Flower War

A Novel

ESTEVAN M. MEDRANOIllustrated by Estevan M. Medrano

“Here the law of the flowers governs.” -NEZAHUALCOYOTL (Starving Coyote)

Prologue1535

Within the luminous and hallowed chamber of the Real Audiencia constructed in what is now Mexico City, Atototl, now eighty and nine, walks towards the absolute court authority of what was formerly called Tenochtitlan. After a series of cases dealing with issues of land ownership and petty crimes, now approaches a man found guilty of treason and a double murder. The courtroom, an arena of rigid decorum, is brightly illuminated with morning light spilling onto the polished floorboards. The bored scribe, whom has spent another morning writing down the testimonies of bitter Indians who chaotically live under supervision as subjects of the Spanish Crown, writes down the dark man’s name, age, and race, but is at a loss for documenting his previous place of residence.

Atototl will essentially attempt to convince the court President and Bishop Sebastián Ramírez de Fuenleal and four judges carefully selected by Emperor Charles V, properly called oidores, to grant his release from incarceration. The honorable oirodes to judge and advise include Francsico Ceinos, Alonso de Maldonado Diez de Ledesma, Juan de Salmerón, and Vasco de Quiroga. All of these men are committed to the strict parameters of Castilian Law when judging the indigenous population, which bounds them to hold the universal principles of humanity according the Spanish law and the Word of God to the utmost degree. These commitments would decree unbiased rulings and put aside personal interests- in theory.

The aged savage had requested that his hair be cut with the intention of appearing more civilized in front of those who will judge his character. But this is the only advantage the prisoner holds here. He has no new documents to present this morning and so the bailiff only watches on with little curiosity. The Indian has also turned down his right for a lawyer, so he stands in front of these five men of God and law alone. President Ramírez de Fuenleal, the only one of the five without facial hair, speaks.

“It is our understanding that you previously requested release from incarceration and were denied.”

During his years in prison, Atototl learned Spanish on his own. This was done partially to assimilate to the new world around him if he were ever freed, partially out of boredom, but most importantly, it was because he knew this day would eventually come, and he would not allow a translator, purposely or mistakenly, to distort his testimony with

inaccurate translations. If he is to be rejected and spend his last days staring at adobe walls, he will only have himself to blame.

“I was denied release in the year fifteen and thirty by the initial version of the Audencia of New Spain under then president Nuño Beltrán de Guzmán and his oidores,” he says with a precarious voice. “Juan Ortiz de Matienzo, Diego Delgadillo, and Alonso de Parada- all of whom have since been charged with treason and imprisoned in Spain. I ask if the ruling against my innocence, in which I was unable to call a single witness on my behalf, ought to be upheld by a tribunal which has been defunct for nearly five years for its corruption and mistreatment of-”

“We are all very aware of the unfortunate fate of the First Audencia,” barks Vasco de Quiroga, whom had converted and baptized many indigenous Mexica in his time in New Spain. The peculiar stroking of his beard appears as if it is the only means that allows the return of his composure. “We will not acknowledge that the insubordination and financial nepotism of the original high court towards the Crown and, allegedly, to the Indians residing here had anything to do with the outcome of your denied release. We all suspect that you believe it is your right to be granted a new trial, but know that this would require a tremendous amount of time- years- and effort in a case like this and I doubt in your advanced age you are in a position to wait for such an event to be prepared and scheduled. But I can assure you that your fate will be determined here by oidores bearing the highest legal education, as well as the highest sense of justice in its most impartial form. We are all seeking a fair ruling, the only kind which would please the Viceroy of New Spain, Antonio de Mendoza, and Emperor Charles the Fifth of Spain.”

“Then I have nothing to worry about this day. Praise be to God and his holy son.”“I wouldn’t say that Aztec, or Tlaxcalan, or whatever it is you claim to be. After all,

you stand before us previously found guilty of a combination of offenses so severe and unique I doubt any Indian will ever be accused of the same violations. Aside from the murder of Spanish knights, your crimes include burning vital documents that would have aided the crown in conquering South America. So I sincerely wish you luck in convincing us of your release during your second, and due to your age, likely last opportunity to receive freedom.”

“Do not misinterpret my bringing up my initial denial of freedom as bitterness," says Atototl. "After all, the high courts of New Spain had much more pressing cases to deal with that year than the freedom of an old Indian, such as whether Hernán Cortés strangled his first wife to death. I find it a bit unusual that there has yet to be a verdict five years after the trial, but what do I know of Spanish law? What do I know of justice anyway? For I am still of barbaric Aztec blood despite my baptism and the surrendering of my life to Christ. I have no wife to go to and no children who miss me. I am only a relic of a once prosperous world that you have all but ensured will be forgotten with the passing of my generation.

“But what you said earlier, that is certainly the question. As you can imagine, I’ve had some time to think about the answer. At first I thought perhaps I could provide some cultural and contextual insight of my journey as once a Mexica, a Tlaxcalan, a member of the Tawantinsuyu Empire, and now a citizen of New Spain- but I fear these shaking hands are too brittle to write such a memoir. Also, I doubt the preservation of these conquered civilizations' histories much interest you.”

“No, they do not,” remarks Ramírez de Fuenleal. “Besides, we do have an elaborate record of your former empire’s existence, the so called Triple Alliance, with the

recent completion of La colección Mendoza which contains over seventy pages dedicated to the subject.”

“Yes, I figured as much.”Seventy pages, Atototl thinks. That should be plenty of space to document the reign

of a hundred year empire.“So then what, Aztec, could you possibly offer the Crown that could justify your

release from a lifetime sentence of imprisonment? You insult us by not referring to yourself by the name granted to you following your baptism. You have no new documents to present either, so I suspect, and I truly hope I misunderstand, that you expect to sway us by your words alone. If this is the case, I assure you that you will sleep in a cell tonight and for the rest of your life.”

Indigenous prisoners could feast on almost anything they wished and could have their cells elaborately furnished if they were wealthy enough, but this is not the case with Atototl. His face sweaty from the relentless humidity, he sits in an empty cell with a leather bound Bible in hand, his bare feet resting on the dirt floor, which is still a bit damp and smelly from groundwater that had leaked. For the first time in his life he has allowed wisps of hair to sprout on his jaw. The dusty adobe walls enclosing him are faceless and pale. Near his feet is a pot to gather the contents of his bodily functions.

