility of knowing Aztec or Nahua people either as they knew (or know) themselves, or as they actually were (or are) in their own world. Between contemporary scholars and the Aztec people stand the Spanish conquest (that is, almost total human, cultural, and ecological destruction); a body of texts that were created for the explicit purpose of exposing and eventually destroying indigenous traditions (which would include Sahagún’s Florentine Codex); and cultural constructions of time and space. All of these interferences make any attempt to understand the other, as they knew or know themselves, an impossible task. Although this may be apparent to those who work with sacred texts and cultures that seem closer to the culture of scholarship, such as biblical studies, it is more apparent in the project of ethnohistory, where the task is to render even more distant others through the medium of the book. Put positively, a consideration of the other as opaque exerts a force, sometimes expressed as a fascination, impetus, or nostalgia (Lears 1998), which promotes understanding. As Smith (1982: xi) says, Religion is solely the creation of the scholar’s study. Religion has no independent existence apart from the academy. For this reason, the student of religion, and most particularly the historian of religion, must be relentlessly self-conscious. Indeed, this self-consciousness constitutes his primary expertise, his foremost object of study.

It is one’s choice of investigating one body of data over another that determines the character of one’s findings. It is the choice of subjects that creates an arena for understanding. Between the scholars’ choices and an object of study is a creative antagonism. Rather than assuming that the other can be purely conceived and articulated, the historians of religions engage in a rigorous approximation of the other, which is intimately related to the rigor of their desire to answer their own questions. The field of hermeneutics is a distinctive evaluation of an authentic scholarship in which the other is given an amplified voice so as to exert pressure on assumed cultural positions. Contributions to methodological discussions in ethnohistory can be gained from Smith’s positioning of the importance of a scholar’s choices. The task of the history of religions is to articulate an approximate understanding of the other in as complete and seemingly obvious way so as to exert as much pressure as possible on the scholar’s cultural positions. At least two implications follow from a history of religions’ interrogation of the other. First, all investigations of those aspects of other cultures estimated to be of ultimate concern are

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inherently comparative. Between the scholar’s choices and the world they hope to illuminate is a tremendous gap bridged only by academic creativity that oftentimes brings into contact diverse cultural understandings. Second, scholarly activity is inherently critical. By creating a space for an other’s cultural meanings to be explored, the historian of religion exerts pressure on his or her own cultural meanings, which involves a deep interrogation of his or her own culture. In other words, the history of religions is constantly involved with cultural critique and cultural formation. By framing the investigation of native people of the Americas in this way, I want to avoid a certain solipsistic strain of postmodernism that has asserted that all understanding is constrained by the text. The power of ethnohistory is that textual resources never constitute the whole story. This is evidenced by a persistent interest in landscape by many in the field (Salisbury 1982; Cronon 1983, 1992; Martin 1992; López Austin 1997; Parkhill 1997; White 1997). Likewise, the history of religions has maintained a phenomenological emphasis, sometimes expressed as a morphology of the sacred, which appeals to material dimensions of existence to promote understanding (Eliade 1954; Carrasco 1982; Long 1986; Jones 1995; Arnold 1999). There is a triangulation of resources (the scholar’s choices, texts, and material existences) that impinge on one another. None of these resources is transparent; they are all involved with each other in the creative approximation of the other. Insisting on the opacity of these resources avoids their being overly determined—which I take to be the hubris of some established forms of postmodern theory—and thus establishes a space for meaningful encounters. Categories of self, other, world, religion, and culture are put into a critical and creative flux that authentically reproduces the activity of making life meaningful. The present choice is paper, including the activities that surround its use as related to occupying land. Between Pre-Columbian and contemporary (or indigenous and modern) uses of paper stands an interpretive gap. The urgent question is whether or not Nahua understandings of paper, as a medium for occupying land, can reveal assumptions about the scholarly uses of paper. To what degree does scholarly labor with reference to indigenous people authorize and extend the colonial project of conquest and subjugation? For example, Axtell (1981: 4) suggests that ethnohistories are needed in court cases regarding land claims. This issue is deeply problematic when one considers the possibility that written resources could be used to exterminate Native American cultures by compromising a connection with the land. The use of amatl in colonial courts is analogous to the use of written documents in treaties with various Indian groups in North America (Fogelson 242

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1989: 142). In treaty relationships we have examples of dramatically different cultural understandings of negotiation, which, on the Indian side, was seen as being involved with the sacred activity of the reciprocity of the gift. On the European-U.S. side, treaties were legally binding documents and did not, by definition, involve a sacred reality but a socioeconomic one. Treaties between the United States and Native American people are occasions of cultural contact that reveal discontinuities between cultural definitions of time/history, place, religion, and so on. Herman Melville’s articulation of the “Metaphysics of Indian Hating,” as Martin (1987) suggests, may lie beneath various attempts to uncover native traditions and cultures with academic certainty. Is there a legacy of trying to justify an immigrant cultural existence (expressed as colonial or modern) through writing about, or “signifying” (Long 1986), Native Americans? Parkhill (1997) describes the phenomenon of creating literatures about indigenous Americans as “weaving ourselves into the land.” My own impression is that Native American people react to my status as an academic with a mixture of hostility, fright, and indifference. It has been that reaction, however, that has informed and deepened the significance of my scholarship. There is urgent need, therefore, for a rigorous self-consciousness about the task of ethnohistory. The suggestion is not that the scholar write a confessional preface or epilogue, but that an engagement with the subject of choice constitute an arena of cultural contact. The ethnohistorian, like the Mesoamericanist, Native Americanist, and historian of religions, is engaged in creatively forming data. The consequences of that activity should be examined at every turn in such a way as to reveal what is at stake. By addressing the meaning of another culture’s practices (ritual or otherwise), the scholar is simultaneously trying to understand the meaning of his or her own cultural practices or to understand meaning in general. Moreover, the forces that constitute the self are brought to self-conscious and self-critical realization through a meaningful engagement with the other. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This project originally arose from a paper, “Ritual Defense of the Land: Nahua Paper and Colonial Law in Mexico,” given for the “Religion, Law, and the Construction of Identities” panel at the 17th International Congress of the History of Religions in Mexico City in 1995. I am grateful to coorganizers Winnifred Sullivan and Frank Reynolds, as well as to Lawrence Sullivan, who responded to the panel papers. Special thanks go to Joseph Campbell and his “Florentine Project” for supplying indexes listing the frequency with which amatl and tetehuitl appear in the Florentine Codex. I am also indebted to Eloise Quiñones Keber, who organized the 1997 panel on “Representing 243

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Ritual” at the American Society of Ethnohistory conference in Mexico City, where another version of the study was presented. I also thank the other participants, especially Davíd Carrasco, who was the respondent to the panel. I appreciate the time Joanne Harrison took to copyedit an earlier version of this paper; her comments greatly improved it. NOTES 1. Tracing the etymology of Tlaloc is a difficult problem. In contrast to Sullivan’s analysis, for example, is Karttunen’s (1983: 276) interpretation of the origins of the word. “The derivation of this name is unclear. The singular form, which is the personal name of one deity, is not related in a regular way to the plural form (tlalohqueh), which refers to the company of rain gods. The plural form could be based on TLALLOH, ‘something covered with earth,’ if geminate reduction were to apply, reducing the LL to L, but the final C of the singular would remain unaccounted for.” For both Sullivan and Karttunen, however, Tlaloc is tied to land through its association either with “something covered with earth” or with germination. To indicate this association with the earth, Tlaloc should be spelled with a long vowel (Tlaloc). Similarly the term for paper, amatl, is a combination of tl (water) and maitl (hand or appendage) and should be spelled matl. Although vowel length is important for the etymology of Nahuatl terms, it has been eliminated in the text for the sake of the narrative. 2. The activity of adjudicating the authenticity of the Techialoyan manuscripts has continued as a contemporary scholarly activity. When the texts were first published, it was assumed that many of them were fake. This view was expressed by Barlow (1943), for example, and was informed by their relative “worth” when compared to other sources that could more authentically reveal Nahua culture. Up until the 1970s the belief that the Techialoyan manuscripts were fake persisted because the Nahuas had produced them during the mid-colonial period in such a way as to look like Pre-Columbian texts. The determination of whether they are fake or real by both colonial courts and contemporary scholars reveals an interpretive distance between cultures that are primarily oriented around the authority of texts (i.e., colonial and modern understandings) and cultures that are primarily oriented around the occupation of meaningful landscapes (i.e., indigenous understandings). There is a disjunction between religions oriented toward texts and religions oriented toward sacred landscapes. While the debates regarding the manuscripts’ authenticity have revolved around their contents, their materiality (i.e., their being made of amatl), has received scant consideration by both colonial and modern authorities in determining their “authenticity.”

REFERENCES CITED American Art Association 1936 Description of an Aztec Codex: Ocelotepec, Santa María (708[H]), pp. 15–20. New York.

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Armillas, Pedro 1976 Gardens and Swamps. Science 174: 653–661. Arnold, Philip P. 1995 Paper Ties to Land: Indigenous and Colonial Material Orientations to the Valley of Mexico. History of Religions 35 (1): 27–60. 1999 Eating Landscape: Aztec and European Occupation of Tlalocan. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Axtell, James 1981 The European and the Indian: Essays in the Ethnohistory of Colonial North America. New York: Oxford University Press. 1997 The Ethnohistory of Native America. In Rethinking American Indian History, edited by Donald L. Fixico, pp. 11–27. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Barlow, Robert H. 1943 The Techialoyan Codices: Codex H [Codex of Santa María Ocelotepec]. Tlalocan 1: 161–162. 1945 Algunos Manuscritos en Náhuatl de la Biblioteca Bancroft. Tlalocan 2 (1): 91–93. 1947 The Techialoyan Codices: Codex M (Codex of San Bartolomé Tepanohuayan). Tlalocan 2 (3): 277–278. 1948 The Techialoyan Codices: Codex N (Codex of Santa María Tetelpan). Tlalocan 2 (4): 383–384. Barlow, Robert H., and Byron McAfee 1946 The Techialoyan Codices: Codex K (Codex of Santa María Calacohuayan). Tlalocan 2 (2): 184–185. Boone, Elizabeth Hill 1994 Introduction: Writing and Recording Knowledge. In Writing Without Words: Alternative Literacies in Mesoamerica and the Andes, edited by Elizabeth Hill Boone and Walter D. Mignolo, pp. 3–26. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press. Borah, Woodrow 1991 Yet Another Look at the Techialoyan Codices. In Land and Politics in the Valley of Mexico: A Two Thousand–Year Perspective, edited by H. R. Harvey, pp. 209–221. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Broda, Johanna 1987 Templo Mayor as Ritual Space. In The Great Temple of Tenochtitlan: Center and Periphery in the Aztec World, edited by Johanna Broda, Davíd Carrasco, and Eduardo Matos Moctezuma, pp. 61–123. Berkeley: University of California Press. Carrasco, Davíd 1982 Quetzalcoatl and the Irony of Empire: Myths and Prophecies in the Aztec Tradition. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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1990 Religions of Mesoamerica: Cosmovision and Ceremonial Centers. San Francisco: Harper & Row. Chartier, Roger, ed. 1989 The Culture of Print: Power and the Uses of Print in Early Modern Europe. Translated by Lydia G. Cochrane. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 1994 The Order of Books. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Codex Cempoallan 1890 Mexican Picture-Chronicle of Cempoallan and Other States of the Empire of Aculhuacan. London: Bernard Quaritch. Codex Mendoza 1992 Codex Mendoza. 4 vols. Commentary by Frances F. Berdan and Patricia R. Anawalt. Berkeley: University of California Press. Códice de San Antonio Techialoyan 1993 Códice de San Antonio Techialoyan, A 701, Manuscrito Pictográfico de San Antonio La Isla, Estado de México. Commentary by Nadine Béligand. Toluca: Instituto Mexiquense de Cultura. Códices de México 1979 Códices de México. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia and the Museo Nacional de Antropología. Cronon, William 1983 Changes in the Land: Indians, Colonists, and the Ecology of New England. New York: Hill & Wang. 1992 A Place for Stories: Nature, History, and Narrative. Journal of American History 78: 1347–1376. DeMallie, Raymond J. 1993 “These Have No Ears”: Narrative and the Ethnohistorical Method. Ethnohistory 40 (4): 515–538. Diffie, Bailey W. 1945 Latin American Civilization: Colonial Period. Partial reproduction of Techialoyan 726, p. 227. Harrisburg, Pa.: Stackpole Sons. Eliade, Mircea 1954 The Myth of the Eternal Return, or Cosmos and History. Translated by Willard R. Trask. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Febvre, Lucien, and Henri-Jean Martin 1958 The Coming of the Book: The Impact of Printing 1450–1800. 2d ed. Translated by David Gerard. London: Verso. Florentine Codex See Sahagún 1950–1982. Fogelson, Raymond D. 1989 The Ethnohistory of Events and Nonevents. Ethnohistory 36 (2): 133–147. Frost, Meigs O. 246

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1937 How Tulane’s $21.50 Equaled J. P. Morgan’s $5,000. Times-Picayune New Orleans State, Sunday, January 24, 1937. Partial reproduction of Techialoyan 723. Gadamer, Hans-Georg 1989 Truth and Method. 2d ed. rev. Translated by Joel Weinsheimer and Donald G. Marshall. New York: Crossroad Publishing. Galarza, Joaquín 1980 Approche des Manuscrits Techialoyan. In Codex de Zempoala: Techialoyan E 705, Manuscrit Pictographique de Zempoala, Hidalgo, Mexique, pp. 15–38. Mexico City: Mission Archéologique et Ethnologique Française au Mexique. Grafton, Anthony 1992 New Worlds, Ancient Texts: The Power of Tradition and the Shock of Discovery. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Greer Johnson, Julie 1988 The Book in the Americas: The Role of Books and Printing in the Development of Culture and Society in Colonial Latin America. Providence: John Carter Brown Library. Gruzinski, Serge 1987 Colonial Indian Maps in Sixteenth-Century Mexico. RES 13: 46–61. 1993 The Conquest of Mexico: The Incorporation of Indian Societies Into the Western World, 16th–18th Centuries. Translated by Eileen Corrigan. Cambridge, England: Polity Press. Harvey, H. R. 1966 The Codex of San Cristóbal and Santa María: A False Techialoyan. Tlalocan 5: 119–124. 1984 Aspects of Land Tenure in Ancient Mexico. In Explorations in Ethnohistory: Indians of Central Mexico in the Sixteenth Century, edited by H. R. Harvey and Hanns J. Prem, pp. 83–102. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. 1986 Techialoyan Codices: Seventeenth-Century Indian Land Titles in Central Mexico. In Handbook of Middle American Indians; Supplement 4, Ethnohistory, edited by Victoria Bricker, pp. 153–164. Austin: University of Texas Press. 1991 The Oztoticpac Lands Map: A Reexamination. In Land and Politics in the Valley of Mexico: A Two Thousand–Year Perspective, edited by H. R. Harvey, pp. 163–185. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Jones, Lindsay 1995 Twin City Tales: A Hermeneutical Reassessment of Tula and Chichén Itzá. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Karttunen, Frances 1983 An Analytical Dictionary of Nahuatl. Austin: University of Texas Press. Lears, Jackson 1998 Looking Backward: In Defense of Nostalgia. Lingua Franca 7 (10): 59–66.

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Leibsohn, Dana 1994 Primers for Memory: Cartographic Histories and Nahua Identity. In Writing Without Words: Alternative Literacies in Mesoamerica and the Andes, edited by Elizabeth Hill Boone and Walter D. Mignolo, pp. 161–187. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press. Lenz, Hans 1961 Mexican Indian Paper: Its History and Survival. Translated by H. Murray Campbell. Mexico City: Editorial Libros de México. Long, Charles H. 1986 Significations: Signs, Symbols, and Images in the Interpretation of Religion. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. López Austin, Alfredo 1997 Tamoanchan, Tlalocan: Places of Mist. Translated by Bernard R. Ortiz de Montellano and Thelma Ortiz de Montellano. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Martin, Calvin Luther 1987 An Introduction Aboard the Fidèle. In The American Indian and the Problem of History, edited by Calvin Luther Martin, pp. 3–26. New York: Oxford University Press. 1992 In the Spirit of the Earth: Rethinking History and Time. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. McAfee, Byron 1946 The Techialoyan Codices: Codex E (Codex of Cempoallan, Hidalgo). Tlalocan 2 (2): 141–149. Mignolo, Walter D. 1989 Colonial Situations, Geographical Discourses, and Territorial Representations: Toward a Diatopical Understanding of Colonial Semiosis. Dispositio 14 (36–38): 93–140. 1992 On the Colonization of Amerindian Languages and Memories: Renaissance Theories of Writing and the Discontinuity of the Classical Tradition. Comparative Studies in Society and History 34 (2): 301–330. 1994 Signs and Their Transmission: The Question of the Book in the New World. In Writing Without Words: Alternative Literacies in Mesoamerica and the Andes, edited by Elizabeth Hill Boone and Walter D. Mignolo, pp. 220–313. Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press. Otto, Rudolph 1923 The Idea of the Holy: An Inquiry Into the Non-rational Factor in the Idea of the Divine and Its Relation to the Rational. Translated by John W. Harvey. London: Oxford University Press. Parkhill, Thomas C. 1997 Weaving Ourselves Into the Land: Charles Godfrey Leland, “Indians,” and the Study of Native American Religions. Albany: State University of New York Press. 248

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Piedra, José 1988 The Value of Paper. RES 16: 85–104. Poitevin, Michel 1989 Approche Hermeneutique de l’Écriture des Manuscrits Aztèques. In Descifre de las Escrituras Mesoamericanas: Códices, Pinturas, Estatuas, Cerámica, edited by J. Galarza, pp. 12–23. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Primeros Memoriales See Sahagún 1993. Robertson, Donald 1959 Mexican Manuscript Painting of the Early Colonial Period: The Metropolitan Schools. New Haven: Yale University Press. 1975 Techialoyan Manuscripts and Paintings, With a Catalog. In Guide to Ethnohistorical Sources, pt. 3, edited by Howard F. Cline and John B. Glass, pp. 253–280. Handbook of Middle American Indians, vol. 14, general editor, Robert Wauchope. Austin: University of Texas Press. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1993 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Salisbury, Neal 1982 Manitou and Providence: Indians, Europeans, and the Making of New England, 1500–1643. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sandstrom, Alan 1991 Corn Is Our Blood: Culture and Ethnic Identity in a Contemporary Aztec Indian Village. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1982 Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Sullivan, Thelma D. 1974 Tlaloc: A New Etymological Interpretation of the God’s Name and What It Reveals of His Essence and Nature. Proceedings of the 40th International Congress of Americanists, vol. 2, pp. 213–219. Genoa: Tilgher. Tedlock, Barbara 1982 Time and the Highland Maya. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. van der Leeuw, G. 1986 Religion in Essence and Manifestation. 2d ed. Translated by J. E. Turner and Hans H. Penner. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 249

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van Zantwijk, Rudolph A.M. 1969 La Estructura Gubernamental del Estado de Tlacupan (1430–1520). Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl 8: 123–155. White, Richard 1997 Indian Peoples and the Natural World: Asking the Right Questions. In Rethinking American Indian History, edited by Donald L. Fixico, pp. 87–100. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Wood, Stephanie 1989 Don Diego García de Mendoza Moctezuma: A Techialoyan Mastermind? Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl 19: 245–268. 1994 Prose and Cons: The Historicity of Títulos and Techialoyan Codices: Abstract. In Five Hundred Years After Columbus: Proceedings of the 47th International Congress of Americanists, compiled by E. Wyllys Andrews V and Elizabeth Oster Mozzillo, pp. 183–184. New Orleans: Middle American Research Institute. 1998a The False Techialoyan Resurrected. Tlalocan 12: 117–140. 1998b The Social vs. Legal Context of Nahuatl Títulos. In Native Traditions in the Postconquest World, edited by Elizabeth Hill Boone and Tom Cummins, pp. 201–231. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks.

