War God: Nights of the Witch

by Graham Hancock

  An hour later Tozi and Huicton sat together on their begging mats, talking quietly, reviewing their progress.

  Everyone knew the story of the weeping woman who’d haunted Tenochtitlan the year before, so it had been an obvious ploy for Tozi, shielded by invisibility, to play that part, passing through the streets these last six nights, heard but not seen, seeding doubts and fear in Moctezuma’s mind.

  It was Huicton who’d had the idea of the dreamers, rounding up a few lonely old tramps and invalids with the promise of a big reward from Ishtlil, and a comfortable retirement in the mountains, if they could pull it off. Of course there’d been a danger that Moctezuma would kill them on the spot, but the elders had decided the reward was worth the risk.

  The scheme had worked better than they could have hoped. It had been an easy matter for Tozi to fade herself into the dungeon, slip the sleeping draught Huicton had procured into the guards’ food, and set the prisoners free. The guards, naturally, had not admitted to falling asleep on duty and had told a story of magic and sorcery that had disturbed Moctezuma even further.

  Next Tozi and Huicton decided to turn their attention to Cuitláhuac, who was not only the Great Speaker’s brother but also his strongest supporter and closest adviser – the very man who had escorted Tozi and Malinal from the pyramid on the night of the sacrifices. Rumour had it he would be appointed to the high office of Snake Woman, now that Coaxoch had been killed in the Tlascalan wars, so he was an obvious target. And the fact that Cuitláhuac’s own son Guatemoc had also been injured in Tlascala and lay in the royal hospital seemed to offer special opportunities for mischief.

  So Tozi had entered the hospital early this morning and waited quietly and invisibly by Guatemoc’s bed for Cuitláhuac to arrive. Surprisingly, however, despite his son’s obviously grave condition, he had not come. Instead there had been the strange and sinister visit of Mecatl.

  ‘He didn’t behave like a doctor,’ Tozi told Huicton. ‘That’s what made me suspicious, so I followed him.’ She pulled the little bottle from her blouse and passed it over. ‘This is what they’re treating Guatemoc with,’ she said. ‘Any idea what it is?’

  Moctezuma was in a state of morose despair. Despite consuming huge quantities of teonanácatl on each of the last four nights, and sacrificing a dozen small children, he’d been unable to make contact with Hummingbird again. The only good news came in the daily reports from Mecatl. Cuitláhuac was out of Tenochtitlan on a trumped-up mission to Texcoco and Tacuba, supposedly to seek assurances of their continued commitment to the alliance that united the three cities. In his absence the poison was being administered morning and evening and Guatemoc’s condition was deteriorating at a satisfactory pace.

  Mecatl had arrived from the hospital some moments earlier and now spoke from his usual position, face down on the floor of the audience chamber. ‘Sire,’ he said, ‘I gave the prince a further dose this morning …’

  ‘Good, good … How much longer, then, until he …?’

  ‘The poison is subtle, sire, as you requested, but at the present dosage I do not believe he can survive it for more than another eight days.’

  Sitting on his throne, Moctezuma placed his index fingers together and twirled his thumbs around each other. ‘That will be perfect,’ he said finally. ‘Much sooner and suspicions might be aroused. We would not wish that. But much later and there is the possibility that his father will remove him from your care. I can’t keep Cuitláhuac out of Tenochtitlan forever.’

  ‘If he can be kept away from the hospital for another two days, sire, it should be sufficient. By then the effects of the poison will be irreversible.’

  Much as Mecatl had done this morning before giving the medicine to Guatemoc, Huicton pulled the rubber stopper from the bottle and sniffed the contents. ‘Aha …’ he said. He took another deep sniff. ‘Interesting.’ He poured a few drops of the liquid into the palm of his hand and tentatively dipped his tongue into it before spitting vigorously, leaving a brown smear on the paving of the causeway.

  ‘Looks like chocolate,’ Tozi said.

  ‘Yes. Quite clever of Mecatl, that. It helps disguise the bitter taste. It would probably pass casual inspection because most medicines are bitter. But when you’ve been in this business as long as I have, you get to know your poisons, and I think I can say with certainty that the chief physician of our revered Great Speaker is presently poisoning Cuitláhuac’s son.’