There is a scratching sound that distracts him from his daily reading of the Word of God. When he lifts his head, he sees a hole beginning to emerge as white powder spills to the ground, revealing in a shimmer of light the silver royal countermark. The coin and the two dark fingers holding it are pulled away.

“If you are attempting to escape,” Atototl calls out in spanish, looking back down to the yellow pages. “You are chipping away at the wrong wall.”

There is a bit of laughter that follows.“No, friend, I am simply consumed with boredom sitting here alone and I was

hoping my neighboring prisoner would care to pass the time with conversation.”The man’s voice is so hoarse and deep it is almost as if he is attempting to disguise

it. The language is spoken in indigenous nahuatl, so Atototl changes his dialect.“I’m afraid I don’t care to speak with you. Perhaps you could use that old coin you

found to chip away at the other side of your cell and see if that prisoner would care to converse with you.”

“Well, you see I’ve done that already and have yet to receive any reply. The cell isn’t empty, as I’d regularly heard the occasional bumping and shifting of feet, so I suspected that he was simply ignoring me. But it has been days since I’ve heard a sound so I believe the man whom occupies that cell has died.”

Atototl finally lifts his old eyes from the passage he is reading.“I see. I will converse with you then. Forgive me for my rudeness. I’ve just been

escorted here from the chamber of the Real Audencia and finished discussing the emotional day when two Spanish knights were murdered with slashes of my sword.”

“So you are guilty.”“It doesn’t matter if I am or not.” “Have you never confessed your transgressions that led you here? I myself was able

to receive a reduced sentence for my transition into Christianity and all that entails. I ought

to be released in a matter of weeks now. My confessions are a clear devotion to my new revered existence. Perhaps you should request the services of a priest and confess, and you may avoid dying here as my neighbor apparently has.”

“Perhaps. I have another session with the court in a week to present a legitimate reason for an early release. They’ve given me that time to arrange for gathering any new documents to prove my innocence, which there are none.”

“Then why not walk to the small library to research specific cases and intricacies of Spanish law and seek a precedent or bylaw that may justify your release?”

“There is no precedent. Even if I could understand the legal wordings and something were useful within the thousands of pages I would have to read, my old eyes are long, long past their prime. It takes me as long to read a handful of sentences as it would a young man to read several pages.”

“Do you not have friends that can speak on behalf of your character?”“I have no friends these days. In all my years here no one has come to visit me

except for occasionally the guards that come to check if I am still alive. Even if I did have friends, I am expected to somehow get in contact with them while still imprisoned.”

“You mean you aren’t even allowed to leave to seek a witness?”“No.”“So they are essentially committing you to die here.”Atototl shrugs. “I wouldn’t have much time to enjoy freedom anyway. I am as close to death as

anyone is.”“I understand you don’t much care to talk to me, but we have little to do. Why not

tell me of your story?”Atototl sighs, then smiles, as he used to often tell stories to children. But those were

of fantasy and adventure. No one has ever asked him to tell his story, not even the Spanish court.

“My story, like any story, is intricately woven with other stories, some with the thinner layers of those from creatures of the earth and thicker ones with those close to me and those I have encountered by fate. Some stories are woven intricately around mine that I am not even aware of. Lives I may have crossed paths with for but a day that I can only describe so far as such. Gods that no longer exists. Faces I never knew were near me.”

Two decades following the monumental birth of the Triple Alliance headed by the city of Tenochtitclan, years of famine and natural disasters plague the people of Aztlan. As empire’s architect, Tlacaelel advises for mass sacrifices, and the Mexica emperor, Moctezuma I, seeks the resources his empire needs by means of conquest. These harsh times come to pass and the Mexica Empire, later known as the Aztec Empire, flourishes under the belief that spilled blood and perpetual conflict is what pacify the gods’ wrath and staves off their destruction. They convince other reluctant provinces to join in this orchestrated conflict, including the Tlaxcalan Confederation. The ritualistic brutality that follows for over fifty years in the heart of ancient Mesoamerica is known as the Flower War. As for their outright conquests, the Mexica will soon seek victory crossing into the hilltops of Oaxaca, where the Mixtec people reside. The strengthening empire’s only true rival now is with the neighboring Purhépecha Kingdom to the west.

1Among the Maize Tortillas, Prickly Pears,

Clouds, and Hummingbirds

The Young Farmer1454

The earth is sick. The last rains are a breakable nucleus of memory, scathed and withering by each violent sun woven in flames by Huitzilopochtli. His creation is benevolent and more destructive each day, and lashes fire on the skin of the Mexica people. Fires that burn the earth and mind.

How much more precious water will we have to cut from ourselves and spill to calm him? the young farmer thinks.

How terrible these days have been.His skin is relentlessly tickled by the legs and fluttering wings of the gluttonous

locusts, his back and arms spotted in stings. Festering seeds spit out of a cob as he tears open the crisp corn husk leaves. The inside is blackened, lifeless. He tosses the ear of corn on the red dirt, corn silk and grit tangled around his hands, and opens another, picking rotten cob after rotten cob among the deafening shrilling of locusts skipping over the ruined stalks. Another amber cloud dances around his knees before settling as another layer of dirt over his bare feet now caked with it.

When he does find a ripe ear, only the fourth of the day, he has no temptation to take for himself, that dignity evident in his right hand having only three nails. All five nails had been torn off when his father had caught him stealing beans from the marketplace and the nails on two fingers never grew back. As he bled and cried, “But we are starving!” his father took his left hand by the wrist to do the same as done to the right, but his son calmed his anger, apologized for his sin, and he was let go. Stealing is never a choice- not from your own people. The most essential lessons are often learned with blood. It was deserved. His misbehavior as a child- lifting girl’s skirts and skipping chores- has left him with vivid memories of cactus thorns punctured in his back and dozens of bleary-eyed episodes of having his head dunked into the smoke of burning peppers by his ankles. But his father would not let his son become a miscreant. And eventually, like all boys with respectable fathers, he assimilated.

He has thin cheeks, now red with heat, like they were lopped off clean from cheekbone to jowl. He is taller than most and has skin as pitted as limestone. He wears no jewelry, a characteristic to some extent a token of his life, which so far, has been little more than a gathering of small adventures and loss.

