Christopher Evans - Aztec Century

‘I am Mexicatl! A son of Motecuhzoma and a lady of Tlaxcala!’

I had guessed as much; his name was familiar to me. Of course, I knew he would bridle at the term ‘Aztec’, a catch-all description for the many peoples of the empire.

‘That may be so, but you have the manners of a teochichimecatl . You can see I am unwell, yet you burst in here without ceremony or courtesy.’

Teochichimecatl meant ‘barbarian’, and Maxixca looked suitably furious. I thought I glimpsed the merest hint of a smile on Chicomeztli’s lips.

‘You are our prisoners,’ Maxixca said with a barely controlled anger. ‘You will do as you are ordered.’

He stalked out.

Victoria looked appalled, and there was an awkward silence.

‘Is it true about my husband?’ I asked Chicomeztli.

‘It is true,’ he assured me. ‘He was not found among those who died in the house. I believe he has escaped.’

‘That’s wonderful news.’

He acknowledged my small triumph with a wry smile.

‘You greatly angered our commander,’ he said gently.

‘That was my intention.’

‘He is a son of the tlatoani . You would be wise not to provoke him.’

But there was amusement in his eyes.

Of course I knew my show of bravado would do us no good, but it was my only means of striking back. Though I felt fragile and exhausted, I insisted on getting dressed. Chicomeztli went away and returned with a plain sweater and skirt like those Victoria was wearing.

By now I had remembered the disk in my jacket.

‘I’d like my own clothes,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘That is not possible. They were soaked and filthy. We had them burned.’

The craft was banking over London, and I glimpsed St James’s Park and the Mall through the porthole. I was still furious with myself for losing the disk. Fury seemed preferable to complete desolation.

Victoria, Bevan and I sat together in the forward passenger section, our guards paying us little heed now we were securely in their hands. I remained suspicious of Bevan, even though he seemed as much a prisoner as Victoria and I.

Our return to London prompted thoughts of my father and Richard. From intercepted radio transmissions we knew that both had been held at Hampton Court Palace since the invasion; but I had had no definite news of them for over a year.

I strained to see across Victoria as the craft flew over the Thames. Some central areas of the city had been devastated during the invasion, and the area north of the abandoned Houses of Parliament had been landscaped into a park. On the opposite bank, where County Hall once stood, there rose an entirely new building, a quincunx of tiered pyramids in creamy marble and glass, the levels planted with shrubbery. At the top of the innermost pyramid was a landing pad.

Bevan shuffled closer to me. I eyed him without approval, convinced he had contacted the Aztecs on the radio the night before, prompting them to launch the raid before we could escape to Russia.

‘You’ll be wanting this,’ he murmured, thrusting something into my lap.

I looked down. It was the disk.

Bevan’s eyes were on the unheeding guards.

‘Fell out of your pocket when you were climbing into the pipe, didn’t it? You ought to be more careful.’

I quickly hid it away, then felt a nauseous tug on my stomach as the ship began to decelerate.

Victoria, intent on the view through the porthole, noticed nothing. She gripped my hand, but I found myself holding on to her as much as she to me. Then the ship touched down with a shudder and a thud.

We waited in silence for some time. Two soldiers came and led Bevan away. Then Maxixca marched in, with Chicomeztli following.

The commander was still bristling from our earlier encounter. Stiffly, he instructed his guards to escort us out.

We were led down through the ship to a wide hatchway. The daylight at the bottom was wan and grey. Chicomeztli stepped forward and draped cloaks around the shoulders of myself and Victoria. The cloaks were hooded, black. With soldiers surrounding us and Maxixca at the head, we descended the gangway.

Cloud filled the sky, and a thin rain was falling. I felt shivery and frail, but I steeled myself. At the opposite end of the landing pad, a small group of people awaited us. Most were guards, but among them, standing under a big black umbrella, was Richard.

He was now a young man of eighteen, taller than three years before, his curly hair newly cut. Catching sight of us, his face filled up with that wonderfully open smile which had endeared him to so many people. He was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and striped tie; he looked the perfect schoolboy. I wanted to burst out of our cordon and rush to him.

Maxixca halted in front of the governor and saluted. He was not the middle-aged Nauhyotl but a much younger man, his aquamarine uniform decorated with a golden eagle grasping a stylized sun.

Maxixca formally introduced him as Extepan Iquehuac Tlancuaxoloch, third son of the tlatoani Motecuhzoma Xohueyacatzin, ruler of Greater Mexico and all its dominions. I scarcely glanced at him. I saw tears brim in Richard’s eyes as he gazed at us, his long-lost sisters. His lower lip began to quiver; any moment now he would begin to cry.

Maxixca continued with the interminable formalities of our introduction. I moved towards Richard, but the guards closed ranks. Then the governor, who was regarding me, waved a hand, and they parted to let me through.

Richard came forward into my arms. He hugged me with all his strength, then turned to Victoria and did the same, kissing both of us on the cheeks. Finally he began to blubber, and I realized I was already prepared when he blurted: ‘Father’s dead.’

Victoria, Richard and I were ferried the short distance to Westminster Abbey in a jetcopter. In the gloom of dusk it was difficult to make out the full extent of the destruction to the surrounding streets, though Chicomeztli stressed that both the Abbey and the Cathedral had been very fortunate to survive the bombing. The area around the site was now off-limits to the public, Aztec guards in waterproof capes patrolling the derelict streets.

Inside, the Abbey’s empty echoing spaces were lit with candles. More guards stood discreetly in the shadows. The coffin rested on an elaborate wreath-strewn plinth in the Henry VIII chapel. I hesitated, rested from my afternoon nap but far from recovered, then climbed the steps.

My father lay in a formal black suit, hands crossed over his chest with a silver crucifix lying on top of them. His hair, grey when I last saw him, was now white. His face, however, looked younger, its paleness and lines doubtless erased by those who had prepared him. The Aztecs had a long and expert tradition of making their honoured dead look immaculate.

Beside me, Victoria and Richard clasped hands, determinedly maintaining a shred of dignity in the face of their loss. Apparently Father had died of a heart attack four days before while taking a constitutional around the grounds of Hampton Court. Richard had been with him at the time.

For some reason I found myself wishing that his eyes were open, even if he couldn’t see me. I reached into the coffin and gently lifted the crucifix out.

‘We’re Anglicans,’ I said in explanation to Chicomeztli.

‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Someone must have left it.’

‘Has the news of his death been made public?’

‘No. Not yet.’

‘But there are plans to?’

‘I understand that this is one of the things which Governor Extepan will wish to discuss with you.’

My father was shrouded in cream silks like a sea of frozen milk. The walls of his coffin were lined with velvet the colour of old blood. Even the hairs which had once grown so abundantly in his ears and nostrils had been skilfully removed.