War God (33 page)

‘Yes,’ said Malinal distractedly, beginning to believe this madness of Tozi’s. ‘Yes. It’s true. That is why I was called.’

‘Moctezuma was very afraid, was he not?’ Tozi gave a harsh laugh. ‘He actually soiled himself, I think you said.’

Malinal laughed too, although her memories of what had happened afterwards were terrible ones. ‘It’s true. He soiled himself with fear.’

‘So if Quetzalcoatl were really to return, can you imagine what would happen to Moctezuma?’

Malinal could imagine it all too well. ‘It would mean the end of his rule,’ she said slowly, ‘the end of human sacrifice, even the end of Hummingbird himself.’

‘Exactly, my dear! Exactly!’ Tozi stepped out from under the shelter of the roof and began to dance in the rain. ‘Surely you must see now that we’re playing our parts in a great plan, that Moctezuma too is playing his part, and that even the wicked and deluded god he serves must play his part.’

‘I don’t know,’ Malinal said. ‘I don’t understand any of this.’

‘You don’t need to understand it, beautiful Malinal. This is the year One-Reed and you just have to play your part.’ Tozi was half chanting, half singing. ‘Don’t you see it’s not an accident that you are of the Chontal Maya and that those who came to herald the return of Quetzalcoatl first appeared in the land of your people, and in Potonchan, the very town where you were born? None of this is an accident, Malinal. That’s why you must go back to Potonchan now, without delay. That’s why you must start your journey at once.’

Malinal was dismayed. ‘I can’t go back there,’ she cried. ‘I can’t ever go back! It was my own people – my own mother! – who sold me into slavery to the Mexica. It’s a long story, but if I return to Potonchan it’s certain I’ll be arrested. At best I’ll be made a slave again. At worst I’ll be killed on the spot.’

Tozi’s face was ferociously set. ‘It doesn’t matter!’ she said. ‘Don’t you see, it doesn’t matter? You simply have to go back and the plan will begin to unfold. Trust the plan, Malinal. Trust the plan …’

Now Tozi began to strip off her fine clothes – cloak, blouse, skirt, underwear – and hung them folded over her arm.

‘What are you doing?’ Malinal yelled and strode out into the rain.

‘I’m doing what has to be done,’ said Tozi. ‘I’m playing my part. And you must play yours. Go to your homeland
now!
’ Her voice had risen suddenly to a commanding shriek. It pierced Malinal’s head like a lance and stopped her in her tracks. ‘Go now,’ Tozi said more softly. She gestured towards the glow of the great pyramid still faintly visible two miles distant across the causeway. ‘Go to Potonchan and bring Quetzalcoatl here and we’ll put a stop to all that.’

Taking off her sturdy sandals, Tozi walked naked and barefoot to a beggar girl who sat nearby, crouched under an awning. There was a brief murmur of conversation and then the girl, too, began to undress.

‘What are you
doing
?’ Malinal cried again. She tried to step forward to stop this foolishness but found she was rooted to the spot.

‘I told you,’ said Tozi, who was already dressing herself in the girl’s threadbare skirt and blouse. ‘I’m playing my part and you must play yours. Go to Potonchan
and bring Quetzalcoatl!
’

‘And what about you?’ Malinal called. ‘Where will you go?’

‘Back to Tenochtitlan, of course, to work harm on Moctezuma and to find Coyotl.’

‘Coyotl is dead, Tozi! Any other thought is madness. You must accept this.’

‘I won’t accept it!’ Tozi said defiantly. ‘We didn’t see his body. I don’t believe he even climbed the pyramid. Somehow he still lives. I’m sure of it.’

And without a further word she whirled and ran off towards the causeway. Again Malinal tried to follow and again she found she could not. The rain was heavy in the thick darkness, and Tozi vanished into it as suddenly and as completely as if she’d regained the power to fade.

Only when she had gone was Malinal once more able to move.

She turned in the opposite direction, her mind made up.

No matter the dangers, she would do as her friend asked. She would return to Potonchan and the memories that awaited her there.

And if Quetzalcoatl should appear, as Tozi in her madness claimed he would, then she would bring him to Tenochtitlan.