The young farmer places the red and golden-seeded cache, the backbone of an empire, in the woven basket on his back as the cornfield moves through their agony, their heartbeats not silent.

He stops for a moment and admires the curved row of laboring women, bent at the hips, nails and ankles hardened with soil. Their lovely, cocoa-colored rumps glisten with sweat against the breath of the red sun, bobbing with every shift of the knees or tug of the hips as they jerk out handfuls of weeds from the earth, now so dry even the ants could lift dust with their steps.

One woman turns and smiles at him with cracked lips, her face peppered with stings. The sunlight withers as a swarm of locusts gathers in the sky and funnels over them.

Two winters ago the sky suddenly spilled tiny flecks of ice upon them and they all watched the little flurries shiver and dance from the heavens to the earth in fascination. They came one by one, then by the hundreds, clinging to all life like chilled leeches, devastating as any insect. How destructive these gentle little fiends were to their crops.

Many of the young farmer’s friends have abandoned the malnourished empire to seek resources in neighboring lands.

“Aztlan is doomed,” they say with their heads low and bellies hallow.The young farmer’s mother and father are both bedridden in sickness from

starvation and both will ascend to the afterlife in a matter of weeks. Eventually, when they leave him and there is nothing left for him in Aztlan, he follows many others to the southeast to renew his identity- the first of many wagers he will take in his life.

But this is the last year of famine for the Mexica, and their bloodletting and those loyal to their empire will soon be rewarded with exceptional prosperity when the prophecies of the magnificence of the fresh empire come into clarity and the domination of Mexico begins. New Fire comes.

But for now, the sunburned bodies walk forward and desolation walks with them, the rest of the field a monstrous distance. Another day roaming over the dry soil of Coatlicue, the earth-mother goddess, passes in spite- her lands still infertile, blood now stained in the steps of the stone sanctuaries.

.Cuetlachtli

1473

His soul is loosened from his bones, then breathlessly dragged across the years as his tired eyes drink in the milk-white light of a partial moon spilling over what is called the land of volcanos. The dust settles heavily from an absence of rain, though they say it is nothing more than a passing drought. During these arid weeks, always before leaving his master’s residence, Cuetlachtli turns over the clay bowls and pots so they will not gather dust overnight. Even in the night’s darkness, the moonlight is captured intensely on the medley of hummingbird feathered mosaics hanging off the ceiling and the elaborate figurines of deities carved from precious stone. He covers his master’s children with damp sheets so they will not breathe in the grime in the air. After that task, he has scraped through another day as a slave.

His master, an old tax collector named Tlanexcamina, fancies himself a hunter and is emerging from the wall of pine trees with a dead hare in his grasp and an empty quiver. How proud he seems to bring back such a meager prize.

“May I speak with you outside before you depart?” asks the old tax collector.“Of course,” says Cuetlachtli.The tax collector sets down his furry prize and then retrieves a copper axe before

they step out into the moonlight among the swimming shadows. As a breeze welcomes them, the tax collector's cloak ripples and Cuetlachtli’s loincloth whips like a serpent's tongue.

“It is my understanding that you were once a great warrior before you decided to spend your life tearing out weeds.”

“Yes.”“I understand you were, or perhaps are, a gambler as well.”“Sadly.”Tlanexcamina begins removing his heavy silver ear spools.“This silver was brought in from the hot lands to the west,” he says, the ear spools

flickering in his grasp. “We’ve traded with them since the first capital city of Pátzcuaro, but as the old expression goes, ‘Why trade when you can conquer?’”

The tax collector hands his slave the copper axe.“If you can impress me with your battle skills, then these are yours. If not, I add

another year to your sentence. Do you accept this?”

A year makes no difference to Cuetlachtli, as he expects to be dead before his sentence is complete either way. He takes the axe- a curious piece. The engravings in the neck, the black feathers hanging from the handle, and the unbalanced blade told him that it has been crafted only for decorative purposes.

In the blink of an eye, he thrusts the axe towards a pine tree with all his might and with a low thwack! the weapon is lodged deep in the black bark. The tax collector smiles.

“A sound strike,” he says. “But do you believe throwing a blade at a tree is worthy of silver?”

“The agreement was that if I could impress you, you would give those spools to me. If I did not, then I will endure the losing end of the bargain.”

“Do you not want to try something else to gain your victory? I didn’t limit your attempts to one.”

“There isn’t much else I can do to surpass that I’m afraid.”The tax collector sighs. “Then I suppose I should not try to convince you otherwise.”“Can I leave?” Cuetlachtli asks.“Yes,” says his owner flicking his fingers towards the east. “Be with your family.”Nearby are the settled waters of Lake Pátzcuaro twisting and stretching broken

versions of the mystical stars above it and the black void between water and sky. Not far are the sacred row of temple pyramids, the yácatas, each rising in terraces coated in volcanic stone, curved like the enormous backs of five gods emerging from the earth. Where kings, all descendants of Taríacuri, rested for eternity, buried with their servants for company in the afterlife. It is where the wise and spiritual superiors decide on war for the flaming god, Kurikaweri. The distance from his home and the Purhépecha capital of Tzintzuntzan, where he serves, is over a day’s walk. He could have waited until morning to depart, but he badly misses his family’s faces. Though exhausted, Cuetlachtli is mindful of the dwelling spirits and creatures within the trees. The ancient stars will guide him through the darkness. With such a great distance ahead, he is left to ponder his thoughts.

The tax collector, meanwhile, watches his slave depart in disappointment. He retrieves the axe lodged in a tree some distance away. It takes several tugs to pull out the sharpened copper from the thick trunk and he nearly falls once it is freed. When he examines the edge of the blade, he notices a tiny splash of blood at the tip. Below his feet he sees the two halves of a small lizard.

Since the conclusion of his days as an elite warrior, the politics of warfare no longer greatly interest Cuetlachtli, particularly with foreign territories- but neither can he ignore the excited tongues of the nobles he serves. He knew of the civil war the Mexica Empire suddenly found itself in- the rumors that King Moquihuix of Tlatelolco, who was married to the Mexica emperor’s sister, Chalchiutnenetzin, was planning to lead a rebellion. It was the hopes of the Purhépecha people that it would succeed and their formidable rivals would simply destroy themselves from within.

