that. Now step over here, Fogbound. This is a sturdy nopali. Give it a killing stroke.'
The cactus was an old one, of nearly tree size. Its spiny green lobes were like paddles, and its barked brown trunk was as thick as my waist. I swung the maquahuitl experimentally, with my right hand only, and the obsidian edge bit into the cactus wood with a hungry tchunk! I wiggled the blade loose, took the handle in both hands, swung the sword far back behind me, then struck with all my force. I had expected the blade to cut rather more deeply, but I was truly surprised when it slashed cleanly all the way through the trunk, splashing its sap like colorless blood. The nopali came crashing down, and the Master and I both had to leap nimbly away to avoid the falling mass of sharp spines.
'Ayyo, Fogbound!' Blood Glutton said admiringly. 'Whatever attributes you lack, you do have the strength of a born warrior.'
I flushed with pride and pleasure, but I had to say, 'Yes, Master, I can strike and kill. But what of my dim vision? Suppose I were to strike the wrong man. One of our own.'
'No cuachic in command of novice warriors would ever put you in a position to do so. In a War of Flowers, he might assign you to the Swaddlers who carry the ropes to bind enemy prisoners that they may be brought back for sacrifice. Or in a real war, you might be assigned to the rear-guard Swallowers whose knives give merciful release to those comrades and foes left lying wounded when the battle has swept on past them.'
'Swallowers and Swaddlers,' I mustered. 'Hardly heroic duties to win me reward in the afterworld.'
'You spoke of this world,' the Master sternly reminded me, 'and of service, not heroism. Even the humblest can serve. I remember when we marched into the insolent city of Tlaltelolco, to annex it to our Tenochtitlan. That city's warriors battled us in the streets, of course, but its women, children, and old dodderers stood upon the housetops and threw down at us large rocks, nests full of angry wasps, even handfuls of their own excrement.'
Right here, my lord scribes, I had better make clear that, among the different kinds of wars we Mexica fought, the battle for Tlaltelolco had been an exceptional case. Our Revered Speaker Axayacatl simply found it necessary to subjugate that haughty city, to deprive it of independent rule, and forcibly to make its people render allegiance to our one great island capital of Tenochtitlan. But, as a general rule, our wars against other peoples were not for conquest—at least not in the sense that your armies have conquered all of this New Spain and made it an abject colony of your Mother Spain.
No, we might defeat and humble another nation, but we would not obliterate it from the earth. We fought to prove our own might and to exact tribute from the less mighty. When a nation surrendered and acknowledged fealty to us Mexica, it was given a tally of its native resources and products—gold, spices, oli, whatever—that henceforth it would annually deliver in specified quantities to our Revered Speaker. And it would be held subject to conscription of its fighting men, when and if they should be needed to march alongside us Mexica.
But that nation would retain its name and sovereignty, its own ruler, its accustomed way of life, and its preferred form of religion. We would not impose on it any of our laws, customs, or gods. Our war god Huitzilopochtli, for example, was our god. Under his care the Mexica were a people set apart from others and above them, and we would not share that god or let him be shared. Quite the contrary. In many defeated nations we discovered new gods or novel manifestations of our known gods, and, if they appealed to us, our armies brought home copies of their statues for us to set in our own temples.
I must tell you, too, that there existed nations from which we never were able to wring tribute or fealty. For instance, contiguous to us in the east there was Cuautexcalan, The Land of the Eagle Crags, usually called by us simply Texcala, The Crags. For some reason, you Spaniards choose to call that land Tlaxcala, which is laughable, since that word means merely tortilla.
Texcala was completely ringed by countries all allied to us Mexica, hence it was forced to exist like a landlocked island. But Texcala adamantly refused ever to submit in the least degree, which meant that it was cut off from importing many necessities of life. If the Texcalteca had not, however grudgingly, traded with us the sacred copali resin in which their forestland was rich, they would not even have had salt to flavor their food.
