Swallowing his pride, Guatemoc continued his slow, determined downhill crawl, grateful for the steady cooling breeze. He suffered a shattering bolt of pain as he dropped into a shallow crevice. He pulled himself out and lay stretched on his back on the hillside, glaring at the moon around which great mountains of cloud were now gathering. When he found the strength to lift himself again and look down at the camp, he realised to his horror that he’d strayed from the straight route that would have taken him to the sentries at the south gate. Instead, in his confusion, he’d followed a meandering course across the slope and made his journey much longer.
Gritting his teeth, he once more turned directly downhill. It meant he wouldn’t reach the perimeter at the south gate, but further round to the east. The sentries here were separated by intervals of a hundred paces. He aimed as best he could for the nearest of them.
As he crawled, Guatemoc dreamed of the moment when he would meet Shikotenka again and exact revenge for his humiliation today. He would make the Tlascalan battle-king his prisoner; he would treat him as his honoured guest, and then he would lead him up the steps of the great pyramid and offer his heart to Hummingbird.
He had the scene very vividly fixed in his mind, so that it was almost more real than real – the pyramid looming above them, the rope in his hand looped around Shikotenka’s neck, and Shikotenka himself, daubed with white paint, dressed in a paper loincloth, humbly mounting the steps to meet his death. All this was very satisfying and correct, and Guatemoc found he was able to watch the imaginary scene unfold in his mind’s eye while simultaneously tracking his own crawling progress towards the sentry. ‘Help!’ he tried to shout. ‘Help!’ But the word wouldn’t emerge, not even a whisper. ‘Help!’ He tried again, but Shikotenka’s knife had taken his voice.
Guatemoc kept crawling. Suddenly he was on the flat ground at the foot of the hill and the sentry was just a hundred paces away, while in his head Shikotenka was still trudging up the steps of the pyramid, the sculpted muscles of his thighs moving under his brown skin. As his captor, Guatemoc enjoyed the exclusive right to Shikotenka’s thighs, which would be cooked for him in the time-honoured fashion in a stew with chillies and beans. He licked his lips, then remembered that none of this was real, no matter how real it seemed. The great pyramid of Tenochtitlan was two days’ hard march from here. There would be no sacrifice. He would not be feasting on Shikotenka’s thighs tonight.
He looked up through tussocks of waving grass as the moon emerged, redoubled in brilliance, through a gap in the clouds. He saw the sentry clearly, just fifty paces from him with his back turned, his moon-shadow reaching out like an admonishing finger. ‘Help!’ Guatemoc cried. ‘Help!’
Nothing …
But then he heard footsteps in the grass, coming on at the double. Praise the gods, he had been found!
The sentry was beside him now, looming over him. ‘Drunkard,’ he exclaimed in a coarse regional dialect. Judging from the bone through his nose, this was one of the Otomi rabble recently hired by Moctezuma. Guatemoc had opposed the policy but now here he was in his time of need being rescued by one of them! It was too much to expect that a lowly mercenary would actually know who he was, and he wore only a loincloth which gave no indication of his rank, so he tried to introduce himself: ‘My good man, I am Guatemoc, a prince of the Blood. Send a messenger for Lord Coaxoch at once.’
But the words wouldn’t come and the Otomi just stared at him, finally seemed to notice his injuries and said, ‘What? I can’t hear you.’
Guatemoc tried again. ‘Danger!’ he said. ‘Now! Tlascalans. Coaxoch must be told!’
But still he couldn’t produce the words.
The Otomi stood straight, heaved a great sigh of what sounded like annoyance and called out to the next sentry post – ‘Hey, I need help. I’ve got an injured man over here.’
‘I am Guatemoc. Summon Coaxoch at once.’
This time the words came. Just the faintest, croaking whisper.
But the Otomi wasn’t listening.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tlascala, small hours of Friday 19 February 1519
While the rest of the fifty sat on their haunches, breathing evenly after their ten-mile night run, Shikotenka led Chipahua and Tree to the ridge. The moon was just off full, shedding its brilliant silvery light through scudding cloudbanks, and the long grass swayed in a strong breeze as the three of them peered downslope to the huge amphitheatre amongst the hills where the Mexica had set their camp. Ablaze with flickering fires and lanterns, a chaotic and ill-disciplined scene presented itself. To their amazement, despite the lateness of the hour, thousands of the enemy were still on the move, wandering in noisy, guffawing groups from sector to sector of the immense armed camp, frequenting the hawkers’ stalls and brothels, bartering with merchants for cloth, or pulque, or tobacco.
