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‘It’s sweet to die in battle. It pleases the gods.’

‘Does it really?’

‘Oh yes, sister,’ said Huitzilin. ‘It pleases them very much.’ He raised his voice again. ‘If you’re too afraid to fight, then stay here with the women and spin. Look after the babies, if that’s all you’re good for.’

The women warriors shouted their anger, clashing their swords against their shields. ‘We’re staying here,’ hissed Coyolxauhqui.

* * *

Huitzilin peered at the weapon, turned it around in his hands. It was pale greenish‐blue, a short handle becoming a curve that looped back on itself. It looked like a snake, a turquoise serpent.

The weapon had been an heirloom of Huitzilin’s family for as many generations as they’d had the sorcerous blood. No one knew precisely what it was, or how you were supposed to use it; he wasn’t even sure how they knew it was a weapon. It was light, and there was no force to its swing, no balance.

But it felt like a weapon. Standing on the hillside, holding the turquoise serpent, he felt as though he could overthrow the world.

‘Your sister’s armies are coming closer,’ said Quauilticac. Huitzilin nodded at him, staring out over the valley. He imagined he could hear them, half a thousand pairs of feet trampling the earth as they marched towards his camp.

Uncle Quauilticac had made a good spy. Without his information, they might well have been taken by surprise by that bitch Coyolxauhqui’s army. When Huitzilin ruled the Aztecs, by the gods, there’d be no more women generals. Let them make cloth and children, and keep their mouths closed.

On the other hand, Huitzilin was sure Quauilticac was also giving intelligence to Coyolxauhqui. He did like to prattle, and who knew what he might have told his favourite niece, especially if she’d plied him with cactus wine.

He spat in the dirt, gripping the Xiuhcoatl. It didn’t matter. His troops held the high ground; within a day they’d have wiped Coyolxauhqui’s rebels from the face of the earth.

With a great cry the army came swarming out of the forest, out of bushes and thickets, hurdling streams. Their shouts and yells echoed back from the hillside, an arrhythmic clatter of rage.

Huitzilin’s soldiers held their ground, waiting for their general to give the order. They watched him, expectant and nervous. Idly he noticed that some of them had added feathers to their head‐dresses, in imitation of the plumes that grew from his scalp. Someone shouted as they picked out the brightly coloured shield of Coyolxauhqui herself, held high like a banner, leading her warriors on.

And still Huitzilin didn’t move, just stood there with his eyes half‐closed against the glare of the noon sun, as if listening to a voice none of them could hear.

Abruptly he raised the Xiuhcoatl, as though it were the most natural thing in the world to do.

And now there was no forest, no stream. Where the army had been was charred earth and a great billowing cloud of steam that raced up the hillside and exploded into the sky, stinking of lightning and seared rock.

Huitzilin’s warriors raised their arms against the scorching cloud, screaming. They’d never seen anything like this before.

Huitzilin looked at the little device in his hand, and smiled. It was so simple, easier to use than a toy!

He looked out over the devastation he’d created. The plain, boiled down to the rock, was shimmering with lifeless heat. The vegetation at the base of the mountain was scorched and shrivelled, and here and there he could see parboiled corpses littered amongst the cooked trees.

He spotted the multicoloured shield part way up the mountain, and went jumping and running down the slope. Everything was covered in warm dew, and the air was like a steam house. But it felt good.

He found Coyolxauhqui face down in the dirt, her back and legs seared by the steam. He pulled her to her feet. She tried to scream, but her throat was burnt, and her scorched eyes were full of madness.

‘You see, little girl!’ he spat in her face. ‘Everything you’ve built I’m tearing down.