Doctor Who_ Left-Handed Hummingbird - Kate Orman [18]
He had quite forgotten what an extraordinary people they were. Beauty and horror, Susan had said. They built tremendous buildings, they made floating gardens, they surrounded themselves with feathers and flowers and poetry.
And they slaughtered thousands of people in war and on the altar. Hundreds of thousands, by the time Cortés arrived to slaughter them. They tore out the hearts and burned them, peeled off the skins and wore them, ate the best parts of the flesh.
Somehow it seemed logical that whatever had assaulted them in 1994 might have sprung from this archetypal horror. There was a feeling in the air like the fizzing of sherbet, the tang of the approaching storm. He wondered if the Aztecs felt it as well.
* * *
There were four men standing on the narrow platform at the top of the pole. Ace saw its base first, surrounded by a knot in the swirling crowd, their faces trained upwards in anticipation. As though they were waiting for a suicide to jump.
Four suicides. Ace’s mouth opened, but she didn’t know whether to shout a warning or a plea or just a shout. Each of the men wore a plume of white feathers on his head, and wings of large feathers on his arms. They were athletes, heavily muscled, standing with straight backs against the burning blue sky.
The crowd stepped back. As one, the suicides leapt off the platform.
Ace didn’t manage to look away – and then she saw that each of them had a rope tied to his legs. They spun around the pole, descending in rapid, violent spirals, their arms outstretched like the wings of eagles. It was bizarre, and beautiful, and over in seconds, as the eagles hung limply from their ropes, swaying gently back and forth.
Someone’s hand descended on her shoulder. She didn’t bother to jump. ‘There you are, Doctor.’
‘How’s your friend?’ he asked, examining Iccauhtli from within the hood of his robe.
‘Fine. We got lost.’
‘For goodness’ sake, the palace is just outside the sacred enclosure!’
‘Well, your directions weren’t very clear!’ she snapped, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. He was obviously agitated about something. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Not until we get to the palace. We’re virtually on top of it. Come on.’
* * *
It was a magnificent, weird procession, making its way slowly through the garden. Not a step was out of time, not a gesture out of place.
The emperor wore three cloaks, all richly embroidered, one over the other in a layered display of opulence. The face below the feathered diadem was impassive, almost emotionless, gazing around the garden with the absolute dignity of the absolute ruler. He was freshly returned from his two‐year campaign to capture sacrifices for the dedication. Renovating the Great Temple was always the first act of a new emperor.
With him walked a handful of the nobles, including old Tlacaelel, to whom they all owed so much. It had been Tlacaelel who had inspired the holy wars, the sacrifices, who had devoted his life to furthering the glory of the Aztecs and of their emperor. The great Ahuitzotl, eighth tlatoani of Tenochtitlan and the greatest of their generals, rarely made a decision without consulting his trusted Tlacaelel, much as the tlatoanis before him.
There were judges and officials, and their wives; a party of perhaps a dozen, privileged to take the evening air with the mighty Ahuitzotl. And there were guards – the mightiest of the jaguar and eagle knights, just as privileged to be protecting their tlatoani.
A few of the party were not Mexica, but nobles from rival cities, secretly invited for the festival. They walked with heads bowed, hearts affected by the glory of Tenochtitlan. Just as they should be.
Not one of the party had any idea as to the eventual fate of the Aztec empire. As far as they could see, there was no reason that its glory should not expand