  ‘I knew it!’ Tozi exclaimed. ‘I knew he was doing something wicked.’

  Huicton sniffed the bottle again and placed the stopper firmly back in its mouth. ‘Wicked indeed,’ he said. ‘This is dangerous stuff. Quite rare in these parts, by the way. It’s made from the powdered body and wings of a butterfly that the Zapotecs call cotelachi – which means in their language “the butterfly that kills within a year”. But actually it depends on the size of butterfly you use. A small, young cotelachi consumed entire will take about a year to kill you, a big full-grown one will do the job overnight and the medium-sized ones take ten or twelve days.’

  ‘But why would Mecatl want to kill Guatemoc?’

  ‘Oh, he won’t be acting without orders from above. This whole thing has Moctezuma’s cowardly stamp on it. I think I told you he would have poisoned Ishtlil if I hadn’t got wind of the plot and managed to foil it?’

  Tozi remembered.

  ‘As to Guatemoc,’ Huicton continued, the Speaker’s motive is obvious. Easy way to get rid of a potential rival to the throne and make it look as if he died of his battle injuries. Question is … how best to turn this to our advantage?’

  Tozi didn’t have to think about the answer. ‘If Moctezuma wants Guatemoc dead,’ she said, ‘then we might stir up some useful trouble by making sure he lives.’

  That same night, very late, Tozi returned to the hospital and drifted invisibly through its gloomy passageways. Outside Guatemoc’s chamber she spied the portly figure of Mecatl leaning forward, his ear pressed to the door, listening intently.

  Tozi slipped through the wall and by the light of the lanterns that burned bright within, she saw a handsome matron, richly clad in fine linens, thick black hair streaked with grey, leaning over the prince, her face lined with grief and worry. At her side, a plain and dumpy younger woman stood crying, wiping tears from her eyes which she’d rubbed as pink as an albino rabbit’s.

  ‘Silence, sister,’ said Guatemoc in a weak, dry whisper. ‘If you wish me well then I beg you, give me no more sobs! Your laughter will serve me better.’ But she merely wailed the louder. The prince turned to the older woman: ‘Mother, can you not persuade her to stop? Give me music, give me laughter, give me dancing girls – something, anything to cheer me, but no more tears please.’

  ‘You need to be at home with us,’ said his mother, ‘instead of wasting away in this hospital. Good food, the clear air of our estate, the care of our own doctors – these are what will save you … They say your recovery after the battle was almost miraculous – until your father brought you here!’

  ‘This is the royal hospital!’ The prince’s lean features were grey with pain as he struggled to calm his mother’s fears. ‘What better place can there be for me? What better hope can I have? I’m under the care of Mecatl himself.’

  ‘I don’t trust that man,’ the matron said, ‘and I don’t trust your uncle. Ahh, gods! If only your father were here! It’s intolerable of Moctezuma to send him on some unimportant mission of diplomacy while you fight for your life …’

  ‘To bind Texcoco and Tacuba to the triple alliance cannot be said to be unimportant, mother.’

  ‘Yes, but now? He should have sent another—’

  At that the door swung open and Mecatl bustled in, coming to a halt halfway across the room. ‘Good evening, Lady Achautli,’ he said smoothly, feigning surprise. ‘I had not expected to see you here so late.’

  ‘And why not?’ she snapped. ‘No one is more important to me than my son. I can’t possibly think of any better way
to spend my time than by his side.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Mecatl soothed as he turned to the younger woman. ‘And you, my Lady Chalchi. I am sure your brother’s strength rallies at the very sight of you.’

  ‘He certainly does not rally with any of the treatments you’re giving him here,’ said Achautli.

  ‘Well, so it may appear, my lady, but healing is a mysterious process. There are ups … and there are downs …’

  ‘As far as I can see it’s been all downs since he came under your care!’

  ‘Oh mother, please,’ sobbed Chalchi. ‘I’m sure Mecatl is doing his best for poor Guatemoc. You’re not helping my brother with all these complaints.’

