âI heard about him,' I mumbled.
âThe one behind the screen was there for a long time. I couldn't see what was going on, but I guess the body was being c-c-cut up. All the while the one dressed as the god was roaming about, but no one came along until the end, when his friend had got back in the boat. Then someone stepped on the b-bridge. Maybe he wanted to use the latrine, but he took one look at the man in the cost ⦠costume and f-fell over. By the time he got up the other one had ⦠had d-ducked into the boat.' He grinned at the memory. âWhen the stranger had got
up he was running about like a headless quail, obviously looking for the god, but I guess he didn't th-think to look in the canal!'
I wanted to slap my forehead in self-reproach for my stupidity. The boat had not been visible from the bridge, although I remembered thinking how loud the lapping of the water had sounded. I must have heard it splashing against the boat's sides.
âI don't suppose you recognized either of the people you saw?' I asked.
âIt was too dark, too far away, and one of them was dressed up.' Suddenly the boy's expression changed into a fierce scowl. âIf ⦠if I knew who those ⦠those bastards were, do you think I wouldn't have said?'
âDid you know Idle?' I asked sympathetically.
âI don't c-care about Idle. Everyone says he was a waste of skin. But there's someone out there wearing the r-r-raiment of a god, prancing around in it as if it was his breechcloth, des ⦠desecrating it. You know what that means. They teach us about it in the House of Tears.
âThat isn't just a c-costume. It's powerful. It's like an idol. It should be prayed to, handled with care. That's what I keep trying to tell people. Everyone wants to believe this is an omen, but it's worse than that. Using the costume like that, it'll bring the gods' anger down on the city. We could all be k-k-k-killed.'
I opened my mouth to reply, but before I could speak, a heavy footstep behind me told me we were no longer alone.
Â
The parish priest of Amantlan was a curious specimen. The men I had known in the days when I had served the gods, the men who lived under the watchful eyes of the chief priests in the great temples at the Heart of the World and set an example
of self-mortification and self-denial to their students, had been gaunt and skeletal, as if they belonged as much in the afterlife as in this world. This man's concerns were plainly with the living. The skin under his coating of pitch was soft and fleshy, and he did not smell. He obviously spent as little time as he could exposed to the privations of the House of Tears, where poverty, squalor, the reek of scores of unwashed male bodies and relentless discipline ruled.
I swallowed nervously, momentarily lost for words, but when the newcomer spoke, it was his young acolyte he turned on, rather than me.
âStammerer!' he growled. âYou've not been telling tall stories again, have you?'
The lad looked at his feet.
The priest sighed. âHe has this silly obsession about our vision,' he told me. âPeople come up here, expecting to hear about Quetzalcoatl, and they get some nonsense about a man dressed up in a fancy suit. Now you and I know,' he added in a confidential tone, âthat that isn't what they leave offerings for. Turkeys, fruit, honeyed tamales, tobacco â¦' He looked reproachfully at the boy as he listed things that were given to placate the gods but which mostly ended up being consumed by priests.
âBut I'm forgetting my manners!' he said suddenly, turning back to me again. âYou must have come a long way. You look tired and out of breath. You need something to eat and a place to rest.'
On this occasion the customary greeting was true. I mumbled a polite denial but was heartily relieved when he ignored it, and I let him usher me down the steps and to his quarters, for something to eat and drink.
We left the youngster standing alone on top of the pyramid, staring silently at the scene of the crime he had witnessed two nights before.
The priest was as well provided for as I would have expected. He had a house at the corner of the precinct of his temple, which he shared with his fellow priests and acolytes when they were not praying or sacrificing or keeping vigil on top of their neat little pyramid, or teaching or officiating at Tlatelolco's Priest House.
âNow, I know what you're thinking,' the old priest said as he steered me through a room draped with rich cloth wall-hangings into a small, neat courtyard. âThis isn't much like your place in ⦠where did you say you came from?'
âXochimilco,' I said quickly. I had already decided that it would be best if I pretended to be from out of town. To name a temple or Priest House within the city would have been too risky
âReally? You sound as if you come from Tenochtitlan.'
I stared at him, momentarily dumbstruck, before I found the presence of mind to laugh. âOh, doesn't the whole valley, these days?' I said casually. âSince Montezuma and his predecessors started sending their armies everywhere, we've all ended up talking like Aztec warriors. Let's face it, half of us are probably descended from them by now! Now, what I came to ask was â¦'
âIt's those robes, that's what it is!' he cried suddenly, as if he had just managed to put his finger on something that had been troubling him for a long time. âThey look just like the ones the priests of Huitzilopochtli wear!'
âThey ⦠they ⦠they probably do. Where I come from, we have to send a score of these robes to the Heart of the World every year as tribute, so we end up dressing our own priests in seconds that look just like them.' If nothing else, I thought, as I looked down at my clothes, I had found out which god the man I had ambushed had served. âNow, as I was saying â¦'
âOh, that explains it!' He laughed. âForgive me, but the bloody Tenochca, they think they own the World. I expect you know that down in Xochimilco. You know what they did to Tlatelolco? Some petty squabble broke out between some of their merchants and the women in our marketplace and the next thing anybody knew there was an army in here.'
This was for the benefit of the ignorant foreigner I was pretending to be. No one from either part of Mexico would have needed reminding that Tlatelolco had once been an independent kingdom until Montezuma's father Axayacatl had conquered it, less than forty years before. Even now, Tenochtitlan ruled with an unusually heavy hand. Most tributary towns were allowed to keep their own kings, but our emperors had never dared take that risk with Tlatelolco: it was too close and too powerful, and so had a military governor instead.
