Extepan raised his tumbler and swallowed half of his drink.
‘Sweet lime juice, freshly squeezed. We grow them all year round in California now. Try it, Catherine – it’s delicious.’
‘You know I won’t co-operate with you.’
He shrugged. ‘It’s understandable. You may not believe me, but I admire you for it. I hope that eventually you’ll come to trust me, and then perhaps there will be occasions on which we can work together for the best of everyone.’
I rummaged briefly through the pile of periodicals on the table between us – copies of the Daily Correspondent, Woman’s Window, Style, a Captain Camelot comic book in which the titanium-armoured avenger was vanquishing an android Jack the Ripper.
‘Is this what you usually read?’ I asked.
His expression was wry. ‘I follow my father’s advice that to understand a people truly, one must be familiar with their popular culture. After all, beautiful objects and fine works of art are hardly representative of any nation, are they?’
I contemplated the plastic Tower of London apron, the snowstorm model of Stepney Cathedral in its perspex dome.
‘Do you believe one culture can fully understand another?’
‘I live in hope. Do you know I went to a greyhound race meeting at the White City only last week? It was a most interesting experience.’
I couldn’t help but be amused. ‘At least you seem to find more enjoyment in your duties than your brother.’
‘Half-brother,’ he corrected swiftly.
I raised an eyebrow. ‘It rather sounds as if you’d like to disown him.’
He shook his head. ‘No, no. That’s not it at all. It’s a question of how he perceives me. To him, and perhaps to my elder brothers as well, I’m not truly Mexicatl. Because my mother was Castilian.’
I indicated a big oil portrait which had pride of place above the hearth. ‘Was that her?’
Of course I knew already. Extepan nodded. ‘It’s a Keating. He came to Mexico just before my mother’s death.’
‘Doña Maria Mendizabel.’
Extepan registered surprise.
‘It’s a famous portrait. They sell prints of it in all the poster shops.’
I knew this from the few excursions I had been allowed since my capture, Sunday afternoon outings to Mayfair under armed escort, temporary roadblocks keeping the public at bay. Every attempt I made to meet ordinary citizens under informal conditions was thwarted by the Aztecs.
The painting had been modelled somewhat presumptuously after the Mona Lisa, but it worked. It showed an elegant russet-haired woman in black silk and white lace, an impressionistic view of Tenochtitlan shimmering distantly on the lake behind her. Beautiful and formidable, Doña Maria stared out of the picture with eyes that seemed both hazel and sea-green, haughty yet passionate. It was said that Motecuhzoma had offered to give up the Turquoise Throne to marry her but that she had retorted he need only give up her conquered country.
‘She looks a remarkable woman,’ I said.
‘I think she was,’ Extepan replied. ‘She died when I was six years old. I gather you lost your mother at a similar age, yes?’
He was as well informed as I had expected.
‘I presume you’ve seen The Eagle and the Swallow?’ I said.
This was the English language title of the popular film based on Doña Maria’s romance with Motecuhzoma.
‘The actress was not my mother,’ Extepan said. ‘The film was not her life. Now everyone remembers that, and not the true person. There was much it didn’t tell. It was not the whirlwind romance the film portrays. My mother held out against my father’s courtship until there would be maximum benefit for Spain.’
‘Do you think she loved him?’
He eyed me. ‘You are very direct, for the daughter of a king.’
‘It’s my nature. It used to drive my father to distraction.’
He sipped his drink. ‘Yes, I am certain she did, in her way. And certainly my father never loved anyone as he loved her.’
‘Have you ever visited Spain?’
‘Many times. It’s a country where I always feel at home. But I’m Mexicatl, not Spanish.’
‘But an outsider too?’
‘No,’ he said firmly.
‘You said you were perceived differently. Because your mother was Castilian.’
‘I was speaking only as far as my immediate family is concerned. Perhaps only Maxixca. Of course, I should not be telling you this, since you have declared yourself my enemy. And I should not speak ill of Maxixca when he is not here to defend himself.’
‘Has he gone away?’
‘He is in the north, inspecting our troops. Military matters are what engage his interests most. He has little time for the niceties of diplomacy.’
This confirmed what I already knew from ALEX. Maxixca had apparently been sent north to reorganize the garrisons along Hadrian’s Wall. Scotland remained free of Aztec occupation as part of the truce, but there had been raids across the border on Berwick and Carlisle by English refugee forces and Scottish sympathizers.
‘Are you anticipating problems in the north?’ I asked.
He set his glass aside. ‘All border regions must be adequately defended. It is a simple matter of prudence. But you must forgive me. I have spoken a great deal of my affairs. What did you wish to see me about?’
‘I think,’ I said, ‘you’ve already addressed my concerns.’
Six
‘I’m cold,’ Victoria murmured, huddling deeper into the fur collar of her overcoat.
I stood with her beside the hovercar, a Cockerell Silver Sceptre, watching as Extepan and his retinue lit candles and burnt incense sticks around the tombstones. All day there had been feasts and celebrations at the complex to mark the Day of the Dead, and now we had come to that part of Highgate cemetery reserved for the graves of Aztec soldiers killed during the invasion.
Whole families had turned out for the occasion, and Aztec children were draping the tombstones with flowers, ribbons and skull-headed dolls made of pink marzipan. Adults and children alike were dressed in their finery, the men sporting colourful cloaks, the women embroidered shawls. They carried feathered banners, rattles and bouquets. There was much chatter and laughter, and a general air of festivity which seemed incongruous beneath the darkening grey November sky.
A chill easterly breeze was blowing, and my feet were beginning to tingle with the cold.
‘Let’s walk,’ I said to Victoria, taking her arm and heading off towards the older part of the cemetery, retreating from a garish alien enclave to the sober world of our own dead.
Aztec security guards shadowed us at a distance as we walked past the cluttered ranks of overgrown headstones.
‘I think it’s positively ghoulish,’ Victoria remarked, ‘the way they bring their children to the cemetery. To see them running around the graves, laughing and chattering, as if it were a party.’
‘It’s certainly different,’ I said.
Victoria shuddered. ‘I wish we were back at the complex. Why did you agree to come, Kate?’
I had no easy answer for her. ‘Extepan invited us, didn’t he? This is an important day for them, and I thought I’d be courteous, just for once. Remember also that Father always used to say it’s important to understand your adversary.’
Victoria didn’t pursue this. And I knew I was being hypocritical, having only accepted Extepan’s invitation when he had guaranteed that our attendance would not be made public. It was true that I hoped to understand the Aztecs better, the better to fight them; but a purely ceremonial occasion such as this was hardly likely to provide me with useful ammunition against them. Our motives for doing things are often as much personal as strategic, and it was not the last time I would compromise myself through sheer wilfulness. I had, in fact, been feeling restricted and even bored at the complex. Apart from my secret work with Bevan on ALEX, there was little for me to do. In addition, the results of the general election were due today, and I wanted to escape all talk and television coverage of it.