  The doctor’s expression, Tozi thought, was a masterpiece of wounded virtue. ‘I understand your concerns, Lady Achautli,’ he said, as he glided across the room and positioned himself by the bed. ‘I take no offence, I assure you, but the Lady Chalchi is right. I am doing everything possible for your son and this is why, since the hour is late, I must ask you to leave now. Sleep is a great restorative, and if the prince is to recover, he must get as much rest as possible.’

  Achautli spluttered an objection but Chalchi put a hand on her arm. ‘Come, Mother. The doctor knows best. We must let Guatemoc sleep.’

  ‘Very well,’ said the older woman. All the fight, suddenly, seemed to have gone out of her. She stooped over the bed and kissed her son: ‘Until morning, Guatemoc.’

  ‘Until morning, Mother. Don’t fear for me. I’m stronger than you think. I’ll recover. You have my word on it.’ The prince attempted a smile but his pallor was so bad and his skin stretched so thinly over his skull that the effect was ghastly.

  With more floods of sobs from Chalchi, the two women hurried out, leaving Guatemoc with Mecatl, who crossed the room again, peered from the door to be sure they were gone, returned to the prince’s bedside, made a show of examining his exhausted patient and began to change the bandages covering a series of hideous abdominal injuries. Tozi counted five individual puncture marks. They were all neatly stitched but they were suppurating and they gave off a bad smell. There was also a wound to his throat, but this seemed to have healed more completely than the others, and another on his right forearm.

  The prince was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling while the doctor worked. ‘Tell me honestly, Mecatl,’ he said. ‘How do you rate my chances?’

  ‘I have the highest hopes for your complete recovery, sire, thanks to the new elixir I’ve been treating you with these past four days …’

  ‘That vile brew! I shudder to think of it.’

  ‘Even so, sire, it will make you well.’ As Mecatl applied the last bandage he reached into his robes, sought in a pocket, brought forth the same small ceramic bottle he had used that morning and showed it to Guatemoc. ‘The elixir has extraordinary regenerative properties and the power to heal every ill of the flesh. The supply is so restricted that I would limit any lesser man to a single dose a day, but the Lord Speaker has commanded that we spare no expense to make you well …’

  ‘I suppose I should be grateful, but I’m not sure I can bring myself to drink another dose tonight.’

  ‘I’m afraid you must, lord. It will give you rest, numb the pain of your injuries and work on your body as you sleep.’

  Watching invisibly from the corner of the room, Tozi felt a powerful urge to rush at Mecatl and snatch the bottle from his hands, but she knew it would do no good and undo every advantage she had.

  ‘Come sire,’ the doctor said, ‘let me help you.’ Just as he had done that morning, he lifted Guatemoc’s head and put the bottle to his lips. The prince innocently opened his mouth and swallowed.

  ‘There, you leech!’ he said with a grimace when he’d drunk every drop. ‘Satisfied now?’

  ‘Yes, lord. Completely satisfied.’ Mecatl restoppered the bottle and put it back in his pocket in what Tozi was coming to recognise as his usual routine. ‘Sleep now, sire,’ he said, casting a glance over his shoulder as he walked towards the door. ‘I’ll bring your next dose in the morning.’

  Tozi remained in the corner of the room until she was certain Guatemoc was asleep, then she moved silently towards his bedside. Mecatl had left the lantern burning and, by its light, she could see the rise and fall, rise and fall, of the prince’s chest. It was obvious he had once been heavily muscled, but now he was weak and emaciated, indeed almost skeletal. Strangely, she felt something close to pity for him.

  Remaining invisible, she reached out her hand and lightly brushed his forehead, finding it hot and clammy with sweat. ‘The time has come for you to awake,’ she said. As Huicton had instructed, and rehearsed with her relentlessly all afternoon, she deepened her voice, adding a sombre, ominous note.

  Guatemoc sighed.

  ‘Awake!’ Tozi said. She leaned in and shook him. ‘Awake, Prince Guatemoc.’

  He rolled away from her and grumbled, ‘Piss off, Mecatl,’ followed by some meaningless slurred sleep talk.