‘Doesn’t look like they’ve found Guatemoc,’ said Chipahua. ‘Or missed him.’
‘Doesn’t even look as though they’re here to fight a war,’ said Tree. ‘Looks like a party.’
‘They’re too used to winning,’ Shikotenka mused, profoundly relieved that the matter of Guatemoc had gone no further. The prince’s body must still be lying in the grassy hollow where they had fought. ‘They’ve forgotten they can lose.’ He narrowed his eyes, noting the sentries spaced at intervals of a hundred paces all round the enormous perimeter, and the avenues of lanterns that marked out the principal thoroughfares. These ran north–south and east–west, intersecting at Coaxoch’s pavilion in the dead centre of the camp. ‘That’s where we have to get to …’ He showed them the pavilion. ‘Any thoughts?’
‘Fly?’ said Chipahua.
‘Wait for clouds to cover the moon,’ suggested Tree, who was studying the increasingly stormy sky. ‘It won’t be long. Then we just go straight in.’ He pointed to the southern end of the north–south axial avenue which lay almost directly beneath them at the foot of the hill. Pairs of sentries were stationed along its entire length at intervals of twenty paces.
‘And the sentries?’ asked Chipahua.
‘Kill them,’ said Tree.
‘I prefer stealth,’ said Shikotenka. ‘That’s what these are for.’ He tugged the sleeve of his uniform, taken from the body of a Mexica jaguar knight he’d killed a few months earlier. All the rest of the squad were similarly attired. ‘They don’t have enough sentries round the perimeter, so when the moon’s behind cloud we’ll be able to slip between them without being seen. We’ll split up into small groups, blend in with the crowds and make our way to Coaxoch’s pavilion. When we’re all there we’ll go straight into the attack.’
Chipahua and Tree exchanged a concerned glance, which Shikotenka ignored. He knew his plan was full of holes, but he had put his faith in the gods and there was no going back.
With the moon still bright, and dancing in and out of cloud, Shikotenka had his men take cover in the long grass and crawl down the hill by the same route he’d used going up it this afternoon. They reached the hollow where he’d fought Guatemoc and found it trampled and flattened, scabbed pools of congealed blood everywhere, but no sign of the prince himself. One particularly wide and obvious track, as of someone crawling or sliding, led out of the hollow and down in the direction of the Mexica encampment.
Acolmiztli was studying the fresh blood in the track and glaring accusingly at Shikotenka: ‘I thought you said you killed him?’
‘I thought I had. I got my knife in him six times.’
‘You should have made certain. He’s still bleeding so he’s still alive but the good news is it doesn’t look as if anyone found him here. He’s on his own and he’s not been gone long. Let’s get after him.’
Leaving the rest of the squad under Tree’s command in the hollow, the two of them shot downhill on their hands and knees. Acolmiztli moved fast with a weird, scuttling, spider-like gait and easily stayed ahead of Shikotenka, who caught up with him on the flat, lying low amongst the undulating grass.
; ‘Hush!’ signed Acolmiztli.
Up ahead, very close, they heard a shout over the sound of the wind: ‘Hey, I need help. I’ve got an injured man over here.’
Shikotenka pushed his head above the grass and saw a sentry less than a hundred paces away. At his feet lay a crumpled, bloodstained figure.
Another sentry charged up and Shikotenka ducked out of sight.
There came the sound of more shouting, the new arrival yelling at the top of his voice: ‘Don’t you realise who this is? Don’t you even have the faintest idea?’
A mumble: ‘Just looks like some sot got himself stabbed.’
‘This is Prince Guatemoc, you idiot!’
More sentries had come running now, at least five or six, and several took up the shout: ‘Guatemoc! Guatemoc!’ Somebody blew a whistle. A drum started to beat. ‘Prince Guatemoc has been attacked! Call the surgeons! Call out the guard!’
