War God (39 page)

Some of the men still had a few drops in their waterskins, which they willingly shared as the hundred Cuahchics, with no more than a dozen empty skins amongst them, looked on greedily. Studying the members of the elite Mexica force, Shikotenka saw just how close to the limit of their endurance the Tlascalans had run them, and could only guess at the condition of the rest of the enemy footsoldiers staggering up to reinforce them. More than a thousand had already reached the outer edges of the Cuahchic encirclement, but most of them now lay stretched out on the ground, chests heaving in abject exhaustion.

‘Tosspots!’ said Ilhuicamina with an insulting gesture along the canyon. ‘Mexica can’t run to save their lives.’

Tree seemed much restored by the water and the fury of battle was glinting in his eyes. ‘
Women!
’ he taunted the Cuahchics again. ‘If by chance there’s a man hiding there amongst you, I offer you single combat.’ He stepped to the edge of the Tlascalan circle and smacked his club menacingly against the huge palm of his left hand.

The Cuahchics had removed their insignia of rank and run the final miles in loincloths and sandals only, but it was obvious who their commander was. A short, squat warrior of about thirty, with the left side of his head and face painted yellow and the right side blue, masses of knotted muscle standing out on his thighs, arms and belly, he stood calmly with his eyes fixed on Tree. ‘Bluster all you wish, Tlascalan,’ he replied, his voice rasping like a saw cutting wood. ‘We’ll soon enough show you what men we are.’

Chipahua gave a loud belch. ‘Men have balls, but your breechclouts look empty. Send your wives to us and we’ll show them what they’ve been missing.’ Around him the Tlascalan squad laughed while the Cuahchics chafed and murmured. Swinging his club, Tree ran forward to stand alone in no man’s land. ‘Single combat,’ he shouted again. ‘Single combat now.’

Shikotenka reluctantly decided to see how his friend’s act of bravado played out. It was a useful distraction while the canyon behind the Cuahchics continued to fill up with Mexica footsoldiers – at least ten thousand of them now and counting. Every minute the ambush was delayed meant more of them would fall into the trap.

As three of the Cuahchics darted forth to answer Tree’s challenge, their leader barked a command and they stopped in their tracks while they were still out of range of the big man’s whirling club, then slunk back to the protection of their squad in a way that was almost comical. ‘
Cowards!
’ Tree roared. ‘Three not enough? Send six. Send twelve. I’ll kill you all!’

More murmurs of fury from the enemy ranks were answered by further stern rebukes from the thickset officer. ‘Nobody fights,’ he was yelling, while he held one of his men by the scruff of the neck and knocked another to the ground with a great blow of his fist. ‘Nobody dies! Not until General Mahuizoh gets here.’

Suddenly Shikotenka understood the Cuahchics’ strange behaviour.
Ah
, he thought as he sent Chipahua and Acolmiztli to drag Tree back to the Tlascalan circle.
Now it all makes sense
.

Mahuizoh arrived within the hour, more than enough time for every man of the two Mexica regiments to enter the killing ground. Stripped down to his loincloth like all the rest, a thick brown poultice covering the ruin of his nose, breathing noisily and blowing bubbles of blood through his mouth, pale and shaking with pain, you had to admire the dedication of the general, Shikotenka reflected; you had to admire the resolve; you had to admire the sheer violence of the hatred that had driven him across mountains, up and down steep gradients and along the length of this canyon to extract vengeance for what had been done to his father and his brothers.

And there was no doubt his revenge would be terrible, as cruel and as hideous as anything the wicked imaginings of the Mexica could devise …

If the Tlascalan ambush was not in place.

Flanked by four strutting Cuahchic bodyguards, Mahuizoh advanced to within a dozen paces of the Tlascalan circle and sought Shikotenka out, fixing him with an inflamed glare. ‘You, Shikotenka!’ he said, his voice wet and bubbling. ‘Tell me the name of your man who cut me.’ He turned towards Ilhuicamina whose prosthetic nose of jade mosaic tiles glittered in the morning’s brilliance.