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Aztec ritual have tended to focus on the twenty-day ceremonies, called veintenas by the Spaniards, that were annually observed in pre-Hispanic Central Mexico. This is also true of the representation of Aztec ritual in the work of the sixteenth-century Franciscan missionary, Bernardino de Sahagún (ca. 1499–1590). The emphasis on the extraordinary series of eighteen veintenas is evident, for example, in the number of veintena ceremonies that are the focus of essays in this commemorative volume on the representation of Aztec ritual in the Sahaguntine corpus. Several articles detail the intricate activities of one or more veintenas (Nicholson, Olivier, Carrasco), while others cite activities that took place during particular veintena rituals (Read, Heyden, Arnold). This focus is understandable. Elaborately staged and publicly performed by lavishly costumed participants, attended by all ages and levels of society from ost studies of

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rulers to children, and often culminating in dramatic human sacrifices, these spectacular rituals undoubtedly made an indelible impression on participants and observers alike. This certainly seems to be the case with those who recalled, recounted, and painted these ritual events in the Primeros Memoriales (Sahagún 1993, 1997) and the Florentine Codex (Sahagún 1950–1982; 1979).1 These two manuscripts are stages of what Sahagún called the Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España.2 This encyclopedic work on myriad aspects of Aztec life in contact-period Mexico was compiled by Sahagún with the indispensable collaboration of several of his indigenous former students, local elders (“informants”), and anonymous artists. The lively descriptions and vivid images related to Aztec veintena ceremonies are found first in Paragraph 2A (Festivities of the Gods) in Chapter 1 (Rituals and Gods) of the Primeros Memoriales (ca. 1559–1561). The same subject occupies Book 2 (The Ceremonies) of the later Florentine Codex (ca. 1578–1580). But because Book 2 differs in significant ways from Paragraph 2A, the two sources must be considered separately as well as together.3 When they treat the same subject, the Florentine Codex does not supersede the Primeros Memoriales. Whether considered together or singly, these two Sahaguntine productions offer the most comprehensive and detailed look at the remarkably rich calendar of Aztec ritual activities to be found in any surviving ethnohistorical document of the early colonial period. Aztec divinatory rituals are far less studied.4 Unlike veintena ceremonies, divinatory rituals were personal rather than communal, privately performed rather than publicly celebrated, and directed by diviners (tonalpohque, or “counters”) rather than by the priestly hierarchy. Divination is rarely mentioned in Book 2, and among the various types of priests described there, none are diviners. An entirely different book of the Florentine Codex, Book 4 (The Soothsayers), concentrates on the divinatory system (arte advinatoria). Like the images and texts of Paragraph 2A and Book 2, those of Book 4 are unique among sixteenth-century sources. This discussion focuses on how divinatory ritual was represented in the Florentine Codex. More specifically, it explores which sources the artists of Book 4 relied on for their divinatory images; what these images were intended to represent; how the Florentine Codex images differ from those of the earlier Primeros Memoriales; and what those differences mean. THE TONALAMATL: WHEN READING WAS RITUAL Book 4 is closely related, at least in its subject of divination, to a type of ancient Mexican book called a tonalamatl, or “book of days.”5 Although few 252

examples of the tonalamatl have survived, this type of divinatory handbook was undoubtedly one of the most ancient and widespread types of Mesoamerican manuscripts produced during the pre-Hispanic period, just as the tonalpohualli, or “count of days,” that it pictorialized was apparently the most ancient and widespread of the Mesoamerican calendric counts. The tonalamatl depicted the 260 days of the tonalpohualli in the form of day signs, which were created by combining numerals from one to thirteen with one of twenty sequential images, such as a serpent, rabbit, flower, or reed, to form a completed cycle of 260 days. In Central Mexico, where Sahagún and his collaborators derived their data on divination, the most common way of representing the 260 day signs was to divide them into twenty groups of thirteen day signs each, which the Spaniards called trecenas.6 Each painted trecena panel was a complex, highly structured pictorial composition, for it included not only thirteen day signs but also depictions of gods and other supernatural forces that influenced the good, bad, or mixed fortunes of the day signs of that period (fig. 10.1).7 With its dynamic assemblage of powerful divinatory forces, the tonalamatl represented an intensely sacred book. Diviners, skilled in reading and interpreting the meaning of each of these coinciding mantic charges, calculated the fate of a day, an augury so potent that it could determine the outcome of a harvest, a war, a journey, a marriage, or a life. It is important to understand that the diviner’s mediation was an essential part of a divinatory ritual. As Sahagún tells us in the appendix to Book 4 (Sahagún 1950–1982, 4: 142), “This count only the soothsayers and those who had the skill to learn it, knew; because it contain[s] many difficulties and obscurities.” Unlike modern horoscope books through which a curious reader might browse, the tonalamatl was a diviner’s, not a client’s, handbook. It did not contain a list of final prognostications based on a facile, predetermined formula. Divination was a ritual performance during which a knowledgeable diviner weighed the mantic ingredients painted in the tonalamatl in order to arrive at a final augural outcome. Only the diviner could read the day signs, understand the import of the various components involved in a divinatory calculation, and thus arrive at a prognostication tailored to the needs of the client. Only a skilled diviner could read the will of the gods and communicate it to the individual who had come to him for guidance. This divinatory system had its own history and supernatural progenitors, which testifies to its importance in Aztec ideology. Book 4 (1950–1982, 4: 4) attributes the invention of the 260-day tonalpohualli to the legendary Oxomoco and Cipactonal, an elderly pair who are described as “lords of all the day count” and the “original readers of day signs [which] embellished their book 253

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Figure 10.1. Third trecena panel. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Borbonicus 1991, panel 3.

of days with their representations.” The first image in Book 4 (Sahagún 1979, 1: fol. 3v) shows them engaged in the act of divining (fig. 10.2). Cipactonal (left) uses the technique of tossing and reading the patterns of fallen maize kernels, as Oxomoco (right) reads an arrangement of knots. The passage states that paintings of this couple were placed “in the middle” of the book of days (tonalamatl), which was used by the readers of day signs. Their image is, in fact, placed in the center of such a painted book, the Codex Borbonicus (1991), a large amatl (paper) screenfold painted by artists in traditional Aztec style, probably in the early postconquest period, al254

Figure 10.2. The ancient diviners Cipactonal and Oxomoco. Drawing by Michel Besson after Florentine Codex 1979, vol. 1, fol. 246v.

though others consider it to be pre-Hispanic. In this case, the painted pair on panel 21 (fig. 10.3) was inserted between the two major parts of this manuscript, following the tonalamatl and preceding the veintena series. It is important to note that the Codex Borbonicus artist depicts the couple actively performing divining rituals. Cipactonal (right), bears the priestly attributes of a smoking censer, incense pouch, and sharpened bone for drawing sacrificial blood, as Oxomoco (left) divines by tossing a handful of maize kernels in the air, as is also shown in Book 4. On panel 22, facing the divining couple and similarly portrayed in active and interactive poses, are the supernatural siblings regarded as patrons of the calendar, Ehecatl Quetzalcoatl (Feathered Serpent) on the left and Tezcatlipoca (Smoking Mirror) on the right (fig. 10.4). Quetzalcoatl, also shown holding a smoking censer and incense bag, with a sharpened sacrificial bone jutting out of his headdress, was considered to be the inventor of the calendar and patron of priests. The powerful and capricious Tezcatlipoca, the embodiment of the unpredictability of fate, was regarded as patron of diviners; his characteristic “smoking mirror” represented an obsidian divining mirror. Their active poses again highlight supernatural participation in the performative aspect of Aztec divination. Although no preconquest Aztec tonalamatl survives, a few preconquest examples exist from other parts of Mexico. Called the Codex Borgia Group, they probably originated in the area of the present-day states of Puebla, Tlaxcala, western Oaxaca, and Veracruz.8 These painted screenfold books give us some idea about the stylistic sophistication, iconographic complexity, and ritual intricacy displayed in the pre-Hispanic paintings of this type of ritual handbook. The repositories of accumulated wisdom concerning gods, mythic lore, and ritual performance, these books must have called forth the best efforts of the expert artists-scribes (tlaquiloque) who created them. The 255

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Figure 10.3. The ancient diviners Oxomoco and Cipactonal. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Borbonicus 1991, panel 21.

superbly painted Codex Borgia (1993) and Codex Vaticanus B (1994), for example, contain several sections, including trecenas, that are devoted to various aspects of the tonalpohualli. As shown in the third trecena of each manuscript, for example, thirteen day signs were arranged to create an L-shaped frame for an interior pictorial panel (figs. 10.5–10.6). Within it the artist painted the chief supernatural influences on the trecena period, that is, the deities who are often described as the patrons or presiding deities of the 13 days. For the third trecena, these deities are the fertility goddess Tlazolteotl (Goddess of Filth)—shown on the left in the Codex Borgia and on the right in the Codex Vaticanus B—and the jaguar god Tepeyollotl (Heart of the Hill), an aspect of Tezcatlipoca associated with mountain caves. In both manuscripts the Tepeyollotl figure lifts and extends its “arms,” while Tlazolteotl’s bent legs (Codex Vaticanus B) and striding form (Codex Borgia) signify movement. The mobile gestures and poses of these powerful deities once again communicate the activity of these supernaturals, a pictorial expression of their active inter256

Figure 10.4. The deities Ehecatl Quetzalcoatl (Feathered Serpent) and Tezcatlipoca (Smoking Mirror). Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Borbonicus 1991, panel 22.

vention in the divinatory activity for which the diviner would have consulted this trecena. These trecena panels appear to be sparsely occupied compared with the crowded trecenas of an Aztec tonalamatl, like the Codex Borbonicus, because the various other mantic forces that also influenced the fates of the days occupy other sections of these screenfolds. This helps explain why—in contrast to Aztec manuscripts, whose twenty trecenas occupy only one panel or page each—the Codex Borgia contains seventy-six panels and the Codex Vaticanus B contains ninety-six. The lengths of these pre-Hispanic screenfolds give some indication of not only their visual intricacy but also the complexity of divinatory rituals they guided. After the Spanish conquest, the tonalamatl continued to be made and consulted, even though zealous Christian missionaries viewed this book with suspicion and proscribed its use. In the appendix to Book 4 (1950–1982, 4: 141), for example, Sahagún emphatically condemns the 260-day (tonalpohualli) count. He calls it “a soothsaying device in which are contained a great deal of idolatry, many superstitions, and many invocations to the demons, tacitly and openly, as is shown in all of this preceding Fourth Book.” The first section of the Codex Borbonicus is one such “soothsaying device,” and it is without peer as an example of an Aztec tonalamatl (fig. 10.1). The brilliantly painted images reveal its pre-Hispanic features: a virtually unaltered 257

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Figure 10.5. Third trecena panel. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Borgia 1993, panel 63.

Aztec pictorial style, iconography, and mode of representation, painted on the panels of a screenfold made of native paper (amatl).9 Whatever its actual date of production, its faithfulness to pre-Hispanic painting traditions provides our closest approximation of what a preconquest Aztec tonalamatl must have looked like. It provides a touchstone for evaluating departures from this ancient tradition in later postconquest manuscripts. The first surviving panel of the Borbonicus tonalamatl (the first two have been lost) represents the third trecena. It is the large size of the vividly portrayed deity patrons that first attracts the reader’s attention and signals the major role that they played in determining the overall augural disposition of this thirteen-day period. The patrons are the jaguar god Tepeyollotl on the left and, in place of the Tlazolteotl figure of the Borgia Group, the multifaceted fertility god Quetzalcoatl on the right. Both figures are again portrayed in action. The bent legs of Tepeyollotl (either an impersonator or the deity’s nahualli, or animal alter ego) convey his motion, and the volutes emanating from his mouth symbolize his utterances. Also scattered throughout the deity subsection are symbols of these deities and items used in the performance of rituals connected with trecena activities (see Quiñones Keber 1987). Two sets of boxes frame the deity panel: thirteen day signs share space with nine repeating minor deities (the so-called night lords) and, in another series, thirteen flying creatures accompany thirteen other minor deities (the so-called day lords). The consolidation within a single trecena 258

Figure 10.6. Third trecena panel. Drawing by Michel Besson after Codex Vaticanus B 1994, panel 51.

section of all of the mantic components affecting the fate of the day indicates that diviners in Central Mexico consulted particular trecenas for divination related to all types of activities. Diviners using the Borgia Group, however, would have consulted the appropriate section of the screenfolds for specific types of divination. The postconquest Aubin Tonalamatl (1981) from Tlaxcallan (Tlaxcala) is similar to the Codex Borbonicus in its screenfold format and content, if not in its style (fig. 10.7). Another incomplete but annotated tonalamatl survives in the second section of the Codex Telleriano-Remensis (1995), which was painted on European paper in the mid-sixteenth century. Although a gifted artist painted its brilliant deity images in a faithful pre-Hispanic style, the format and images of this section, as well as the addition of Nahuatl and 259

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Figure 10.7. Third trecena panel, detail. Drawing by Michel Besson after Aubin Tonalamatl 1981, panel 3.

Spanish glosses, reveal significant alterations, as does the intact related section of the Codex Vaticanus A (1996). As this brief overview of tonalpohualli-based divinatory handbooks from different geographic areas of Mexico indicates, painted images of mantic components—the day signs, major presiding deities, and lesser supernatural forces—were the very constituents of the tonalamatl. It was these myriad influences that the diviner, drawing on his specialized knowledge, had to calculate to determine the fate of a particular day and the resultant course of action for a specific individual. The visual appearance of the tonalamatl, the requisite participation of the diviner, and the performative aspects of the ritual of divination must be recognized to understand what became of the tonalamatl in Book 4 of the Florentine Codex. BOOK 4: REREADING DIVINATORY IMAGES Book 4 is the only book in the Florentine Codex for which we have an Aztec-style predecessor, that is, the Codex Borbonicus tonalamatl just described. Nevertheless, the divinatory images that are painted in Book 4 have little to do with the type of image that had been painted in the pre-Hispanic tonalamatl. As we have seen, the painted image dominated the tonalamatl. Its reading was a collaborative, interpretive ritual act. But the Florentine Codex, produced later in the sixteenth century under the supervision of a Spanish friar, was strongly influenced by European bookmaking practices. It was, moreover, 260

infused with European cultural assumptions, including a greater reliance on the authority of a written text and a conception of the act of reading that differed from the indigenous one. Although the information was collected and painted by Nahuas (Aztecs) and pertained to their culture and beliefs, the work was destined for a different kind of reader, a Spanish one. As a result, the images of Book 4, while still numerous, no longer dominate the page but have become ancillary to a written text. In addition, the content of the tonalamatl and its emblematic mode of representation have been substantially altered. Rather than being systematically represented, the basic 260 day signs are depicted only sporadically and incidentally (fig. 10.8). Even more radically, images of the major and minor deities have been banished. What has been eliminated in Book 4 is not just images, but also the invocation to the active participation of the supernatural forces (“invocations to the demons”) that those images represented. Certainly one would have to expect changes in the representation of Aztec ritual divination in a work supervised by a Spanish missionary, but what type of representation replaced the key components of the pre-Hispanic tonalamatl? As seen throughout Book 4 (see figs. 10.8, 10.9, 10.10, and 10.13), the artists produced numerous little scenes that feature some activities related to some indigenous uses of the tonalamatl. In these vignettes, human participants rather than supernatural forces act and interact, and a written text now substitutes for the oral interpretations and calculations of the diviner. Divinatory ritual is thus reduced to a static and formulaic explanation for innocuous images. The reader of Book 4 no longer participates in a divinatory ritual, as did the pre-Hispanic reader. Where did this type of divinatory image come from and why did it take the form it did? To begin to answer this question, let us look first at the text of Book 4. It is organized into chapters that, like the tonalamatl, are divided into thirteen-day groups (the corresponding trecenas). Within this structure, the text systematically reviews the thirteen days of each trecena, but without giving them equal weight, as did the tonalamatl. Instead, the first day, which was believed to give a certain character to the entire trecena, consistently receives the greatest attention; the remaining days are often treated in a cursory and uninformative way. Moreover, the attention bestowed on certain days seems to stem from external evangelical objectives. For example, Chapter 3, which inaugurates discussion of the third trecena, emphasizes the variable fate of the first day, 1 Deer, which is given in some detail for different members of society: noblemen and women and male and female commoners. Yet for the second day, 2 Rabbit, two complete chapters (4 and 5) expand on the inauspicious fortune of this 261

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day sign, which was regarded as one of drunkards. Although the subject of drunkenness seems an unusual choice for all this attention, it did offer an opportunity to point out the pitfalls of overindulgence, which helps explain the extended coverage given to this subject. Chapter 6 discusses the fates of the remaining eleven days but gives scant attention to days 8–12, which were regarded as negative. Note also that the final fate of a day and its effect on individuals are the focus of the text, a function akin to a modern horoscope. Supernatural agency is eliminated. No deities are mentioned or illustrated, nor are the various mantic forces. Yet these features, along with the day signs, had been the painted essence of the tonalamatl. Eliminated too is any sense of the ritual process by which the preconquest diviner had sagely read the esoteric images to obtain a final prognostication that would determine the client’s necessary course of action. To better understand the type of image that Sahagún’s artists invented for Book 4, let us look at the first three grouped paintings of Chapter 3. The first image represents the first day sign of the trecena, 1 Deer (fig. 10.8, top). In the tonalamatl, this day had been represented by a day sign showing the head of a deer (and usually a single dot) to represent the day 1 Deer, and it was but one of thirteen painted day signs. Extrapolating from this abbreviated, conventionalized emblem, the Sahaguntine image shows a prancing, naturalistically rendered deer—no longer a calendric symbol but an independent, full-fledged animal image—picturesquely set atop a verdant patch of land. Both the style of the animal and the landscape setting derive from European painting conventions. The reader’s attention focuses on the decorative image. Only the presence of a single dot at the top of the scene remains to remind the reader that this scene is meant to represent the day sign 1 Deer. The second image shows a seated woman dressed in native costume holding a child. Again this scene, set outdoors, is naturalistically rendered in a European mode. Although alluding to the ritual use of a tonalamatl in the naming and cleansing rituals that followed childbirth, the mother and child do not participate in a ceremony. This essentially decorative vignette adds little to the text, to an understanding of the third trecena, to the use of the tonalamatl, or to the practice of divination. Noticeably less well drawn than the first two images, the final scene shows a disheveled drunkard, who in his inebriated condition wanders into a pond rimmed by yet another decorative patch of land. Like the text, the remaining five scenes focus on the day sign 2 Rabbit and the dissolute behavior of drunkards born under this negative sign. Book 4’s images do not include 262

Figure 10.8. Third trecena images (top to bottom): day 1 Deer; mother and child; drunkard. Drawing by Michel Besson after Florentine Codex 1979, vol. 1, fol. 251v.

deities, either major or minor, nor do they give any sense of the various mantic forces that were operative or the process by which the diviner derived his prognostication. Essentially devoted to behavioral caveats, the treatment of the third trecena becomes, like a modern astrological horoscope, a mechanical predictor that lacks the dynamism of the lived ritual. The texts and images in Book 4 focus on one particular use of the tonalamatl, albeit a critical one: the naming and bathing ritual that closely followed the birth of a child. This can be seen in the lower left image for the day 7 Serpent of the seventh trecena, which shows a diviner and midwife bathing a child (fig. 10.9). Before this event could take place, it would have been necessary to consult a diviner to determine the good or bad fortune of the day sign of the child’s birth and select the most auspicious day for the ceremony. The narrative scene for the day 10 Rabbit shows such a consultation between a midwife and diviner. The diviner holds what might be interpreted as a page from a 263

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tonalamatl with the day sign 10 Rabbit (fig. 10.10). In indigenous practice the selection of this day had been the first and most important use of the tonalamatl, for the fortune of one’s day sign was believed to determine the course of one’s entire life. Book 4, however, focuses on this event to the exclusion of the other uses of the tonalamatl. The repeated scenes of the naming and bathing ritual suggest another missionary concern, an attempt to forge a connection between this critical pre-Hispanic ritual and the Christian rite of baptism. I believe that the type of image that was created for Book 4 (as seen in figures 10.8–10.10) relates not only to the sanitized and reductive information on divination recorded in the text but also to the sources of that information. If we consider the tumultuous situation in postconquest Mexico when information was being collected, any surviving diviners would have been highly unlikely to divulge sacred lore to foreign inquirers, no matter how interested they might have been. This would seem especially true for a project directed by a Spanish missionary and destined to be read by other outsiders: the missionaries for whom Sahagún’s work was intended as a guide in recognizing and extirpating idolatry. In fact, the “idols” and “idolatrous” practices of native religion were vividly embodied in the tonalamatl, as the Spaniards knew and as Sahagún’s words in the appendix to Book 4, cited above, verify. In postconquest times, the use or even possession of a tonalamatl could be perilous. A tonalamatl, described as a “cuenta de las fiestas del demonio,” was presented as a proof of heresy in the 1539 trial and execution of Carlos Chichimecatecuhtli, lord of Tetzcoco (Gonzáles Obregón 1910: 7). Hesitance over revealing too much about the tonalamatl might explain why, unlike the veintena rituals so amply described and illustrated in Book 2, information on the tonalamatl and divinatory rituals is contrastingly thin. Being private and personal, and conducted by local diviners rather than the obliterated Aztec priesthood, divinatory rituals involving the use of the tonalamatl continued well after the conquest. In contrast, the public veintena ceremonies were immediately halted. By the time information on native religion was actively sought by Sahagún and others in the mid-­ sixteenth century, the veintena ceremonies were a distant although vivid memory. Divinatory activities, however, continued to be practiced during the colonial period and survive even to the present day (see, for example, van der Loo 1987). Because of the situation, it seems more likely that the information on divination recorded in Book 4 came not from diviners, but like other information in the Florentine Codex, from interviews with indigenous elders. Very likely these individuals had participated in divinatory rituals in preconquest times 264

Figure 10.9. Seventh trecena image: day 7 Serpent, diviner and midwife bathing child. Drawing by Michel Besson after Florentine Codex 1979, vol. 1, fol. 275v.

