I had expected to find a giant missile launcher or cannon
pointing east, but there was nothing on the ridge except for a long cylindrical trailer, a single gold sunburst on its flank. Extepan had taken me inside the trailer after we disembarked from the train. It was packed with flickering viewscreens, bristling with electronics. Aztec technicians attended the equipment, supervised by none other than Maxixca, his squat figure buttoned up in the uniform of the
tlacochcalcatl
.
On seeing me, Maxixca made no effort to hide his surprise and irritation. But he recovered sufficiently to salute his half-brother. Evidently Extepan remained in overall command of the campaign, though Maxixca now technically equalled him in rank, a development which I found ominous. Both would have seats on the
tlatocan
and a vote in the most important decisions affecting the empire.
‘All is ready,’ Maxixca said briskly in Nahuatl.
‘Is the target in range?’ Extepan asked.
Maxixca nodded. ‘We’ve been ready to fire for the past half-hour, awaiting only your arrival. We have another twenty minutes, perhaps. No more.’
‘Any reports of troop movements in the area?’
‘None. Our intelligence suggests that defensive units have been withdrawn from the outskirts of the town.’
‘And the town itself? Has it been evacuated?’
‘We have no information on that.’
‘And still no response to our ultimatum?’
‘None.’
‘What about your spy satellites?’ I said. ‘I thought they were supposed to see all.’
Maxixca glared at me.
‘What is she doing here?’ he said angrily to Extepan. ‘She’s a civilian.’
‘She brought me good news from London,’ Extepan said evenly. ‘I have a son.’
Maxixca remembered the formalities of rank and etiquette. He gave a deep bow, then straightened.
‘My congratulations. May he grow strong and brave. Do we proceed with the activation of the beam?’
‘When I give the order.’
Without further ado, he led me back outside.
‘Beam?’ I said. ‘What sort of beam?’
‘You’ll soon see for yourself,’ he told me.
Now I stood beside him as he scanned the horizon with night-seeing binoculars. I thought it unlikely that he could make out anything in the snow-thick dusk; perhaps it was just a ploy to keep Maxixca waiting.
At length he looked back towards the trailer. It was back-dropped by the silver-and-black trunks of birches, and the whole scene was like a study in monochrome except for the golden sunburst in the trailer’s flank and the illuminated wedge-shaped screen at its front. Maxixca was framed in it.
Extepan gave an emphatic nod. Maxixca scuttled from sight.
All eyes turned upwards rather than to the east. Nothing could be seen except the snow swirling down out of the darkening grey sky. Long seconds passed, filled only with the sound of the wind and the soft battering of snowflakes on my face.
I was about to look away when the sky flashed alight. Seamless and sinuous, a rippling bolt of orange-red light split the gloom like a fiery rope held between heaven and earth and shaken by an invisible hand. Wavering and dancing, a brilliant blood-orange, it was the only colour and brightness in a world of grey, the only thing that seemed alive. Yes, it was a living thing, a celestial snake striking down at the earth with all the ferocity it could muster. I became aware of a distant fierce crackling, then a low rumble, as of thunder.
The beam flashed out as abruptly as it had come, leaving a golden after-image in my eyes. The crackling sound had also ceased, but I could still hear the rumbling, and I knew it meant utter destruction.
Even through the snow and the darkness I could see a red glow lighting up the eastern horizon.
Moments later, Maxixca emerged from the trailer.
He marched over to Extepan and saluted.
‘Direct hit,’ he announced proudly. ‘Rzhev no longer exists.’
On Christmas Day, I entered Moscow with Extepan at the head of a column which crossed a wide bridge over the frozen Moscow river. I was appropriately dressed in black.
