Shadow of the Lords (9 page)

Authors: Simon Levack

BOOK: Shadow of the Lords

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âLet's go, then,' I said. âWe might even find your old woman and her gophers on the way!'

The pyramid loomed ever taller as we approached it. Soon we found ourselves looking up at it between the branches of the trees around us, its bulk like a great shadow thrown across half the sky, blotting out the Sun.

âNearly there,' said Handy to no one in particular. âWhere's the royal palace, though? I thought that faced the sacred precinct.'

âYou're looking at it, I think,' I told him. âThey don't build on the sort of scale we're used to here.'

In front of us stood a low wall with a building beyond it. It was the sort of house a well-to-do family from Tenochtitlan or Tlatelolco might have lived in, a long, single-storey affair with a low thatched roof. It sprawled over more ground than the houses we were used to but to our eyes it had little else to distinguish it. Homely sounds came from behind the walls: women's voices, children chanting a nursery rhyme, the repetitive clacking of weavers using back-strap looms.

âWhat do you expect?' I asked, as Handy and the steward gaped. âWe take the spoils of war and the king in there, he gets whatever Montezuma thinks he can spare him. Tlacopan is supposed to get a fifth of the proceeds of the Empire, but I bet if you looked in a tribute warehouse here you'd find it was half empty.'

âSo they probably don't like us very much,' muttered the steward. âSo what? Who does? Where's the marketplace?'

âFollow the road round the corner of the wall,' I suggested. âEverybody seems to be coming from that direction. I suppose trading's over for the day.' I looked quickly up at the sky and frowned. âFunny, it's early yet.'

âThey're not going home,' Handy said. âThey're running away from something!'

Perhaps forty people were coming along the road straight towards us. They were women, their brightly patterned skirts bunched in their hands as their knees flashed beneath their hems, their blouses flapping like paper streamers in the wind, and children, naked under their billowing cloaks, and a few men wearing only breechcloths, their untrimmed hair streaming wildly behind them.

âOff the road!' I snapped. âThey'll mow us down!'

We darted out of the way just in time to let the little group surge past. None of them spared us a glance.

âWhat's going on?' asked the steward.

âHere come some more,' Handy said. âWhy don't you stop one and ask?'

The steward looked at us both indecisively, as a second wave of fugitives bore down on us. Then, with a sudden access of courage, he darted into the streaming crowd and hauled out the smallest child he could find.

âYou!' he barked at the kicking, squealing infant. âWhat's all this? What are you running from?'

âAztecs!'

The cry of alarm seemed to convulse the crowd. It recoiled as one person, shrinking away from us like a coyote threatened with a blazing torch. One woman alone threw herself at the steward, screaming abuse and slapping his face so hard that he staggered back, before she snatched the child and ran on.

âFunny.' Handy stared after them while the steward, clearly dumbfounded, rubbed his cheek. âThey all ran when they heard your voice. It must have been your accent, but I didn't know we were that frightening!'

âWe're not,' I said wonderingly. âSomething's happening up ahead.'

I looked around me. The wall of the little palace hid the sacred precinct and the marketplace from view, and gave no clue as to what might be going on beyond it. The voices we had heard a few moments before were silent, and I imagined the women, hearing the commotion outside, abandoning their work to snatch up the children and usher them hastily indoors.

Nearby grew a small silk cotton tree: a native of the hot lands in the South, no doubt planted here as an ornament and to shade the courtyard on the far side of the wall. I
glanced speculatively up at its widespread branches. If I could climb high enough, I thought, I might be able to see what had stirred the townsfolk up without having to get too close to it.

I stripped off my cloak and passed it to Handy. âGive me a leg up.'

The boughs creaked and bowed alarmingly under my weight, making me thankful for my slight build and the meagre diet that kept me from accumulating much in the way of fat. I climbed as high as I thought I could, and perched there uncomfortably while I surveyed the ground around me.

âWell?' the steward demanded. âWhat can you see?'

âI can see the marketplace. The sacred precinct is just beyond it. All the traders' merchandise is still laid out on mats on the ground, but there's hardly anyone about. Strange. All the people there are standing around in one corner. There's a little crowd there â all men. Some of them are armed but they're not doing anything. That's where the trouble is, in the middle of the crowd.'

âWhat trouble?'

âI can't see.'

Then I caught it: a telltale flash of green, vivid against the brown flesh colour of the men surrounding it. The spectators had formed a ring around two figures in their midst. I knew one of them at once, even though it was too far away to see his face. âIt's the captain! And he looks as if he's caught someone!'

Then, as the implications of what I was seeing dawned on me, I cried out, unthinkingly: âBut that's impossible! The boy can't have come here, he just can't â¦'

Fortunately neither Handy nor the steward heard me. A new arrival had distracted them.

âThere you are! What's the slave doing up in that tree?'

I looked down to see Fox's face staring up at me.

âHe's watching your captain,' replied Handy.

âWell, he can come down now,' Fox said, âbecause we've got the bastards!'

The steward let out a whoop of joy, of relief at the thought that the search was over and he could go home.

My head swam. Despair overwhelmed me, making me feel dizzy and sick and short of breath, as if my lungs suddenly saw no point in continuing to work.

Since we had in reality been pursuing one person, not two, there could be no doubt who the warriors had laid hands on. Who else could it be but Nimble?

âYou stupid boy,' I groaned softly. âWhy did you have to come here? Why here, of all places?'

Starting down the tree, I groped blindly for a handhold, missed and fell.

