The young priest named Cemiquiztli Yaotl was not in a good mood.
In the Aztec city of Mexico-Tenochtitlan, it was the day of the Feast of Maize and Beans. It was late in the spring, when the light winter rains were a memory and the life-renewing downpours of high summer were a dream. The rivers were sluggish and the roads were hard and dusty.
At no time of year were the ceremonies the priests undertook more important than now. The people of Mexico-Tenochtitlan depended on them to ensure the favour of the rain god; without that, there would be no rain and soon, no food. Nothing could be left to chance or human error; every detail of the rites must be observed, and any priest who was not entirely pure or who might make a mistake, however trivial, must be culled before the festival began. Nobody was exempt, not the youngest novice nor the most infirm old man.
To this end, Yaotl, a skinny young man, who had worn the black body paint and dark mantle of a priest from childhood, had spent five days being tested. He had been starved, immersed in the chilly lake that surrounded the city, had his body pierced with thorns, and been forced to enact pointless rituals. Hungry and exhausted as he was, he had spent each evening making little cairns of dough balls and tomatoes, knowing that if any rolled out of place, he would be punished, and that at this time even so trivial an error could see him expelled from the priesthood, beaten and half-drowned in the lake, and sent back to his family in disgrace.
Every year, Yaotl had passed the tests, sustained by the thought of what his family — in particular his elder brother, an arrogant young warrior named Mountain Lion — would say if he failed.
However, for Yaotl it was the sixth day — the day after the testing was over — that was the worst, because that was when the failures were dealt with. On the sixth day, the poor, dejected figures, the men trembling and with downcast eyes, the boys howling in terror, were pushed or dragged to the edge of the lake. Old and young alike were dumped into the cold water, jeered at, spat on, rolled in the mud, held under the surface until they choked, and finally, left to crawl away, miserable and shivering.
Custom and the will of the gods required him to join in, but Yaotl had never enjoyed it. It was too easy to see himself in the pathetic, slimy creatures whimpering on the shore.
“It’s a harsh business,” he murmured.
Beside him, his friend Telpoch said: “We all took the same test, Yaotl, and they had the same chance we had.” He turned away from the lake, back towards the close-packed houses and smoking temples of the city. “Anyway, here come their families, so it’s all over for them now.”
They watched the little group approaching: anxious-looking matrons bearing rabbit’s-fur blankets, stern fathers, truculent brothers and cousins.
One of the young men stopped in front of them.
“Yaotl? Is that you?”
He was not much older than Yaotl, but already sported a warrior’s lock of hair, and his orange cloak showed that he had taken two captives on the battlefield. For a skilled fighter, though, he seemed curiously unsure of himself.
He also looked strangely familiar. As recognition dawned, Yaotl’s eyes widened, their whites gleaming against the black dye on his face.
“What are you doing here?”
“I, er, need a favour.”
Telpoch said: “Who is this, Yaotl?”
“My brother, Mountain Lion.” Yaotl spoke between clenched teeth. “I suppose he must have thought I’d failed the test and come here to gloat.”
“Yaotl, you’re not listening...”
“Too right, I’m not!” He turned his back.
Telpoch stared at them both. “This warrior’s your brother?”
“The one who used to beat me up, and put live snakes in my breechcloth, and practiced with his throwing-stick by using me as a target. Oh, yes, that’s my brother!”
There was an outraged spluttering from behind him. “You gave as good as you got! What about the time you left a stolen cactus fruit on my sleeping mat and got me held over a fire of burning chiles?”
“Served you right! Come on, Telpoch, we’ve got work to do.”
He took a few steps, but his friend placed a restraining hand on his arm. “Wait a moment. He said he needed a favour.”
“Oh, forget it,” Lion snapped. “I’m not asking that worm for anything. They can burn the top of my head off, I don’t care. If he thinks I’m going to start crawling around his dirty feet...”
“Worms don’t have feet!”
“Yaotl, don’t be childish,” his friend admonished him. “Lion, just tell us what you want.”
“I need help tracking down a demon.”
For everyone but the priests, the festival was rather fun.
The common folk threw parties, inviting their neighbours to feast on maize and bean porridge. They made pots and pots of the stuff, ensuring there was plenty to spare. At night, young warriors and the girls from the pleasure houses would dance from house to house to demand a share.
Mountain Lion had good reason to be pleased with himself. He was tall for an Aztec. His sinews were like ropes coiled around his limbs, the result of years of military training in the House of Youth. His hair and his orange cloak signified the tally of his captives. Lion was everything an Aztec warrior should be: handsome, serious-minded, lean of body, and hard as stone.
“Mother, will you stop fussing over me?” he pleaded.
“I’m nearly done.” The lady’s voice was slightly muffled by the needle she held clamped between her lips as she bent over a small tear in the hem of the cloak. “If you wouldn’t keep treading on this... There.” She straightened up and stood back to admire her son’s appearance. “You want to look your best, don’t you? After all,” she added slyly, “Flower Necklace might be there.”
“What if she is?” Lion bristled.
“I thought you liked her?”
“I may have mentioned her name once...”
“Just once?”
The young man heaved an exasperated sigh. “Can I go now? The others will be waiting!”
“If that paint’s dry, yes.” His mother touched one of the white circles around his eyes with her fingertip “Now, have you got your stave?”
“Yes.” He picked up the maize stalk and shook it.
“And the jar?”
“No, I don’t need one, I can share...”
“Flower Necklace’s?”
“No, my friend Hummingbird Feather’s! Goodnight, Mother!”
His cloak billowed behind him as he swept out of the courtyard. His mother watched him out of sight with an indulgent smile.
The procession wound its way along the city’s highways and canal paths, a high-spirited little crowd of young men and girls out to enjoy themselves. The streets of the Aztec capital were normally silent after dark, when they belonged to creatures of the night, sorcerers and dangerous spirits. Tonight, though, was different, and the most superstitious of the young people could take comfort in their numbers and the light of their torches. Nobody was going to get much sleep tonight, and as they danced, whooped, and chanted their way through the streets, they left a trail of howling babies, yapping dogs, and cursing householders in their wake.
“When I do, when I do, give me a little of your porridge.” Lion sang the traditional, meaningless words lustily. “If you don’t give me some, I’ll break a hole in your house!” The others joined in, swaying more or less in time with the tune, while his friend Hummingbird Feather’s pine torch drew bright circles in the sky and set their shadows whirling.
The only thing that marred Lion’s enjoyment was the way the girl at his side kept bumping into him, thrusting her hip against his as they danced.