Extepan had originally hoped to receive the surrender from Tsar Mikhail himself, but there was only an assemblage of grim-faced generals and a few representatives of the Duma waiting for us in Red Square. The Aztec ultimatum had been rejected after the destruction of Rzhev, and Extepan’s attempts to arrange a temporary truce so that negotiations could continue were thwarted because of the threat that the Russians might launch their bombs on targets in Western Europe. Apparently Maxixca, who favoured further action, had appealed directly to Tenochtitlan, and orders were received from the imperial palace that the war should continue until there was an unconditional surrender. And so the beam weapon, fired from an orbiting satellite, had been used on a second Russian city, Ekaterinberg in the Urals, to which the Tsar and his government had removed some weeks before. My cousin Margaret and their three children were also with him.
The weapon was capable of delivering a concentrated burst of solar energy over a radius of several miles for up to twenty seconds. Nothing – bricks, concrete or metal – could withstand the blast, and deep craters were all that remained afterwards, the bedrock fused to a magma which would take months to cool. Margaret and her family were annihilated in an instant.
It was a grey, bitter day, and even the gaudy onion domes of St Basil’s Cathedral could do nothing to dispel the bleakness of the occasion. I remember wondering if what I had seen inside the Quetzalcoatl structure was in any way connected with the
beam weapon. Perhaps the obsidian mirror had been a prototype, perhaps some sort of lens to focus the sun’s rays – a thing of utter blackness to turn light into fiery death. The grim symmetry seemed appropriate.
I found it impossible to blame Extepan for what had happened; on the contrary, I felt a curious kinship with him. We were both united in grief at the loss of someone close to us, Precious Cloud and Margaret, both dead before their time. Only Maxixca looked properly triumphant, as well he might. Moscow, and the rest of Russia, had surrendered without further resistance after the destruction of Ekaterinberg, and now the Aztecs controlled Eurasia from Portugal to the Alaskan Strait.
The February wind drove banks of cloud out over the North Sea. Damp with drizzle, it tugged at the collar of my raincoat and tossed my hair about my face. With Extepan beside me, I crunched along the pebble beach.
A few yards behind us, Mia followed, Cuauhtemoc tucked inside her cloak, securely held in a papoose. Down at the sea, Richard and Xochinenen were hurling pebbles into the ragged waves.
‘It’s good to get away,’ Extepan remarked in English. ‘I am glad we came here.’
‘Despite the weather?’ I said.
‘Because
of it,’ he replied. ‘Compared to Russia, this is nothing. I like your English wind and rain. It blusters and dampens, but there is no real malice in it.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Ever hear of pneumonia?’
He looked at me. ‘Do you want to turn back?’
‘No, no, I’m fine.’
Dipping and rising in the wind, a floater passed by overhead. Guards patrolled the foreshore and the wooded dunes beyond the beach, ensuring that no one disturbed us.
It was only a fortnight since Extepan had returned from Moscow, leaving Maxixca in charge of mopping-up operations there. Chicomeztli had suggested a long weekend at Sandringham as a break from his duties, and Extepan already looked more rested. We had come to the beach at Richard’s insistence.
‘Look at those two,’ I remarked.
Down at the sea’s edge, Xochinenen was retreating from Richard’s attempts to splash her.
‘I think Richard is proud he is to be a father,’ Extepan observed.
Xochinenen had borne her father’s death with great fortitude and seemed closer than ever to Richard. She had announced her pregnancy on Extepan’s return from Moscow. Richard himself was thrilled, as was the populace at large. In a curious way, the public announcement of the pregnancy had severed my final ties of responsibility towards him. As a prospective father, he was now his own man, and even if he could never be expected to act as a fully mature adult, I knew I had to let him make his own decisions, as far as he was able, for better or worse.
The drizzle intensified, and Extepan motioned for a guard to come forward with an umbrella for Mia. She had returned from Tenochtitlan soon after Precious Cloud’s death, and had immediately taken over the care of Cuauhtemoc. It was as if she had never been away, as if Precious Cloud had never existed, and Cuauhtemoc was her own and Extepan’s.
Quickening his stride, Extepan headed towards the wooded dunes to seek shelter from the rain. I kept abreast of him, sensing that he wanted to speak privately with me. We drew ahead of the others.
‘Catherine,’ he said, the moment we were out of earshot, ‘I’ve been intending to talk to you about the immediate future.’
