Ichtaca smiled. 'But there is a price to pay. There is always one.'
'More involvement in the temple's affairs?' I had no taste for it. But with Neutemoc and Teomitl's life at stake, not to mention the fate of the Fifth World, it didn't matter.
Ichtaca's face was a carefully composed mask. 'No,' he said.
'You'll be the one who explains to them why they have to follow you.'
'I can't–'
'You forget.' His voice was soft, but it cut through the patter of the rain. 'You are High Priest of this order. They'll listen to you. They'll obey.' He smiled again, mirthlessly. 'And, perhaps, if you speak well enough, they'll do so with their hearts instead of with their fears.'
Ichtaca was efficient: within less than half an hour, he had most of my twenty priests gathered in the greatest room of the shrine. He wasn't a fool, either, to cause anyone to stay under that rain any longer than they had to.
I stood by the altar, under the lifeless gaze of Mictlantecuhtli, Lord Death. The gaunt cheeks and the yellow skin all contributed to lend Him an amused expression. The priests, though, weren't looking at the frescoes or at the dried blood in the grooves of the stones, but at me, whispering among themselves. I couldn't tell whether their expressions were hostile. They had settled in an order that seemed immovable: the senior offering priests in front, the younger novice priests in the middle; and at the back, closest to the entrance curtain, two calmecac students, thirteen years old at the most, looking far too young to be involved in this at all.
I knew some of those priests, such as Palli and Ezamahual, by name; some by sight; and some I had never seen. Perhaps, after this was over, I'd have time…
It wasn't the time to think of it, or to make endless plans for the future. Some of those priests wouldn't survive the night. All of them might not, if we failed and Tlaloc took His revenge on our clergy. I bore more responsibilities than just my own life.
Ichtaca clapped his hands together, and, in eerie simultaneity, every priest fell silent. 'The High Priest has an announcement to make,' he said.
If I'd felt ill at ease before, now I wanted to hide. I'd never been a speech-maker like Neutemoc or even Ceyaxochitl. Others navigated the world of politics through their silver tongues. I couldn't. But there were Neutemoc and Teomitl; and Huei, caught by mistake in an ageless struggle and literally sacrificed upon its altar.
I took a deep breath, and said, slowly, 'I need your help. All of you. I…'
They watched me, silent – not yet disapproving, but surely it would come. I caught Ichtaca's grimly amused gaze, and wondered why I'd been fool enough to think this easy. Surely all I had to do was give them an order?
I…
If I did this, I admitted, once and for all, that I was what Ceyaxochitl and the Emperor had made of me: a High Priest, head of my clergy, and responsible for its well-being. I admitted that the days of my youth and solitude were past. And I…
Above my head, the rain fell in a steady patter, like hundreds of footsteps on a causeway.
This wasn't, had never been about me. This was about the dead Jaguar warriors and the dying Emperor; about the peasants in their flooded fields; about the myriad small priests who didn't engage in politics, but sought the well-being of their flock.
'You have seen the rain,' I said softly. 'There is a child in Tenochtitlan: a child who is no more a child, but the living embodiment of Tlaloc's will. He seeks to remake the Fifth World in His image.'
Once I had started, the words came easily, jostling each other for release – and if I saw the faces of the priests, I wasn't focusing on their expressions any more.
'He has creatures with him. You cannot see them without Quetzalcoatl's True Sight. The knives of Mictlan will slow them down but not kill them. They feed on magic, and whittle down wards to nothing. But somehow, we have to get past them. We have to kill the child and put an end to this madness.
'I tell you all this because… because I need your help.'
When I finished, there was silence again. Then a growing whisper, as some of the priests turned to discuss with their neighbours. I couldn't read their faces; I couldn't hear what they were saying.
Someone – Palli, I realised – detached himself from the crowd. 'Are you ordering us?'
I shook my head. 'I can't take up a command I haven't earned. I'm asking you. I'm asking you to go into danger.'
'For the sake of the Fifth World.' That was Ezamahual.
'Yes,' Ichtaca said, to my left. 'Doing what we have always done.'
'We didn't pledge ourselves to suicide,' one of the offering priests said: a thin, coyote-like face I vaguely remembered from vigils. 'We say the funeral rites. We call up the Dead to comfort the living. Even if the world were in danger, that wouldn't be our responsibility.'
'Is that what you think?' Ichtaca asked, softly. 'That this is a sinecure, an easy path to the circles of power? Then you can leave right now, Chimalli. Being a priest is laying your life in the hands of our god, even more so than the ordinary people.'
Chimalli fell silent. But I could see that he had his following: a group of three young novice priests with embroidered cotton cloaks, probably sons of nobles – enjoying the riches of their fathers, without feats of arms to their names. Teomitl would have had no end of harsh words for them.
In the silence, someone spoke again. Palli. 'I've seen you work, Acatl-tzin. Where you go, I'll follow.' He stepped further away from the crowd, almost close enough to touch Ichtaca. Chimalli's friends sneered.
I said, my eyes on Chimalli, 'If you don't want to come, you can stay where it's dry. You can stay safe. No man can fight if they don't believe in what they're doing.'
