And they would know that he died well.
As to the gods, Natac suspected that they cared little whether the hearts were offered in Tlaxcala or here in the city of the Mexica. Regardless, they should continue to favor the peoples of the world with good fortune, plentiful sustenance, and benign climate.
His mind summoned another memory, the image of a pretty little girl. Her name was Yellow Hummingbird, and she had been the only sister in a house of rambunctious boys. She was his daughter, and she had been gone for many years now-she had been given to the rain god as a virginal twelve-year old. Now he wondered if he would see her in Mictlan. The thought gave him a pang of anticipation, a sense of hope for a mysterious future.
There was a ripple of excitement and murmuring as black-clad priests-hair, garments and skin matted with crusted blood and other filth-moved ostentatiously through the crowd. People shrank back, frightened by the fierce aspect and profound stench of these holy men, many of whom carried smoking braziers, while others trilled upon flutes or brayed loud prayers. Some made their way with deliberate haste up the steps of the great pyramid, and soon colored smoke billowed into view from before those lofty altars. Conch horns blared exultantly from all corners and heights of the plaza, while the music of the flutes swelled into a shrill cacophony.
Huitzilopochtli, naturally, would receive the first sacrificial victims in this place that was by its very existence a testament to the Aztec war god’s might. A file of men, dressed like Natac in plain, clean loincloths, began ascending the steep steps of the great pyramid. Those who would die today, the xochimilche, were mostly captives taken by the Aztecs in their battle with Tlaxcala. Additional victims were slaves, purchased and then given for sacrifice by a master who had reasons to seek the favor of this god or that.
Natac knew that the xochimilche leading the serpentine queue were Aztec warriors who had been crippled, maimed, blinded, or otherwise injured in the recent battle. Their days of combat ended, they offered themselves willingly to the ravenous god of war. The sight of their struggles moved Natac as he watched the first, a man whose left leg had been cruelly split by an obsidian-bladed maquahuitl. A priest climbed to his side, but the warrior brusquely waved away any suggestion of assistance. Instead he bore his weight on the good leg, using his hands to lift himself higher in a series of careful hops.
Finally the crippled Aztec stood at the top of the pyramid. Now more horns moaned, long and deep and quavering, as a ring of priests closed in. Though he couldn’t see inside the alcove of the temple, Natac knew that the fanged and bestial image of Huitzilopochtli, maw gaping hungrily, crouched beside the flat altar where the xochimilche would be stretched backward.
With startling brilliance, the rays of the rising sun struck the roof of the temple, and a patina of gold shimmered downward, creeping toward the sanctified altar. Suddenly the priests stepped back and the crowd buzzed with excitement as a blaze of viridescent color flashed amid the dark clerics. The brilliant plumage cloaked a man, a regal figure in a rich mantle of aquamarine hummingbird feathers, head crowned by the emerald-green tail feathers of the quetzal bird. With sudden recognition and awe, Natac knew this was Moctezuma himself, the Eloquent One-ruler of the Aztec empire.
The noble figure raised a hand and sunlight flickered momentarily off a blade of sharpened, fire-orange jade. The knife dropped, and in another moment Moctezuma’s other hand came up. At the same time the advancing sunlight engulfed the company before the temple, dazzlingly bright and magical. In the clutching fingers, tiny with distance but crimson and bright as a ruby, a human heart pulsed in the first rays of the sun.
The golden sheen continued down the face of the pyramid as, one by one, more xochimilche advanced into the temple. Moctezuma himself performed several more sacrifices, then stepped back to allow the priests to assume the ritual butchery. Natac knew that each heart was placed into the maw of the god of war, no doubt reverently at first, although inevitably the grotesque jaws would soon overflow. Additional hearts would ultimately fall in a heap upon the floor while the gory work cast a layer of blood over the priests, the temple, and the entire top of the pyramid.
While the original file of xochimilche still marched forward, a second column now ascended the pyramid steps. This group was led by priests to the altar of Tlaloc, the other temple commanding a site on the city’s most sacrosanct vantage. The neighboring altar, too, was soon drenched in blood as heart after heart was ripped forth, here in the name of the goggle-eyed deity of rain.