I scrambled up the dunes in his wake. ‘Oh?’
‘I shall have to leave London soon,’ he announced. ‘My father has summoned me to Tenochtitlan, and afterwards there will be new duties for me elsewhere. I shall not be returning.’
Although I had anticipated this since his success in Russia, it was still a surprise to hear it. A surprise and something of a disappointment.
‘Iztacaxayauh will be appointed to my post here,’ he said. ‘He’s a good man and he will look after the interests of your people.’
I had no quibble with this: Iztacaxayauh struck me as a moderate, and he was infinitely preferable to someone like Maxixca.
‘When will you be leaving?’ I asked.
‘Soon. Chicomeztli, Mia and, of course, my son will be accompanying me. I’d like you to come too.’
He had paused under the shelter of a tree. I peered at him, then turned away.
‘My father has asked to meet you. He says it would be a great honour for him. I would very much like you to meet him.’
Below us, Mia and the guards were climbing the dunes. In a minute, they would join us, and I had the urgent sense of having to make a decision that instant, while Extepan and I were still alone. I thought of Motecuhzoma, whose image I had seen countless times on film and television, a man more than any other who had shaped our times. I thought of Tenochtitlan, city on the lake, the heart of the Aztec empire, a distant place of power and exotic dreams. I confess I was flattered to hear that the great
tlatoani
, He Who Speaks, wished to meet me, even though I was the daughter of a king.
I walked off down a brambled path, forcing Extepan to follow. I allowed him to catch up with me.
‘Did you ever find out who sacrificed the Russian soldier?’ I asked.
He tugged the hem of his cloak free from a briar.
‘Nothing was found in the church,’ he told me. ‘There was no body and no evidence of the …
act
you described to me.’
Branches gusted overhead, showering us with water. How convenient – and inevitable – that all signs of the sacrifice had been cleared away. I was now more certain than ever that Pachtli had been involved, and I wished I had insisted that Extepan accompany me to the church the next day. Probably, though, it would have made no difference, the body taken away during the night, the place scrubbed clean of blood.
‘It happened,’ I insisted.
‘I’m sure it did. But without proof, we had no means of proceeding with further enquiries.’
‘You do believe me?’
‘Catherine, I have never had any reason to disbelieve you.’
I walked on again, descending the dunes back towards the beach, uncaring of the rain. Richard was crouched at the waterline, building a wall of pebbles in front of the waves while Xochinenen looked on under a big black umbrella. In that unguarded moment, her face expressed the sadness which she must have felt; her father would never see the child she was carrying.
Extepan drew abreast of me. ‘I think you might be pleased to
hear that Pachtli has been transferred to a position of lesser responsibility. Enquiries revealed that he had been selling commandeered wines and spirits to our infantry. He is now in charge of military supplies in Godthaab.’
Did Extepan have the same suspicions as me? Even if he did, the punishment was woefully inadequate.
‘So justice has been done,’ I said with heavy irony.
Extepan took my arm. ‘Catherine, visit Mexico with me.’
He held me close, black hair plastered to his forehead by the rain.
Before I could say anything, there was a rising whine, and a jetcopter appeared over the trees. It banked above our heads, then descended, enveloping us in warm exhaust gases, sending pebbles scurrying as it landed.
‘Time for us to be getting back,’ I said.
Chicomeztli had arrived sooner than we had expected. When he emerged from the copter, he whispered urgently to Extepan. I knew something was wrong.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘We must return to London immediately,’ Extepan told me. ‘There has been an explosion. The Prime Minister and many of his cabinet are dead.’
After the memorial service at Westminster Abbey, we were driven back to the complex in a heavily armed motorcade. The crowds were kept well back.
Only one pyramid of the complex had been damaged in the explosion, and this was now swathed in canvas and scaffolding. The repair work was proceeding rapidly, although the bomb had blown out much of the two lower floors, including the cabinet room where Kenneth Parkhouse and his ministers were meeting. He, and seven others, were killed instantly by two kilos of Aztec-manufactured Texcem plastic explosive, carried in a briefcase by a private secretary whom the media described as ‘a fanatical member of a small terrorist organization, the English Liberation Army’.