But this does not occupy his mind long. His thoughts are not profound like the noble philosophers of the capital and neither is he much of a storyteller despite years as a formidable soldier.

He thinks of his family during most of the long, long walk through the rugged, black lands to Malacatepec. For some time it was just he and his wife. She at first believed their fruitless night sessions was the fault of her husband whom had thrown, or rather, gambled away his life as a respected warrior to mope around as a slave picking crops and carrying tools. That the gods were punishing them for his actions. But at last came a child- a son, how fortunate! The last day he ever thought of his life as worthless. A day of destiny, which Cuetlachtli can never forget even if he wanted to.

Nearly two days' journey ends and he is exhausted this morning. The dry air prickling his skin, the harsh sun seemingly rising to signal the end of his long trek back to his family.

Close to his home, arms wrap around Cuetlachtli’s waist and nearly bring him to the ground. It is no demon. His son has managed to surprise him. Arms still tired, Cuetlachtli picks up his bony boy and laughs.

“All fear the little warrior, Zolin!” he cries. “Stealthy as a hungry snake!”Zolin remembers seeing his father brought into town by a man he had never seen

before who announced that he had now become a slave to him because he could not pay off his debt. Zolin asked his father how long this would last. His father, then a fierce warrior, the way he would always remember him, asked his confused family to sit down. He said that he had met with a tax collector, a man of the royal Cazonci lineage, and that he had lost a large sum of money. After calculations were done for how long his father would have to serve to pay off his debt, it came out to thirty years. Nine years owed to the tax collector. Twenty-one to another gambler- a notorious coppersmith. He would die a slave. A man would be lucky to live that long from birth. Zolin suggested he could sell himself into slavery to carry some of the years of burden, but his father would not allow it. He would not let his son carry the weight of his mistakes. The tax collector had priority over what he was owed. He was a fair soul though- never mistreated him, allowed him time to be with his family when he requested it. But Cuetlachtli was a slave nonetheless. And when his years are up and it was the coppersmith’s turn to be master, it would be terrible. He is a snake-like man, and he is young enough to where he would likely live long enough to become his father’s master.

Zolin bears no shame that his father is a slave. He is paying off his debts, paying off his mistakes. Teaching his lone child to avoid them and rise above the temptations of gambling and prostitutes. But he would not receive a warrior’s splendid afterlife. He would not die an honorable death.

Cuetlachtli sets his boy down once inside, along with the meager worth of a slave’s earnings. Matlalxochitl waits for her husband eagerly, having not seen him in over a month. She is prettier and more understanding than he deserved for a wife. Calm and strong, her only shortcoming is her height, rising up only to her husband’s shoulders. She is plump at the hips in an ideally fleshy way that her brown, massy thighs brush against themselves when walking. Her head is half shaven and grey hairs are slowly beginning to conquer her scalp rooted at the upper middle of her high forehead. She would insist on dying her hair purple, but Cuetlachtli would insist harder that he adores her hair the way it is, almost as much as the very breasts he tasted each night they were together.

They had been married since when he was a proud warrior, but even though those days of glory and wealth and admiration are long gone, she stays for some reason with the misery the remainder of his life entails. He treats her with respect and compliments her always, but his affection lately is stifled by the exhaustion of a slave’s work.

.Atototl

1473

He is often called Councilman “Ua.” The comparison to a dog is a bittersweet association. Though it is an animal that eats its own vomit, it is passionately loyal and fierce when necessary to protect those it loves. Atototl has learned to embrace the people’s title.

He sits outside watching the sun begin to sink in warm hued layers spilling off the edge of the world, awaiting his son, Atlitzli, to return from school. And there he is approaching, running with the wind, dust rising from the souls of his feet. His cheeks are shiny with tears.

“Father!” Atlitzli cries.“What’s the matter, my son?”“I need you to use your influence. I need you to save someone.”“Is someone dying?”“A father of one of my friend’s at school has been selected to be sacrificed by the

Mexica.”“He is a macehualli. It is expected that some will endure this fate.”“Just because he is a commoner you won’t save him?”“How would you suggest I save your friend’s father against an army twice the size

of any other in the world?”“We can go get help from neighboring cities,” his son quickly suggests with the

confidence of a nine year old. “They can help.”“That is a good idea. But which way will you go to get help?”

Atlitzli thinks. He points north.“That way,” he says uncertainly.“Yes, good idea! Go and find help.”The young boy begins walking, but his father places a hand on his scrawny

shoulder.“Wait! If you walk that way you will eventually enter the Mexica lands.”“Oh! What if I walk that direction?” he asks pointing west.“That way? That way is surely the shortest route to encounter the Mexica.”“Ah,” he says coming to a realization. He points southeast. “Then surely this way...”“That way leads to the borders of the Mexica as well.”“How? That would mean that our lands are...”“Are surrounded. Yes, that’s it. For over thirty years we have been encircled by the

Mexica Empire like a condemned island. And our people give them bodies to dismember, cut open, and skin. We participate in these ridiculous ceremonial battles out of some laughable belief they have that it is necessary to preserve the cosmos. Ah, but we will continue to supply them with what they ask for because we must. Or they will come, and we will lose everything. I am sorry for your friend’s father, my son. But it is as if he is already dead.”

Atototl could not let anything sway his focus now. After all, today is the most important day he will ever encounter as a councilman of the impoverished republic.

Most of the councilmen attend out of a bewildered curiosity to see a man that is going to attempt to change the minds of a stubborn eighty, which they were certain would only serve as a raucous spectacle. And what officeholder doesn’t revel at the possibility of seeing a fellow politician, whom is generally disliked anyway, embarrass himself? Among those present is Xicotencatl, ruler of Tizatlan, and a hundred political officials, including representatives from the independent but allied city-states of Ocotelolco, whom hold the Tlaxcalan economic power, and the smaller regions of Quiahuiztlan to the east and Tepeticpac to the north. Servants bring spiced green tomatoes, fruit of the prickly pear, and ripe squash and serve chocolate as the council continues to gather.

The older members sit on their reed chairs with slouched backs, strangely hushed. Many of the younger councilmen speak amongst themselves about the annoyance of having to attend the meeting, but anxiously await for the subdued atmosphere to transform.