‘He’ll tell you himself,’ Shikotenka replied.

Ilhuicamina laughed and lifted the mask from his face, exposing the gaping bone beneath. ‘I am Ilhuicamina,’ he said. ‘It was I who cut you. Do you wish to thank me for making you as lovely as myself?’

‘I will thank you with this,’ said Mahuizoh. He produced a long-bladed obsidian knife from his waistband and held it up to the sun. ‘My gratitude will be beautiful to behold and will require much time to express.’ He turned back to Shikotenka. ‘I told you I will go to Moctezuma wearing your skin,’ he said. A choking cough shook him and blood sprayed from his mouth. ‘I will make your own men flay you alive before I take your heart.’

Shikotenka didn’t reply but turned to his captains. ‘When my father attacks,’ he said, with more assurance than he felt, ‘we go straight for Mahuizoh. Cut the heart out of the Mexica resistance. Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ said Chipahua.

‘Agreed,’ said Ilhuicamina.

‘Agreed,’ said Acolmiztli.

‘Agreed,’ said Tree. ‘We cut out their heart.’

Shikotenka glanced again at the strips of forest at the base of the canyon walls and at the coming and goings of the birds. Once again the shadow of doubt fell over him, but then the great war conch blew a triumphant blast and the birds scattered up to heaven amidst a flurry of wings. Thirty thousand Tlascalans erupted from their hides amongst the acacia and brushwood to engulf their hated enemies in a howling, vengeful tide.

The look on Mahuizoh’s evil face made every agonising moment of the last day and night worthwhile. Shikotenka surged forward and, as Tree’s club and Chipahua’s
macuahuitl
and the knives of Acolmiztli and Ilhuicamina struck down the astonished bodyguards, he closed with the general and
tac, tac, tac, tac, tac,
he took his vile and vicious life.

By noon, when there was still no sign of the
Santa María
, Alvarado looked out at the rest of the fleet gathered around his own magnificent carrack,
San Sebastián
, and shrugged his shoulders.

The only thing to do, under the circumstances, was to sail at once to Cozumel. Cortés had the coordinates. If he’d survived they would meet him again there.

And if not … well … Alvarado smiled. The expedition would just have to find a new leader, and he was ready to step up to the mark.

Huicton sat on his begging mat in his usual spot at the junction where the Tepeyac causeway branched off from the Azcapotzalco causeway in the northern quarter of Tenochtitlan. Invisible, insubstantial, able to pass unseen wherever and whenever she wished, Tozi approached him without making a sound and waited for a moment when there was a suitable gap in the crowds. Then, quite suddenly, giving no warning, she faded back into visibility right in front of him.

He gasped in surprise, blinked rapidly twice and put his old hand to his chest, but very soon recovered his composure. ‘Tozi!’ he said, with real joy in his voice. ‘I knew you’d be back … You’re not one to give yourself up to the knife.’ His brow furrowed. ‘But how long have you been standing here invisible waiting to shock me?’ He beckoned her to sit down beside him on the mat, rested his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’ve not harmed yourself with this fade?’

‘No, Huicton, I have not harmed myself. I’ve gone through many changes since we last met.’

There was a secret that Tozi had kept to herself during her months in the fattening pen. She’d told Coyotl and Malinal that her mother had brought her to Tenochtitlan when she was five years old; that she’d died two years later, leaving Tozi to fend for herself from the age of seven until she was grabbed off the street by Moctezuma’s catchers, who had brought her to the fattening pen when she was fourteen. That was all true, but she’d not told them her mother had been murdered by a mob of commoners whipped up into a frenzy against witches, or that they’d have murdered Tozi, too, if she hadn’t cast the spell of invisibility and faded for a thirty count to escape them.

And she’d said nothing about Huicton, the poor, blind beggar with milky-white eyes who’d been there on the street corner when it happened. After the mob surged on in search of other victims, he’d looked for her and rescued her from the hole she’d crawled into where she lay helpless, stunned and bleeding from the effects of the fade.