Shikotenka and Acolmiztli watched open-mouthed as chaos deteriorated into pandemonium, hundreds of the Mexica rushing to where Guatemoc lay. In the last moments before an immense mass of cloud covered the moon, they saw to their astonishment that even the sentries guarding the camp’s principal thoroughfares had left their posts and were flocking to the side of the wounded prince.
The long avenue connecting the southern gateway to Coaxoch’s pavilion appeared, for the moment, to be completely unguarded.
Shikotenka and Acolmiztli grinned at one another in disbelief. Then they were running, hidden by darkness, the moon now entirely lost to view in dense cloud. With no need to crawl through the grass any more, they went up the hill at a sprint and in moments reached the hollow where the fifty were waiting.
Tree was at the ridge with the men ready behind him in full battle order. ‘So we just go straight in?’ he said. ‘Like I wanted to do at the beginning?’
‘We go straight in,’ said Shikotenka with a grim smile.
How fickle were the gods, he thought, and how inscrutably they meddled in the lives of men.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Tenochtitlan, small hours of Friday 19 February 1519
As Malinal’s head began to clear from the beating she’d taken in the plaza, she discovered she had somehow already reached the great pyramid and begun to climb the wide northern stairway. On both sides, stationed at every third step, were guards holding guttering torches, and she saw she was part of a long line of prisoners ascending between them. She felt a helping hand pressed into the small of her back and turned to find Tozi right behind her. ‘Coyotl?’ she asked, her voice cracking.
‘Gone,’ Tozi said. Her chalk-white face was smeared with blood. ‘Ahuizotl put him in the other line. I’ve lost sight of him.’
‘It’s my fault!’ sobbed Malinal. Though she hardly knew Coyotl, the intensity of the last hours was such that she was overwhelmed to be separated from the anxious, intelligent little boy, and filled with guilt for her part in what had happened. ‘Ahuizotl did it to spite me. If I hadn’t been holding Coyotl, he wouldn’t have taken him.’
‘It’s not your fault that Ahuizotl is an evil, hateful old man,’ said Tozi. ‘You gave Coyotl love. That’s what you should remember.’
They were climbing very slowly, sometimes standing in place for a long count before shuffling up another step or two and halting again. The warm wind that had risen earlier was blowing more strongly now; overhead thick clouds raced across the face of the moon, and round Malinal’s feet a foaming, clotting tide of human blood flowed from the summit platform and rolled ponderously down the steep, narrow steps. It was slippery and treacherous. It accumulated in shallow pools spreading out across the plaza at the base of the pyramid. It filled the air with a sour, terrifying stink.
Malinal’s stomach cramped and heaved and bile rose in her throat. Though the cruelty and excess of the Mexica were nothing new to her, she was overwhelmed by the horror and depravity of this vast pageant of murder. Her stomach cramped again; this time she couldn’t hold it back, and she threw up in a hot, spattering, choking gush.
‘What a hero she is!’ yelled one of the guards sarcastically.
‘How brave!’ sneered another. ‘A whiff of the knife and she spews her guts!’
There came the thumping, rumbling sound of flesh striking stone as priests threw a pile of a dozen bleeding torsos over the edge of the summit platform. They tumbled down the steps like clumps of viscid fruit fallen from some evil tree, trailing streamers of guts, rolling and bumping wildly until they came to rest in the plaza below. Something heavy and wet had brushed against Malinal’s leg as they went past, and now her stomach heaved uncontrollably again; she doubled over, dry-retching, gasping for breath, to the general hilarity of the guards.
As the spasm passed, she straightened and spat, hatred scourging her like acid. What a vile, vicious race these Mexica truly were – a race of arrogant, strutting, loud-mouthed bullies whose greatest pleasure was the desecration of others.
A race whose wickedness and cruelty knew no bounds.
Malinal was filled with impotent rage, wanting to punish them, to visit retribution upon them, to make them experience the same humiliations they inflicted, but she knew at the same time that none of this could ever happen, that she would continue to climb the pyramid, passive and unresisting as a dumb animal on its way to slaughter, and that when she reached the top she would be killed.