Figure 10.10. Seventh trecena image: day 10 Rabbit, midwife and child with diviner holding a paper with the day 10 Rabbit. Drawing by Michel Besson after Florentine Codex 1979, vol. 1, 277v.

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and during the early contact period. Naming and bathing a newborn child was one ritual that nearly everyone—noble or commoner, man or woman, city dweller or rural folk—was acquainted with. Its widespread practice would have guaranteed Sahagún’s data gatherers a broad informational base for it. But no matter how available this information may have been from postconquest survivors, descriptions from a “client” rather than an expert practitioner would have produced a limited picture. As Sahagún tells us in the appendix to Book 4 (1950–1982, 4: 141), The Indians who well understood the secrets [tonalpohque or diviners] of these wheels [for the 52-year cycle] and calendar showed and explained them to but few, because through their knowledge they gained their livelihood and were held in esteem and considered wise and intelligent. Nevertheless, almost all adult Indians knew and were informed about the year, as to both the number and house [that is, year sign] in which they were. But of the names of the days [day signs] and weeks [trecenas], and many other secrets and counts which they possessed, only these masters who worked with them attained the knowledge.

The knowledge that nondiviners would have possessed about the 260day count and divination would therefore have been less specialized and less informed. It would have dealt less with the intricacies of the divination process and more with the final augural result: features that we in fact see in the images and texts of Book 4. We must also keep in mind that much of the sacred lore that had been passed down and preserved orally by diviners was never recorded and was gradually lost during the colonial period. For these various reasons, information about divination or the tonalamatl obtained after the conquest, from whatever source, was bound to be partial and incomplete. The textual focus of Book 4 thus led to the creation of an entirely new type of divinatory image, one that had no native counterpart. The Europeanized style of the illustrations and the descriptive narrative scenes with human, rather than supernatural, participants interacting in everyday settings were without precedent in pre-Hispanic representation. They did, however, match the verbal descriptions that had been gathered from oral interviews, indicating that the artists of Book 4 were devising a new type of image to match a new kind of text. The novel ritual images of Book 4 thus reveal the extent to which Sahagún and his team departed from the emblematic type of representation that characterizes imagery in the divinatory handbook. The texts and images of Book 4 drastically attenuated what were undoubtedly regarded as the pagan 266

aspects of the tonalamatl, that is, deities and divination. They accentuated instead more innocuous aspects, such as the naming and bathing of newborn children, that had some correspondence to Christian rituals. HOW THE PROCESS BEGAN: THE PRIMEROS MEMORIALES Sahagún’s selective treatment of divination and the tonalamatl had begun even earlier in the Primeros Memoriales, the manuscript that represents his first effort, in Tepepolco, Hidalgo, to compile a comprehensive view of Nahua life. Paragraph 4 (The Day Count) of Chapter 2 (The Heavens and the Underworld) of the Real Palacio manuscript includes a 260-day count (fig. 10.11). It does not feature the little vignettes of the later Book 4; instead the elimination of ritual elements is even starker. The only painted element left from the tonalamatl is the lone day sign: a simply drawn image against a red background with dots indicating the number of the day. The brief glosses accompanying the day signs are no more informative. They merely list the Nahuatl day name to the left of the day sign and, at the beginning of each listing of thirteen days, give an augury not for each day but for one born during that period. As Nicholson (1997: 160, n. 1) observes, “[T]he favorable, unfavorable, or mixed fortunes of the different trecenas are presented in an essentially formulistic, repetitive mode, generically, with scant attention to the individual day sign.” He further notes that the fortunes of these trecenas do not always agree with those in the later Florentine Codex. In fact, the isolated day signs of the Primeros Memoriales function less like ritually charged components in a divinatory ritual and more like neutral time markers in a European calendar. In the Primeros Memoriales, the strippeddown and sanitized format not only excises supernatural participation but also downplays the suspect role of the tonalpohualli as a divinatory (“soothsaying”) device. Perhaps the earlier date of the Primeros Memoriales, just one generation removed from the conquest, explains the brevity with which divination ritual was approached and treated. The next paragraph in Chapter 2 is nevertheless revealing. Paragraph 5 deals with “the auguries, the dreams,” and Paragraph 5A lists seventeen auguries (Sahagún 1997: 174–175) that are comparable to the subject of Book 5 (The Omens) in the Florentine Codex. Paragraph 5B (1997: 176–177) contains a listing of nine dreams (that is, dreams as omens). Although the list was omitted in the later Florentine Codex, the short text does provide one brief item regarding divination. At the end of the list, the text states that dreams were interpreted by diviners (“soothsayers”), who read their meaning in the books of divination (that is, the tonalamatl) and prescribed the payment to 267

Figure 10.11. Day signs (end of second trecena and beginning of third trecena). Drawing by Michel Besson after Primeros Memoriales 1993, fol. 289v.

be made to the gods. The later Book 4 also omits any mention of omens in connection with the tonalamatl. Thus the connection of omens and dreams to ritual divination, already tenuous in the Primeros Memoriales, disappears entirely in the Florentine Codex. These omissions can be regarded as yet another example of the increasingly reductive and cautious approach—in both text and image—toward the suspect subject of divination. BOOK 4: REINVENTING RITUAL REPRESENTATION This same approach to depicting the tonalpohualli as a less dangerous, less idolatrous (and more Europeanized) listing of days, rather than as an indispensable instrument for conducting divinatory rituals, is revealed most bluntly in the calendric charts at the end of Book 4 of the Florentine Codex (fig. 10.12). Here all that survives of the painted tonalamatl are the thirteen day signs of each trecena, gathered together to make a complete 260-day chart. Here the day signs minimally function as a calendric device, albeit one of 260 days. Besides selecting a propitious day for naming a child and interpreting omens and dreams, the tonalamatl had other uses, but these have been scattered among other books in the Florentine Codex, as if, once again, Sahagún was attempting to defuse the potent mantic charge of the diviner’s handbook and the rituals it guided. The important use of the tonalamatl in the Aztec “confessional” ritual, for example, is most extensively documented not in Book 4, but in Book 6 (Rhetoric and Moral Philosophy), a book that includes the sayings of the ancients. Although the role of the diviner and the use of the tonalamatl are incidentally acknowledged in this ritual, the emphasis in Book 6 is on the final verbal exhortations made to the penitent, hence their placement in this book. As in Book 4, ingredients and process are excised. The section again focuses on the end result, the communication that the diviner would have given to the individual consulting him. The confession ritual had been carried out under the auspices of the deities Tezcatlipoca and Tlazolteotl, the two supernaturals that together functioned as patrons of the third trecena in the Borgia Group. This clue suggests that this trecena may have been consulted for a confession-related divinatory ritual. As in Book 4, the diviner is not portrayed as a skilled ritual practitioner actively engaged in assessing augural forces and reading the resultant will of the gods. He instead becomes the priestly overseer of a penitential rite not too far removed from its Christian counterpart. Other types of rituals are also depicted in Book 4. They appear there because they were tied to certain days and therefore to the count of days, or tonalpohualli. One such image includes feast days of certain deities or supernaturals, who 269

Figure 10.12. Tonalpohualli (260-day) chart. Drawing by Michel Besson after Florentine Codex 1979, vol. 1, fol. 326v.

also bore calendric names or were associated with particular days. For example, the day 1 Eagle (fig. 10.13) in the nineteenth trecena was one of several days on which the dreaded Cihuateteo (goddesses), the spirits of women who had died in childbirth, descended to the earth to menace children. On these days children were keep indoors to shield them from harm, so it was obligatory for mothers to consult the diviner in order to know when to take these preventive steps. The connection of the Cihuateteo with children (and death in childbirth) indicates that knowing the days related to these supernaturals involved another critical use of the tonalamatl. Yet this is unexplained in Book 4. Another image connected with individual days is the 1 Flower feast that fell on the day 1 Flower, the first day of the fourth trecena, which was celebrated by the palace folk, including the ruler, nobles, elite warriors, musicians, and singers. These types of events, as they emerge in Book 4, place greater emphasis on the calendric aspects of the tonalpohualli as a count of days rather than on the tonalamatl’s divinatory function, in which the days were seen as the energized bearers of potent supernatural forces. Their vestigial presence in Book 4 suggests the loss of vital information that would have connected these day-related events more directly to divinatory rituals. CONCLUSION Book 4 provides abundant information, both visual and verbal, on divinatory activities. Because of these data, this text is a key resource for understanding the significant role played by divination in Aztec society. There are critical differences, however, between the divinatory images of Book 4 and those that appear in the tonalamatl. These fundamental differences shed light on Sahagún’s underlying intentions and overt supervision in compiling a book on the risky subject of divination and in the resulting “sanitized” forms of representation that his artists devised. As presumably recast by Sahagún, Book 4 approaches the tonalpohualli chiefly from the perspective of the fates of the days and their influence on the life of one born on a particular day. As is evident from the contents of Book 4, what the Sahaguntine team sought from their interviews (or at least what they subsequently produced in the text) was the final prognostication, the resultant fate of the day. The texts reveal little interest (or perhaps little interest was allowed) in obtaining information about the components or process from which this prognostication was derived, although this had been the basic function of the divinatory manual. The tonalamatl had depicted only the factors weighed by the diviner when seeking an augury. The diviner’s final prognostication had been communicated orally. It was not itself the subject of the divinatory handbook, nor was it even an image painted in it. 271

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Figure 10.13. Nineteenth trecena images (top to bottom): day 1 Eagle; descent of a Cihuateotl; mother sending children indoors to protect them from the Cihuateteo. Drawing by Michel Besson after Florentine Codex 1979, vol. 1, fol. 294v.

The fact that the specialized knowledge of a ritual practitioner was indispensable for determining the complex interplay of mantic forces painted in the tonalamatl underscores that there was no quick or easy way to determine the good or bad fortune of a particular day. It was not a purely mechanical process. The attempt in Book 4 to make it so reveals a fundamental misunderstanding or misinterpretation of Aztec ritual divination. It may also reflect a conscious decision, for we might regard this strategy as less of an oversight and more of a reinterpretation. Just as the Europeanized style of Book 4 represents a dismissal of the native mode of divinatory representation, so the recasting of divinatory activity may represent an attempt to diminish the power and practice of pre-Hispanic divination. The value of Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales and Florentine Codex is inestimable. The difficulties of attempting to understand late pre-Hispanic and contact-period life in ancient Mexico would be even more daunting without these two extraordinary works. Nevertheless, understanding the character of the colonial sources that provide much of our information about Aztec culture 272

is essential. As indicated by this comparison between indigenous ritual manuscripts and divinatory information found in the Primeros Memoriales and Florentine Codex, understanding the nature of the verbal and visual ritual data recorded is crucial. This is not to say that the information is incorrect, but that it is incomplete and it is different. This brief overview gives us some insight into the colonial reconstruction of indigenous ritual in postconquest sources. By providing a glimpse into what was kept, what was left out, what was altered, and what was added in the Sahaguntine images and texts, this study reveals both the representation and re-presentation of Aztec divinatory ritual. NOTES 1. The Primeros Memoriales manuscript is presently divided between the libraries of the Real Palacio and the Real Academia de la Historia in Madrid, Spain. The Florentine Codex is now in the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana in Florence, Italy. 2. Chapter 1 (Rituals and Gods) is one of four chapters in the Primeros Memoriales. The later Book 2 (The Ceremonies) is one of the twelve books that compose the final version of the Historia, or Florentine Codex. 3. For discussions of the ways in which the Primeros Memoriales differs from the Florentine Codex, see Nicholson (1974, 1997) and Quiñones Keber (1987, 1997). 4. For a concise summary of Aztec divination, see “Magic and Its Practitioners” in Nicholson (1971). 5. For a summary of the tonalpohualli and tonalamatl, see Quiñones Keber (1995: 153–162). See also Caso (1967), López Austin (1976), Dibble (1984), and Siarkiewicz (1995). 6. The more complex manuscripts of the Borgia Group also contain pictorial charts that divide the 260-day cycle into four groups of sixty-five days each. 7. One could counter the baleful effect of a negative prognostication by shifting the day of an event to a more propitious time. For example, rather than naming a child on an unlucky day, one could select a more positive day nearby and baptize the child then. The system was thus not inexorable but actually had a certain degree of flexibility. Although the system could be manipulated, such an action would require the skilled calculations of a diviner. 8. For recent discussions of the Borgia Group, see Codex Borgia (1993), Codex Cospi (1994), Codex Fejéváry-Mayer (1994), Codex Laud (1994), and Codex Vaticanus B (1994). See also Jansen (1986), van der Loo (1987), and Boone (1992). 9. See Arnold (this volume) for the significance of amatl (paper) in indigenous ideology.

REFERENCES CITED Aubin Tonalamatl 1981 El Tonalamatl de Aubin. Edited by Carmen Aguilera. Tlaxcala: State of Tlaxcala.

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Boone, Elizabeth Hill 1992 Guías Para Vivir: Los Manuscritos Adivinatorios Pintados. In Azteca Mexica: Las Culturas del México Antiguo, edited by José Alcina Franch, Miguel León-Portilla, and Eduardo Matos Moctezuma, pp. 333–338. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal Quinto Centenario and Lunwerg Editores. Caso, Alfonso 1967 Los Calendarios Prehispánicos. Mexico City: Instituto de Investigaciones Históricas, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México. Codex Borbonicus 1991 El Libro del Cihuacoatl: Homenaje Para el Año del Fuego Nuevo. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Borbónico. Codex du Corps Legislatif, Bibliothèque de l’Assemblée Nationale Français, Paris, Y120. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders, Maarten Jansen, and Luis Reyes García. Madrid: Sociedad Estatal Quinto Centenario; Graz, Austria: Akademische Druckund Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Codex Borgia 1993 Los Templos del Cielo y de la Oscuridad, Oráculos y Liturgia. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Borgia. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders, Maarten Jansen, and Luis Reyes García. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Codex Cospi 1994 Calendario de Pronósticos y Ofrendas. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Cospi. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders, Maarten Jansen, and Peter van der Loo, with contributions by José Eduardo Contreras Martínez and Beatriz Palavicini Beltrán. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Codex Fejéváry-Mayer 1994 El Libro de Tezcatlipoca, Señor del Tiempo. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Fejéváry Mayer. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders, Maarten Jansen, and Gabina Aurora Pérez Jiménez. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Codex Laud 1994 La Pintura de la Muerte y de los Destinos. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Laud. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders and Maarten Jansen, with a contribution by Alejandra Cruz Ortiz. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Codex Telleriano-Remensis See Quiñones Keber 1995. Codex Vaticanus A 1996 Religión, Costumbres, e Historia de los Antiguos Mexicanos. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Vaticano A, Códice Vat. Lat. 3738 de la Biblioteca Apostólica Vaticana. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders and Maarten Jansen. Graz,

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Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Codex Vaticanus B 1994 Manual del Adivino. Libro Explicativo del Llamado Códice Vaticano B. Commentary by Ferdinand Anders and Maartin Jansen. Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck-und Verlagsanstalt; Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Dibble, Charles E. 1984 Sahagún’s Tonalpohualli. In Gedenkschrift Gerdt Kutscher, vol. 1. Indiana 9 (1): 115–119. Florentine Codex See Sahagún 1950–1982, 1979. Gonzáles Obregón, Luis 1910 Proceso Inquisitorial del Cacique de Tezcoco. Publicación 1. Mexico City: Comisión Reorganizadora del Archivo General y Público de la Nación. Jansen, Maarten E.R.G.N. 1986 La Division Mántica de las Trecenas. Mexicon 8 (5): 102–107. López Austin, Alfredo 1976 El Xiuhpohualli y el Tonalpohualli de los Memoriales de Tepepulco. In Mesoamérica: Homenaje al Doctor Paul Kirchhoff, edited by Barbro Dahlgren, pp. 41–51. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Nicholson, H. B. 1971 Religion in Pre-Hispanic Central Mexico. In Archaeology of Northern Mesoamerica, pt. 1, edited by Gordon F. Ekholm and Ignacio Bernal, pp. 395–446. Handbook of Middle American Indians, vol. 10, general editor, Robert Wauchope. Austin: University of Texas Press. 1974 Tepepolco, the Locale of the First Stage of Fr. Bernardino de Sahagún’s Great Ethnographic Project: Historical and Cultural Notes. In Mesoamerican Archaeology: New Approaches, edited by Norman Hammond, pp. 145–154. London: Duckworth; Austin: University of Texas Press. 1997 Introduction. In Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet, pp. 3–14. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Nowotny, Karl A. 1961 Tlacuilolli: Die Mexikanischen Bilderhandschriften, Stil und Inhalt. Berlin: Verlag Gebr. Mann. Primeros Memoriales See Sahagún 1993, 1997.

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Quiñones Keber, Eloise 1987 Ritual and Representation in the Tonalamatl of the Codex Borbonicus. Latin American Indian Literatures Journal 3 (2): 184–195. 1995 Codex Telleriano-Remensis: Ritual, Divination, and History in a Pictorial Aztec Manuscript. Austin: University of Texas Press. 1997 An Introduction to the Images, Artists, and Physical Features of the Primeros Memoriales. In Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet, pp. 15–51. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1979 Códice Florentino. El Manuscrito 218–220 de Colección Palatina de la Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. 3 vols. Florence: Giunti Barbera; Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. 1993 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. 1997 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Siarkiewicz, Elzbieta 1995 El Tiempo en el Tonalamatl. Warsaw: University of Warsaw. van der Loo, Peter L. 1987 Códices Costumbres Continuidad: Un Estudio de la Religión Mesoamericana. Leiden: Archeologisch Centrum.