Because Huicton wasn’t really blind.

And when he passed through the streets of Tenochtitlan tapping with his stick, seeming to feel his way, he saw everything that went on.

He wasn’t really a beggar, either. In that disguise, he’d explained to Tozi as he nursed her back to health all those years ago, he served as a spy for King Neza of Texcoco who was nominally Moctezuma’s vassal but pursued many independent policies.

‘How long have you known how to make yourself invisible?’ Tozi remembered Huicton asking. His voice was low, with a strange nasal drone, almost like a swarm of bees in flight, and he’d smiled – such a nice, warm,
conspiratorial
smile – adding almost shyly: ‘A spy with such a skill would be truly valuable.’

There was something trustworthy about him, so Tozi had told him the truth – that it was a gift she’d been born with but that it had to be harnessed by the spell of invisibility. Her mother had begun training her in the use of the spell from her earliest childhood, but it was difficult, and by the age of seven Tozi had only succeeded in mastering it for very short periods. Huicton had seen for himself how close it brought her to death when she sustained a fade for longer than a few seconds.

She remembered the close, intelligent way he’d studied her face through his clouded, deceptive eyes. ‘You have other gifts, I think?’ he’d said finally. She wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement, but in the years that followed they had often worked together. Her job was to lead him through the streets like a dutiful granddaughter, attracting sympathy and alms from passers-by, and as they walked, or sat on their mats and begged, he’d talk to her constantly about many things. Little by little she came to realise that these conversations were lessons – a sort of school – and that Huicton’s purpose was to teach her to look deep within herself and find her gifts. He claimed no magical abilities of his own, but without his encouragement and advice, Tozi knew she would never have had enough confidence to learn how to send the fog, or read minds, or command animals.

He was not always with her. Sometimes the cunning old spy would vanish from Tenochtitlan for days on end as completely as if he did, after all, possess some magic. He never gave any explanation or warning. He was just gone – she presumed to take the intelligence he’d gathered to King Neza in Texcoco.

It had been during one of these periods of absence, much longer than usual, that Moctezuma’s catchers had seized Tozi and put her in the fattening pen. But now, the morning after the terrible orgy of sacrifices on the great pyramid of Tenochtitlan, she was back and reunited with Huicton.

‘I’m so sorry I was gone when you were taken,’ he hastened to tell her. ‘My master King Neza died and problems arose. His eldest son Ishtlil should have become king in his place but Moctezuma preferred the younger son Cacama and put him on the throne instead.’

Even in the fattening pen, Tozi had heard rumours of the recent events in Texcoco. ‘So do you serve Cacama now?’ she asked.

‘No! Certainly not! Cacama is a yes-man who does whatever Moctezuma tells him. But Ishtlil has a mind of his own – like his father. Rather than accept the new state of affairs, he broke away, seized control of Texcoco’s mountain provinces and declared a rebellion. He’s at war with both Cacama and Moctezuma, and that war has grown bloody in the months you’ve been imprisoned.’ Huicton glanced uneasily at the crowds passing by on the causeway and his voice fell to an almost inaudible whisper. ‘I support the cause of Ishtlil,’ he confided. ‘He’s become my new master and I do my spying for him now … A dangerous task – much more dangerous than before.’

Tozi understood the need for discretion. Numbering in their thousands, Moctezuma’s secret police walked the streets of Tenochtitlan in plain clothes, listening and watching for any hint of sedition. They could be in any crowd, at any time. Even here. ‘It was this change of circumstances,’ Huicton continued, ‘that kept me away from Tenochtitlan for so long and when I returned you’d been taken.’ An apologetic grimace: ‘I looked for you, I discovered what had happened, I even learned where they were keeping you, but there was nothing I could do except work for the destruction of Moctezuma. He tried to poison Ishtlil, you know. At least I managed to foil that plot! And I continued to have faith in you, my little Tozi, and to believe that somehow you would make yourself free. You always had great powers …’