War God (56 page)

Melchior was already in pursuit, hunched forward on the path through the palm grove, running uphill in the direction the friar had taken.

With a pounding heart, tugging the little hatchet from his belt, Pepillo followed.

Moctezuma was awaiting his dinner and taking some comfort in the prospect. Tonight the dishes would include one cooked from the thigh of a delicate young boy he had sacrificed at dawn in an attempt to coax Hummingbird to visit him again. The attempt had failed, as had every other since the holocaust on the great pyramid nine days before, but at least he could enjoy the tender flesh of the victim.

There was little else that gave the Great Speaker pleasure. His stomach was constantly disturbed, busily moving, inclined to strange rumblings and howlings, as though it had taken on a life of its own. Only when filled to satiety did it fall quiet for a short while and give him peace.

Another problem was also beginning to trouble Moctezuma greatly. Although he continued to have intercourse with his legitimate wives in the hope of siring an heir healthier than his weakling son Chimalpopoca, he greatly preferred the company of his many mistresses for solace in the bedroom. Since the holocaust, however, his
tepulli
had ceased to function as it should and neither his wives nor even the most appetising females in his harem had coaxed him to an erection. Sometimes – quite often – Moctezuma had the sinister feeling he was being
watched
as he attempted to perform. He’d consulted his magicians but as yet they had been unable to offer a solution.

He was in the spacious, high-ceilinged dining chamber on the first floor of his palace, seated on a soft, richly worked stool in front of a low table covered with a white cloth of the finest cotton on which were laid a selection of long napkins of the same colour and material. To his right, at a distance of some twenty paces on the far side of the chamber, the three grey-haired dignitaries who would dine with him tonight stood with their heads respectfully bowed.

Moctezuma decided to keep them waiting a little longer while he gave thought to the matter of Guatemoc. He had received two irritating visits from Mecatl today, the first in the morning to announce that the troublesome prince had refused his ‘medicine’ and a second unscheduled visit in the afternoon to report continued lack of success. This non-cooperation was a setback to what had, until today, been solid progress, and if it continued there was a danger that Cuitláhuac would return and take his son from the hospital before the
cotelachi
had done its work. Urgent measures were called for, and Moctezuma had not hesitated to accept Mecatl’s offer to prepare a new batch of poison from a large
cotelachi
butterfly – large enough to kill Guatemoc with a single dose. It would be best if the dose were swallowed willingly, but if not he had authorised the physician to use force.

Guatemoc was feeling very much better, and far stronger than he had believed would ever be possible again.

Perhaps it was because he had successfully avoided Mecatl’s poison all day.

But he could not get out of his mind the incredible sensations of warmth and healing that had filled his body, and the instant relief from pain he had been granted when the goddess Temaz had placed her hands upon his wounds the night before. Despite the exhausting effort of fending off Mecatl without arousing his suspicions, Guatemoc’s conviction that a miracle had put him on the path of recovery had not left him for a single moment.

It was one of the reasons he remained certain his encounter with the goddess in the still of the night had been real and not some fever of his imagination.

But the more powerful proof was the little bottle Temaz had given him, a physical thing quite outside the realm of imaginings. He had passed it on to his mother that morning, without explaining how it had come into his hands, telling her only that it was a medicine Mecatl kept pressing on him, that he suspected poison and that his father must be summoned back at once to Tenochtitlan to help unravel the plot. His mother had wanted to confront Mecatl herself, but Guatemoc had forbidden it. The doctor was part of a wider conspiracy. They must trap him in such a way that he could be forced, by torture if necessary, to reveal its instigator. Only Cuitláhuac had the power to see such a drastic initiative through, and until he arrived they must give no sign of their suspicions.

The day had worn on. In the mid-afternoon Guatemoc rebuffed Mecatl yet again but the physician refused to leave the room. ‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘it’s more than my life is worth. The Lord Speaker himself commands you to drink this medicine.’

‘My respects to the Lord Speaker,’ Guatemoc replied wearily, ‘but my body commands me to sleep, so please
go away
.’

The physician had tucked the bottle inside his robes again – a good sign. ‘You put me in an impossible position, sire,’ he said, wringing his hands.

‘Come back tonight,’ Guatemoc replied. ‘I will, for the Lord Speaker’s sake, attempt your elixir then.’

‘Do I have your promise on that, sire?’

‘You have my promise.’

‘Very well. I will return tonight.’

Shortly before sunset came the news that Cuitláhuac had reached Tenochtitlan and was making preparations to infiltrate the hospital in secret with a few of his most trusted men.

The trap was baited and set. All that remained was to wait.

Two hours after dark, Mecatl entered Guatemoc’s room, moved to his bedside, produced the medicine bottle and bent over him, oozing false concern. ‘The night is well advanced, lord. You must drink the elixir again.’

Guatemoc gave him a stony glare: ‘Clear off, you toad. I’ve told you a dozen times today I don’t have the stomach for it.’

‘Against my better judgement, sire, I have allowed you to postpone your medication, but you promised me you would drink it this evening.’

‘
Allowed
, you say? Allowed
me
? You little quack. I’m a prince of the realm and I do as I please.’ And with that Guatemoc thrust out his hand from under the covers, gripped Mecatl by the throat and drew the doctor’s fat, sweating face towards his own. ‘Get out of my sight!’ he bellowed, and tightened his grip for a moment before shoving the other man away.

The words ‘get out of my sight’ were the agreed signal; behind the doctor, Guatemoc saw the door open – saw his father Cuitláhuac and three men at arms silently enter the room. Unaware of the threat, Mecatl straightened and gulped in air, a look of real anger for the first time crossing his face. He’d held on tightly to the medicine bottle, which he now unstoppered. ‘I am afraid I must insist,’ he said. A muscle twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘The Great Speaker is deeply concerned for your welfare. My orders are to ensure, by any means, that you drink the elixir.’