As befitted the man who bore the official title of Snake Woman, and ranked second only to Moctezuma himself in the entire, vast Mexica power structure, Coaxoch travelled into battle in the greatest possible luxury, surrounded not only by the thirty-two thousand warriors of his field army, but also by cohorts of servants, personal attendants, clerks, bodyguards, cooks, masseurs, doctors, tailors, entertainers and pleasure girls. The presence of his four sons, ranked as regiment generals, each with their own retinue of assistants, staff officers and concubines, further added to the scale of the vast mobile court assembled within the giant pavilion that Shikotenka had watched being assembled during the course of the day. Consisting of acres of heavy-duty maguey-fibre sheets secured around a framework of poles and struts, it formed a square cage measuring perhaps a hundred paces along each side. The whole edifice was roofed by further acres of sheeting, hung and tied over an ingeniously constructed dome of cantilevered spars soaring to a height of thirty feet. The delights of Tenochtitlan might be two days’ hard march away, but this vast structure somehow managed to summon up, encapsulate and symbolise all the pomp and ceremony of the Mexica capital, all its boastfulness and arrogance, all its cruelty and danger.

Tochtli was trembling but bright-eyed at the prospect of battle and a chance to prove himself further. Shikotenka once again felt a moment of apprehension. The boy might die tonight on this insane mission. They all might die! But if they succeeded, if they could kill Coaxoch and his sons, they would strike a mortal blow against Mexica pride and power and, Shikotenka hoped, set in motion a chain of events that would make all the risks worthwhile.

‘We go,’ he said, ‘right now!’ With Tochtli bounding along beside him, and Tree and Acolmiztli and the rest of their twenty right behind, Shikotenka charged through the front entrance of the pavilion, hoping for a clear avenue running north to south to the great banqueting hall at its centre. Instead he found himself in an east–west corridor, wide enough for three men to pass abreast, confronted, as he had feared, by a second wall of sheets running parallel to the external wall. He immediately raised his hand to signal a halt, his men pressing in behind him, crowding one another in an unruly scrum, bristling with weapons and pent-up battle rage. He hesitated. Seeming to emanate from some point nearby, the barbaric sounds of drums, stringed instruments and trumpets were much louder than they had been outside, while beyond the sheets forming the inner wall of the corridor, the groans of a woman being pleasured, and the grunts of the man pleasuring her, were rising rapidly to a crescendo.

Shikotenka raised Guatemoc’s
macuahuitl
, slashed a great rip in the sheeting of the corridor and shot through the gap. His eyes fell immediately on another
macuahuitl
and two flint knives, all sheathed. They lay amidst a heap of discarded clothing at the foot of a camp bed where a hefty Mexica male, supporting himself on his hands, muscular buttocks glistening with sweat, was vigorously coupling with some slender female. The woman – Mexica also, judging from her hairstyle – was not too far gone in pleasure to fail to notice the intrusion, and gave vent to an ear-piercing scream as Shikotenka brought his
macuahuitl
crashing down on the man’s spine, cutting him almost in half.

Freeing the weapon with a sharp tug, he rushed onwards across the little room followed by the rest of his crew, slashed open the opposite wall and burst into a much larger chamber beyond. There he found himself in the midst of a fragrant mass of women – forty of them at least – some naked, some dressed in revealing tunics, some still prone amongst cushions, some struggling to their feet, most already standing, their confusion and evident fear rapidly escalating into panic as the heavily armed Tlascalans barged into them.

The sound of so many women shrieking in unison was deafening, and suddenly a furious, heavy-set matron, her face red, her eyeballs bulging, popped up in Shikotenka’s path, howling abuse at him and wagging an admonishing finger. Without breaking momentum he simply bowled right over her, smashing her to the ground. Tree then gave her a thorough trampling, and the rest of the gang followed as Shikotenka reached the next wall and cut a gaping slash in it through which they all streamed.