The king calls to order the Tlaxcalan Supreme Council with an opening prayer begging the gods for wisdom and truth. Though the four rulers of Tlaxcala had collectively refused King Moquihuix to join Tlatelolco in their intentions to attack the Mexica, whom were falling into a state of civil war, Atototl had led a plea for another meeting to be held to further discuss the confederation’s decision on the matter. And so the youngest member of the council has the floor.

“We are here to decide, and decide absolutely, if we will be part of this coming uprising,” says Atototl. “I have pulled all my favors and resources to have this meeting occur because I strongly believe that circumstances have changed to the point that we must reconsider giving military aid.”

“We have already decided on a resolution,” says a councilman. “And what changed circumstances are you speaking of?”

“This list of cities whom have agreed to join King Moquihuix with his ambitions to topple the Mexica has grown since our initial refusal to assist him,” Atototl continues. “I will call out all the cities that have agreed to join to the king according to our foreign affairs subordinates. As we already know, unsurprisingly, Cuachpanco and Matlatzinco were quick to enlist. Also promising military assistance are Xilotepec, Mexicatzinco, Tenanyocan, Toltitlan, Xochimilco, Clalco, and Mizquic. Cholollan, Huexotzinco, and Tliliuhqui-Tepec have still refused to help.”

“Wisely so,” says another councilman.“Then allow me to reopen this debate,” says Atototl abruptly. “It is impossible to

overestimate what this decision will mean to our people. If I were to describe it...” he takes a moment to look in the eyes of the scowling nobles watching him. “Revolutionary. There may never be an opportunity so ripe to vanquish our hated enemy so long suffocating our people as this one now.”

“Perhaps ‘suicidal’ is a better word.”There is snickering.Atototl ignores the comment. “Axayacatl’s fragile grip on his empire continues to

weaken. In three years, the Mexica have lost two kings of their so called Triple Alliance and quarreling has festered among their nobility as Tlacopan continues to function as a headless snake. There are rumors that Tetzcoco’s great king, Nazahualcoyotl, whose skilled military command was only surpassed by his wisdom as a philosopher, will been succeeded by his brother, Nezahualpilli, whom is only aged seven.”

“True the death of King Totoquihuaztli and King Nazahualcoyotl were sound blows to their empire,” remarks Xicotencatl. “But an impregnable army under the command of a child is no less formidable.”

“A victory, my tlatoani,” Atototl implores the king. “Would mean unconditional independence. Not the warped, miserable version of it we claim as such under the great weight of the Mexica shadow. Outright freedom. An end to the Flower War.”

There is uneasy murmuring.“Another decade of this false war will still kill a fraction of the soldiers you are

proposing we sentence to their deaths,” says the councilman across from him.“These mock battles are not entirely fruitless,” says another councilman known for

compromising. “Our young soldiers receive training in legitimate conflict and learn what is to be expected on the battlefield. And it occurs on the southwest part of the city, at the countryside, which is a safe distance from any villages or civilians. And though they do take many of our soldiers as victims, we have the satisfaction of sacrificing just as many of their elite warriors after victories to our gods. I believe the Mexica, even in this state, could still now destroy all our settlements and burn our temples with little difficulty and all our history with it. But they have chosen not to so long as we maintain this mutual militant respect. A small price in comparison. One certainly worth maintaining our independence and probably our lives as well.”

“Perhaps we should send soldiers, but wait until we can grasp the tide of the conflict,” says a councilman known for his indecisiveness.

“No!”“You have objections, councilman Chalchihuitli?” Xicotencatl asks raising a brow.

“I am of the opinion that if we send soldiers, soon our streets will be layered in the bodies of our people dragged from their dwellings by the Mexica warriors. And all of them- all of them- will be marched all the way to Tenochtitlan to be dismembered in front of thousands. It is undoubtedly the most reasonable choice to not spare a single warrior.”

“It is the easy choice,” says a councilman whom had always disagreed with the decision of neutrality. “It is the choice a man in fear would make.”

“Fear? Of course I fear,” Chalchihuitli responds. “I fear for our people and for the good men among us here. But simply out of rationale, we should remain neutral. This is not fear- it is wisdom.”

“Your so called 'wisdom' is rooted in gutlessness and outdated speculations.”“And yours is out of a desire to see our people slaughtered.”“Why are we even discussing this?" an elderly councilman shrieks in disgust. "We

should focus on our starving people not our military. Our people who remain in poverty!”“This decision is only for our people,” says Atototl. “The same bodies we supply to

the Mexica like an endless blood debt.”“Sending our military so far beyond our domain would leave us vulnerable to

reprisals,” Chalchihuitli says calmly. “That is the most important reason that it would be foolish to participate in this rebellion that may never come to pass.”

Atototl stands up and begins looking around the chamber, examining it as if he has never seen if before.

“Councilman Atototl,” Xicotencatl says curiously.“Why are there no precious metals in this chamber, no rare feathers, or turquoise?

This is where the most vital matters of our city and our people are discussed, but there is nothing in this place that identifies it as of any significance. And this is a place filled with nobles, but I don’t see a single flicker of precious stones or jewelry. Why is that?”

The others know why. Every Tlaxcalan does as well. The Mexica that enclose their cities have long forbidden trade into their territory and impaired their economy.

“Our economy rots as our enemies encircling us bathe in hummingbird feathers and precious metals.”

“So we should send our military deep into the capital of the most powerful empire on earth to possibly fill our temple with precious stones and feathers?” someone blurts out.

“I’m not speaking of seeking riches to bask in,” replies Atototl. “I am talking about having salt for our meat. Having cotton for clothes instead of cloaks and loincloths made from course fiber of the maguey plant. These commodities are long overdue for us- Mexica be damned! This day may be when generations look back on this decision proudly, for their ancestors sought an identity for their home and refused to allow their children to continue living in complete submission.”

“You speak as if this is a chamber full of slaves, including our ruler,” Chalchihuitli says. “There is a second outcome to all this we seem to be eluding. What if King Moquihuix is victorious without our assistance? We have generally been in good standing with Tlatelolco, and if they eliminate the Mexica threat, I don’t anticipate any repercussions. And if they fail, we simply continue as things are. If we waive neutrality, and guess wrong, the consequences far outweigh the benefits of guessing right.”