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A Commentary from the History of Religions Davíd Carrasco

ne of the most influential and exciting developments in anthropological and religious studies of the past two decades has been a new appreciation of the significance of rites of passage and ritual performance for understanding how human cultures are organized and renovated.1 Scholars such as Smith (1982, 1990), Schechner (1993), Grimes (1984, 1995), Tambiah (1985), Bell (1997), Driver (1998), and Dening (1996) have both built upon and departed from the foundational works, such as those of van Gennep (1960), Gluckman (1962), Turner (1969), Goffman (1985), and Eliade (1987), on the powerful and profound ways that ritual practice brings new life, power, and significance to social action. This new emphasis on the ritual dimensions of social life has not, however, played an important role in Mesoamerican studies. 2 I do not know whether the relatively limited contributions of ritual studies to our understanding of Mesoamerican history, culture, and religion are due

Davíd Carrasco

to the lack of attention by Mesoamericanists to ritual (an insider problem), or to the complexity and “otherness” of Aztec and Maya ritual practices (an outsider and insider problem),3 or to the bulky descriptive and interpretive problems presented by the ensemble of primary sources in our field (everyone’s problem). Whatever the case, approaches to ritual practice, informed by the impressive theoretical positions listed above, have been understated in favor of an intense focus on archaeology, mythology, history, and political order.4 As the theme of this volume on ritual representation shows, this inattention may be changing. The contributors to this volume and to the session that preceded it, which was carefully organized by art historian Eloise Quiñones Keber, used the categories of ritual and performance as interpretive tools to study selected examples of texts and images found in the extensive Sahaguntine corpus, primarily the Primeros Memoriales (Sahagún 1993, 1997) and Florentine Codex (Sahagún 1950–1982; 1979). This group of scholars from various disciplines was faced with real methodological problems in relating specific parts of Sahagún’s images and narratives recorded in the early colonial period in Mexico to their indigenous pre-Hispanic ritual context. The promising results in this volume show that ritual studies can indeed contribute significantly to the future study of Central Mexican religion, society, and art. Although Sahagún’s texts delight us and instruct us in ways to appreciate the Aztecs (Nahuas) and their ritual expressions, they also confound us with their layers of historical change, linguistic innovation, missionary apparatus, and fragmented indigenous cosmovision. Our group admitted the difficult position we are in when trying to recover and interpret representations of living pre-Hispanic rituals within the recorded Sahaguntine sources. I am reminded of Wheatley’s (1971: xv) comment on his twenty-year exercise to decipher the nature of Chinese urban generation through a sustained reading of the sources. Evaluating such evidence is rather like trying to grasp a fish at the bottom of a deep pool. As the intruding hand shatters the shadowy image, so the irruption of a 20th century mind into the conceptual framework of the ancient world inevitably induces cultural refractions of such magnitude that the image of the quarry at best undergoes distortion, at worst is wholly lost from sight. But recognition of the limitation imposed by this anamorphosis is a condition of entry into the traditional world, and the social scientist who would concern himself with urban genesis must be resigned for the present to seeing his elusive fish disintegrate into a thousand glittering fragments as he reaches toward the bottom of what is a very deep pool indeed.

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The authors in this volume are not dealing with problems related to urban genesis but with the ways ritual performance was represented in a series of early colonial texts that reflected both the indigenous urban setting and the incursion of Spanish urban, military, and religious institutions. Even before we put our hands and minds into the pool, we saw the influences of Sahagún’s hands and mind preceding us. I believe that nowhere else in indigenous American studies do we find a richer, more arresting example of the dynamic relationship between text and context. On the one hand, the materials that Sahagún assembled with his Nahua assistants and informants are far away from us in space and time, culture and language. On the other hand, these materials are having an ever-increasing influence on how we describe and interpret central Mesoamerican cultures. Although many important colonial texts were produced in the “Indies” of Spain and New Spain during the sixteenth century, no other collection of materials has had or will have as sustained or pervasive an impact on our evolving knowledge, methodologies, and interpretations of the religions and rituals of Mesoamerica. The Sahaguntine material—which, one can argue, should give more credit to, if not the names of, the important native informants—appears to move closer to us as new translations, publications, and conferences take place. The juxtaposition of Sahagún’s remoteness and nearness as texts brings to mind a recent film, The Pillow Book. In this film, Chinese stories are written on the skins of living men and presented to a publisher. The process illustrates the intimacy between (1) the humans who tell stories, (2) the written text of the story, (3) the humans who embody or carry the message, and (4) the people who work at deciphering the texts. In a Xipe-like climax in this film about the ritual of writing texts on human bodies, the male protagonist commits suicide and then the most important story is written on his skin. After the burial, the publisher, who is enamored with the man who had the story on his skin, disinters the body, flays it, reads the story, embraces and then drapes himself in the skinned story. He wears the text he reads and loves! The longer we stay in the field of Aztec studies, the more we appear to drape ourselves in Sahagún, wearing Sahagún as our primary academic skin but without committing the attendant violations. Under the guidance of Eloise Quiñones Keber, we chose to contextualize our reading of selected texts with the categories of ritual, rites of passage, and ritual representations. The idea was to focus on the powers of ritual actions and the powers in ritual actions as represented in selected parts of the Sahaguntine corpus. We were also asked to consider these texts and images as literary, artistic performances, which reveal both indigenous practices and the 279

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complex colonial mission to understand those practices in order to transform them. In writing this conclusion, I sought to identify patterns in the chapters contained herein. They reflect an impressive diversity of interests, methods, and results—three are by historians of religion (Philip Arnold, Kay Read, and Davíd Carrasco) with distinct concerns and approaches; one is by an anthropologist (H. B. Nicholson); one is by an archaeologist (Eduardo Matos Moctezuma); two are by ethnohistorians (Doris Heyden and Guilhem Olivier); one is by an art historian (Eloise Quiñones Keber)—and all are focused on different problems. The book begins with H. B. Nicholson’s tour-de-force search for the pre-Hispanic prototype of the veintena performances. Doris Heyden combines geological studies with her interpretation of what could be called “rites of separation,” or “entering the sand,” in several sacrificial rituals. Eloise Quiñones Keber focuses on the changes and losses in the depiction of divination rituals that occurred before and between the making of the Primeros Memoriales and the later Florentine Codex. Kay Read focuses intensely on a single ritual text that tells of the tlatoani’s progressive disintegration through rites of passage. I explore the ritual uses of the female body in four sacrificial veintena ceremonies, tracing dismemberment and disappearance of bodies. Philip Arnold practices a “hermeneutics of suspicion” about rituals, using paper in Sahagún and by Sahagún, that is, the making of colonial documents as a European colonizing ritual. Eduardo Matos Moctezuma compares the archaeological work of Proyecto Templo Mayor with Sahagún’s descriptions of the ritual buildings in the main ceremonial precinct of the capital. Guilhem Olivier gives emphasis to a single ritual drama, Toxcatl, as performed according to Sahagún, Durán, and other accounts. In spite of these diverse concerns and presentations, I discerned a complex and profound image linking all of the chapters, namely “recovering disappearances/erasing presences.” Each writer is deeply concerned with both recovering what had been lost (putting back some of Wheatley’s fragments, or even better, Mexica ritual fragments) and erasing, to some degree, colonial Christian influences that intruded into both the indigenous expression of ritual life and our contemporary efforts to understand those rituals. RECOVERING DISAPPEARANCES, ERASING PRESENCES The clearest example of “recovering disappearances” in the Aztec world comes in Eduardo Matos Moctezuma’s sharp analysis “Sahagún and the Ceremonial Precinct of Tenochtitlan: Ritual and Place.” His essay provides us with a literary map of Tenochtitlan’s central ritual spaces, which he constructs through 280

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combining archaeology and ethnohistory. He makes a systematic comparison of descriptions of Tenochtitlan’s central ceremonial precinct in Sahagún’s Primeros Memoriales and the Florentine Codex with the remarkable discoveries of Proyecto Templo Mayor, which he directed for more than ten years. The result is reliable identifications of almost half of the structures enumerated by Sahagún. Many of the ritual buildings and spaces mapped by Matos are sites where the veintena rituals interpreted elsewhere in this book were carried out by Aztec specialists. As he has done elsewhere in his distinguished career, Matos carefully examines the similarities and differences between the different types of evidence about the ritual structures of the Aztec city. Concerned with finding an effective kinship between excavating a site and its ethnohistorical sources, he concludes that “the known verbal and visual representations of the main Mexica temple are very close, and sometimes impressively so, to the structure that has been excavated.” Matos looks at the diverse evidence about walls, floors, stairways, schematic plans, skull racks, ball courts, monumental stone sculptures, temples, sacrificial stones, and is able to argue that “Sahagún might not have exaggerated the number of edifices contained within the main ceremonial precinct” of the capital as other scholars have claimed. While he is able to make a strong case for identifying the archaeology of 37 structures on Sahagún’s list, he notes that “much of the Templo Mayor site still remains buried.” It is hoped that, however slowly, more of these ritual spaces will be uncovered in the future. H. B. Nicholson’s chapter, “Representing the Veintena Ceremonies in the Primeros Memoriales,” provides a fresh view of pictorial representations of three of the veintena ceremonies. His is an effort to recover, through concise comparative analysis of these and abbreviated images found elsewhere, the outlines of the pre-Hispanic prototype of these ritual practices and images. His uniquely complex understanding of the imagery of the Primeros Memoriales is reminiscent of the foundational work of Eduard Georg Seler. Nicholson argues that by comparing selected examples of rituals in the Primeros Memoriales (Atlcahualo, Atemoztli, and Etzalcualiztli) with other primary sources, he may recover what was lost or has become more opaque in later sources: a picture of the fundamentally similar ritual system shared by several local communities in the Basin of Mexico, as practiced prior to the conquest. He writes, “My own view is that the veintenas were probably illustrated in a fairly systematic fashion at the time of the conquest.” What is key in Nicholson’s work of recovery is that, in spite of local differences in ritual practices in Central Mexico, he is able to conclude that there was a widespread “sharing of fundamental religious ideological concepts and 281

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ceremonial performance throughout the region,” and they are discernible, in part, in the Primeros Memoriales. Nicholson admits that there are clear colonial influences in the representations of ritual, but what is clearer to him is that pre-Hispanic patterns, or what he calls a “normative guide to the calendar,” can be partially recovered and understood. In a sense, Nicholson is recovering the indigenous “classics” of ritual representations, an interpretive process he has been engaged in since his 1957 dissertation on Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl of Tollan. In that recently published work (2001), Nicholson uses systematic analysis to recover some of the basic elements of the indigenous tale—as told, sung, sculpted, and painted in the calmecac—about the Toltec priest-king who had such prestige among the later Aztecs. Then, as now, Nicholson was able to reconstruct, in spite of the damage to indigenous traditions of representation, outstanding elements of other pre-Hispanic classics. Guilhem Olivier presents us with an elegant and sometimes novel interpretation of one of the most fascinating and complex veintena ceremonies in “The Hidden King and the Broken Flutes: Mythical and Royal Dimensions of the Feast of Tezcatlipoca in Toxcatl.” Focusing intensely on descriptions of the ceremony in Sahagún and Durán, Olivier also makes interesting comparisons with a series of other sources (Popol Vuh, Motolinia, Pomar, and the Chronicles of Michoacán, among others) to address three questions that have “puzzled specialists”: the identity and role of the teteo imixiptlahuan or representatives of the deities, the myth of the origin of music, and the role of the king in the ritual of Toxcatl. Following a concise description of Toxcatl that emphasizes evidence about these questions, the author discusses the a) complexities in uncovering who the Tezcatlipoca ixiptla was (warrior or slave), arguing that it is “probable that the social origin of the image of Tezcatlipoca changed relative to the cities and years,” b) stoical comportment or despair of the sacrificial victim, and c) the female companions of the Tezcatlipoca impersonator and the erotic dimensions of parts of the ceremony. We learn about the sacred power of music as Olivier relates various mythic traditions about the origin of music to the symbols, gestures, and place names in Toxcatl. In Olivier’s account, sound and cosmic sense are woven together dramatically in many settings where music evoked the presence of gods and their powers to reward or punish. One source tells us that just the sound of Tezcatlipoca’s flute filled thieves, fornicators, murderers, and all sinners “with fear and sadness . . . tearful and strange confusion.” Another source relates that before sacrifices were carried in out in some communities “the trumpets were blown so that the gods would descend from the heavens.” 282

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These texts and interpretations are tied together in the final section of the essay on the symbolic death of the king in Toxcatl. The cosmo-magical flute is the lifeline as it were between Tezcatlipoca and his living representatives on earth—the king and the deity impersonator. It was through the flute that the king “received the god’s directions and conveyed them to his people.” Olivier sums up this complex relationship by focusing on the final moments of the ritual before the death of the impersonator when Tezcatlipoca’s ixiptla breaks the flutes as he ascends the temple toward his death. “By breaking his flutes on the stairs of the temple, the representative of Tezcatlipoca not only re-enacted the myth of the solar origin of music but also expressed the temporary break of relations among the people and the gods that coincided with the death of the sovereign.” This death sets the stage for the immediate choice of a new Tezcatlipoca representative whose flute playing reestablishes the sacred communication. Olivier has revitalized our awareness of the synethesia, the combination of the senses and the circle or unity of meaning that are ritually joined in Toxcatl. His discussions of the clothes, smoke, mirrors and sacred bundles of this veintena feast, which ends in Chalco, the same city from which the myth of the origin of music comes, lead to an insight. When the music comes home to its origin in Toxcatl, the king is dead and the gods are about to be reborn. In her chapter, “Sand in Ritual and in History,” Doris Heyden focuses on the enigmatic phrase “entering the sand,” which describes a little-studied ritual act performed by sacrificial victims before they were sacrificed. For example, in the fourteenth veintena ceremony of Quecholli, we are told that after the victims were bathed by the makers of pulque, “there was going into the sand there; those who were to die went into the sand there” (Sahagún 1950–1982, 2: 138). This focus on sand follows Heyden’s earlier fluid reflections on the imagination of matter in Aztec religion, where she has written about caves, flowers, wood, and stone with insights that are profound yet accessible to a variety of readers. Here she asks two basic questions. First, “what is sand?”— geologically (“loose, noncohesive granular material resulting from the decomposition of rocks”) and linguistically (xalli, “sand”; atl-xalli, sand in a watery environment used for working precious stones; and teocuitlaxalli, “excrement of the gods,” or gold, in the form of dust or sand). Second, “why was sand used in Aztec rituals?” Heyden compares a series of veintena rituals, including Huey Tecuilhuitl, Quecholli, and Izcalli, to argue that the Aztecs used sand to sacralize the surfaces that came into contact with it and the people who partially disappeared in it. Sand also stores water and acts as a cosmo-magical cleanser in rites of passage associated with fertility and warfare. In a series of concise yet vivid 283

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descriptions from the works of Sahagún, Heyden traces the ritual actions of various deity impersonators up to the point where they are taken “into the sand” before being sacrificed. She also brings valuable insights from comparisons with Hopi emergence myths and the ceremonial meaning of the sipapu (kiva ritual space), the cosmo-magical opening to the underworld. The phrase “went into the sand” signifies a liminal threshold, for “the sand represents the space between life and death. It is the entrance to the Otherworld.” This ritual threshold could utterly transform the sacrificial victim, who was taken through the sand into the underworld of Tlalocan. Or, in the case of dancing nobles, entering the sand placed them momentarily in a potent cosmic setting. The ritual treatment of weapons, which were placed in the sand, magically prepared them for war. It is interesting that the Aztecs practiced cleansing rituals before their victims disappeared into death. Kay Read’s chapter, “Death and the Tlatoani: The Land of Death, Rulership, and Ritual,” concerns two kinds of hiddenness: the hidden description of the tlatoani’s funeral in Book 3 (The Origin of the Gods) of the Florentine Codex, and the complex, dynamic metamorphosis of the king’s body, which, through the help of ritual, “completely disappears.” Read uses linguistic and ritual analysis to recover the hidden text and trace the dead ruler’s five-stage rite of passage, which not only dissolved his individual and social personhood but also realigned crucial aspects of the political and cosmic world, including a gradual release of grief among the mourners. Unlike most of the other contributors, Read focuses intensely on one ritual and attempts to show theoretical differences between her work and that of Victor Turner and Arnold van Gennep. As readers will note, her work of recovery begins with a translation of the passage she interprets. Read insists that this text is much more than a description of Mictlan or the rites for getting there. It is full of subtle metaphors about a dynamic cosmic topography through which a royal funeral travels. This cosmic topography is reorganized through a process of incremental, complex change. Reminiscent of Doris Heyden’s metaphor for the cleansing rite of “entering the sand,” the dead tlatoani began the funeral rite as a “beached canoe . . . lying on the beach, waiting for the funeral to launch him to the moist underworld water of Mictlan.” While his successors were also temporarily beached in grief, awaiting the cosmo-magical rebirth of the shining sun on the earthly level of Tlalticpac, the dead ruler’s body was bathed in two types of water: water for his earthly life and water for his gradual disappearance into the underworld. Read traces the ritual journey to the five cosmic places of the dead, ending at the site of disappearance, the fire at the world’s center. The king and his 284

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effigy were burned, and everything “disappeared before the mourner’s eye.” Similar effigies were burned during the next four years. This burning is a radical example of the Aztec commitment to what Read calls the “realignment of his forces with the living,” even as the ruler is in the underworld. The insight here is that the Aztec funeral rite of passage is working constantly, not to annihilate the powers, the three animistic souls of the ruler, but to realign his potent forces with the living and reinsert them in the political and social order of life, “an extensive web of interlocking social obligations and possibilities.” Quiñones Keber’s chapter, “Painting Divination in the Florentine Codex,” shows how “the recasting of divinatory activity in Book 4 (The Soothsayers) may represent an attempt to diminish the practice and power of ritual divination itself.” Quiñones Keber works to show what has been lost, what has disappeared, both in Sahagún’s reworking of the information he collected and in scholarship about pre-Hispanic practices of communicating with the invisible forces of the cosmos. In attempting to answer the question “Where did the divinatory images of Book 4 come from and what were they intended to represent?” she conducts a comparative analysis of the differences between the depiction of cosmo-magical divination in surviving examples of the native-style pictorial tonalamatl and what Sahagún brought to his book on the soothsayers. The major difference in these representations is that the Europeanization of the indigenous ritual images “show[s] us the extent to which Sahagún and his team deviated from the emblematic type of representation characteristic of the [pre-Hispanic] divinatory handbook.” She shows how Sahagún’s representations of ritual divination intentionally and unintentionally erased the sense of magical power that was common in the daily life of the Aztecs’ relations with their gods. For example, in Book 4 we see the loss of crucial pictorial forms: “[T]he major and minor deities are banished, and instead the Florentine’s artists replace them with little scenarios that feature tonalamatl-related activities.” This resulted in a radical loss of “the considerable influences played by supernatural forces in the pre-Hispanic diviner’s calculations for determining the fates of the days.” In another example, the dream section listed in the Primeros Memoriales was omitted and the connection with omens and dreams “disappears entirely in the Florentine Codex.” What is particularly impressive in Quiñones Keber’s chapter is her sense of critical passion about the disappearance of the “potent mantic charge” of divination rituals in the evolution of the Sahaguntine corpus. Through a focused, interactive presentation of images and texts, she, like Nicholson, outlines a pre-Hispanic model of the art of seeing into the invisible world 285

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of gods through the ritual use of the tonalamatl. Her method is intended to disrupt our ignorance about this loss and to develop a methodology of recovery to trace an outline of the “ritually charged components in the divination ceremony.” Philip Arnold, in “Paper Rituals and the Mexican Landscape,” works to understand (1) some of the ritual uses of amatl (paper) in sacrificial ceremonies, and (2) the uses of the Florentine Codex as a ritual instrument for justifying Spanish Christian control of knowledge about Aztec life. Arnold presents us with a “hermeneutics of suspicion”—a method of skeptically questioning our uses of Sahagún and his uses of paper—by asking “Is there a relationship between uses of paper and how human beings meaningfully occupy a landscape?” Since paper is taken from the “land” and used by both Aztecs and Spaniards to reflect their relations with the peoples and gods of that land, Arnold’s question is important. In his view, the Florentine Codex represents the most important source for understanding the meaning of pre-Hispanic ritual uses of paper and for “impairing that understanding.” Arnold scrutinizes three “landscapes” and “occupations.” First is the ritual landscape of veintena ceremonies, such as Tepeilhuitl (Festival of the Mountain) and Atlcahualo (Departed Water), in which a sacred exchange took place between the Aztec priests and the god Tlaloc. In the indigenous landscape, paper was used as an intermediary between humans, lands, and gods. In this case, the gods already occupied the landscape. Second is the colonial, Western, papered landscape of the Florentine Codex and the Techialoyan manuscripts, which reflect two different ways of occupying the land. The Florentine Codex uses European-style paper to ritually and politically take the land from indigenous peoples and break their ritual ties to the land and the gods who occupy it. This is done by taking the information that Sahagún and his assistants gathered during his sixty years of research and covering it with layers of new inscriptions, signs, images, and meanings that are antagonistic to the sacred powers and rituals of the first landscape. The Techialoyan manuscripts represent a counterapproach to the Florentine strategy of religious erasure, in part because they were made of amatl. Arnold’s third landscape is ethnohistory’s efforts to know the past. In his view the history of religions, as a set of disciplinary questions and procedures, suspects ethnohistory’s hope that texts carry objectivity and factuality. The work of ethnohistory can be enhanced by insisting, as does the history of religions, on the “opacity of the sacred” embodied in indigenous rituals and in the rituals of making primary sources. The opacity of the sacred in Sahagún’s Florentine Codex is apparent in his effort to remake the Nahua world, not in 286