Later, watching the television coverage in my suite with Bevan, I saw Richard and Xochinenen walking among the crowds outside the Abbey, shaking hands and accepting wreaths and sympathy. People interviewed on the street expressed only outrage at the killings. Iztacaxayauh came on screen to announce that the investigation of the case was being put into the hands of the police’s anti-terrorist squad, who were treating it as a criminal rather than political affair. He was followed by the new Prime Minister, a strident woman in a dark blue suit, who told the nation that she had already formed a new cabinet, that Parliament would continue to represent the people and would never surrender to common murderers.
The camera panned over the crowd, who held banners saying
GOD SAVE THE KING
,
STOP THE SLAUGHTER
and
GIVE PEACE A CHANCE
. A commentator revealed the results of a poll showing that ninety per cent of the public wanted stability under Aztec governorship and an end to all subversive activities.
‘If this is stage-managed,’ I remarked, ‘it’s quite convincing.’
‘Sign of the times,’ Bevan responded. ‘People are fed up with bombs and assassinations and all the rest of it.’
‘Oh? Have you been canvassing opinion yourself?’
He sat amply in an armchair, stockinged feet up on the coffee table.
‘Written all over their faces, it is. Everybody’s had enough of killings, especially after Russia.’
‘Ninety
per cent in favour of Aztec rule? I don’t believe it.’
My Citizens Aid office had been gutted in the explosion, and I realized I felt no inclination to start it up again. In recent months, regional centres had been established throughout the country, staffed by local people and including barristers who could bring civil actions against Aztecs if necessary. They would be well equipped to continue the work I had started.
‘Something on your mind?’ Bevan asked.
He had obviously noticed that I was preoccupied.
‘Extepan’s asked me to visit Mexico,’ I told him.
‘Has he now?’
‘Apparently Motecuhzoma wants to meet me. Or so he says.’
He grinned. ‘I reckon he’s more than a bit fond of you, that one.’
To my surprise, I found myself blushing.
‘I turned him down,’ I said hastily. ‘If I went there, it would seem like I was capitulating to Aztec rule over us.’
Bevan looked dubious. ‘I doubt it’d make much difference, myself. It’s all over bar the shouting any road.’
I was surprised by this. ‘I never thought I’d hear you sounding defeatist. I always thought you were a radical. An anarchist, even.’
He shrugged. ‘Not going to blind myself to the facts, am I?’
‘So you’ve given up?’
‘I’m watching and waiting. See what happens next.’
Now there was a report that the remaining members of the English Liberation Army had been rounded up. A group of dowdy figures were shown being bundled into the back of a riot-wagon. This was followed by a potted celebration of Kenneth Parkhouse. He was portrayed as a man ‘whose patriotism showed itself in his constant efforts to provide stable government for his people.’
I made a contemptuous noise. ‘Next they’ll be telling us he was a martyr to British democracy.’
‘There’s some would say he was.’
‘What?’
Bevan pulled off a sock and began inspecting it for holes.
‘Do you think I’m being too hard on him?’
‘Depends. Speaking for myself, I always thought he was a toad. But there’s talk.’
‘Talk?’
‘You know. The usual sort.’
‘What sort, Bevan?’
His forefinger protruded from a hole in the toe. ‘Some are saying the whole thing was rigged by the Aztecs.’
I wrenched the sock from his hands.
‘What do you mean?’
He pretended to look cowed. ‘They reckon Parkie had contacts. With groups like the ELA. That he was secretly working with the underground.’
‘That’s absurd.’
‘Hard to credit, I agree.’
‘He was a careerist, a trimmer. A traitor.’
‘Spoke highly of you, though.’
I was angered by the idea. ‘Are you trying to tell me the
Aztecs
had him killed? That
they
planted the bomb?’
‘I’m only saying that’s what some are claiming.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Don’t see it myself, neither. But then again, give a dog a bad name …’
‘Bevan, do you know something?’