The deliberation continues for hours. At one point Atototl has to duck from a stone ear spool hurled at him. In the end, the king decides there will be no aid given by their military.

Our confederation is as crippled by the Mexica blockade as by our spineless leaders, Atototl thinks. The new king’s genitals have likely become so anguished and raw from tending to his hundreds of wives, that his judgment has been dulled by it.

The decision, which Atototl believes is a devastating mistake, occupies his thoughts night and day. He truly believes Camaxtli, the god that structures fate, had crafted a divine means for his people’s happiness if they were willing to offer the blood necessary for it, but the Tlaxcalan rulers have simply turned away. If the Mexica were to defeat Tetzcoco and its supporters, their empire would rapidly expand afterwards with little opposition. The more of this continent that belongs to Mexica, the more Atototl fears for the safety of his people.

.Tlatlemina

1473

Among the dancing and stamping of feet, there are cheers so loud the city trembles, as the wails of conches and flutes carved from bone sweep over the grounds- which can only mean that the siege has ended in victory.

Tlatlemina feels the dampness of blood as his toes weakly contract as asked. His old wound has reopened overnight and footprints of old blood lead themselves into the curing hut which is brimming with incense for serenity and smoke to keep away the flies.

“Good,” says the cure doctor.The patient shaman reaches into a bowl, his hand dripping with the yellow-pink

lard of a Xoloitzcuintle dog. He soothes the ruptured wound with it and Tlatlemina feels little pain as he had already been long intoxicated with restless smoke from burning herbs filling the inside of the curing hut. All his burdens drift out of reach like the smoke passing though the slits in the walls towards the origins of daylight. The warm scent of those herbs in his lungs are the only reason Tlatlemina could fathom that he did not ask this with the slightest bit of concern.

“Will I be able to fight again?”

The shaman dips his hand again. “For the tenth time- probably. I cannot say yes, much as I want to and much as

you’d like to hear it. But things are looking better. If you could only cease training long enough to allow your wound to close up properly.”

This is the fifth time Tlatlemina has come here for the same reason.The story behind his slashed left foot is not a proud one. It was before dawn during

an invasion into Tlatelolco, into recently conquered land, to soundly end the threat of rebellion before their reinforcements arrived. A rare rain was fiercely falling for the first and last time in months. Perhaps because he was simply concentrating on moving ahead instead of what was in front of him, he imprudently stepped forward and a blade tore through the side of his foot into the bone. It was a weapon of some kind, blatantly sticking out from the mud, revealed by the rain. He just didn't see it. It brought him to his knees in pain, but he refused to take away any spare medicine from troops still capable of fighting.

The blood flowed steadily over the side of his slashed sandal during the day’s walk back. Every other step was agonizing, but the blood eventually stopped running and the cool air acted as a natural remedy, gradually numbing his wound, the rain washing it clean.

Tlatlemina has not participated in battle since then.He has spent the night in a curing hut because he fears the wound has become

infected, but the cure doctor has been reassuring with what little words he spoke.Next to him, a slave has lost his life from infection overnight. Tlatlemina wonders

whether the slave would be able to endure the trials of Michtlan when he opens his eyes as a spirit drifting in the lowest level of the underworld.

Much of the boring night was spent conversing with a hunchback whom had come in not for his deformity, but to reverse a persisting blindness. He had long worshiped the goddess Iztaccihuatl for proper sight, but his condition had only worsened with age. He is a funny man. Not because of his appearance or condition, but because he has such an unusual perception of the world and often jokes about his own hideousness.

The news is not good for this hunchback though. After deliberation, the cure doctor said he believed that his condition was far worse than bad eyesight and the man, by recommendation of the cure doctor, had his lower chest cut open. When his gut was opened, the cure doctor frowned seeing many tumors that had developed. With a knife made of volcanic glass, the cure doctor began cutting all of them out and tossing them into a bowl. The hunch back now lay unconscious on his back, crushed plants resting over his wound to speed healing- miraculously still alive.

Tlatlemina’s dark eyes graze over the cure doctor’s assortment of liquid and powdered elixirs and curing plants resting on a large reed mat. Mushrooms and honey to sharpen the mind, putrid trumpet-shaped flowers to open nasal passages, peyote brought in from distant lands allowing for spiritual transcendence, tobacco for chewing and sniffing, dozens of medicinal herbs for as many sicknesses, jars of dew drops for colds and sinus infections, sap from the maguey plant to heal mortal wounds, the tlatlanquaie shrub to treat stomach disorders, egg yolk and honey and roots of a nettle for rotting gums, and the yauhtli and itzauhyatl plants for high fevers and epilepsy.

Tlatlemina then notices a thin boy through the crevices of the branch bound walls.“Boy,” he calls. “Boy, over here!”

The young boy looks around for a moment before he realizes he is being called by someone from the curing hut behind him. He pushes away the long curtain and enters holding his nose to avoid inhaling the medicinal toxins.

“What has happened?” Tlatlemina asks.“Tlatelolco has been conquered,” the boy says.“And what of their king?”“King Moquihuix is dead.”“How was he killed?”“They say he was killed in single combat. Slain by emperor Axayacatl himself!”Tlatlemina gestures for the boy to leave to continue celebrating with the others and

the child scampers off.He will take that last bit of information with skepticism. After victory, and perhaps

just as common in defeat, rumors temporarily, but quickly, infect truth. Facts descend from the runners on the outcome of every conquest that passed, exchanging documents to one another from long distances; but once word reaches the ears of the commoners, each tongue speaks more outlandishly than the last.

But if the emperor has truly killed the king with his own sword, how he yearned to have seen it on the battlefield.

“When can I leave?” he asks, now feeling light-headed.The cure doctor mellowly says-“Stay another night.”In a matter of moments, Tlatlemina is no longer in command of his senses.

Yaomicqui was born angry. So much so that those who witnessed his birth say he tore through his mother’s womb to take life’s first breath, something he can only hope she had forgiven him of for it killed her. He believes his mother is now glorified in the afterlife and not one of the spiteful souls of almost mothers who died during childbirth, drifting in the night among the demons and night creatures- but he isn’t sure. The Mexica know that the reason children are all born with closed hands is because they emerge into the world from battle, using fists to break from a prison of flesh, not with sobs of fear, but with war cries. So you see, Yaomicqui was forged with the heart of a fighter, and his name cruelly meant “She Died In War.” And so it is no surprise he has an insatiable interest in matters of warfare to accompany a bruised spirit. He is cunning and laden and violent. He is destined to wear jaguar skin in battle as his brother does.