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his own image, but in his own critique by form—the forms of European paper and writing. Arnold might say that Sahagún’s forms of representation were as sacred to him as was the Catholic liturgy. Arnold’s openness to the power of sacred forces is similar to Quiñones Keber’s passionate critique about the loss of divinatory awareness in Sahagún’s Book 4. Continuing with the theme of “recovering disappearances/erasing presences,” Arnold might be saying, in the face of the complex abundance of the Sahagún time corpus that “it is we hsitorians who should, at least sometimes, disappear.” My chapter, “The Sacrifice of Women in the Florentine Codex: The Hearts of Plants and Makers of War Games,” elaborates on my earlier writings about the “metamorphic vision of place,” in interpreting Aztec religion. I focused on four sacrificial rituals in Sahagún’s Book 2 (The Ceremonies) to argue that the sacrifice of women dramatized for Aztec priests and citizens and served up to their gods the hope that they could use ritually controlled death to regenerate their plants and the forces of war that brought death to enemies but life to themselves. This study applies parts of Alfredo López Austin’s remarkable model of the Mesoamerican cosmovision—as developed in his book Tamoanchan, Tlalocan: Places of Mist (1997)—to the cosmo-magical formation of female ixiptlas, their ritual deaths, and the uses of their bodies to regenerate plants and warfare. All this is expressive of a worldview and ritual system in which “change and transformation, disintegration and reintegration of cosmo-magical powers are the sustained pattern in which gods, ixiptlas, and humans change place; the places in which they change are transformed by hierophanies, which forcefully project the time of myths and ancestors into the human plane of existence.” In this expansion of my earlier work, I introduce the notion of “cosmo-magical circles,” which gathered together, at specific places along a ritual route, the sacred symbols of the gods, the females who became ixiptlas, and the males who manipulated them. These ritual spots were the places where the crucial constructions of female identities and powers were accomplished. I found it interesting that there is a significant difference between the short and long narratives of the same ceremonies in Book 2. Almost all of the short descriptions emphasize that the purpose of the ceremonies is to ritually slaughter a human being. This clarity fades in the very elaborate longer descriptions. The longer descriptions, several of which do not mention or describe killing, focus not on the prodigious acts of slaughter but on adornment; ceremonies; movements according to etiquette; singing choruses; mock battles in the streets; swerving entourages; offerings of blood, plants, and 287

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foods to the gods; vigorous dances and dashes; periods of profound silence; human touching; and displays of human sorrow. We have much more than a killing ground. Sahagún presents us with a city of spectacles, in which males manage and redirect the powers of female bodies into the hearts of plants and the stimulants for war games. It may be that this volume will stimulate more intensive interaction between ritual studies and Mesoamerican studies, especially those that use the Sahaguntine corpus. The richness and complexity of texts, images, and representations of ritual found in Mesoamerican materials could help renovate the general theories and approaches to understanding human thresholds, metamorphosis, and passages. More attention to models of ritual change worked out in relation to other cultures would likely deepen and sharpen the ways Mesoamerican specialists are able to read and interpret the archaeological and ethnohistorical texts and contexts. NOTES 1. Significant updates in ritual studies can be found in Jonathan Z. Smith (1990), Catherine Bell (1997), Tom Driver (1998), and Ronald Grimes (1995). 2. Especially promising exceptions include Elizabeth Boone’s “Migration Histories as Ritual Performance” (1991), Garry Gossen’s “Processions” (2001), Schele and Miller (1986), López Lujan (1994), and Jones (1996). 3. It appears that not one general theory of sacrifice seriously considers Mesoamerican materials in their data or interpretation. One partial exception is Peggy Reeves Sanday’s Divine Hunger: Cannibalism As a Cultural System (1988). Yet there are a number of insightful studies of human sacrifice in Mesoamerica including Elizabeth H. Boone (1984), Johanna Broda (1970), Inga Clendinnen (1991), Christian Duverger (1983), Yólotl Gonzalez Torres (1994), Cecelia Klein (1983), Eduardo Matos Moctezuma (1978). 4. Notice how few articles in the valuable Handbook of Middle American Indians deal seriously with ritual practices or representations. And in the more than ten years of the publication of Ancient Mesoamerica, which is perhaps the most outstanding periodical of Mesoamerican studies with excellent articles on many facets of Mesoamerican cultures, only a small minority of articles focusing on ritual performance and drawing from ritual theory have appeared. Significant examples of these exceptions include “Performance and the Structure of the Mixtec Codices” by John Monaghan (1990), “Poetics and Metaphor in Mixtec Writing” by Mark B. King (1990), “Sacrifice at the Maize Tree: Rab’inal Achi in its Historical and Symbolic Context” by Ruud van Akkeren (1999), and “A Great Emblematic Depiction of Throned Rule and Royal Sacrifice at Late Preclassic Kaminaljuyu” by Jonathan Kaplan (2000). A number of articles mention rituals as part of the archaeological and spatial complexities of Mesoamerica but miss opportunities to elaborate on this vital dimension of Mesoamerican cultures. It may be that in the

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future more attention or a special issue can be given over to the ritual worlds of ancient Mesoamerica. In designing the relevant articles for the Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures the editors encouraged attention to ritual performance and ritual theory with modest results.

REFERENCES CITED Bell, Catherine 1997 Ritual: Perspectives and Dimensions. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Boone, Elizabeth H. 1984 Ritual Human Sacrifice in Mesoamerica. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks. 1991 Migration Histories as Ritual Performance. In To Change Place: Aztec Ceremonial Landscapes, edited by Davíd Carrasco, pp. 121–152. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Brown, Betty Ann 1983 Seen But Not Heard: Women in Aztec Ritual—The Sahagún Texts. In Text and Image in Pre-Columbian Art: Essays on the Interrelationship of the Verbal and Visual Arts, edited by Janet Catherine Berlo, pp. 119–154. BAR International Series 180. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. Carrasco, Davíd 1991 The Sacrifice of Tezcatlipoca: To Change Place. In To Change Place: Aztec Ceremonial Landscapes, edited by Davíd Carrasco, pp. 31–57. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Dening, Greg 1996 Performances. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Driver, Tom 1998 Liberating Rites: Understanding the Transformative Power of Ritual. Boulder: Westview Press. Duverger, Christian 1983 La Flor Letal: Economía del Sacrificio Humano. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica. Eliade, Mircea, ed. 1987 The Encyclopedia of Religion. 16 vols. New York: Macmillan. García Quintana, Josefina 1969 El Baño Ritual Entre los Nahuas Según el Códice Florentino. Estudios de Cultura Náhuatl 8: 189–213. Gluckman, Max 1962 Les Rites de Passage. In Essays on the Ritual of Social Relations, edited by Max Gluckman, pp. 1–52. Manchester, England: Manchester University Press. González Torres, Yólotl 1985 El Sacrificio Humano entre los Mexicas. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia and Fondo de Cultura Económica. 289

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Gossen, Gary H. 2001 Processions. In Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures, editor-­inchief, Davíd Carrasco, pp. 31–34. New York: Oxford University Press. Graulich, Michel 1997 Myths of Ancient Mexico. Translated by Bernard R. Ortiz de Montellano and Thelma Ortiz de Montellano. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Grimes, Ronald 1984 Sources for the Study of Ritual. Religious Studies Review 10: 134–145. 1995 Beginnings in Ritual Studies. Columbia: University of South Carolina Press. Jones, Lindsay 1995 Twin City Tales: A Hermeneutical Reassessment of Tula and Chichén Itzá. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Klein, Cecelia F. 1983 The Ideology of Autosacrifice at the Templo Mayor. In The Aztec Templo Mayor, edited by Elizabeth Hill Boone, pp. 293–370. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks. Leach, Edmund R. 1968 Ritual. In International Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, edited by David L Sills, vol. 13, pp. 520–526. New York: Macmillan. López Austin, Alfredo 1988 The Human Body and Ideology: Concepts of the Ancient Nahuas. 2 vols. Translated by Thelma Ortiz de Montellano and Bernard Ortiz de Montellano. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1997 Tamoanchan, Tlalocan: Places of Mist. Translated by Bernard R. Ortiz de Montellano and Thelma Ortiz de Montellano. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. López Luján, Leonardo 1994 The Offerings of the Templo Mayor of Tenochtitlan. Translated by Bernard R. Ortiz de Montellano and Thelma Ortiz de Montellano. Niwot: University Press of Colorado. Moctezuma, Eduardo Matos 1978 Muerte a Filo de Obsidiana. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia. Nájera C., Martha Ilia 1987 El Don de la Sangre en el Equilibrio Cósmico: El Sacrificio y el Autosacrificio Sangriento entre los Antiguos Mayas. Mexico City: Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, Instituto de Investigaciones Filológicas, and Centro de Estudios Mayas. Nicholson, H. B. 2001 Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl: The Once and Future Lord of the Toltecs. Boulder: University Press of Colorado.

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Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de 1950– Florentine Codex: General History of the Things of New Spain, Fray Bernardino 1982 de Sahagún. 12 vols. Translated and edited by Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble. Monographs of the School of American Research 14. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 1979 Códice Florentino. El Manuscrito 218–220 de Colección Palatina de la Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana. 3 vols. Florence: Giunti Barbera; Mexico City: Archivo General de la Nación. 1993 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. 1997 Primeros Memoriales, by Fray Bernardino de Sahagún. Paleography of Nahuatl text and English translation by Thelma D. Sullivan. Completed and revised, with additions, by H. B. Nicholson, Arthur J. O. Anderson, Charles E. Dibble, Eloise Quiñones Keber, and Wayne Ruwet. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press in cooperation with the Patrimonio Nacional and the Real Academia de la Historia, Madrid. Sandy, Peggy Reeves 1988 Divine Hunger: Cannibalism As a Cultural System. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schele, Linda, and Mary Ellen Miller 1986 The Blood of Kings: Dynasty and Ritual in Maya Art. Fort Worth: Kimbell Art Museum. Smith, Jonathan Z. 1982 Imagining Religion: From Babylon to Jonestown. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. 1990 Divine Drudgery: On the Comparison of Early Christianities and the Religions of Late Antiquity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Tambiah, Stanley Jeyaraia 1985 Culture, Thought, and Action: An Anthropological Perspective. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Turner, Victor 1969 The Ritual Process: Structure and Anti-Structure. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. van Gennep, Arnold 1960 Rites of Passage. Translated by Monika B. Vizedom and Gabrielle L. Caffee. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wheatley, Paul 1971 The Pivot of the Four Quarters: A Preliminary Enquiry Into the Origins and Character of the Ancient Chinese City. Chicago: Aldine Publishing. 291

Philip P. Arnold, associate professor of American religions at Syracuse University, specializes in Native American traditions, with emphasis on contact between European and Mesoamerican civilizations and on Iroquois traditions. His work with Nahuatl texts and Central Mexican archaeological materials focuses on connections between indigenous rituals and the material world. His articles have explored the ritual symbolism of food and cultural contact in the development of religion in the Americas, and “book culture” in native communities. His current work highlights the local history and religious landscape of the Erie Canal and New York State. His books include Eating Landscape: Aztec and European Occupation of Tlalocan (1999) and Sacred Landscapes and Cultural Politics: Planting a Tree (2001, coedited with Ann Grodzins Gold).

Contributors

Davíd Carrasco holds the Rudenstine Chair in the Study of Latin America at Harvard University, with joint appointments in the Anthropology Department and the Divinity School. He is also director of the Raphael and Fletcher Lee Moses Mesoamerican Archive. His work focuses on Meso-american religions, millenarian movements, colonialism as ceremony, and ritual violence. His numerous publications include Quetzalcoatl and the Irony of Empire: Myths and Prophecies in the Aztec Tradition (1982), Religions of Mesoamerica: Cosmovision and Ceremonial Centers (1990), City of Sacrifice: The Aztec Empire and the Role of Violence in Tenochtitlan (1999), and Daily Life of the Aztecs: People of the Earth and Sun (1998, with Scott Sessions). He is editor-in-chief of the multivolume Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures (2001). Doris Heyden is a national investigator and professor in the Facultad de Letras y Filosofía at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México in Mexico City. Her interests center on the importance of nature in tradition and beliefs, research through historical chronicles, and modern Indian survivals. Among her many contributions is her pioneering study on the cultural significance of the cave under Teotihuacan’s Pyramid of the Sun. She has published numerous books in Spanish and English, including the English translation of Fray Diego Durán’s The History of the Indies of New Spain (1994) and The Book of the Gods and Rites and the Ancient Calendar of Fray Diego Durán (1971, with Fernando Horcasitas). Other volumes include Pre-Columbian Architecture of Mesoamerica (1975, with Paul Gendrop) and The Eagle, the Cactus, the Rock: The Roots of Mexico-Tenochtitlan’s Foundation, Myth (1989). Eduardo Matos Moctezuma is director of the Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia in Mexico City and was formerly the head of the Templo Mayor archaeological project and director of the Templo Mayor Museum. Within INAH he has also held other positions, including director of pre-Hispanic monuments, director of the National School of Anthropology and History, and president of the Council of Archaeology. He has directed archaeological projects at several other major sites, including Tula and Teotihuacan. A prolific lecturer and writer, he has published more than 40 books and 300 articles on Mesoamerican (especially Aztec) archaeology, art, and thought, including Treasures of the Great Temple: Art and Symbolism of the Aztec Empire (1990). The recipient of national and international honors, his achievements have been recognized by the governments of Mexico, France, and Venezuela.

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Contributors

H. B. Nicholson is emeritus professor of anthropology at the University of California, Los Angeles, where he taught for thirty-five years. His main interests are the archaeology and ethnohistory of pre-Hispanic and early colonial Mesoamerica. He has conducted archaeological excavations and surveys in Alaska, Puerto Rico, Utah, and Mexico (Basin of Mexico, western Mexico, and northeastern Mexico). He has published more than 200 articles, reviews, catalogs, and monographs devoted to Mesoamerica in general and the Aztecs in particular. He has edited or coedited various publications, including volumes 14 and 15 of the Handbook of Middle American Indians, Guide to Ethnohistorical Sources, Parts 3–4 (1975) and the Oxford Encyclopedia of Mesoamerican Cultures (2001). He is the author of Art of Aztec Mexico: Treasures of Tenochtitlan (1983, with Eloise Quiñones Keber). His most recent book is Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl: The Once and Future Lord of the Toltecs (2001). Guilhem Olivier is a researcher and instructor at the Instituto de Investi-gaciones Históricas at the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México in Mexico City and a lecturer at the École Pratique des Hautes Études in Paris. He is the author of Moqueries et Métamorphoses d’un Dieu Aztèque: Tezcatlipoca, le “Seigneur au Miroir Fumant” (Paris, 1997; English translation in press), a comprehensive study of the Aztec god Tezcatlipoca, as well as numerous articles published in Mexico and France. He is completing a book on the god Mixcoatl (Cloud Serpent) and is also investigating the relationship between animals and Mesoamerican religion. Eloise Quiñones Keber is professor of art history at Baruch College and The Graduate School of the City University of New York, where she specializes in Pre-Columbian and early colonial Mexican art. She is the author of Codex Telleriano-Remensis: Ritual, Divination, and History in a Pictorial Aztec Manuscript (1995). She has also edited Precious Greenstone, Precious Quetzal Feather, a tribute volume for Doris Heyden (2000); Chipping Away on Earth, a tribute volume for Arthur J. O. Anderson and Charles E. Dibble (1994); Mixteca-Puebla (1994, with H. B. Nicholson); and Fray Bernardino de Sahagún: Pioneer Ethnographer of Aztec Mexico (1988, with J. Jorge Klor de Alva and H. B. Nicholson). She is presently working on a book on the reinvention of Aztec art from the pre-Hispanic period to the present. Kay A. Read is associate professor of religious studies at DePaul University in Chicago. Focusing on cosmology, imagery, history, and ethical concerns of preconquest and contemporary Mesoamerica, her articles have explored such 295

Contributors

issues as the nature and significance of time, sacrifice, and rulership in the past; the character and spread of Mesoamerican mythology; and the ethical issues surrounding children’s rights. She is the author of Time and Sacrifice in the Aztec Cosmos (1998) and, with her son Jason J. González, of The Handbook of Mesoamerican Mythology (2000). She also edited Suffer the Little Children: Urban Violence and Sacred Space (2001, with Isabel Wollaston).

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Page numbers in italics indicate illustrations; page numbers in bold face indicate notes Acamapichtli, 153 Acapachtli (or Acapechtli), 121, 122, 132 Acapechtli. See Aacapechtli Acaquilpan, 109 Acihuatl, 121 Acipactli, 121, 122 Acolhuacan, 64 Acolhuaque, 17, 25 Acolnaoacatl, 144, 166 Afterlife, 116, 167 Agave, 184. See also Pulque Ahuitzotl, 153, 157, 158; funeral of, 154, 155 Almanac, 122. See also Tonalamatl Altar, 12, 43, 53, 55, 58, 231, 232

Alvarado, Pedro de: massacre, 74, 116 Amaneapanalli, 85, 93 Amaranth, 111, 123, 124, 125, 187, 188, 208, 212, 231; bones made of, 111, 124, 125, 134; statues made of, 111, 123, 124, 186 Amatetehuitl, 72, 84 Amatl, 16, 228, 229–232, 230, 235, 237–239, 243, 244, 254, 258; and Techialoyan texts, 235, 236, 238, 239, 242, 286, Plate 7; associated with food, 232, process of making paper from; 232, ritual use of, 228, 229, 233, 236, 239, 240, 286. See also Paper Amatlaquemitl, 79, 80, 84, 85, 93, 96. See also Rubber-spatter

Index Amimitl, 183. See also Camaxtli Ancestors, 152, 153, 160, 161–163, 203, 231, 287 Antiquities of Mexico, 32 Archivio Segreto (Vatican), 26, 28 Arrow, 200; use in Quecholli veintena, 183; use in Toxcatl ceremonies, 111, 124 Arte Adivinatorio, 30 Artists, 199, 202; in Sahagún’s books, 14, 29, 47, 49, 64, 99, 252, 261, 262, 266, 271, 285; in other manuscripts, 65, 194, 254–256, 259 Assistants (of Sahagún), 7, 14, 23, 64, 148, 279, 286; trilingual, 25 Atemoztli, 68, 72, 281; ceremonies of, 78, 88; depictions in codices, 91–98, 93, 94, 95, 97, 98 Atempan, 217 Atenchicalcan, 182 Atlatonan, 109, 113, 116, 121 Atlcahualo, 72, 85, 204, 233, 234, 281, 286; depictions in codices, 78–84, 80, 82. See also Cuahuitlehua; Xilomanaliztli Atl-xalli, 181, 283 Atole, 144, 158, 222 Aubin Tonalamatl, 259 Autosacrifice, 221 Axayacatl, 153, 157; funeral of, 155, 162, 164 Ayauhcalli, 93 Ayopechtli, 122, 132. See also Acapechtli Azcapotzalco, 114 Aztec, 15–18, 175, 190, 229, 241, 278, 286; capital city, 43, 176, 281; cosmovision, 179, 180, 182, 197, 223; culture/world, 11, 14–17, 108, 157, 228, 252, 273, 280, 296; divination, 252, 255, 272, 273; Empire, 17, 18, 228; Huitzilopochtli, 184; pantheon, 12, 193; paper, 227–233, 237–240; priest, 204, 264, 287; religion/prayers/belief, 12, 26, 29, 179, 180, 192, 200, 217, 261, 283, 287; ritual, 11–13, 15, 176, 177, 219, 227, 231, 233, 251, 269, 278, 283, 285; ruler/ king/tlatoani, 177, 181, 216; sacrifice, 176, 197–202, 205; sand, 181, 190, 192, 193, 284; society/class, 191, 271; style/artist, 254, 258, 260, 261; thought/philosophy, 16, 179, 180, 198, 201, 207, 211, 219, 253; Tlaloc, 228, 231, 232, 286; Tonalamatl,