‘And how, may I ask, do you propose to do that?’

Behind Mecatl, Guatemoc saw another man slip into the room. He recognised Acamap, Cuitláhuac’s personal physician.

Mecatl was too busy digging his own grave to notice. ‘If I must,’ he said with more self-confidence than he usually expressed, ‘I am authorised to call for assistance … I will have you restrained, young Guatemoc, and I will pour the elixir down your throat with a funnel. My master the Speaker requires it.’

‘Oh does he indeed?’ said Cuitláhuac in a cold, quiet voice. Rushing forward, the men at arms pounced on Mecatl and held him still while Cuitláhuac prised the medicine bottle from his hand.

‘My lord.’ A note of hysteria had entered the doctor’s voice. ‘This is an outrage.’

‘Yes, I agree,’ said Cuitláhuac. ‘It is an outrage that you threaten my son with violence.’

‘The noble prince is stubborn, lord. What am I to do when he refuses medication that will save his life?’

Ignoring him, Cuitláhuac passed the bottle over to Acamap, who sniffed its contents and made a sour face.

‘Well,’ said Cuitláhuac. ‘Do you recognise it?’

‘One moment please,’ said Acamap. He poured a drop of the liquid onto his finger, very cautiously tasted it with his tongue, spat violently, rinsed his mouth with water from a flask at his hip and then spat again. ‘It is
cotelachi
poison,’ he said. ‘A very strong dose – much stronger than the sample your lady wife asked me to test this morning. Had the prince drunk the entire contents of this bottle, he would have been dead in a few hours.’

His face contorted with rage, Cuitláhuac turned on Mecatl. ‘What do you say to that?’

‘I say it is a lie, Excellency. This medicine is an elixir of wondrous virtue that I prepare for the Lord Speaker.’

‘Then you will no doubt be happy to drink it yourself.’

Mecatl’s face drained of colour. ‘I …’ he said. ‘I … No, sire. I prefer not to.’

‘Force his mouth open,’ growled Cuitláhuac to the men at arms.

Mecatl struggled, with surprising strength, Guatemoc thought, but the soldiers were all over him. Soon enough they got a dagger between his teeth and levered his mouth open, wounding his lips and cheeks in the process. As blood spattered down his costly robes and pooled on the floor at his feet, he let out a stifled sob and shook his head wildly, cutting himself further on the blade.

Cuitláhuac loomed over him holding the bottle. ‘So what’s it to be?’ he said. ‘Death by this Zapotec butterfly poison you were going to kill my son with? Or you tell us who’s behind all this and maybe we let you live?’

Moctezuma’s stomach rumbled as a zephyr of delicious aromas wafted from the adjoining kitchen, and he glanced up to see four serving girls, selected from the daughters of the nobility for their cleanliness and beauty, enter the dining chamber carrying a large, deep gourd. As they approached they did not – dared not! – look at him, but kept their eyes downcast, ladled water from the gourd onto his outstretched hands and skilfully caught the overflow in special basins. None of the water was allowed to drop to the floor; it was considered bad luck, punishable by the death of the offending servant, if any did. Taking the greatest possible care, the girls then towelled his fingers dry as two more noble daughters entered, bringing him white maize cakes. Finally the women retired and a host of male retainers, all chosen for the honour from amongst the nobility, entered the room carrying thirty earthenware braziers on which were arrayed three hundred small red and black ceramic dishes heaped with a fantasia of cooked fowls, turkeys, pheasants, partridges, quail, tame and wild duck, venison, peccary, marsh birds, pigeons, hares, monkeys, lobster, shrimp, octopus, molluscs, turtles, thirty different varieties of sea and river fish, a dozen different vegetables and, in pride of place, seasoned with salt and chillies, little cubes of meat sliced from the thigh of the sacrificed boy.

When the feast had been set out, all the retainers withdrew, with the exception of Moctezuma’s steward Teudile, a man of the most refined noble birth who, because of his proximity to the ruler, stood amongst the highest lords of the land, ranking seventh after Moctezuma himself, the Snake Woman (a position still unfilled since the death of Coaxoch), Cuitláhuac, the lords of Tacuba and Texcoco, and the new high priest, Namacuix. Tall, gaunt and hollow cheeked, Teudile’s temples and brow were shaved, his long grey hair gathered in a top-knot at the back of his head and his cherished personal dignity enlarged by the star-spangled robes of office that he alone was permitted to wear in the presence of the Great Speaker. He held sole responsibility for all matters concerning the running of the royal household, and at dinner it was his particular honour and privilege to describe the dishes to the Speaker and hand him whichever took his fancy. First, however, he drew a gold-inlaid wooden screen around Moctezuma so that his three dinner guests, who were now invited to draw close, could not see him eat.

This was the part that Moctezuma always enjoyed the most – for tradition required that the guests must be barefoot, must remain standing throughout like beggars at his gate, must speak only when he spoke to them and might eat only if he chose to offer them a morsel of this or that from behind the screen. It was an excellent system for reminding the nobility of their subservience to him and to keep them at each other’s throats by bestowing honour on one and humiliation on another.

Even as he sampled the first juicy chunks of the sacrificed boy’s inner thigh, however, Moctezuma looked down and saw with horror that a drop of water had somehow splashed to the ground at his feet while his hands were being washed. It was a terrible omen, and as though in immediate fulfilment of it he heard the familiar voice of Cuitláhuac, not in Texcoco as he was meant to be but at the door to the chamber and speaking loudly and urgently to the guards. The names Guatemoc and Mecatl were both mentioned.

With a roar of anger Moctezuma threw his plate to the floor and dismissed his guests and Teudile.

This could only be about one thing.