But that honor is years away and he is only ten now and his hair has only just been allowed to grow. For now he spends the evenings scrubbing the steps of the sacred temples which were overflowing with blood just half a day before, but still the smell of the dead and the dying persists. Yaomicqui lifts his eyes to the darkness, to a lone sloped mass of clouds that may as well have been the burdensome back of Tlaloc turned from his people. Atop the monumental pyramid he stands at the base of are two painted shrines. The southern sanctuary is embellished with fire-colored butterflies and painted skulls, dedicated to the almighty Huitzilopochtli, whom coated the One World in his sunlight. The northern sanctuary, painted blue and decorated with rare shells, was erected to honor the nourishing Tlaloc, whom had let the lands whither in his counterpart’s glow.

At the top of the pyramid, there is shouting and whistling. High priests are carving into captured bodies, chanting prayers and dancing and begging for rain.

All children know of the supernatural creatures which creep in the twilight, most insidious are the striped, long-fingered demons who stole children and tempted travelers. As the sky brightens, old fires die around the island, fires lit to frighten the lurking spirits of the night whom hiss at the sight of them.

Yaomicqui is careful shifting his feet as once he had misstep, slipping on fresh blood, and twisted his ankle. He adjusts the cloth tied over his shoulder as he bends forward. He wraps black locks of hair around his hand and lifts a trio of heads away to stack them with the others.

A hundred heads tumbled down the stone steps before dawn and just as many hearts were carved out of torsos by priests. Some heads and torsos were smaller than usual, for it was the time of Atlacacauallo, when children were sacrificed to the water deities- though they had not bothered to show their gratitude of late.

When the gods are callous, they ask for the blood of their distressed people to give them the capability to provide what precious things are needed. But for months the spilling of blood has not sufficed, and the Mexica suffer another night without rain and with bad crops and with the starvation and sickness that it brought.

Among the lifeless faces there is one he recognizes. Miahuaxiuitl. The father of his friend Citlalcoatl whom had been found guilty of adultery.

He recalls once asking his own father before he died why there had to be so much bloodshed. He replied simply, “We are meant to satisfy the gods. And the gods demand blood.”

And out of the high shadows a priest comes walking down the steps leaving red footprints, blood dripping off his fingertips. His black cloak trembles with the tepid gusts. Something about his face is very unusual and it is only when the light from the distant flames brushes over him does Yaomicqui realize that this priest is wearing the flayed skin of another man from head to ankle. The priest blinks at him through the cut open eyeholes and places a damp hand on the boy’s shoulder, the excess skin of fingers hanging off his wrists.

“Go home child,” he says. “These steps are clean enough for today.”The old blood of others now splashed on his forearms and knees, the boy begins

the long trek back to his home, guided by the stars being swallowed by the moon.

Among the commoners there are always rumors of another war, but when Yaomicqui asked his brother if another will come so soon, he only said, “Yes, but not yet.” And it would come. It always did. And he knew now that another conquest is nearing as well.

Though Yaomicqui has spent much of his young life cleaning puddles of blood and urine off the pyramids and picking up heads off limestone steps, he would be lying if he said he was not greatly disturbed by- perhaps obsessed with- the image of that priest wearing another man’s dripping skin over himself. He never let his horror known to anyone though, and it passes eventually.

The gods demand blood, he thinks.

But as of that moment he has another fear facing him. Deep in the forest, beyond the beaten paths and trembling huts, Yaomicqui’s lips quiver, staring at his brother Tlatlemina. His grip tightens on the handle of his flat stick. His brother wields a similar training weapon, which has struck Yaomicqui’s body so many times he is strip-lashed with red marking and shivering as his brother approaches again.

“I’ve broken you’re confidence. I’ve already won the duel without having even yet drawn my weapon.”

“They train me in school already, you know.”“I am teaching you lessons they do not teach in any school.”Tlatlemina was born at night, when only fires could light the One World, but they

were lit after he emerged crying, and so his name meant “He Sets The Fire.” But that could just as easily describe his craze in battle led by his blazing eyes.

Yaomicqui would often wonder if this would be the last time he would ever see his brother alive. He and the Mexica army had last been led into the perilous lands of Tlatelolco after the emperor had learned that their king was asking for the support of rulers from neighboring territories, planning to lead a conquest into Mexica lands. Each time his brother came back, though not always victorious, but he came back.

They perry, their weapons clacking by their flat sides, but just as the young brother believes he is gaining an advantage, his is slapped in the mouth with wood.

“You’re thrusting your weapon again. This is not a knife. Slash when opportunity comes.”

Yaomicqui has yet to hit his brother, which is not unusual. He is hoping that with his opponent’s injured foot, he can earn an advantage, but he moves as swiftly as he ever did. His brother is not upset at the lack of competition. But Tlatlemina will not tolerate fear. Yaomicqui lifts his little sword again to defend himself, but is on his knees moments later, another red mark on his shoulder from being slapped with wood.

His back and shoulders lashed with red and purple, Yaomicqui finds solace with his toys, in particular by rolling a small wheeled ocelot made of obsidian around the calli, making growling sounds with his mouth and scaring his aunts. He ties the red ocelot around the house turkey, Ahuilistli, and laughs as he tugs it forward as if it is chasing him. He knows that he is becoming too old to be playing with toys, and doesn’t do so in front of his older brother.

There are some that believe that a man with more than one wife is inherently destructive. Whom does he desire most? A husband is expected to treat all his wives with equal respect, but is this a sensible request? Did his heart need to be hardened or more vulnerable to take part in this? At night Tlatlemina’s bed is symmetrical as he falls asleep on his back holding two bare, precious bodies, their arms entwined over his chest. A knife is but an arm’s length away ready for the intruder that never seems to come. He is the last of the three to sleep always, and though the darkness troubles his imagination as sweat begins to spill towards his cheeks, the warrior’s cruel insight is calmed by the two hearts beating against him, and the ample nostrils breathing on the throbbing sides of neck. As the arched tip of his younger wife’s nose adoringly grazes his collarbone, he winces as

memories of knives grazing his throat penetrate his serenity and his fondling hands curl to fists. Even falling asleep is a short war.

