Christopher Evans - Aztec Century

We avoided further mention of Alex, except in passing relation to other things. I asked Victoria about Bevan, hoping that she would know more than I did about his true motivations. She could tell me nothing I didn’t already know. Whatever his true loyalties, Bevan had kept them well hidden from everyone around him.

The more we talked, the more the familiar patterns of old re-established themselves, the simple ease of communication between sisters who had spent most of their lives together. And, of course, there is always great comradeship in adversity. We needed chatter to smother our fears.

On the fourth day, we went without supper, and the following morning we received no breakfast. Neither of us made a great issue of this, though we had doubtless begun to think the same thing: they were going to starve us to death. But late in the afternoon, a guard opened the door briefly to push two plates inside. The door was immediately closed again.

A slow starvation then, I thought as I spooned a mash of sweet potato and green beans into my mouth; perhaps they intend to let us die by degrees.

There was no further food that day, which tended to confirm my worst suspicions. But then, at ten o’clock that night, we heard footsteps approaching outside.

The door opened, and in marched an Aztec officer I had never seen before, accompanied by an escort. He surprised me by saluting.

‘Please come with us,’ he said in perfect English.

It sounded like a request rather than a command, though I didn’t seriously imagine we could refuse him.

He took us down a long corridor. As far as I could see in the gloom, all the other cells were empty, their doors open.

We were ushered into a lift, and carried downwards rather than up. At the bottom, a monorail carriage was waiting. A lighted tunnel carrying the rail stretched off into the distance to vanishing point. I knew we had to be deep underground.

Victoria sat close to me, and her hand found mine. The carriage slid away, rapidly building up speed.

After a ten-minute subterranean journey, we reached another terminus. There were no signs or anything to say where it was. We entered another lift, which took us upward.

We emerged into a narrow carpeted corridor with pale blue walls and a frieze of crocodiles. The officer led us to a door and opened it.

Inside was a well-appointed bathroom.

‘Perhaps you would like to refresh yourselves,’ the officer said.

‘Why?’ I responded. ‘Are we meeting someone important?’

He smiled indulgently. ‘We’re simply thinking of your own comfort. You will have complete privacy, I assure you.’

I led Victoria inside without further comment, closing the door behind us. There was lemon-scented soap, perfumed towels, a shower and a shell-shaped corner bath. Water came out of the mouths of golden taps shaped like squatting frogs.

Were they simply toying with us, delaying the inevitable moment of our punishment? I told myself it didn’t matter, at least not for the moment. Though Victoria and I had washed twice daily in our cell, we both felt grubby.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s make the most of it!’

We spent over an hour in the bathroom, soaking in hot water saturated with bath crystals, washing and conditioning our hair, applying moisturizing lotions to our skins. We dried ourselves slowly, at our ease.

The clothes we had been wearing were dirty and stale. On a heated rail were draped long dresses of plain white cotton. There were no undergarments.

Victoria looked at me. I shrugged, trying to make light of the fact that the dresses would only emphasize our lack of status. I reached for one and slipped it over my shoulders.

The Aztec officer was still waiting patiently outside the door with the escort. He smiled at us, as if to say that he had expected to be kept waiting, then led us without a word to another door at the end of the corridor.

The room inside was small and windowless, hung with patterned curtains. The only furniture was a Victorian-style dining table and two matching chairs. They looked out of place, as if they had been brought to the room specifically for this occasion.

The table was laden with hot food, and as soon as the smell of cooked meat reached my nostrils, I began to salivate. Two places had been set with white napkins and shining cutlery. There was a pair of wine bottles in a silver cooler.

‘No doubt you are hungry,’ the officer said. ‘This is for you. Please feel free to eat.’

I turned to him. ‘What is this? The condemned women’s last meal?’

Another smile. ‘I don’t believe it’s a tradition we follow.’

‘Perhaps it’s poisoned, then. Is that it? Is that how you plan to be rid of us?’

‘I assure you there’s nothing here to endanger your life. Would you like me to taste it for you?’

I said nothing.

‘You aren’t forced to eat it. It’s there if you want it. Now we shall leave you alone.’

He withdrew with his men before I had a chance to argue.

After the door was closed, I heard them marching away. I went to the door and turned the handle. It was locked.

On the further side of the room was a second door. It, too, was locked.

Victoria and I inspected the food on the table. There were meat dishes with mushrooms and chillies, plates of sautéed vegetables and pulses in rich sauces, multicoloured maize-cobs drenched in garlic butter. The food was still hot, its aromas assailing us. My stomach felt like a yearning void and my mouth was drenched.

‘What should we do?’ Victoria asked.

She was just as ravenous as I. The idea of dying by poisoned food held little appeal, even though it was preferable to some forms of death. But I doubted they intended to kill us this way: it was somehow too blatant. We had been left alone, which suggested they weren’t yet ready to pass final judgement. I had a feeling that a very public example would be made of us.

‘We’ve nothing to lose,’ I said. ‘Let’s eat.’

Cautiously at first, then with increasing abandon, we spooned food on to our plates. Most of the dishes were white meats such as pork or turkey, heavily spiced and quite delicious. We were so hungry that almost anything would have tasted wonderful, poisoned or not. I shared a bottle of Zaachila Chardonnay with Victoria, drinking as freely as she, hoping the alcohol would blunt any terrors to come. It was to prove a futile hope.

Were we being watched as we ate? Probably, and yet the room had a hermetic feel, encouraging the sense that we were totally alone. I was unused to wine in any quantity, but when the first bottle was emptied, we took the second from the cooler and uncorked it.

There were persimmons in honey for dessert, with vanilla ice cream from a refrigerated bowl. Victoria and I sated ourselves, conscious that this was probably the last time we would be allowed any luxury. And so it was to prove.

I began to feel light-headed, frivolous, even. Victoria and I started making jokes about our predicament; we started to giggle, to whisper pretended secrets, as if playing to our unseen audience. The room was dimly lit with wall lights, and I began to imagine shadows moving at the periphery of my vision while at the same time remaining certain no one was there. The wall lights seemed to give off a soft prismatic play of colours which entranced me. I grew hot, and had to resist the urge to loosen my dress. Victoria had no such inhibitions: she untied the thong at her neck.

I can’t remember what we talked about, but we kept chattering blithely. My voice sounded distant, as if someone else were using it. I continued to chase the shadows at the edges of my gaze. Victoria was sharply in focus across the table, but her own speech also had a remote yet hypnotic quality so that what I reacted to was not what she said but rather the sound and cadence of her voice.