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255, 257, 258; veintena, 205, 251, 252; year/calendar, 204, 252. See also Mexica; Nahua; Tenochca Aztlan, 17 Ball: eagle down, 113; grass, 222; rubber, 53; stone, 53 Ball game, 12, 53, 120. See also Ball court Ball court, 48, 53, 186, 281 Banner, 66, 78, 87, 185, 192, 216, 230, 233, 234; symbol of Panquetzaliztli, 68, 69, 73, 74, 100. See also Tetehuitl Baptism, 134, 264, 273 Bartholomaeus Anglicus. See De Proprietatibus Rerum Basin of Mexico, 12, 17, 21, 23, 64, 65, 72, 99, 179, 180, 229, 231, 281 Bathing, 88, 117; as baptism, 134, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267; as part of sacrifice, 182–191, 193 Bautista, Juan de, 31 Bautista Muñoz, Juan, 32 Beheading, 115, 216; of women, 201, 204, 210 Benavente, Fray Toribio de. See Motolinia Benedictine, 7, 22 Bernardino, Fray, 7, 9, 10, 14; life in New Spain, 21–35. See also Sahagún (Fray Bernardino de) Bibliografía Mexicana del Siglo XVI, 34 Biblioteca de la Real Academia de la Historia, 11, 25, 29, 32, 33, 63, 273 Biblioteca del Real Palacio, 11, 25, 33, 63, 267 Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, 11, 34, 273 Birth: of maize, 118; ritual at time of, 116, 122, 263; of the sun, 133. See also Childbirth Blood, 151, 201, 203, 204, 208, 218, 222, 233; human sacrifice, 12, 79, 86, 119, 124, 170, 216, 210, 222, 233, 255, 287; during Quecholli, 194; self sacrifice, 205 Bloodletting, 217 Boban Calendar Wheel, 70, 75, 84, 88, 96 Bonampak, 167 Bones, 53, 200; amaranth, 111, 124, 125, 134; decoration on cloth, 53, 111, 124, 125; of fish, 178; incineration, 147, 156; Quetzalcoatl in underworld, 120; sacrificial

Index (sharpened), 86, 255; used to make human beings, 169, 170 Borgia Group (Codex Borgia, Codex Cospi, Codex Fejérváry-Mayer, Codex Laud, Codex Vaticanus B), 255, 258, 259, 269, 273. See also corresponding entries Breathing force. See Ihiyotl Breve Compendio de los Ritos Ydolátricos que los Yndios Desta Nueva España Usaban en Tiempo de Su Infidelidad, 28 Bundle, 111; sacred, 120, 124, 125, 127, 283 (see also Tlaquimilolli); year, 66, 108 (see also Xiuhmolpilli) Burial, 119, 162, 170, 279 Burning. See Cremation Calendar, 29, 108, 252, 255, 266, 282 Calendar Wheel, 29, 70, 75, 76, 84, 89, 96 Calpixque, 113, 117 Calpulli, 185, 209 Camala, 22. See also Sanctus Facundus and Sahagún (town of ) Camino de Santiago, 9, 22 Captive, 114; sacrifice of, 114, 117, 119, 123, 124, 129, 130, 145, 183, 186, 189, 209, 216 Carochi, Horacio, 166 Casa del Tepozteco, 66 Cathedral. See Metropolitan Cathedral Caualtepec, 109 Centeotl, 131, 183, 197, 215–217, 223 Ceramic, 59 Ceremony/ceremonial, 107, 108, 219, 284; Atemozlti, 78; Atlcahualo, 233, 234; bathing, 182, 183, 185, 187, 188, 190, 262, 263; center, 201, 202, 209, 216, 220; Chalco, 132; combat, 55; consecration, of Templo Mayor, 178; Cuahuitlehua, 72; Day of the Dead, 231; divination, 286, 287; enthronement, 124, 125, 134; Etzalcualiztli, 88, 230; funeral, 152, 155, 164, 169; Huey Tecuilhuitl, 182, 211, 212; illustration, 222; Izcalli, 187–190; king, 123; landscape, 197, 198, 200, 204; meal, 231; New Fire, 66; Ochpaniztli, 210; Panquetzaliztli, 184; paper, 185, 230–234, 234, 286; performance, 99; Quecholli, 117, 118, 183, 283; Tecuilhuitontli, 208, 209; Tenochtitlan precinct, 43–45, 47, 54, 55,

60, 155, 201, 280, 281; sand, 179, 190, 191; Tezcatlipoca, 126, 127, 282; Tlaloc, 232, 264, 280–284; Toci, 217; Toxcatl, 118–127, 282; veintena, 12, 13, 16, 63–65, 70, 96, 99, 175, 176, 182, 185, 203, 233, 251, 252, 264, 281, 286; women’s sacrifice, 203–205, 220, 222, 280, 287. See also Rite/ritual Chalchihuitl, 95 Chalchiuhtlicue, 78, 91, 93, 95, 230 Chalchiuhxicalli, 210 Chalco, 130, 132, 162; associated with music, 121, 126, 283 Chia, 208 Chicahuaztli, 78 Chichimecatecuhtli, Carlos (Lord of Tetzcoco), 264 Chicomecoatl, 206, 207, 230; Centeotl reference, 223; rites of, 222 Child(ren): Cihuateteo as menace to, 271, 272; Cuahuitlehua, 78; Izcalli, 192; maize-child, 122; naming/bathing, 262, 263, 265, 266, 267, 269, 273; presentation to Tezcatlipoca, 109; sacrifice of, 72, 78, 202–205, 233; “stretching,” 192, 194 Childbirth, 13, 215, 221, 262, 271 Chinampa, 228 Cholollan, 162; Sahagún in, 23; Quetzalcoatl rituals in, 114–116, 129, 133 Cholula. See Cholollan Chronicler, 31, 44, 45, 46, 55, 191; Sahagún as, 182, 190 Chronicles of Michoacán, 119, 120, 282 Church (Catholic), 108 Cihuacoatl, 110, 117, 169; as co-ruler, 158; as mother of Quetzalcoatl, 131 Cihuateotl, 272 Cihuateteo, 271, 272 Cinteotl, 206. See also Centeotl Cipactli, 122, 210 Cipactonal, 253–256, 255, 256 Citlalicue, 121 Ciudad Rodrigo, Fray Antonio de, 22 Cleansing: with sand, 117, 192; rituals, 262, 283, 284. See also Bathing Cluny, 22 Coatlapechco, 124 Coatlicue, 114

299

Index Codex Aubin, 46, 154 Codex Azoyú II, 67, 89, 99 Codex Becker I, 135 Codex Borbonicus: Atemoztli, 96; Cipactonal and Oxomoco, 254; Cuahuitlehua, 85; Etzalcualiztli, 93; tonalamatl, 255, 257–260; tonalpohualli, 154; veintenas, 65, 66, 71, 79 Codex Borgia: Cipactli, 122; tonalamatl, 255–259, 269, 273; Xochipilli, 118 Codex Cempoallan, 235 Codex Chimalpahin, 162, 170 Codex Chimalpopoca, 162, 169 Codex Cospi, 273 Codex en Cruz, 66, 68 Codex Fejéváry-Mayer, 273 Codex García Granados, 167 Codex Ixtlilxochitl, 46, 128 Codex Laud, 273 Codex Magliabechiano: Atemoztli, 93; Etzalcualiztli, 88; Xilomanaliztli, 80; Xochipilli, 118 Codex Mendoza, 67, 99, 229 Codex Mexicanus, 68 Codex Rámirez, 129 Codex Telleriano-Remensis, 46; Atemoztli, 94; Atlcahualo (missing), 81, 84; Etzalcualiztli (missing), 88; Quecholli, 194; tonalamatl, 259; veintena, 65, 68, 71 Codex Tudela, 133; Atemoztli, 93; Etzalcualiztli, 88; Toxcatl, 124; veintena, 71; Xilomanaliztli, 80; Xoxhipilli, 118 Codex Vaticanus A: Atemoztli, 94, 96, 99; Atlcahualo, 81, 84; cosmology, 153, 169, 170; Etzalcualiztli, 88; tonalamatl, 260; Toxcatl, 118, 121, 122, 126; veintena, 68, 71 Codex Vaticanus B, 131, 256, 257, 273 Codex Vindobonensis, 135 Códice de Huichapan, 66, 68 Códice de Mauricio de la Arena, 96 Códice Tudela. See Codex Tudela Códices de Tlaquiltenango, 68, 88, 96 Códices Matritenses, 32, 33 Colegio de Santa Cruz, 7, 23, 25, 28, 64 Coloquios y Doctrina Cristiana con que los Doze Frayles de San Francisco Embiados por el Papa Adriano Sesto y por el Emperador Carlos Quinto Convirtieron a los Indios de

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la Nueva España, en Lengua Mexicana y Española, 26 Conchs, 78, 120, 135 Congregación, 236 Conversos, 22 Copal, 109, 126, 134 Copalxiquipilli, 78, 91 Cortés, Hernándo, 18, 21, 22, 30 Cosas, 11, 24, 26, 43, 252 Cosmo-magical, 197–216, 218, 219, 221, 223, 284, 285, 287; circle, 198, 199, 204, 212, 213, 216, 218, 220, 287; object, 201; sacrifice, 197; sand, 283; skin, 216; symbol, 199 Cosmos, 122, 149, 150, 200, 206, 233, 218, 285; Main Temple as center of, 12, 44; Nahuatl, 151, 153, 154, 156, 160, 162, 164, 165; place of the dead, 163; ruler’s funeral, 147, 149; sand, 179; women’s sacrifice, 17 Cotton, 152, 209 Council of the Indies, 27, 29 Count of days, 253, 269, 271. See also Tonalpohualli Courtesan, 117, 131 Cozcatl, 128 Cremation, 78, 155, 159; Tizoc, 158; tlatoani’s, 147, 149, 154–157, 160–161, 163, 171. See also Funeral Cuahuitlehua, 72, 233, 234; depictions in codices 78–84, 79, 80, 82, 83. See also Atlcahualo, Xilomanaliztli Cuauhnexatolli, 222. See also Atole Cuauhquiyahuac, 49 Cuauhxicalli, 49, 50, 51, 60 Cuexcotzin, 43 Cuezalhuitoncatl, 86. See also Headdress Cuilapan, 100 Colhua, 18, 130. See also Mexica Colhuacan, 216 Curandero, 232 Custodio, 27 Dancing, 198, 204, 211, 288; during Etzalcualiztli, 86; during Huey Tecuilhuitl, 87; during Huey Tozoztli, 110; during Izcalli, 189, 190; during Ochpaniztli, 214, 217; during Panquetzaliztli, 185; during Toxcatl, 112, 118, 119, 122, 124;

Index Huixtocihuatl’s representative, 209; of the serpent, 112; Quetzalcoatl’s impersonator, 133, 182; Xilonen’s representative, 212 Dart: used in sacrifice, 147, 156; making of, 183 Day signs, 268 De Proprietatibus Rerum, 27 Death, 165, 198, 202, 203, 220, 233; ancestor, 153, 160, 163; as a canoe voyage, 170; children, 233; Cihuateteo, 271; funereal rite, 143–146, 148, 149; ihiyotl, 161; Ixcozauhqui, 189; Izcalli, 187; king/ ruler, 123–125, 127, 152, 153, 158–165, 169; Land of (Mictlan), 143, 148, 149, 151, 152, 154, 167, 169; Mictlantecuhtli, 58, 120, 158, 159, 194; paper, 233; sacrifice, 116–118, 182, 184, 190, 192, 204, 208–215, 283, 284, 287; sand, 192, 284; teyolia, 161; Tizoc, 164; Tlalocan, 207; Toci, 220; tonalamatl, 13; tonalli, 152, 157, 159, 161 Decapitating: during Huey Tecuilhuitl, 183; quails, 111; during Quecholli, 194. See also Beheading Deceased. See Death Demon, 118; as star, 194; copal as nourishment of, 134; invocation in tonalamatl, 257, 261 Destruction: of Pre-conquest culture, 15, 100, 229; ritual, 200, 212, 241 Dismemberment, 202, 223, 280 Divination, 240; almanac (tonalamatl), 122, 253, 257, 271, 272; cycle (tonalpohualli), 65, 267; depiction in the Florentine Codex, 251–273; images, 252, 260, 261, 266, 271, 285; rituals, 12, 13, 16, 30, 252, 261, 264, 267, 269, 273; system, 25, 30. See also Diviner Divinatory handbook, 13, 65, 253, 255, 260, 266, 269, 272, 285. See also Tonalamatl Diviner, 255, 256, 265. See also Divination; Tonalpohque Dominican, 45, 100, 108, 180. See also Durán, Fray Diego Donceles (Calle), 49, 60 Drawing: native style, 25; Primeros Memoriales, 45, 48, 53, 55, 60; of the Main Temple, 46, 48, 55. See also Illustration Dream, 232, 267, 269, 285

Drowning (of children during Atemoztli), 78 Drum, 54, 85, 133, 197, 217. See also Huehuetl Drunk, 117, 210, 223, 262, 263 Durán, Fray Diego, 13, 45; Atemoztli, 94; dead ruler, 154–162, 169; Chicomecoatl, 222; Etzalcualiztli, 88; Izcalli, 194; life of, 191; Quecholli, 194; sand, 180–186; Temple of Tezcatlipoca, 55; Toxcatl, 108, 110, 111, 114, 115, 119, 121, 124, 125, 126, 128, 132, 133, 280, 282; Xilomanaliztli, 81 Eagle: claws, 209; cuauhxicalli, 49, 50, 51, 60; down, 113, 209, 216; feathers, 209; House of the Eagles, 55, 58, 59, 271, 272; skin, 217; warrior, 58, 217 Eagle-ocelot [jaguar] warrior, 214 Ear: bloodletting, 205; ornament, 113 Earplug, 208 Earth surface, 121, 149, 150, 152–154, 161, 167, 284. See also Tlalticpac Earthquake, 165 East (orientation of monuments), 48, 54, 55, 57, 58, 59, 60, 133 Effigy: burning of, 154–160, 171, 222, 285 Ehecahuictli, 85, 87 Ehecailacacozcatl, 86 Ehecatl Quetzalcoatl, 55; Etzalcualiztli patron, 85, 86; tonalamatl patron, 255, 257 Ehecatl: created by Tezcatlipoca, 120; temple of, 53 Ehecaxonecuilli, 85 El Título de Totonicapán, 119, 133 Empire: Aztec, 17, 18, 176, 213, 214, 217, 228; Spanish/New World, 28, 32; Triple Alliance, 99 Enclosure (ceremonial), 12, 55. See also Precinct Enemies, 110, 134, 198, 199, 217, 287; in Flower Wars, 156, 162; sacrifice of, 197 Enríquez, Viceroy Martín, 29 Enthronement rites, 123–125 Escalona, Fray Alonso de, 28 Etzalcomitl, 85, 88 Etzalcualiztli, 67, 68, 72, 99, 230, 281, Plate 4, Plate 5; rituals, 78, 84; description in codices, 85–89, 86, 87, 89, 90, 91, 92 Etzalli, 72, 85, 89

301

Index Evangelization, 10, 26, 30, 31, 229; Sahagún’s work, 5, 7, 10, 14, 22, 25, 261 Excavation: Templo Mayor project, 45–60 Execution, 115, 119, 223; of Carlos Chichimecatecuhtli, 264 Extremadura, San Gabriel de, 22 Eyes: mirrors as Huitzilopochtli’s, 125, 158 Feathers, 88, 118, 147, 187–189, 200, 206, 209, 216, 218, 231, 232; banner, 88; headdress, 78, 86, 88, 93, 113, 154, 192; heron, 113; jar of, 187; parrot, 187, 188, 209; quetzal, 113, 182, 208, 209, 217 Feathered Serpent, 255, 257. See also Quetzalcoatl Femur, 125, 134 Fertility, 78–80, 88, 200, 206, 209, 214; agricultural, 191, 192; and amatl, 239; Ehecatl Quetzalcoatl, 85, 258; Tlaloc, 12, 45, 65, 72, 210, 228; Tlazolteotl, 256; and warfare, 220, 283 Festival, 204, 208, 220, 221, 286. See also Veintena Fire Serpent, 50, 188. See also Xiuhcoatl Flaying: in Ochpaniztli, 221, 212; skins of eagles and jaguars; 217; in Toxcatl, 114 Flesh, 113, 145, 146, 161, 205; Tezcatlipoca’s representative, 128 Florence, 11, 27, 33, 34 Florentine Codex, 148; divination, 251–273, 255, 263, 265, 270, 280, 285; Etzalcualiztli, 88; funeral ritual, 143–147, 155, 160, 162, 284; history of, 31–35; indigenous paper, 228–234, 236, 243, 286; Templo Mayor description, 43, 45, 47, 49, 281; women’s sacrifice, 197–219, 287. See also Sahagún, Historia General . . . Flutes, 16, 54, 133; breaking of, 109, 121, 123, 127, 283; ritual use in Toxcatl, 108–110, 118–127; Tezcatlipoca’s instrument, 282, 283 Franciscan, 9, 25–27, 30, 31, 34, 64, 143; church, 9; missionary, 3, 10, 22, 23, 43, 120, 175, 251; monastery, 22, 25, 29, 32 Funeral, 148, 149, 171; tlatoani’s, 147, 148, 153, 157, 160–164, 169, 284; rite, 12, 151–157, 167, 285 Funerary chapel, 9, 10. See also La Peregrina

302

Game, 54; hunting; 183, 184, 188; war, 197, 212, 214, 216, 218, 287, 288. See also Ball game Genealogy, 152, 157, 163 Gifts: exchange of, 162, 169, 243; from gods, 119; ritual, 185, 211, 222, 232; at tlatoani’s funeral, 156; to warriors, 218, 232, 243 Girls: Mixtec ritual, 134; pleasure, 117, 131, 134, 211, 214, 215; representing goddesses, 121, 122, 182, 193, 204, 207, 222; ritual insults by, 206; sacrifice of, 202–209, 211–216, 222; in Toxcatl, 111, 117, 124. See also Women Glossing, 165, 205, 260, 267 Goggle-eyed, 79, 86, 88. See also Tlaloc Gold, 93, 113, 181, 217, 283. See also Teocuitlaxcalli Gourd, 183, 212; tobacco, 78, 91. See also Yetecomitl Grandmother (Our), 214. See also Toci Great Temple, 115, 216. See also Templo Mayor Greenstone, 95, 147, 149, 156 Guatemala (Calle), 48, 51, 53 Guerrero, 99, 181 Handwriting: Florentine Codex, 148 Headband, 79, 86, 91 Headdress, 85, 199, 230; feather, 86, 88, 93; paper, 78; Quetzalcoatl, 255; Tlaloc, 94, 231; Toci, 216; Xilonen, 182, 192; Xipe Totec, 67 Heart, 161, 202, 203, 211; of the Earth (Tlalli iyollo), 214, 239; force, 160; greestone, 147, 149, 156; Huixtocihuatl, 208, 210; of maize (Chicomecoatl), 205, 207, 218; of the mountain (Tepeyollotl), 230; of plants, 197, 210, 218, 287, 288; and sacrifice, 88, 110, 145, 183, 184, 194, 201, 204, 210, 212, 215, 216 Heaven, 119, 122, 126, 157, 200, 282 Hernández, Dr. Francisco, 31 Heron feathers, 88, 113, 147 Hidalgo, 7, 25, 267 Hieroglyph, 53, 100 Historia General (Universal) de las Cosas de (la) Nueva España, 11, 27–34, 43, 47, 108, 252. See also Florentine Codex