Gods! It seemed that Coaxoch had assembled a whole city with its different districts and neighbourhoods inside this immense pavilion, for the room they now entered was huge and quite different in character from the outer chambers. There were musicians on a podium and a few dozen dancers still milling on the floor, but all were alert, terrified, many already running. Some armed men – a small detachment of Coaxoch’s guard, a handful of nobles who’d drawn their weapons – attempted resistance, but the Tlascalans were gripped by battle rage and cut them down in a shambles of blood and hacked-off limbs.

Shikotenka paused to get his bearings. They’d entered the pavilion through its southern portico and cut their way northward from there, spearing towards the centre of the huge structure where they hoped to find Coaxoch and his court. It was difficult to estimate how far they’d come – perhaps halfway? – but Shikotenka took it as a sign they were headed in the right direction when he spotted Iccauhtli, the youngest of Coaxoch’s four sons, a pampered nineteen-year-old raised by influence to the rank of regiment general. The brawny, moon-faced youth threw himself to the ground, wriggling beneath the podium, and Shikotenka went after him, grabbed his feet and hauled him out kicking and bawling for help. ‘If you want to live,’ he said, ‘take us to your father.’ But as he spoke he sensed a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and dived sideways on pure instinct, pulling Iccauhtli back to the ground with him. Some sort of projectile whizzed over their heads and he looked up to see a dwarf – Coaxoch kept a team of them, trained as acrobats, to amuse his court – drawing a ludicrously tiny bow. A second arrow, no doubt poisoned, was already notched to the string when Tochtli appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the halfling around the legs, lifted him bodily and hurled him across the room where he fell in a crumpled heap.

Iccauhtli was struggling mightily, lashing out with his fists. He was heavily built and reputedly had fought some engagements, taken some prisoners, but he was no match for Shikotenka, who smashed the hilt of his
macuahuitl
viciously into his face as he dragged him to his feet again. ‘Your father!’ he roared. ‘Lead us to him.’

‘Never!’ spat Iccauhtli, teeth dropping from his mouth.

‘Then die,’ hissed Shikotenka, taking a rapid step backward, swinging his
macuahuitl
through a half-circle and decapitating the thickset youth. As he struck the blow he noticed five more Mexica guards barrelling into the room, their javelins taking flight even as the peculiarly spherical head of their boy general went rolling and bouncing across the floor.

They were good these guards, steady on their feet as they launched, and the Tlascalans suffered their first casualties, amongst them Tochtli, Shikotenka’s own cousin, who took a javelin in the belly. Though such a wound was not immediately fatal, it meant Tochtli would be unable to flee the pavilion after the raid and must therefore certainly die.

Most of the Tlascalans still carried their bows over their shoulders. In an instant a dozen had unslung and fired, sending a dense volley of arrows at the guards, killing all but one of them who emerged miraculously unscathed but died under Tree’s club a moment later. With that, all opposition in the dance chamber ceased. Shikotenka’s heart was heavy to see Tochtli on his knees, struggling to withdraw the spear, but there could be no help for any of the injured tonight, no kindness or love or sentiment, and he rushed past his cousin without glancing back, calling Tree and Acolmiztli to rally their men.

It was taking too long to find Coaxoch, who surely must know by now what was happening, must already be fleeing? But just as Shikotenka admitted this depressing possibility, he heard sounds of battle, saw an alley heading north through the maze of sheeting and followed it at a dead run into a great open space in the heart of the pavilion. There a force of the Snake Woman’s personal guard had formed a protective circle around Coaxoch and his three surviving sons. Fewer than twenty of the guards remained on their feet, their numbers dwindling rapidly as they were picked off with arrows and cut down by the
macuahuitls
of the other Tlascalan platoons under Chipahua, Etzli and Ilhuicamina.

‘What kept you?’ said Chipahua as Shikotenka, Tree and Acolmiztli jogged up beside him and immediately threw their men into the fight, bringing a decisive advantage of numbers and instantly transforming what had been a battle of attrition into a massacre. In less than a minute all the guards were down and two more of Coaxoch’s sons were dead. Ilhuicamina held a knife to the throat of Mahuizoh, the last and eldest of them, but, on Shikotenka’s orders, had so far restrained himself from killing him. Coaxoch, his fat jowls dripping with tears, was on his knees at Shikotenka’s feet, begging for mercy.