For a moment, Natac’s eyes wandered to the farther pyramid, where the altar of Tezcatlipoca was currently unattended. His enemies would extend this ancient god a token feast of hearts, he was certain, but not in sufficiency deserved by the patron deity of Tlaxcala. He reminded himself that in his homeland many Aztec hearts would fill the jaguar-maw of the Enemy on Every Side, but he remained aggrieved by the sight of this Mexican temple’s neglect.
Before the war god’s temple on the great pyramid, the drained corpses were hauled away by burly priests and unceremoniously tumbled down the side of the blocky structure. A streak of bright red appeared at the lip of the sacred platform, quickly centering in the gutter beside the wide stairway. Oozing thickly, blood began to trickle down the chute, drawing a murmured reaction from the gathered throng. Natac watched the precious liquid intently, knowing that its appearance signaled the commencement of his own part in the festivities.
Several priests approached, magically parting the crowd that had closed around the Warstone, and Natac was pleased to see a familiar figure beside them. The Eagle Knight Takanatl was resplendent in his ceremonial costume, wooden helmet forming the beak of a great hunting bird-which was in turn an opening that framed the warrior’s stern face. Takanatl’s arms and calves were bare, but a rich mantle of white cotton and green parrot feathers framed the black and white of his eagle plumage and distinguished him as a man of great status. Now he came to stand at the base of the Warstone, gray eyes meeting those of the man he had captured.
“Greetings, Natac,” said the Aztec, in the Nahuatl tongue that was a common link between their intractable nations. “I am pleased to anticipate your final battle.”
“It is my honor to die before you-and to offer my heart to the gods,” Natac replied. He felt a strong rush of affection for the proud Eagle Knight, his foe in countless battles over the last thirty years, and a momentary regret that he could not have the honor of slaying this man today, then journeying with him to Mictlan.
“Does your hand cause you pain?” asked Takanatl.
For a moment Natac was surprised. Then he looked down at the swollen purpled lump at the terminus of his left arm, remembered the rockslide ambush, crushing boulders trapping him, leading to his capture. The infection had become severe, swelling through his wrist and into his forearm.
“No-I have given it no thought,” he replied truthfully.
“I am glad.” Takanatl smiled broadly, relishing his memories. “It was my good fortune that you were coming through the pass as my men released the rockslide. The Eloquent One himself took notice!”
“Ah, but the pursuit that led me into that pass was a fine thing!” Natac declared. “To see tens of thousands of Aztecs fleeing the battle, leaving hundreds behind as offerings for Tlaxcalan temples. It was a victory worth dying for.”
“Indeed.” The Eagle Knight’s expression became rueful. “Moctezuma was less than happy with the other details of the battle.” Takanatl’s eyes flickered to the great pyramid, and Natac was reminded that not all xochimilche went willingly to the realm of death.
Only then did the Tlaxcalan note a file of other warriors behind Takanatl, less grandly dressed than the Eagle Knight, but capable and sturdy-looking men nonetheless. There were a dozen or more, waiting impatiently for the ceremonies to be concluded, encircling the platform and congregating at the bases of the four stairways leading to the Warstone. Natac wondered which of them would kill him-and he hoped, for the honor of the Smoking Mirror and Tlaxcala, that it would not be the first man to try.
The closest, a hard-eyed young man of great size and scowling features, stared at Natac unblinkingly. He bore a sharp-edged maquahuitl and wore padded quilting to protect his chest, belly, and shoulders. Obviously this young warrior would commence the battle with the Tlaxcalan xochimilche, and as Natac admired the man’s sinewy limbs and the deadly weapon in his hand, he admitted to himself that the Aztec had a good chance of winning.
Four priests climbed the stairways to the top of the Warstone. Three prayed loudly, wafting incense while the fourth offered Natac his ritual weapons: a slender pole of wood, which was merely a spear without the customary head of sharp stone; and a parody of a lethal maquahuitl. Instead of the razor-edged shards of obsidian characteristic of the bladed club, the edges of this weapon were marked only by colorful tufts of feathers.
Once again Natac was reminded of his useless left hand, knowing that the injury rendered the pole an ineffective tool.
“I choose only the ritual sword,” he said, taking the blunt maquahuitl from the priest’s outstretched hand.