Index Historia de las Indias de Nueva España e Islas de la Tierra Firme, 13, 46, 81, 108, 169, 180. See also Durán, Diego Historia Naturalis, 27 Histoyre du Mechique, 154 Holguín, Diego de, 115, 124 Hombres-dioses, 202 Honey, 111, 124, 125 Hopi, 194, 284 Horoscope, 253, 262, 263. See also Tonalamatl Huauquiltamalqualiztli, 194 Huaxtec, 217 Huaxtepec, 230 Huehue Motecuhzoma, 153. See also Motecuhzoma I Huehuetl, 85. See also Drum Huehuetlatolli, 24, 26 Huexotzinco, 23, 113, 162 Huey Tecuilhuitl, 70, 182, 183, 191, 192, 193, 211, 220, 283 Huey Tozoztli, 93, 109, 203, Plate 4 Hueyteocalli, 44. See also Templo Mayor Hueytozoztli. See Huey Tozoztli Huipil, 85, 91, 94 Huitzalatl, 191 Huitzilatl, 185 Huitzilihuitl, 130 Huitzilopochco, 185 Huitzilopochtli, 12, 45, 48, 49, 53, 134, 169, 179, 186, 188, 215; amaranth statue, 111, 124, 125; impersonator, 116; in Izcalli, 189, 191; in Panquetzaliztli, 184–186; in Toxcatl, 110–112, 123–126; loincloth, 111, 124, 125; patron of Axayacatl, 155–157; sacred bundle, 125 Huitznahua(c), 111, 186 Huixtocihuatl, 109, 113, 116, 122, 208, 209 Huixtotin, 209. See also Salt people Humboldt, Alexander von, 17 Hummingbird (Left Side), 111. See also Huitzilopochtli Hunbatz, 118 Hunchouen, 118 Idolatry, 14, 107, 108, 180, 257, 264, 269 Ihiyotia, 170 Ihiyotl, 151, 156, 157, 159, 161, 163, 166, 170

Ihuicamina, 153. See also Motecuhzoma Ilamatecuhtli, 114 Ilhuicatl, 43, 121, 122, 149, 180 Ilhuitl, 96 Illustration: European, 65, 266; Florentine Codex, 33, 35; Primeros Memoriales, 53, 64; Tezcatlipoca, 113; veintenas, 66, 78, 79, 85, 88, 93, 96, 99 Image: abbreviated (veintenas), 75, 76, 77, 78, 84, 88, 96, 99, 100, 281; cosmic, 210; deity representation, 80, 111, 112, 146, 189, 205, 231, 232; divinatory/tonalamatl, 260–267, 263, 265, 271, 272, 285; fertility, 209; god impersonator, 108, 113–118, 124, 126, 127, 189, 200, 203, 207, 209, 215, 282; human representation, 199; painted, 235, 257, 259, 260, 271; pre-Hispanic, 100, 259; Primeros Memoriales, 72; tribute tally, 99; veintena, 65–67, 100, 126, 127, 252–254 Imallacualhuan, 111. See also Prisoner Immortality, 167 Impersonator, 12, 16, 70, 96, 114, 176, 204, 213, 220, 284; Centeotl, 215–217; Chalchiuhtlicue, 91; Etzalcualiztli, 78; Huitzilopochtli, 116; Ixcozauhqui, 117; Iztaccihuatl, 230; Mixcoatl/Camaxtli, 183, 184, 192, 194; Quetzalcoatl, 133; Tepeyollotl, 258, 283; Tezcatlipoca, 109, 110, 111, 115–118, 121, 123, 282, 283; Tlaloc, 79, 85, 86, 88; Toci, 216–218; Xilonen, 175, 182, 191, 192, 200; Xiuhtecuhtli, 187, 188, 191, 199. See also Ixiptla; Representative Incense, 48, 146; bag, 78, 230, 255; burner, 53, 231; in Toxcatl, 109, 119, 126; offering to Toci, 216 Indies, 18, 279 Informants (Sahagún’s), 14, 21, 49, 108, 126, 148, 190, 210, 252, 279; male, 222; street, 7, Tepepolco, 25, 64; Tlalocan, 179; Tlatelolco, 25, 190; Toxcatl/ Tezcatlipoca, 111, 113–118, 124, 126, 127, 134; veintena, 175, 197; women’s sacrifice, 215 Inquisition, 130 Invocation, 180, 257, 261 Islam, 7, 9 Itzucan, 114

303

Index Ixcozauhqui, 187, 189; impersonator, 114, 117, 189. See also Xiuhtecuhtli Ixiptla, 130, 202–204, 207, 210, 215, 219, 287; Chicomecoatl, 222; Huitzilopochtli, 128; Huixtocihuatl, 208; Ixteucale, 112; Teteoinnan, 214; Tezcatlipoca, 108, 109, 113, 115, 116, 282, 283; Titlacahuan, 112; Tlaloc, 79; Xilonen, 182, 199; Xiuhtecuhtli, 114, 119. See also Image; Impersonator; Representative; Teotl ixiptla Ixteucale, 112, 113. See also Tlacahuepan Izcalli, 114, 187–192, 283 Izquitecatl, 114, 183 Iztaccihuatl, 23, 230 Iztactepetl, 23, 217 Jacket, 88, 190. See also Xicolli Jade, 147, 156, 160 Jade Skirt. See Chalchiuhtlicue Jaguar, 230; cuauhxicalli, 49, 50, 60; god, 256, 258; skin, 85, 208, 217; warriors, 54, 55, 215 Jewel, 93, 95, 146, 190, 199 Jews, 7, 9, 22 Juárez de Peralta, 31 Kalendario Mexicano, Latino, y Castellano, 30, 71 Killing, 223, 287, 288; animal, 184; Aztec envoys, 181; ceremony, 220; child(ren), 204, 205, 209, 210, 214–216, 233; dog, 146, 156; Flowery War, 170; slaves, 147; Tlaloc, 232; war prisoners, 114, women, 197, 201, 202, 204, 208. See also Sacrifice King: dance, 218, 220; “death” in Toxcatl, 122–127, 282, 283; funeral ritual, 284; relationship with Tezcatlipoca, 108–113; as sacrificer, 114; union with goddess impersonator, 215. See also Ruler; Tlatoani Kiva, 194, 284 Knife, 216; sacrificial, 78, 210, 200 La Peregrina church, 9, 10 Lacandon, 131 Lapilli, 176 Libro de la Conquista, 30, 32 Lienzo de Jucutacato, 132 Lienzo de Tlaxcala, 68 Liquor: gift of, 232

304

Liver, 170. See also Ihiyotl Loincloth, 85, Huizilopochtli’s, 111, 124, 125; Tezcatlipoca’s, 113, 128 Lord: dancing, 78, 111; Death (see also Mictlantecuhtli), 158, 159, 194; flaying/ sacrifice, 114, 130; funeral, 147–149; ornaments, 91; rebirth, 134; Smoking mirror (see also Tezcatlipoca), 108, 110, 119, 126; Turquoise (see also Xiuhtecuhtli), 187; underworld, 167. See also Ruler; Tlatoani Los Doce, 22 Macehual, 130 Macuilli, 118 Madrid, 11, 25, 26, 28, 29, 32, 33, 63 Maguey, 216; penitential spine, 91, 222; pulque, 183 Main Temple: of Mexico, 12, 43–48, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 51, 53, 55, 57, 58, 218; of Tlateloco, 55. See also Templo Mayor Maize, 78, 84, 89, 110, 111, 124, 156, 160, 187, 192, 203, 206–208, 210, 212, 217, 232; atole, 222; birth of, 118; Centeotl, 183, 206, 215; Chicomecoatl, 230; child, 122; dough, 78; ear, 80, 194; etzalli, 78; heart of, 203, 205, 207, 208, 218; image of Huitzilopochtli, 124; Tlaloc, 88; used in divination, 254, 255; used to make humans, 169; Xilonen, 182, 183, 191, 200, 211, 220, 288 Maize ear (tender), 72, 80, 84, 122, 207, 222. See also Xilomanaliztli; Xilotl Mamaltin, 113. See also War prisoner Man-god, 126, 130. See also Hombres-dioses Manual de Ministros de Indios, 70 Manuscript, 12, 32, 33, 46, 253, 257, 258, 273; Borgia Group, 256, 273; Codex Borbonicus, 255; Códice Tudela, 88; Historia General de las Cosas de Nueva España, 29, 252; historical, 99; Manuscrito de Tolosa, 29, 32; painted/pictorial, 16, 67, 96, 100, 113, 168; Primeros Memoriales, 25, 45, 63, 64, 267; Techialoyan, 227, 235–239, 236, 244, 286, Plate 7; veintena, 70 Manuscrito de 1569, 27 Manuscrito de Tlatelolco, 11, 26, 27 Manuscrito de Tolosa (or Manuscrito Tolosano), 29, 32

Index Map: Sahagún’s Mexico, 24; Templo Mayor remains, 52 Marketplace, 199, 214, 216, 218 Marriage, 13, 158, 253 Mask, 188; Ehecatl, 86; skin, 197, 215, 217, 219; Tlaloc, 59, 79 Massacre: Alvarado, 74, 115 Mat: design, 54; reed, 78, 85, 88, 93, 94, 121, 132, 186, 266 Matrícula de Tributos, 67, 99 Maya, 35, 118, 132, 167, 170, 201; constellation, 132; hero, 160; rituals, 278; ruler, 163; writing, 100 Maya-Kekchis, 132 Memoriales en Tres Columnas, 26 Mendieta, Fray Gerónimo de, 13, 27, 28, 31 Mendoza, Antonio de, 23 Mendoza, Diego, 27 Merchant, 114, 129, 169, 170, 185 Metropolitan Cathedral, 48, 55, 57, 60 Mexica, 17, 18, 26; cosmology, 149, 160; culture/society, 59, 108, 117, 163; dead tlatoani, 147, 161; gods, 111, 113; Main Temple, 44, 45, 281; migration, 124, 216; origin of music, 119; rituals, 164; Tenochtitlan, 11, 12, 43, 149; Toxcatl, 127. See also Aztec; Nahua; Tenochca Mexican, 12, 18, 119. See also Aztec; Mexica; Nahua Miccailhuitl/Tlaxochimaco, 71 Miccailhuitontli, 68 Mictecacihuatl, 144 Mictlan, 144–165, 284 Mictlantecuhtli, 58, 120, 157, 159, 194 Midwife, 263, 265 Mirror, 113; as eye; 125, 128, 158, 255, 283; part of sacred bundle, 125, 158; Smoking, 55, 108, 110, 119, 126, 255, 257 Missionary, 15, 25, 30, 31, 46, 65, 228, 237, 257; Andrés de Olmos, 120, 264; Diego Durán, 154; Franciscan, 9, 10, 22, 23, 26, 127; Sahagún, 3, 5, 7, 14, 21, 43, 23, 30, 64, 175, 251, 261 Mixcoatl, 114, 116, 184, 185, 191, 192; Quecholli, 183–185, 194 Mixcoatl-Camaxtli, 184, 185 Mixcoatl, Andrés. See Man-god Mixcoatontli, 194 Mixcomitl, 88

Mixtec, 134, 167 Mixteca, 100 Mococoloa, 112. See also Dance Moctezuma, 214. See also Motecuhzoma Molina, Fray Alonso de, 132, 166, 167, 181 Momomochiitotia, 112. See also Dance Monarchía Indiana, 31. See also Torquemada Monastery: Benedictine (in Sahagún), 7; Franciscan (in Sahagún), 22, (in Huexotzinco), 23, (in Tepepolco), 25, (in Tolosa), 32; Dominican (in Cuilapan), 100 Monkey, 118, 131, 170 Monte Albán, 35, 100 Morelos, 66, 72, 191, 230 Mosaic, 113, 188 Motecuhzoma: I (Huehue Motecuhzoma Ilhuicamina), 55, 159; II (Motecuhzoma Xocoyotzin), 22, 114, 115, 134, 159, 181, 214, 217, 218, 223 Motolinia, 13, 114, 124, 191, 282 Mountain, 12, 78, 145, 149, 217; cave, 256; cosmic, 202, 203, 207, 212, 228; image of ancestors, 231; sand, 181; Tepeilhuitl, 230, 286; Tepeticton, 78, 79; Tepeyollotl, 230 Mourning: Ahuitzotl, 155; tlatoani’s death, 144, 148, 149, 151, 152, 159, 161, 164, 284, 285 Mouth: Mictlantecuhtli, 158; Tlaloc, 88; speech volutes, 258 Moya de Contreras, Archbishop Pedro, 29, 30 Mozarabic, 7 Mudéjar, 7–9, 22 Muñoz Camargo (Diego), 31, 70, 84, 89, 96, 191. See also Veytia Calendar Wheels Muñoz, Juan Bautista, 32 Music, 111, 271; flute, 119; gods and, 133; myth of origin, 108, 119–121, 123, 126, 127, 282, 283; Popol Vuh, 118; Toxcatl, 121, 126, 282, 283; Xochipilli, 54, 118 Nacxitl, 133 Nahua, 17, 18, 232, 267, 278; cosmos, 153, 154, 287; elders, 14, 203; informants, 108, 148, 279; sacrifice, 164; tonalamatl, 261; use of paper, 227, 232–243. See also Aztec; Mexica; Tenochca Nahualli, 166, 258 Nahuatl: cosmos, 151, 176; language, 10, 16, 17, 18, 21, 151, 165; paper, 232, 235;

305

Index Primeros Memoriales, 63, 64; Sahagún as speaker of, 22, 23, 30; Sahagún’s works in, 23, 24, 25, 26, 31, 32, 108, 143; Tepepolco, 64; Tezcatlipoca’s impersonator, 113, 114; trilingual students-­assistants, 7, 25, 64, 148, 190; version of the Historia…, 27, 29 Nanahuatzin, 160 Navarra, 29 Navarro, Fray Miguel, 26–28 Necoquixecan, 182 Nejayote, 232 Nene, 120 New Fire, 66, 73, 74, 134 Newborn: naming, 266, 267 Nextamalatolli. See Atole Nextlahualtin, 198. See also Sacrifice Night lords, 258 Nopalli, 167 Oaxaca, 100, 134, 255 Obsidian Wind, 145, 146, 154 Obsidian, 100, 145, 147, 154, 216; divining mirror, 255; mosaic mask, 188 Ocelot, 230 Ocholli, 84. See also Maize Ochpaniztli, 67, 68, 72, 99, Plate 6; women’s sacrifice, 204, 210, 212, 213, 218, 220 Octli, 66, 91, 93. See also Pulque Offerings, 12, 16, 51, 59, 204, 206, 219; amaranth and honey, 124, 125; amatl, 232; ball court, 53; blood, 119, 123, 222, 287; etzalli, 78; food, 78, 206; heart, 110, 111; hunting game, 183; musical instruments, 54; sacrifice, 158, 192, 193; and sacrificial stone, 209; sand, 175–180, 182, 191; tamales, 72; Tlaloc, 231; Xilomanaliztli, 72, 80 Olmos, Andrés de, 25, 120, 121, 123 Omen, 214; dreams, 267, 269, 285 1 Acatl, 70 Orphan, 144, 152, 161 Ovando, Juan de, 27, 28 Oxomoco, 253–255, 255, 256 Oztopilli, 88, 93 Painal, 186, 187 Paintings, 254, 255, 262; Hispanic (European) tradition, 258, 262; wall, 12

306

Panquetzaliztli, 66–69, 68, 69, 73, 74, 184, 186; paper banner, 99, 100, 191, 192 Pantitlan, 88, 182 Papagayo, 181 Paper, 16, 231, 232, 242, 244, 286; artisans, 145, 232; banner, 66, 68, 69, 73, 74, 78, 100, 233, 234; children sacrifice, 78, 233; colonial, 233–235, 259, 287; cup, 88; food and, 232; headdress, 78, 79, 85, 208, 216, 230, 231; Huitzilopochtli’s loincloth, 111; native book, 254, 258; ornament, 79, 85, 88, 91, 153, 230, 231; ritual, 16, 72, 91, 93, 203, 206, 227–236, 239, 265; Techialoyan, 238, 239; tribute, 230; vestments, 81, 88, 145, 147, 185, 189, 230, 231 Paradise, 121, 179, 191. See also Tlalocan Parrot feather, 209; yellow, 187, 188 Pectoral, 86, 93 Piltzintecuhtli, 131 PM. See Primeros Memoriales Pochtlan, 215 Ponce, Fray Pedro, 30 Popocatepetl, 23, 181 Popol Vuh, 118, 120, 133, 160, 282 Precinct: Tenochtitlan ceremonial, 12, 43–60, 44, 46, 52, 280, 281, Plate 3 Pre-Columbian. See Pre-Hispanic Preconquest. See Pre-Hispanic Pre-Hispanic: artist, 199, 220; book, 100, 255, 257, 258, 260, 261, 262, 281, 285; calendar, 99, 100; Codex Borbonicus, 255; culture, 7; divination, 30, 50, 262, 264, 272, 285; manuscript, 96, 129, 166; model, 100, 282, 285; monument, 96; paper, 227–229, 232, 235, 236, 239, 242, 244; period, 21, 100, 228, 253; pictures, 25, 50, 65–67, 100, 255, 257–259, 266; ritual, 13, 14, 100, 176, 231, 264, 278, 280, 281, 285, 286; ruler, 22 Priest: in ceremonies, 12, 13; Cipactonal, 255, 256; dancing, 111, 119; Etzalcualiztli, 87, 88, 230; fasting, 78; Huey Tecuilhuitl, 182, 183; incense burning, 48; Izcalli, 188, 189; and the new king, 123; offering, 205, 206, 216, 218, 252; Panquetzaliztli, 186; Tlaloc, 286; Topiltzin Quetzalcoatl, 282; Toxcatl, 109–112, 115; veintena, 65, 96, 252; women’s sacrifice, 201, 202, 209, 212, 215, 219, 287; Xilomanaliztli, 80, 81

Index Primeros Memoriales, 10, 13, 25, 34, 100, 252, 272, 273, 278, 280; Atemoztli, 91, 96, 99; Cuahuitlehua, 78–80; Etzalcualiztli, 85, 88; Main Temple, 45, 48, 281; skull rack (tzompantli), 53; temalacatl, 55; tonalamatl, 267, 269; veintenas, 63–66, 70, 72, 281, 282; women in, 219, 220, 222, 285 Prisoners, 55, 111, 113, 114, 117, 130, 132. See also War, prisoners Prognostication, 253, 262, 263, 271, 273 Prostitutes, 117 Psalmodia Cristiana, 31 Pulque, 66, 183, 185, 223, 283 Punishment, 211, 212, 223 Purepecha, 130 Purification, 193 Pyramid, 121, 126, 200, 215, 216; temple, 66, 85, 91, 96 Quail: beheading of, 111, 216 Quauhnahuac, 230 Quauhxicalco, 109 Quecholli, 68, 70, 118, 183–185, 185, 191, 192, 194, 283; sacrifice, 117, 130 Quetzal, 113, 181, 182, 208, 209, 217. See also Feather Quetzalatl, 181 Quetzalcoatl, 110, 155, 157, 258; Cihuacoatl, 131; descent into the underworld, 120; impersonator, 86, 114–116, 133; inventor of calendar, 255; music and, 133; Topiltzin, 282; Xolotl, 87, 88 Quetzalmiahuayotl, 78, 85, 88. See also Feather ornament Quetzaltepec, 181 Quiche, 119, 133 Rabinal Achi, 130, 131 Real Academia de la Historia. See Biblioteca de la . . . Real Palacio. See Biblioteca del . . . Rebirth, 125, 284 Reed, 78, 85; canoe, 121; stick, 146, 186; ball, 214, 253. See also Mat, reed Relaciones Geográficas, 131, 134, 193 Representative, 203, 282; divine hearts, 202; Huixtocihuatl, 209; maize, 182; ritual bathing, 191; ruler, 215; Tezcatlipoca, 283;