He crossed himself. ‘Word of honour. You know how it is. Conspiracy theories. Next they’ll be claiming you had a hand in it.’
On the screen, Parkhouse was shown outside the complex on the day of his election as Prime Minister. He was waving to the crowds, his wife and two teenage daughters at his side.
‘Be a joke, though, wouldn’t it?’ Bevan was saying. ‘If Parkie really was on the side of the angels?’ His expression was almost mischievous. ‘Any chance of my sock?’
*
Extepan was up on the landing pad, supervising the loading of a luxury Ilhuicamina-class carrier which would be taking him and his retinue to Tenochtitlan tomorrow.
It was sleeting, and we stood together in the lee of the lift shaft. The sickle wings of the carrier glowed bronze in the murky evening light.
‘I expect you’re pleased to be going home at last,’ I remarked.
‘In some ways,’ he admitted. ‘Though I would have been quite happy to stay if my father had wished it. There are many things I like about your country, Catherine.’
‘I bet the weather isn’t top of the list.’
He smiled. ‘I really don’t mind it. But it will be good to return to the sun. And good to see my father also.’
Fork-lift trucks whirred back and forth, depositing crates in the carrier’s hold.
‘There’s something I wanted to ask you before you left,’ I said He gave me a knowing glance. ‘I thought as much. It’s not like you to make social calls without a purpose.’
I ignored the rebuke. ‘There are rumours about the bomb that killed the Prime Minister and his cabinet.’
His attention had returned to the loading operation. He said nothing.
‘Some people are claiming your administration was responsible. They say you wanted to get rid of Parkhouse because he had links with the resistance.’
Extepan shouted, and I recoiled. But he was simply calling to two handlers, telling them to be careful with a crate of chinaware.
‘I’d like to know if there’s any truth in this,’ I said.
Only then did he turn to face me.
‘Do you have evidence?’
‘It’s just a rumour. Is it true?’
A gust of wind made me huddle further under the concrete overhang. Extepan suddenly looked intense.
‘Ever since the explosion,’ he said softly, ‘your newspapers and television have been filled with coverage and analysis of the incident. We have given your reporters full access to all the information available. Nothing has been withheld.’
I made to say something, but he was not to be interrupted.
‘There has been much dwelling on the pain and suffering of
the families of those who were killed. There have been photographs of these families and the eight dead men, lengthy and respectful obituaries. All this is as it should be. All this is right and proper. Yet almost nothing has been said of the seventeen Mexicans who were also killed in the explosion. They were just anonymous clerical staff, functionaries who oiled the wheels of your government’s machinery. But they had families and lives just like the others.’
The calm and care with which he spoke only emphasized how much he was containing his anger. He stood close, and I had the feeling he would have liked to take hold of me and shake me.
‘We expected that little account would be taken of them. We do not even demand it, given the circumstances of the occupation and the delicate nature of national sensibilities. But when you come to me and suggest that
we
might have murdered them, it is not unreasonable that I should feel insulted. Is it, Catherine? Do you think we are such creatures that we would cold-bloodedly kill our own people?’
I wanted to argue that it was perfectly possible he had no knowledge of the plot, that it could have been perpetrated by more ruthless and xenophobic Aztecs in the colonial hierarchy. But that would have been to add outrage to insult.
‘Bring me evidence, Catherine, and I shall act. Bring me proof that we are
Tzitzimime
and I shall reveal my fangs and claws.’
The
Tzitzimime
were the monsters of twilight in ancient Aztec mythology who would appear at the destruction of the world and destroy any survivors. And the strange thing was, in his anger with his face half lit by the radiance of the carrier’s wings, Extepan did, at that moment, look a little demonic.
‘I am very busy,’ he said, turning away from me. ‘I do not propose to discuss this matter further. You must follow it up with Iztacaxayauh, if you wish. He is governor now.’
I caught his arm. ‘Extepan, you can’t blame me for asking. I intended no insult. I only want the truth.’
‘Truth?’ he said harshly. ‘Truth, Catherine, is whatever you cannot help yourself believing.’
He pulled free and walked away.