Worthy, the old priest, was standing in front of the shrine at the summit of the pyramid. He was not an imposing figure: he was a little shorter than I and running slightly to fat, which made me suspect that he did not always fast as rigorously as he ought to. However, his hair was as long and unkempt as any priest’s, and a black scab on his cheek showed where he had recently pierced his earlobe to offer his blood to the gods. His face was stained with pitch, which made it hard to read the expression on it as his eyes tracked my approach.
I halted just short of the top step.
‘Do you remember me, Worthy One?’
‘Cemiquiztli Yaotl?’ He called me by my full name: the date of my birth, One Death, followed by my given name: Yaotl, ‘The Enemy’: one of the things we called the god to whom I was dedicated. ‘Of course I remember you. But we all thought you were due to be sacrificed!’
‘I believe that’s what lord Feathered in Black had in mind at the time. It didn’t appeal to me, though.’
The old man chuckled. ‘Really? You surprise me. Still that’s the young all over, isn’t it? No sense of obligation.’
‘Shocking, isn’t it? I blame the parents.’
‘Ah, talking of which, have you been to see your family, yet? They seemed quite worried about you last time I spoke to them.’
This surprised me, since my father in particular seemed unable ever to set eyes on me without flying into a rage. I cast an involuntary glance in the direction of my family’s home.
‘No, I haven’t. In fact, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘I have things to do first.’ He regarded me shrewdly for a moment before going on: ‘Do you remember what today is?’
I frowned, puzzled. I glanced about me, noting the poles standing in the courtyards around us. ‘It’s the month of the Ceasing of Water,’ I offered hesitantly.
‘Yes, yes, of course. But that wasn’t what I asked. What day is it? One Flint Knife!’
I remembered then. ‘The sacrifice to the war god!’ I cried, like a child repeating a lesson.
It was the day sacred to Huitzilopochtli, the god who had guided my ancestors through all the long years when they had wandered as outcasts, before showing them where they were to found their city, granting them the vision of an eagle perched upon a cactus as a sign that this was the place. All over Mexico, on this day, the images of the War God were taken out, cleaned and exposed to the sun; for the War God was the sun, and so it was as if he were being asked to inspect them, to satisfy himself that they were being taken care of by his people.
The old priest sighed wistfully. ‘In another life, I might have been officiating in Huitzilopochtli’s temple at the top of the great pyramid, offering the god flowers and food and feathered cloaks. But I was never ambitious enough. Still, even in this parish we can manage a quail. You can help me – if you want.’
The old priest knew what had happened to me. He had been instrumental in getting me into the harsh school for priests we called the House of Tears. I would not have thanked him for that at the time, but I had been a priest for a score of years, and for all its rigours, squalor and privations – the long ritual fasts, the daily offerings of my own blood to the gods and the poverty – I had grown to love the life. It did not matter that my cloak was threadbare and stained with blood and sweat, or that my hair was tangled and greasy, when the mere sight of these things would make commoners jump out of my way and lords speak my name with respect.
Worthy also knew how it had ended, when I had been judged inadequate and purged from the priesthood for a violation of ritual. Now he could not fail to know what he was offering me, when he handed me his long-handled incense ladle and a bag of copal resin. ‘You know what to do,’ he said quietly.
I looked wonderingly at him before taking the ladle. As he turned away to attend to the evening’s sacrifice, I thrust the ladle into the brazier, scooping up a bowlful of hot coals and throwing the resin over them. As I held it aloft, the air around me filled with a cloying aroma. I raised it four times towards the eastern horizon, then four times towards the west, and repeated the gesture in the other two directions: the Left Hand of the Earth, which was South, and the Right, or North. Finally, with a cracking noise and a shower of sparks, I cast the contents of the censer back into the fire.
From behind me there came a thin piping call, followed by a sound of desperate fluttering.
I turned to find that Worthy had made the sacrifice. The quail he had beheaded still flapped feebly on the stone table behind the brazier. As we watched, its thrashing motions became more feeble and the spurt of blood from its gaping neck slowed to a trickle.
As I silently handed back the censer, Worthy said: ‘Which way would you say it was going?’
I looked at the smear of blood the headless bird had made in its last struggle. ‘West, I think.’
‘Really? Looks like it may have been north.’ I shivered, recalling that north was the most ill-omened direction, a sure portent of death. Worthy seemed to reflect for a moment before adding: ‘But we’ll give ourselves the benefit of the doubt and call it west, shall we?’
I agreed eagerly, but as he picked up the pathetic little body I could not help wondering whether he was right. And if he was not, then whose death had