âIt's the same for us,' I said. âThe Emperor says “frog” and we end up jumping around after the slippery little buggers so that we can send to him as tribute.' I had no idea whether live frogs, or for that matter priests' costumes, were part of Xochimilco's tribute, but then I was sure the priest had no idea either and it sounded plausible enough. âOne of these days someone will come along and teach them a lesson.'
A short, uncomfortable silence followed. We were a lowly priest raging powerlessly against a force his elders had long ago come to terms with and a slave pretending to be a foreigner and denouncing his own people, and not much liking it. Neither of us was particularly keen to prolong the topic.
Suddenly my host slapped his thigh. âBut I'm being so rude! I haven't given you anything to eat or drink, or asked you your name or why you're here!'
I opened my mouth to answer, but he was on his feet before I had time to think of yet another pseudonym. A moment later
he was back with a dish of the steamed maize cakes called tamales, which he placed carefully in front of me.
âThank you,' I said, as I reached quickly for one of the little round cakes. âThis looks splendid.' As my fingers brushed the food I reflected that this was as true of the dish as of what it contained. It was an oval plate, standing on three little stubby legs, which a craftsman had fashioned so that one half formed a bowl for the sauce, and which he or another equally skilled had finished off with an intricate, many-coloured pattern that followed the contours of the vessel exactly.
âThe plate's from Chalco,' my host confirmed, as if he had read my thoughts. âA gift from a grateful parishioner.'
âI envy you.' I spoke between mouthfuls. âMy people can't afford to give me anything more than lizards and grasshoppers.'
âThe featherworkers do well for themselves. Now, you were going to tell me â¦'
âI've been touring the city,' I said hastily. âWe wanted to learn more about how you Aztecs worship the gods. We thought you must be doing something right, since they have made your city the most powerful in the World. So I've been sent to look around some of your temples, talk to priests like you â¦'
I watched him carefully, trying to penetrate his pitch-black mask with my eyes in case his face gave any clue as to whether he believed me or not.
To my surprise, he laughed softly. âYou would have learned all you needed to from the priests of Huitzilopochtli, the Tenochcas' war-god! His people have conquered the World in his name. Why bother coming here? Still, I suppose our craftsmen here in Amantlan do well enough. People will always need feathers, and men and women who know how to work with them, won't they?'
âExactly!' I cried eagerly. âNow, that is just what I wanted to know about. We know that no one will ever beat the Aztecs in war, and so we don't hope to learn much from the priests of their war-god. But if your god has helped your people to riches, that's something we would definitely be interested in.'
I took another of the tamales, swirling it thoughtfully in the sauce before taking a bite, while I studied my host and pondered the questions I wanted to ask him.
âThe featherworkers are very attentive to Coyotl Inahual,' he acknowledged proudly. âWe do our best to anticipate their wants. We're always on hand whenever a sacrifice has to be made and the god's wishes interpreted. It's important to keep a close eye on your parish, I always think, and understand the people whose god you serve.'
âSo,' I said casually, âyou know the people around here pretty well. You must be in and out of their houses, and so on.'
âOf course.' Suspicion made his voice gruff and his manner formal. He looked away from me and pulled his hands inside his cloak as if to protect them. It made him look as if he were huddling against the cold, although his courtyard was sheltered and warm. Plainly I was asking too many questions for his liking. âWhy?'
âOh, it's nothing. It's just that you must know all the featherworkers. The famous ones, I mean. We're great admirers of your featherwork in Xochimilco, you know. We can't make anything like what your people make in Amantlan, of course, but that doesn't mean we don't appreciate it.' I tilted my head up in a gesture that I hoped conveyed the right mixture of admiration and pride, as though I wanted him to know that we poor rustics were capable of recognizing quality when we saw it.
âI know everybody,' he admitted grudgingly. âEveryone in the parish comes here, and I have to go to their houses from
time to time, to consecrate a feast in the name of Coyotl Inahual.' I had to bite my tongue to stop myself laughing. Consecrating a feast was a good way for a priest to ensure he got a square meal at someone else's expense.
âSo,' I said eagerly, âyou must actually have met men like ⦠well, like Skinny and Angry?'
âI have,' he said. âWhat of it?'
âWhat of it?' I echoed. âTwo of the greatest artists that ever lived? You know it's said they're really Toltecs, come back to life to teach us how it should be done?'
I was playing the role of the naive tourist for all it was worth. It was a wild claim I had made. The Toltecs were an ancient race who had died out many bundles of years before we Aztecs had settled in the valley, but we clung to their ideals: their buildings, their wisdom, above all their art. I had never been altogether sure what it was about Toltec art that made it so untouchable, especially by featherworkers. The loveliest plumes, including the matchless feathers of the quetzal, had never been seen in the valley of Mexico until the merchants had begun bringing them back when I was a child, and so I knew the Toltecs had never used them, but I supposed they must have had the skill to turn heron and turkey feathers into something magical. All Aztecs took it for granted that this ancient people had achieved things that we could never aspire to.
âI dare say people say that. What's it to you?'
âWhat are these men like?'
He stared at me for a long time. It was impossible to tell what he was making of my enquiries. I could see his cloak billowing as his hands moved underneath it, perhaps clasping and unclasping nervously while he tried to make up his mind whether my questions had a point or whether I was just a harmless lunatic.
At length he decided, and his hands emerged from the cloak, one of them reaching automatically for the last maize cake, which I had diplomatically left on the plate between us, as he relaxed. I had, after all, been dismissed as a madman. I felt pleased with myself. I had counted on one of the few things that, for all our differences, the Tlatelolca and the Tenochca had in common: the conviction that all foreigners were stupid.