A soldier approached, carefully descending the steps, picking his way through the blood. Slung round his neck he carried a huge gourd containing some liquid and into it he dipped a silver cup that he offered to each prisoner in the line.
Most drank.
When it came to Malinal’s turn she asked the soldier, who had a big, plain, honest, sunburned face, what he was offering her.
‘Why it’s Iztli, of course.’
‘Iztli?’
‘Obsidian-knife water.’ He glanced towards the summit of the pyramid, less than fifty paces above them, reverberating with the agonised screams of the next victim. ‘Drink!’ He held out the silver cup. His tone was almost beseeching, his eyes level and kind, wrinkled with laughter lines. ‘Drink, beautiful lady.’
‘What will it do?’
He looked meaningfully again to the summit of the pyramid, then back down. ‘It will dull your pain, lady.’
As Malinal reached out, Tozi lunged up from the step below and knocked the cup aside. ‘It’s not about dulling pain! Listen to those screams! They don’t give a shit about our pain. They use Iztli to dull our wits. They use it to make us docile so we’re easier to bring under the knife.’
The kind eyes of the soldier had turned indifferent. ‘Your loss,’ he shrugged, refilling the cup and moving down past Tozi to the next victim, who drank greedily.
Malinal was thinking, Maybe I don’t mind being docile so long as there’s no pain when the knife opens my chest. She was about to call the soldier back, but Tozi silenced her with a glance and whispered: ‘No! We have to stay alert. This isn’t over yet.’
Malinal looked closer and saw that something was back in the girl’s eyes, a spark, a fire, that had fled after the fade and her subsequent catastrophic fit in the pen.
There was another outburst of horrific screams and the whole line, like some monstrous centipede, shuffled two steps closer to the summit.
‘What are we going to do?’ Malinal asked. The heart that was soon to be ripped from her chest was pounding against her ribs; the blood that was soon to be drained from her body was coursing through her veins and beating in her ears.
Tozi suddenly smiled and Malinal caught a fleeting glimpse of unsuspected depths in her strange new friend – of a sweet, otherworldly innocence beaming through the chalk and charcoal, and through the deeper disguise of the tough, streetwise beggar girl in which she concealed her witchiness. ‘I thought all my powers were gone,’ she said, ‘maybe gone forever. But right after they took Coyotl, something started to come back …’
The line trudged another dreadful step upward.
‘I don’t know what it is yet,’ Tozi continued. ‘But there’s something there! I can feel it!’
‘Will you try to fade us again?’
‘No! It’s not that.’
‘Why so sure?’
‘I’ve tried already – before we started climbing the steps, just for a second or two – but it didn’t work.’
‘Is it the thing you call the fog?’
Tozi shook her head: ‘No, not the fog.’
‘Then what?’
‘I don’t know! I wish I did! But there’s something there I can use. I’m sure of that. I just have to find it.’
More screams went up from the summit of the pyramid, close now, though still out of sight because of the steep slope of the stairway. There was the distinct wet crack that the obsidian knife makes when it splits a human breastbone, followed by a high-pitched gurgling screech and a sudden pulse of blood gushing over the top of the steps.
Ahead of them, her swaying pendulous buttocks pitifully uncovered by a flimsy paper loincloth, a young Totonac woman who had likewise refused the Itzli suddenly turned in her tracks, reached out her hand and gripped Malinal’s shoulder. ‘I can’t bear this!’ she screamed. Her eyes were rolling. ‘I can’t stand it any more.’ She gave Malinal a forceful shove, almost dislodging her from the slippery step and said, ‘Jump with me right now! You and me together! Let’s throw ourselves down. The fall will kill us. It’s better than the knife …’
A death chosen rather than a death inflicted? Malinal could see the point of that. And it would have the added advantage of cheating the bloodthirsty gods of the Mexica.
But such a death was not for her while there was still hope, and Tozi had given her hope. She swayed, pulled her shoulder free of the Totonac’s grip. ‘Jump if you must,’ she told her. ‘I won’t try to stop you but I won’t go with you.’
‘Why not? Don’t you understand what will be done to us there?’ The woman turned her face up to the summit of the pyramid, still hidden by the gradient.
War God: Nights of the Witch Page 20