Branches lashed my back, arms and legs as I crashed to the ground, but they broke my fall, so that instead of killing myself I ended up in a bruised, shaken, dusty heap at the foot of the tree, with the steward's and Fox's laughter ringing in my ears.

âDon't just lie there, you lazy turd! Get up!'

I took no notice of the steward. I could not bear to look at his grinning, gloating face. It would not make much difference to my fate whether I obeyed him now or not, so I kept my eyes on the earth, shaded and shielded by my forearm.

âYou didn't fall that far!'

Someone touched me. I flinched, expecting a blow, but the touch was gentler than that: a hand under my shoulder, making as if to lift me off the ground.

âCome on, Yaotl.' Handy's voice growled in my ear. âWe've got to go. Here's your cloak.'

I wanted to shrug him off, tell him to leave me alone, but then I heard the steward snarling again.

âHow sweet,' he sneered. âThere's no coming between you two, is there?'

I felt the commoner's grip on my shoulder tighten. He was about to lose his temper, which would do him no good at all. I forced myself to remember that he did not have to help me and that if he were just to stand by and watch the steward and Fox kick me to death he might save himself a deal of trouble.

I hauled myself to my feet, accepted my cloak and glowered at the steward.

Handy asked the question I could not bear to voice.

âSo which one did you get, then?'

I shut my eyes to stop the tears from flowing. I would have clapped my hands over my ears too, if I could have done it without it being obvious.

âThe older one. No sign of the boy yet.'

âWhat?'

My eyes sprang open. I stared at Fox, open mouthed but mute because I could not trust myself to speak.

My son was not the man at the centre of that crowd, being dragged about by the green-suited warrior. I could only thank the gods for that, and wonder who the captain's victim really was.

âBut â¦ but â¦' Handy stammered.

âCome and see,' Fox cried, turning towards the marketplace. âI think the captain's enjoying himself!'

As he and the steward set off, I could see Handy's mouth working and realized he was about to blurt something out that we would both regret. I moved swiftly to one side and planted a foot firmly on top of one of his, converting his next words into a muffled oath.

âQuiet!' I hissed. âI need to think.' Aloud I said: âHow did you catch him?'

âOh, easy,' Fox called out over his shoulder. âThe captain's
good at this sort of thing. It's just like collecting tribute from barbarians, really. You just march into the middle of the marketplace, knock over one or two pitches to get their attention â starting with the potters is best, it makes a good noise, though breaking up a few turkey pens works just as well â and tell everybody exactly what you're looking for. Once they saw the captain's costume they couldn't move fast enough!' He laughed. âWhat was really funny was how apologetic they were that they couldn't bring us both of them. Someone produced this pathetic specimen and told us he was the only runaway Aztec they'd seen. I think the captain's trying to make him tell us where the boy is now.'

We rounded the corner and were at the edge of the almost empty marketplace. I stared across the rows of pitches, the straw mats strewn with merchandise, obviously hastily abandoned, judging by the refuse that lay about them: small change in the form of open bags of cocoa beans, half-eaten tortillas with a couple of bewildered-looking turkeys pecking at them, a water-seller's gourd spilling its contents on to the dusty floor. In the far corner stood the crowd: the bravest of the local youths, or at least the keenest to show off, no doubt unable to tear themselves away from the spectacle of one Aztec torturing another. Everybody with any sense had run away as soon as they thought the warriors had found what they wanted.

âCome on!' cried the steward. âWe'll miss the fun!'

He trotted forward, leaving the rest of us behind in his eagerness to watch another man suffering. I wondered whether he was hoping to pick up some tips.

Then I forgot his state of mind as an appalling thought occurred to me.

The captain and his victim were hidden from me by the backs of their spectators and at this distance I could only just
hear the familiar bark of the Otomi's battle-trained voice, but I suddenly knew who his victim was.

What Aztec had run away two nights before, presumably to seek shelter on the western side of the lake?

It could only be my master's boatman, the one who had abandoned the Chief Minister and his canoe two nights before. He must have gone to ground in the middle of the largest nearby town â just where I had told the warriors to search.

âThe idiot,' I muttered. âWhy didn't he keep running?'

How long did I have, I wondered, before the captain beat the truth out of him? How long before he learned that I had laid a false trail?

An unnaturally high-pitched wail from within the crowd seemed to be my answer.

The steward quickened his pace. I could almost hear him salivating. Fox was close behind him. Soon they were pushing their way into the crowd, elbowing aside young men whose backs parted meekly before them while their eyes remained glued to the fascinating spectacle in their midst. Handy and I, too, found ourselves drawn towards the horror at the centre of the circle of men. We two stopped short of the clear space around the captain, keeping close to the edge of the crowd of his spectators, although Fox and the steward were soon standing next to him, looking down admiringly at his handiwork.

I noticed the blood before I saw the man.

The earth in front of me was covered in it. It lay in streaks and dapples and little puddles, as if jerked out of its victim a little at a time. Here and there among the dark red spots and splashes lay tiny fragments of something hard and white that I struggled to identify until I turned my eyes towards the boatman.

If I had not already worked out who the pathetic figure lying with his legs drawn up to his chest and shivering at the
captain's feet was, I would not have recognized him. He had turned his face upward, perhaps in a vain appeal for mercy, but it did not look like his face any more. It was a mask of congealing blood with a hideous, jagged hole at its centre, for the white fragments that lay on the ground around him were pieces of his teeth.

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