growing detachment of those about to lay down their lives for the continuation of the world. One by one, he would be cutting the bonds that tied him to the Fifth World, preparing himself to die in the Southern Hummingbird's name – just as the gods themselves had died in the beginning of the Fifth Age, to bring forth life from the barren earth, and move Tonatiuh the Fifth Sun across the Heavens. 'Eptli?' he asked.
'The man who captured him?'
'The one who was awarded Zoquitl.' Serene didn't mean unobservant, either. 'He came several times.'
Beloved father, beloved son, I thought. That was the ritual for capturing another warrior: acknowledging they were as precious as your own blood, as your own flesh – making them into a living offering. 'And how did he look?'
'Angry,' Cuixtli said. 'Elated. He was a man of many moods.'
'You're sure?' It wasn't what Coatl had told me about Eptli, and I could see no reason for Coatl to lie. Unless… unless something particularly large were going on in Eptli's life. The trial before the war-council, to get his prisoner awarded to him? Would that be enough to account for the mood-swings? 'When was Eptli awarded Zoquitl?'
Cuixtli shrugged. 'Early on, before we set out on the march.'
So, not that. Unless it hadn't been resolved? But could Chipahua and Coatl both be lying? I made a note to ask Teomitl about the case. With any luck, he'd remember it – though I very much doubted that anything outside of the battlefield would have interested my headstrong, glory-obsessed student. 'But Eptli didn't look sick either?'
'Not that I could see. I wouldn't know. But illnesses can be a long time brewing.'
'I see.'
A rattle of bells cut the conversation short, as Teomitl yanked the entrance-curtain open. 'Acatl-tzin!'
'What is it?' I asked.
Teomitl threw a wary glance at the priest – who had resumed his position of studied indifference – and then a more respectful one to the warrior, as one equal to another. He held out his hand to me, unfolding tanned fingers one after the other for maximum effect.
Inside was a single notched bead of clay – which, unfortunately, meant nothing whatsoever to me. 'Would you mind explaining?' I said.
'I found it inside,' Teomitl said. 'It had rolled under the brazier.' He raised a hand, to forestall my objection. 'I didn't touch the body, Acatl-tzin. I swear.'
'I still don't see–'
'This belongs to a woman,' Cuixtli said.
'How do you know so much about Mexica women?' I asked.
He snorted. 'How can you know so little about them? Any fool knows that. It's too delicate to be a man's ornament.'
Teomitl shook his head, impatiently. 'It doesn't matter, Acatltzin. Don't you see? A woman was here.'
I glanced at Cuixtli, who was looking at the bead thoughtfully. 'I didn't know sacrifices were granted spouses.' In very rare cases, such as the sacrifice of Tezcatlipoca's incarnation, the victim was granted all his earthly desires – and, as he ascended the steps of the Great Temple, everything was stripped away from him: wives and jewellery, and then finally clothes, to leave him as empty-handed as in the hour of his birth.
Cuixtli spread his hands. 'Our last hours are spent with the gods, like those of our afterlife. How men make peace with that varies. I don't begrudge them.' But his frown suggested he didn't approve.
'So you didn't know about the woman?'
He shook his head. 'No. But I can enquire. Do you want me to send word?'
'Send it to me,' Teomitl said.
'Indeed.' Cuixtli looked at him, waiting for something – an introduction?
'Ask for Ahuizotl, the Master of the House of Darts.'
The man's face froze – it was minute and didn't last long, but I saw it clearly. 'I see. And why does the Master of the House of Darts concern himself with such lowly folk?'
'Lowly? You are the bravest in this palace.' Teomitl's voice was low and intense. 'You give your life; you give your blood on the altar-stone for the continuation of the Fifth Age. You die a warrior's death for all our sakes.'
The warrior's face puckered, halfway between puzzlement and pride. 'I see,' he said again. 'Thank you.'
Teomitl made a dismissive gesture, and ducked back into the room. I followed him after bowing to the warrior.
'Teomitl?' I asked, once we were inside.
He was looking once more at the dead man, with that peculiar frown on his face – anger? I'd only seen him truly angry once, when Tizoc-tzin had belittled his wife-to-be in front of the court – but that hadn't been the same. His face had gone as flat as obsidian, his eyes dark. Now he just looked thoughtful – but much like a jaguar looked thoughtful before the hunt.
Southern Hummingbird strike me, I needed to stop this. Paranoia was all well and good, but applying it to those few people I trusted was stabbing myself in the throat.
'Yes, Acatl-tzin?'
'Eptli's case,' I said. 'What happened? Coatl told me the prisoner was contested between him and Chipahua.'
'The case?' Teomitl looked surprised. 'I don't remember – there was nothing special, Acatl-tzin. Those two claimed the same prisoner. They wore near-identical battle-garb, with similar standards.'
'Coatl told me it was a difficult decision to make.'