  ‘You may slumber no longer,’ Tozi insisted. ‘I visit you from Aztlán …’

  ‘Aztlán?’ Guatemoc’s eyes came open and he blinked twice. ‘Aztlán?’ He appeared confused, and little wonder since Aztlán was the mystic home of the gods – the enchanted land where the Mexica and all other Nahua peoples were believed to have had their origin. Still prone, he blinked again, clearing his sight, and turned his head from side to side. ‘Who visits me from Aztlán?’ he croaked.

  Veiled in invisibility, Tozi replied, ‘It is I, Temaz, who stands before you. I bring you tidings from the world beyond.’

  With a groan of pain, the prince levered himself up onto his elbows, his eyes sweeping the room. ‘I do not see you,’ he said.

  ‘Because I do not choose to reveal myself.’

  Guatemoc shook his head vigorously, in the manner of one clearing water from his ears, and slumped back on the bed. ‘I am dreaming,’ he said.

  ‘This is no dream, Prince.’

  ‘Then I’ve gone mad, or you are a phantom of the night.’

  ‘I am she who is called Temaz, sweet Prince. Do you not know who I am?’

  ‘I know the name of Temaz, goddess of healing and medicines. But you are not she! You are a phantom – a voice without form that speaks to me from the shadows!’

  ‘I am the goddess of medicines, and their rightful use, the patron of doctors and of all who perform the healing arts. That is why I have journeyed from Aztlán to bring you a warning …’

  Guatemoc levered himself up again. Although she knew he could not see her, his eyes were fixed on exactly the spot where she stood. Involuntarily, she took a step back.

  ‘A warning?’ he growled. Despite his injuries, he looked dangerous. ‘Even if you are Temaz, why would you bring me a warning?’

  ‘Because a doctor of this hospital seeks your death,’ Tozi said quietly, ‘and uses a false medicine to poison you. I cannot allow such unholy behaviour to go unpunished, let alone to succeed.’

  Now she had the prince’s attention! ‘Which doctor do you speak of?’

  ‘None other than Mecatl.’

  ‘It cannot be!’ said Guatemoc, but Tozi ignored him.

  ‘He brings you a special medicine to drink,’ she said. ‘He brings it every morning and night. It is flavoured with chocolate but there’s a strange bitterness to the aftertaste that is not the bitterness of chocolate.’

  ‘How can you know this?’ Guatemoc asked wonderingly.

  ‘Mecatl tells you it is an elixir,’ Tozi continued, ‘that can cure all ills of the flesh, but its real purpose is to poison you slowly in such a way that no suspicion will be aroused …’

  Conflicting emotions – doubt, belief, hope – wrote themselves on the prince’s tortured, finely sculpted face. ‘If you are truly the goddess Temaz,’ he said finally, ‘then show yourself to me!’

  During the afternoon, as well as discovering the exact whereabouts of Cuitláhuac, Huicton had used his connections to obtain a rich green
skirt and blouse for Tozi, a fine shawl decorated with tassels, and a headdress of cotton bands adorned with amaranth seeds – an outfit that would pass inspection as the sacred regalia of Temaz. He had also applied yellow axin pigment to her cheeks, black bitumen to her eyelids and a tincture of cochineal to redden her lips, giving her the appearance of a grown woman.

  Satisfied she was well prepared, she now took two further steps back from the bed to stay out of reach and allowed herself to fade into full visibility.

  Guatemoc gasped, and something that was not fear, but more closely akin to awe, showed in his eyes. ‘I see you,’ he said.

  ‘And do you now believe me, Prince?’

  ‘I believe you, gracious goddess.’

  ‘Then here is what you must do. In the morning, when Mecatl comes to administer more of the poison, you must not drink it.’

  Guatemoc’s voice seethed with anger. ‘I’ll kill him.’

  ‘No, Prince. Nothing so hasty. The plot against you goes deeper than Mecatl and you must not arouse suspicion. Make him believe you are too ill to drink the medicine, that your stomach revolts against it. Tell him you will attempt the evening dose but that the morning dose is beyond you. Convince him, until he leaves you in peace. Then summon the Lady Achautli, tell her everything I have told you, and persuade her to use all means at her disposal to have your father, who is in Texcoco, return at once to Tenochtitlan. Between the morning and evening visits of Mecatl, there is sufficient time for Cuitláhuac to cross the lake and reach the hospital …’