Toxcatl, 108–129; Xilonen, 200. See also Image; Impersonator; Ixiptla Ribera, Fray Francisco de, 27 Rite/ritual, 11–16; agriculture, 108, 198; annual cycle, 72; Atemoztli, 91; ball game, 53; bathing/cleansing, 134, 187, 190–192, 193, 262–264, 266, 284; calendar, 100, 252; chicahuaztli, 78; Chicomecoatl, 222; children’s sacrifice, 204, 205, 233; “confessional,” 269; cremation, 155, 156, 160, 161; Cuahuitlehua, 72; dancing, 209; divinatory, 13, 252, 253, 255, 257, 260, 261, 264, 267, 269, 271, 273, 280, 285; enthronement, 125, 127; Etzalcualiztli, 78, 85, 88, 230; flute/music, 16, 118, 121, 122, 123, 126, 283; handbook (tonalamatl), 13, 252, 255, 262, 269, 286; Huey Tecuilhuitl, 182, 211, 283; Hueyteocalli (Templo Mayor), 44, 280; Huitzilopochtli, 124; hunting, 183; Izcalli, 188, 283; king’s death, 124, 125; maize related, 207, 208; naming, 157, 266; Ochpaniztli, 218; offerings, 175, 177; Panquetzaliztli, 184; Pantitlan, 182; paper, 16, 79, 91, 227–233, 236, 239, 280, 286; penance, 119, 125; pulque, 183; Quecholli, 184, 283; ruler’s funeral, 147–149, 151, 153, 154, 161–164; sacred bundle, 108; sacrifice, 115, 119, 193, 203, 219, 280; sand, 16, 175–177, 180, 181, 185, 188, 190–192, 283, 284; sexual intercourse, 213, 214; skin, 214, 215; Tepeilhuitl, 230; Teteoinnan (Toci), 214; Tezcatlipoca, 121, 122, 123; Tezcatlipoca impersonator, 111, 115, 127, 283; Tlaloc, 28, 231–233; Toxcatl, 16, 108, 118, 121–123, 126, 280, 282; trecena, 258; veintena, 60, 63, 75, 99, 175, 176, 182, 190, 203, 251–273, 281, 283; walks, 206; water, 191; “wedding” with deity impersonator, 117; women’s sacrifice, 16, 197–219, 280, 287; Xilonen, 182, 193, 211. See also Ceremony Romanesque, 22 Rubber, 80, 96, 231; ball, 53 Rubber-spatter, 78, 80, 85, 233 Ruler: Ahuitzotl, 154; cremation, 149, 156; dancing, 189, 190; dispensing awards, 217; funeral, 143, 144, 147, 153, 154, 158, 162, 169, 284; heart, 156; metaphors, 152, 167;

307

Index in Mictlan, 163; Motecuhzoma I memorial stone, 55; penance, 134; seclusion, 125; sexual relations, 201, 215; succession, 162. See also King, Tlatoani Sacred bundle. See Bundle, Sacred; Tlaquimilolli Sacrifice: Atlcahualo, 204, 205; blood, 11, 12; Chalco, 132; Chicomecoatl impersonator, 207; children, 72, 78, 202, 204, 205, 233; “entering the sand,” 176, 182, 183, 192, 283; Eztalcualiztli, 85, 88; Huey Tozoztli, 205; Huixtocihuatl impersonator, 208; Huitzilopochtli impersonator, 124; Izcalli, 187–189, 287, 288, 284; Ochpaniztli, 213; Panquetzaliztli, 185, 186; prostitute, 117; Quecholli, 184, 194; Quetzalcoatl impersonator, 133; skin, 215; slave, 78, 156, 183; Tecuilhuitontli, 208; Teotihuacan, 120; Tezcatlipoca impersonator, 111, 114–126, 129; Tlaloc impersonator, 85, 88; Toci impersonator, 216; Toxcatl, 114–126; tzoalli deity images, 78; war prisoner, 114, 123, 183, 209; women, 16, 17, 197–219, 287; Xilonen impersonator, 182, 191, 211, 212 Sacrificial stone, 110, 115, 116, 185, 189, 281; Main Temple, 45; Temple of Tezcatlipoca, 55; women’s sacrifice, 201. See also Temalacatl; Techcatl Sacrificial victim, 113, 117, 123, 126, 192, 284; Cuahuitlehua, 79; drugged, 116; ritual bathing, 190, 193; sand, 175, 182, 191, 192, 283; skin, 128; Toxcatl, 114, 282 Sagrario, 55, 57, 60 Sahagún, Fray Bernardino de, 4, 5, 6, and idolatry, 14, 108, 127, 180, 257, 264, 269, 271; convento de San Francisco, 26; early works, 24; ethnographer, 11, 15, 21–31, 64, 148, 222, 228, 252, 272; formation as a chronicler, 190; history of the Florentine Codex (see also Historia . . .), 14, 25–29; in Huexotzinco, 23; later works, 29–31; life in Spain, 22; linguist, 7, 10, 21–35, 190; monument to, Plate 1, Plate 2; missionary, 14, 21–31, 64, 127, 175, 228, 229, 251; postings, 11; Templo Mayor description, 43–60, 280; in Tepepolco, 25, 64; in

308

Tlatelolco, 23, 25, 64; trustworthiness, 15; victim of typhus, 24 Sahagún, town of, 3, 4, 7, 8, 9, 13, 22 Salamanca, 9, 22, 27, 190 Salt people, 209, 210 San Francisco, convent of, 26, 31 San Lorenzo church: Florence, 11; town of Sahagún, 7 San Sebastián, Fray Pedro de, 30 San Tirso church, 7, 8 Sanctus Facundus, 3, 22 Sand, 12, 16; as cleanser, 177, 181, 192; description, 176, 177; entering, 16, 175–194; funeral, 151, 154; offerings, 176, 177–179, 182; as reason for war, 181; ritual use, 176, 182, 190–193, 211, 280, 283, 284; use by the Hopi, 194; use in veintenas, 182–190; varieties, 180, 181 Sandal, 113, 208 Santiago de Compostela, 7, 22 Screenfold, 257, 258; Codex Borbonicus, 79, 254; Borgia Group, 255, 259 Sequera, Fray Rodrigo de, 28, 29 Sevilla, San Isodoro de, 27 Sex: gods, 203; intercourse, 130, 215, 216; ritual, 202, 211, 213–215; women’s sacrifice, 198, 201; Yohualahuan, 157 Shaman, 232 Shell, 53, 178, 179; conch, 78; mosaic mask, 188; ornaments, 113, 128; pectoral, 86; sand, 176; tortoise, 54, 122 Shrine, 12, 57, 180; Animas, 53; Compostela, 7, 22; Etzalcualiztli illustration, 85; Izcalli, 189; Quecholli, 185; Tepoztlan, 66; Tlaloc/Huitzilopochtli, 12, 45 Sipapu, 194, 284 Skin, 199, 202, 279; animal, 200; eagle, 217; female victim, 199, 201, 202, 204, 212–219; jaguar, 85, 208; sacrifice, 114, 128; thigh-skin mask, 197, 215, 217, 219; Tlacaxipehualiztli, 75 Skull rack, 197, 281; in Huey Tozoztli, 110; Main Temple precinct, 48, 53, 58; Toci, 216. See also Tzompantli Slaughter, 197, 204, 208, 287. See also Sacrifice Slaves, 117, 156, 160; deities’ impersonator, 114, 124, 129, 187, 188, 282; sacrifice, 78,

Index 115, 117, 147, 156, 183, 185–189, 212; tlatoani’s funeral, 160, 165 Snowstorm, 69 Soothsaying, 253; tonalamatl, 257, 267, 285 Sumario, 27, 28 Swordfish beak, 201, 208, 210 Tamal, 72, 222; amaranth, 187, 188, 194 Tamapucheca, 130 Tamiahua Lagoon, 179 Tamoanchan, 202 Tariacuri, 130 Teccizquacuilli, 215 Techcatl, 116. See also Sacrificial stone Techialoyan manuscripts (or texts), 227, 234–239, 286; authenticity, 244 Tecpaxalli, 181. See also Sand Tecuilhuitontli, 100, 193; women’s sacrifice, 204, 208, 220 Teicauhtzin, 112 Temalacatl, 55. See also Sacrificial stone Temple: A, 58; Casa del Tepozteco, 66; Centeotl, 183; Chicomecoatl, 206; Circular, 55; Coatlan, 184; D, 58; Ehecatl, 53; Huitzilopochtli, 53, 186, 215; Huitznahuac, 111, 186; Maya, 163; Mixcoatl, 184; pyramid, 85, 91, 96; Quetzalcoatl, 133; Red, 54, 57, 57, 58; sand offering, 178; Sun, 55; in Templo Mayor precinct, 12, 43–48, 51; Tezcatlipoca, 55, 56, 118, 121; Tlacochcalco, 109, 125; Tlaloc, 59, 78, 93, 209; Tlamatzinco, 183; Tlapitzahuayan, 121, 132; Toci, 216; Tzonmolco, 189; Xochipilli, 53, 54 Templo Mayor, 12, 44, 46, 47, 52, 54, 57, 59, 176, 178, 231; as cosmic model, 193, 216; museum, 50, 58; Project 280, 281; ruler’s funeral/ashes, 155, 156, 163, 169; sacrifice of women, 201; sand in offerings, 177–182, 191, 193; skull rack, 58; temple of Tezcatlipoca, 56, Tenochtitlan, 43–60. See also Main Temple Tenochca, 7, 17, 27, 99, 115. See also Aztec; Mexica; Nahua; Tenochtitlan Tenochtitlan, 7, 11, 12, 22, 23, 149, 151, 158, 176, 198; Alvarado massacre, 74, 115; Atempan, 217; ceremonial precinct/ Templo Mayor, 43, 44, 60, 177, 178, 281;

Codex Borbonicus provenience, 65; Codex Mendoza, 99; Etzalcualiztli, 88; lake, 180; paper tribute, 229, 230, 280; Spanish conquest, 24, 84, 99; Tezcatlipoca, 113, 115; Triple Alliance, 17; Xolloco, 182 Teoatl, 180 Teocalli, 78 Teocuitlaxalli, 181, 283. See also Gold Teotihuacan, 35, 57, 59, 100, 120 Teotl ixiptla, 203, 207, 208, 219. See also Ixiptla Teotlachco, 186. See also Ball court Teoxalli, 181 Tepaneca, 17 Tepehua, 122 Tepeilhuitl, 220, 230, 286 Tepeilhuitl/Hueypachtli, 93 Tepepolco, 7, 11, 25, 26, 64, 267 Tepoztecatl, 66 Tepoztlan, 66 Tetamazolco, 88, 182 Tetehuitl, 233, 243. See also Paper banner Teteo imixiptlahuan, 282. See also Ixiptla Teteoinnan, 67, 68, 214 Tetzcoco, 113, 114, 125, 162, 191, 264; Ahuitzotl, 154; Lake, 182, 191; Triple Alliance, 17, 99 Teyolia, 156–161 Tezcatlipoca, 74, 257; amaranth statue, 110, 111, 124; Andrés Mixcoatl, 126; Chalco, 121, 132; Ehecatl, 120; flayed skin, 128; flowers, 118; flute/music, 118, 120–123, 126, 127, 282, 283; illustration, 113, 126; impersonator, 108, 109, 110, 111, 112–127, 129, 282, 283; monkey, 118, 119, 131; patron of diviners, 255, 256; relationship with the king, 108, 114, 123, 124, 125, 127; sacred bundle, 125; temple, 55, 56, 121; Tepeyollotl, 256, 283; tonalamatl, 255, 269; Toxcatl, 74, 107–134, 282; “wives,” 116, 117, 121 Tiger, 49 Talud-tablero, 57, 59 Titlacahuan, 110, 112 Tizoc, 153, 157, 158; funeral, 155, 158, 164; Stone of, 55 Tlacahuepan (Huitzilopochtli), 112, 116, 124 Tlacateco, 125

309

Index Tlacateteuhme, 78. See also Child(ren), sacrifice of Tlacauepan Cuexcotzin, 43 Tlacaxipehualiztli, 67, 68, 72, 75, 99 Tlachieloni, 113, 126 Tlachinollan-Tlappan: tribute, 68 Tlacochcalco, 109, 125 Tlacopan, 17, 99, 162. See also Triple Alliance Tlahuicole, 130 Tlalli iyollo (Heart of the Earth), 214 Tlalmanalco, 23, 132 Tlaloc, 72, 155, 157, 231, 232, 238, 240; amatl, 228; Atemoztli, 78, 93–96; Cuahuitlehua, 78–81; etymology, 244; Etzalcualiztli, 68, 85, 88, 89; image, 43; impersonator, 85, 88; mask, 59; obstacle to evangelization, 228; ritual, 232, 233, 286; temple, 12, 43, 45, 59, 78, 209; Tepeilhuitl, 230 Tlalocan, 121, 179, 180, 191, 202, 207, 228, 231, 284. See also Paradise Tlaloque, 72, 78, 79, 179, 228, 231, 233; Huixtocihuatl, 122 Tlalticpac, 149, 151–153, 158–160, 162, 163, 284. See also Earth surface Tlamatzincatl, 114, 116, 130, 183 Tlamatzinco, 183 Tlapitzahuayan, 121, 132 Tlapitzauhcan, 109, 116 Tlaquimilolli, 108, 124, 125. See also Bundle, sacred Tlatelolca, 7, 17, 24, 25. See also Tlatelolco Tlatelolco, 12, 17, 24, 88, 99, 190; Colegio de Santa Cruz, 7, 23, 25, 28, 64; Main Temple, 57; Sahagún in, 23, 25, 26, 28, 31, 64 Tlatlauhqui Tezcatlipoca, 121. See also Tezcatlipoca Tlatoani, 214; as sacrificer, 114, 127, 190; funeral rites of, 143–165, 280, 284. See also King; Ruler Tlaxcala, 68, 113, 131, 191, 255, 259 Tlaxcallan, 23, 113, 117, 162, 191, 259. See also Tlaxcala Tlaxcalteca, 31, 130 Tlaxochimaco, 68, 71. See also Miccailhuitl Tlazolpilli, 118. See also Xochipilli Tlazolteotl, 256, 258, 269

310

Tobacco, 212, 232; gourd, 78, 91. See also yetecomitl Toci, 115, 129, 197, 220; in rite of Ochpanizlti, 214–218 Tollan, 35, 282 Tonalamatl, 13, 65, 122, 269–273, 285; interpreting, 260–267; ritual use of, 252–260, 286 Tonalli, 152, 156, 157, 159, 161, 168 Tonalpohque, 252, 266. See also Diviner Tonalpohualli, 65, 154, 256, 257, 260, 267, 269, 270, 271; invention by Oxomoco and Cipactonal, 253. See also Count of days Tonan hueyatl, 180 Toral, Francisco de, 25, 64 Torquemada, Fray Juan de, 13, 31 Tortoise, 54, 133; Acapechtli, 121; Ayopechtli, 122, 132 Totonac, 122 Tototepec, 181 Tovar Calendar, 71; Atemoztli, 94; Etzalcualiztli, 88; Cuahuitlehua, 88; Toxcatl, 113, 125 Toxcatl, 16, 68, 71, 74, 112, 128, 134, 280, 282, 283, Plate 4, Plate 5; feast of Tezcatlipoca, 107–135 Toxiuhmolpia, 66. See also New Fire Tozcatl, 128 Tozoztontli, 93 Trecena, 122, 253–271, 254, 258, 259, 260, 263, 265, 268, 272, Plate 8. See also Tonalamatl Tribute, 5, 17, 66, 67, 99, 158; paper as, 229, 230; register of payments, 68, 72 Triple Alliance, 17, 99 Trumpet, 78, 119, 120, 210, 212, 282. See also Conch Turquoise, 91, 113, 188, 190 Turquoise Lord. See Xiuhtecuhtli 2 Tecpatl, 70 Tzitzimime, 194 Tzoalli, 78, 186. See also Maize Tzompantli, 48, 53, 58, 110. See also Skull rack Tzonmolco, 189 Tzontemoc, 144 Uchilobos, 124. See also Huitzilopochtli Uitzilopochtli, 43. See also Huitzilopochtli

Index Underworld, 166, 167, 169, 284, 285; Mictlan, 149–151, 153, 160; Quetzalcoatl’s descent, 120; Tlalocan, 200, 207, 212, 228, 284; Xibalba, 120 Valencia, Fray Martín de, 22. See also Los Doce Veintena, 12, 13, 107, 197, 251, 255, Atemoztli; 93–95, 97, 98; Atlcahualo, 82, 204, 233, 234; ceremony/ritual, 175, 176, 185, 190, 191, 197, 252, 264, 280, 281, 283, 286; children’s sacrifice, 205; Cuahuitlehua, 79, 80, 82, 83; Etzalcualiztli, 84, 86, 87, 89–92, 230; Huey Tecuilhuitl, 182, 211; Huey Tozoztli, 109, 203, 205; Izcalli, 187, 192; Ochpaniztli, 204, 212, 213; Panquetzaliztli, 184, 186; paper, 230, 233, 234; Quecholli, 117, 183, 185, 194, 283; representations, 63–100, 67–77; Tecuilhuitontli, 204, 208; Tepeilhuitl, 230; Toxcatl, 108–127, 112, 128, 282, 283; women’s sacrifice, 203–219; Xilomanaliztli, 81 Veracruz (Vera Cruz), 22, 255 Veytia Calendar Wheel, 70, 76, 84, 89, 96 Viceroy, 23, 29 Virgin (virginity), 130, 204, 214, 222 Vocabulario (en Lengua Castellana y Mexicana), 181. See also Molina, Fray Alonso de War, 25, 119, 170, 191, 198, 214, 217–219, 287; augury, 153; Flowery War, 156, 162, 170; game, 197, 212, 214, 216, 218, 287, 288; Huitzilopochtli, 12, 157, 179, 186; plants and, 199, 203, 204, 213, 219; prisoners, 113, 114, 117, 130, 209; sacred bundle, 134; tlatoani’s funeral, 155–158, 162, sand and, 181, 183; sacrifice of women, 204, 215, 217, 218; shield, 220, 253, 283, 284, 287; Quecholli, 183; Toci, 220 Warriors, 55, 110, 111, 119, 124, 130, 131, 182, 197, 199, 201, 203, 204, 271; eagle, 58, 215; eagle-ocelot [jaguar], 214; Huitzilopochtli, 45; ideology, 116; jaguar, 54, 55, 215; and prostitutes, 117; Tezcatlipoca, 113, 134, 282; women’s sacrifice, 215–218

Weapons, 183, 284 Wind god, 53, 55. See also Ehecatl Wind instruments, 119, 121. See also Conchs; Flutes Womb, 214, 223; Xilonen (womb of tender maize), 122 Women: Atemoztli, 94; childbearing, 221; childbirth ritual, 262; Cihuateteo, 271; dying in labor, 131; Etzalcualiztli, 85; funeral of, 146; as “heart” of plants, 208, 210, 218; intercourse with lords, 211, 215; ritual mock battle, 214; sacrifice, 197–219, 287; sacrifice in Quecholli, 194; Snake, 158; tlatoani’s funeral, 156; Toxcatl, 109, 110, 131, 147, “wives” of Tezcatlipoca’s impersonator, 109, 113, 116, 117; womb of the earth, 223 Xalalli, 180, 181 Xalapan, 181 Xalapazco, 181 Xalaquia, 182, 190, 192 Xalatoctli, 181 Xalli, 179, 180, 181, 283. See also Sand Xallo, 181 Xaltetla, 181 Xaltianquizco, 181 Xambe, 122 Xibalba, 120 Xicolli, 88, 134, 190. See also Jacket Xihuitl, 64 Xihuitzolli, 91 Xilomanaliztli, 72, 85; depictions in codices 78–84, 80, 81. See also Atlcahualo; Cuahuitlehua Xilonen, 122, 129, 183; in Huey Tozotli, 109; in Huey Tecuilhuitl, 192, 211; in Toxcatl, 113, 116; impersonator, 175, 182, 191, 200 Xilotl, 80, 84. See also Maize ear Xipe Totec, 67, 68, 129 Xiuhcoatl, 50, 60, 188 Xiuhmolpilli, 66, 100. See also Year bundle Xiuhtecuhtli: impersonator, 114, 117, 187, 188, 191; Xiuhtecuhtli-Ixcozauhqui, 189 Xochiilhuitl, 118 Xochimecatl, 209 Xochimilco, 23 Xochipilli, 118; temple of, 53, 54, 131

311

Index Xochiquetzal, 122; in Huey Tozotli, 109; in Toxcatl, 113, 116, 117, 122, 131 Xochitonal, 145, 154 Xocoatolli, 222. See also atole Xoconochco, 67 Xocoyotzin, 181. See also Motecuhzoma II Xolloco, 182 Xolotl, 87, 88, 190 Yacatecuhtli, 179 Yacaxihuitl, 91 Yauhtli, 212, 230. See also incense

312

Year: bearers, 200, 212; bundle, 66; leap, 127; of 365 days, 64, 75; solar, 75, 76, 77 Yecatl, 133 Yetecomitl, 78, 85, 91. See also tobacco Yeuatlicue, 114, 183 Yohualahuan, 155, 157 Yohualli Ehecatl, 121. See also Ehecatl Yoztlamiyahual, 194 Yucatán, 130 Zacatepec Hill, 184 Zumárraga, Fray Juan de, 23