As it was, our Uey-Tlatoani severely restricted the amount of trading between us and the Texcalteca—always in expectation of bringing them to submission—so the stubborn Texcalteca perpetually suffered humiliating deprivations. They had to eke out their meager crop of cotton, for example, meaning that even their nobles had to wear mantles woven of only a trace of cotton mixed with coarse hemp or maguey fiber; garments which, in Tenochtitlan, would have been worn only by slaves or children. You can well understand that Texcala harbored an abiding hatred for us Mexica and, as you well know, it eventually had dire consequences for us, for the Texcalteca, and for all of what is now New Spain.
'Meanwhile,' said Master Blood Glutton to me on that day we conversed, 'right now our armies are disastrously embroiled with another recalcitrant nation to the west. The Revered Speaker's attempted invasion of Michihuacan, The Land of the Fishermen, has been repulsed most ignominiously. Axayacatl expected an easy victory, since those Purempecha have always been armed with copper blades, but they have hurled our armies backward in defeat.'
'But how, Master?' I asked. 'An unwarlike race wielding soft copper weapons? How could they stand against us invincible Mexica?'
The old soldier shrugged. 'Unwarlike the Purempecha may be, but they fight fiercely enough to defend their Michihuacan homeland of lakes and rivers and well-watered farmlands. Also, it is said they have discovered some magic metal that they mix into their copper while it is still molten. When the mixture is forged into blades, it becomes a metal so hard that our obsidian crumples like bark paper against it.'
'Fishermen and farmers,' I murmured, 'defeating the professional soldiers of Axayacatl....'
'Oh, we will try again, you may wager on it,' said Blood Glutton. 'This time Axayacatl wanted only access to those waters rich in food fish, and those fruitful valleys. But now he will want the secret of that magic metal. He will challenge the Purempecha again, and when he does, his armies will require every man who can march.' The Master paused, then added pointedly, 'Even stiff-jointed old cuachictin like me, even those who can serve only as Swallowers and Swaddlers, even the crippled and the fogbound. It behooves us to be trained and hardened and ready, my boy.'
As it happened, Axayacatl died before he could mount another invasion into Michihuacan, which is part of what you now call New Galicia. Under subsequent Revered Speakers, we Mexica and the Purempecha managed to live in a sort-of wary mutual respect. And I hardly need remind you, reverend friars, that your own most butcherlike commander, Beltran de Guzman, is to this day still trying to crush the diehard bands of Purempecha around Lake Chapalan and in other remote corners of New Galicia that yet refuse to surrender to your King Carlos and your Lord God.
I have been speaking of our punitive wars, such as they were. I am sure that even your bloodthirsty Guzman can understand that kind of warfare, though I am also sure he could never conceive of a war—like most of ours— which left the defeated nation still surviving and independent. But now let me speak of our Wars of Flowers, because those seem incomprehensible to any of you white men. 'How,' I have heard you ask, 'could there have been so many unprovoked and unnecessary wars between friendly nations? Wars that neither side even tried to win?'
I will do my best to explain.
Any kind of war was, naturally, pleasing to our gods. Each warrior, dying, spilled his lifeblood, the most precious offering a human could make. In a punitive war, a decisive victory was the objective, and so both sides fought to kill or be killed. The enemy were, as my old Master put it, weeds to be mowed. Only a comparatively few prisoners were taken and kept for later ceremonial sacrifice. But whether a warrior died on the battlefield or on a temple altar, his was accounted a Flowery Death, honorable to himself and satisfying to the gods. The only problem was—if you look at it from the gods' point of view—that punitive wars were not frequent enough. While they provided much god-nourishing blood and sent many soldiers to be afterworld servants of the gods, such wars were only sporadic. The gods might have to wait and fast and thirst for many years between. That displeased them, and in the year One Rabbit, they let us know it.
That was some twelve years before my birth, but my father remembered it vividly and often told of it with much sad shaking of his head. In that year, the gods sent to this whole plateau the harshest winter ever known. Besides freezing cold and biting winds which untimely killed many infants, sickly elders, our domestic animals, and even the animals of the wild, there was a six-day snowfall which killed every winter crop in the ground. There were mysterious lights visible in the night skies: wavering vertical bands of cold-colored lights, what my father described as 'the gods striding ominously about the heavens, nothing of them visible but their mantles woven of white and
