As always when I passed nearby, I found my gaze drawn to the Great Temple. It was hard to ignore it: the bulk of its double pyramid towered over all the other temples. Celebrants were crowding on its platform.
Even from afar, it was easy to see the way of things. The right half of the platform, devoted to the God of War, Huitzilpochtli, was awash with noblemen, and the blood of numerous sacrifices had made the sacred vessels overflow. The left half of the platform, the temple to Tlaloc, God of Rain, was almost empty, with perhaps half a dozen priests shedding their blood.
As always, that sight inspired a complex mixture of feelings. My parents had both been peasants: but the true glory of life, they had always told me, lay in war. And wasn't it fitting that the God of War should reign supreme over the Fifth World? Yet I had chosen the path of a humble priesthood over that of the warrior, leaving the glory to my brother. Had it truly been the best choice I could make?
Enough. I couldn't afford melancholy at a time like this.
I tore my gaze away from the Great Temple. Unfortunately, I did so too late to avoid crashing into a group of priests flanking a sacrificial victim: a man with a chalk-whitened face, lips painted in grey. 'Sorry.'
The victim looked at me with a touch of annoyance, angry at being impeded on his way to a glorious death. The priests just nodded, as one craftsman to another. I resumed my crawl towards the exit.
Outside the Serpent Wall which framed the Sacred Precinct, it was easier to breathe: a clear area had been left between the wall and the first adobe houses. I ran east along the Serpent Wall, towards the Imperial Palace.
Emperor Axayacatl-tzin had built this massive, two-storey building on his accession: a sprawling mass of courtyards, gardens, tribute storehouses and noblemen's apartments, it extended over half the length of the eastern Serpent Wall. The Palace not only housed the Emperor and the high-ranking noblemen of the Mexica Empire, but also the tribunals for freemen, warriors and non-warrior noblemen.
A short flight of polished limestone steps led up to one of the entrances. To the right of the steps was a small platform where the prisoners waited for their trial, crouching in low wooden cages. Neutemoc was in the first of those, still wearing his Jaguar regalia. His bloodshot eyes suggested he hadn't slept much in the previous night.
When I approached, he started to straighten up and almost banged his head against the ceiling of his cage. Something fluttered in my chest, some obscure guilt for failing him.
'Brother,' he said.
I'd expected him to be furious, but he was obviously too weary for that. 'Hello, Neutemoc. What are you doing here?'
He snorted. 'Do I look as if I know?'
My eyes scanned the platform behind him. I finally saw Yaotl, coming towards me at a leisurely pace, smiling ironically, Huitzilpochtli blind the man. Ceyaxochitl was behind, deep in conversation with a magistrate and a priest I didn't recognise.
'I'll be back,' I said, and climbed on the platform to meet Yaotl.
'Acatl,' he said, bowing slightly.
I did not bother with pleasantries. 'What's the meaning of this?' I didn't wait for him to answer, either. 'You tell me I am in charge of this, you tell me I should get some sleep, and the moment I leave you start indicting him!'
Yaotl nodded. 'Not much choice.'
'Choice?' I looked at the priest with Ceyaxochitl. His blue-streaked face was unfamiliar; but his cloak was finest cotton, embroidered with frogs and sea-shells.
A priest of Tlaloc, God of Rain. And if he was not high in the hierarchy, he was close to someone who was. 'I'm not sure I–'
'I think you do,' Yaotl said.
Ceyaxochitl bowed to the priest and to the magistrate. The magistrate headed back into the Imperial Palace, while the priest walked away, back towards the Sacred Precinct.
A priest of Tlaloc. Even if Huitzilpochtli was now the only guardian god of the Mexica Empire, the priests of the Storm Lord still wielded considerable political power.
'Politics.' The word left a sour taste in my mouth. 'Someone wants a culprit?'
Yaotl nodded. 'It has to be solved, and fast.'
I watched Ceyaxochitl walk towards me. 'That priest forced you to do this?' I asked.
She had the grace to look embarrassed, but not for long. 'I'm a Guardian, Acatl. I don't make the laws.'
'You promised–' I started, and realised how childish I sounded.
I settled for 'Neutemoc can't be charged. He's innocent.'
'You can't know that.'
Sometimes, I hated her shrewdness.
'He's still entitled to a trial, Acatl.' Ceyaxochitl leant on her cane, looking old and frail in the sunlight. Healing Emperor Axayacatltzin must have been sapping her energy. And yet she'd still stayed up last night to help me. 'It's not over yet.'
I turned, briefly, in Neutemoc's direction: sitting in his cage with his knees drawn together, he was the living image of the defeated warrior. 'It's late for him,' I said. 'Very late. What's to say the magistrate won't have the same attitude as you?'
'He wouldn't dare,' Ceyaxochitl said. 'Penalties for corruption are severe.'
She was deluding herself. If she, the Guardian of the Sacred Precinct, had given in to pressure, why should a mere magistrate resist? But I didn't say that. I simply asked, 'Who's the priest?'
'His name is Nezahual. But he speaks for his master: Acamapichtli, High Priest of Tlaloc.'