Tlatlemina isn’t certain there is a more different pair of wives married to the same man in all the empire than his. Their laughs, their characteristics, their mannerisms- different tastes, different passions. Tehecatl, which means “You Are The Wind,” born on the lucky day seven monkey, is spirited and curious to a fault. She is the younger of the two wives- shapely, always manipulating her fairness with intricate jewelry and brightly colored clothing. She has a strong jaw. Her lips are large, always slightly parted even while her teeth are shut. And if Tehecatl is the skipping wind, Xochitl is the anchored tree; set in her ways, unconcerned with the edges of the earth and unbending. Her name means “Flower.” She is modest, but steadfast and loyal beyond what even the most decent man truly deserves. Her shoulders are a bit broader than what is considered ideally feminine, but that is only noticeable if one could pull away from her remarkable gaze to see them. If there is something they both have in common, it is that neither of them has provided him with a son. Tehecatl gave him a daughter briefly, but the child was lost before she was even a month old. As for Xochitl, wide as her hips are, she has simply not cultivated life and is beginning to sorely suspect that she never would. Though frustration lingers among the three of them over their lack of offspring, patience is one of the virtues of a woman, and Tlatlemina does his best to learn to practice this crucial calmness.

He does treat both his wives equally and both women would attest to that. But it is Tehecatl’s fertile time of the month, and Tlatlemina is assertive in his quest for procreation for several sticky days.

Quauhcoatl had once been an attractive man and one could still see it when looking only at the right side of his face. Women would often giggle when he came near them and men would often embrace their wives in instinctual jealousy when he passed by. But a year ago, a clay ball launched from a sling crushed his cheekbone and the left side of his face is now sunken in, the back of his teeth misaligned, the skin below his eye sagging. Now the once eligible unmarried man is grotesque and the same women that blushed in his presence now look away. It is a chore to just avoid drooling when speaking for long periods of time and his jaw never shuts properly. Tlatlemina remembers seeing his friend screaming and writhing on the battlefield, his cheekbone shattered and bleeding.

But though his handsomeness is long gone, he remains an elite soldier in a class known as the eagle warriors. He visits his friend Tlatlemina at his calli, his gold ornaments catching sunlight as he enters and the red band holding the knot of hair above his head whipping in the strong winds. He sees fresh flower petals on the clay floor. Tlatlemina greets his broken-faced friend with a stern hug and though he has not fought in a battle in months, Quauhcoatl still refers to him as his favorite battle comrade. Tlatlemina’s wives welcome their guest as well, their hair both twined into a pair of plaits pointed above their forehead like gnarled black horns and adorned with white flowers.

“Your wives seem more beautiful each time I visit,” says Quauhcoatl. “Truly counterparts of Xochiquetzal herself.”

While Xochitl is subtle in her graciousness, Tehecatl can’t entirely contain her elation, her cheeks reddening deeply after being compared to the goddess of fertility and beauty herself. Truly the two men are very close for one to speak about the other’s wives so

candidly. The two women leave to fetch the meal and after a cordial gesture by Tlatlemina, the two elite warriors, eagle and jaguar, sit.

“They are beginning to say that the emperor is incapable of losing a battle,” says Quauhcoatl.

Tlatlemina smiles pouring himself and his guest a cup of water.“Are these the same people that say the emperor took the form of a giant eagle as

he led his army into Xochimilco?”“You heard that as well,” Quauhcoatl says with a chuckle. “I will not have talk of war being a topic during the meal,” says Xochitl returning

with a steaming basket of tamales and another bowl of ripe tomatoes. “Especially once Yaomicqui returns, wherever that wild child may be.”

“Of course,” says Quauhcoatl.Xochitl sets the food down on the reed mat between them and gives a firm gaze

that is broken by her guest’s graciousness and leaves to fetch the maize tortillas and another bowl for the tamale husks.

“When we entered the Xochimilcan lands, on their shallow lake beds were these little rectangular fields resting on the surface, something one soldier described as floating gardens.”

“Is that so?” says Tlatlemina, uninterested in this diversion from the battle talk.“Floating gardens?” asks Tehecatl curiously setting down a large bowl of simmering

chili. She sits.“Yes!” exclaims Quauhcoatl as if he has shook hands with a god. “It is an

exceptionally efficient means of harvesting, dividing crops on these little artificial islands. They are made by fencing in the shape with wattle and pouring in layers of mud and old vegetation until it rises above the surface, all separated from one another in a way that canoes can pass between them easily. If we could adopt this method of agriculture around the great island of Tenochtitlan, imagine how much cheaper the prices of vegetables would be at the marketplace if merchants only had to pick crops along the shore?”

Tehecatl brings the warm, thick tortillas and an additional bowl and sits with the rest of them. After purposely dropping a tortilla as offering to the earth gods, Tlatlemina gestures for his visitor to take the first serving and Quauhcoatl grabs a tamale with his left hand and dips it in the spiced meat sauce.

Scampering into the calli comes Yaomicqui, breathing heavily.“I’m very sorry!”“Sit down before your father fills your back with cactus needles!” Xochitl snaps and

the boy quickly runs to the little altar, mutters a short prayer on his knees, and joins them.“We miss you on the battlefield,” says Quauhcoatl to his comrade. “It is truly a

glorious time to be in battle alongside the young emperor.”None could deny that the emperor had found little failure in his ruthlessness.

Following the defeat of the Tlatelolcas, the rulers of the neighboring cities of Xochimilco, Colhuacan, Huitzilopochco, and Cuitlahuac had all been swiftly executed for aiding them or, at the very least, ignoring the Mexicas requests for support. After the meal, when they are alone, Quauhcoatl tells his warrior friend the stories of the the epic battles fought, of how they disguised their bodies in straw, of the blood spilled, and of the moments he swore would mean the end of his life, but by the grace of Huitzilopochtli, he had lived. The empire is swelling like a drop of blood on cloth, swallowing challengers, burning their

temples and killing their kings. The expanding edges of their empire and the boundary of the mighty Purhépechas to the west would soon touch- and how violently they would touch.