that forceably yanked his head back. His chest heaved up and down in his heavy breathing and his eyes never left Tizoc’s.
Tizoc raised his flint knife a full arm’s length over his head, holding it there momentarily for all to see, then plunged it with all his power into Zozoltin’s chest. It cut into the flesh directly under the rib cage and was forced in one strong horizontal stroke across the width of the chest, opening it in a broad slash as the blood gushed forth. With his free hand, Tizoc reached into the gory cavity and pushed his fingers ahead until he felt them encircling the pulsating heart. He then violently jerked his hand back, ripping the organ, which for an instant still clung to attached veins, from its snug enclosure. As red blood spurted volumously over the altar, he lifted the heart into the air, then passed it to Cihuacoatl who transferred it on a plate to the arperture of the stone idol within the shrine and dropped it in. Tizoc stood acutely aware of the glassy, sightless eyes of the corpse still fixed on him as it was raised from the block by the four priests and flung over the steps. It rolled down like a heavy log leaving a thin streak of blood to mark its path. At the bottom, the body was taken by more priests who cut off its head, arms, and legs, setting these parts aside for later use—the limbs to be cooked and eaten—while the torso was set on a stretcher and placed away from the temple’s base for eventual removal by boat, either to a burning ground or to the zoo for the animals. Thus did Zozoltin enter paradise.
Without any delay, the four priests grabbed their next captive from the opposite row, spreading him over the altar, and the operation was repeated. The trail of blood widened along the steps when this body plummeted down. Then the priests went back to the first row and carried their new victim to the block, and in this fashion, moving back and forth between the two lines, the Tolucans met their end under blood-soaked knives wielded by Mexica kings. Tizoc’s arms began to weaken, strained in his efforts, and by the time he came to his fortieth captive, his work was becoming sloppy, with the gashes not as deep and more tugging to rip the heart from its tendons. Nezahualpilli next resumed the arduous task, to be later followed by Chimalpopoca.
This slaughter lasted throughout most of the day, and when the last of the victims had finally been dispatched, the temple stairs rested thoroughly splattered with coagulating blood and at its base, where the corpses had been dismembered, a large pool of it lay stagnated and sticky in the sweltering heat. After all was done, a signal once again directed the panhuehuetl to thunder out its earsplitting rumbling and when it fell silent, the ceremony was concluded and the Mexica lords descended the stairway along its lateral edge, the only section remaining clear of blood.
Even as the dignitaries left in preparation for the evening’s banquet, clean-up crews were already beginning their strenuous task of refurbishing the temple, carrying containers of water up the steps and scrubbing the stonework clean of its congealed, pasty blood. The torsos they dumped into barges after reserving a few for the zoo. The priests themselves collected up the edible limbs and took them, along with basketloads of hearts recovered from the idol, to the kitchens to be boiled in large vats for eventual consumption, while the heads were amassed so that they could be stripped of flesh and mounted on the skull rack located in the main plaza. In its entirety, the rehabilitation work of the sacrificial ritual entailed a major constructive effort involving crews of hundreds toiling late into the night, if not all the next day.
The feasting that evening, observed to give the commemoration of Tlaloc its closing sequel, was, in contrast to the previous night, an affair conducted under a cloud of serious contrition, and when small cuts of cooked flesh were served to the guests, each of the participants spoke a solemn prayer before he began to eat. In this way he shared the sacrifice with Tlaloc, maintaining a mutual connection to him.
As Tizoc was about to bite into a piece of meat that had been placed on his platter, a recollection of Zozoltin’s piercing eyes suddenly flashed through his mind. He turned pale. “It is the flesh of Zozoltin!” he gasped.
“What?” Nezahualpilli replied, staggered by this. “How can you be sure?”
“I know!” Sweat appeared on Tizoc’s forehead.
“I don’t see how, but even if it were, you should have no aversion in digesting it. He was a gallant warrior—you respected him when alive—and if Tlaloc accepted him, so should you.”
“I will not eat it!”
“Don’t be so squeemish and accept that he was a good offering.”
“It is tainted—with doubt. Zozoltin never believed we were sending him to paradise.’
“Suit yourself, but know it’s not the flesh that is contaminated. The defilement exists in your lack of piety about our purpose in eating it and you announce it to everyone here. You always manage to bring harm to yourself, Tizoc, even if unintentional.”
“I did not ask for this counsel from you.”
“I recommend you abide by it. My intent was to prevent you from spoiling this feast for everyone else.”
“My not eating affects the others in a like manner?”
“Yes,” came Nezahualpilli’s reply, which he deemed sufficient in getting Tizoc to grasp the ramifications of his behavior.
Tizoc eyed the meat on his plate, noting its grayish appearance from having been boiled, and reluctantly picked up a small portion of it, placed it slowly in his mouth, and started to chew on it. The gesture met a silent approval from several guests seated in his vicinity who had apparently stopped eating in anticipation of his next move; when they saw that he proceeded with his meal, they heartily resumed cleaning up their own plates. For Tizoc, it stood as another reminder of how closely his actions were scrutinized by his subordinates: an aspect of being ruler he found difficulty adjusting to. By nature he was a private man, and he held a distinct aversion for the public role demanded of his title. Once again, Nezahualpilli had given him the correct advice and he resisted taking it. Yet he felt no compulsion to thank him; a satisfied look in the Texcocan’s face combined with the fact that Tizoc was now eating the meat spoke well of their relationship.
XX
A few days later, Cihuacoatl paced the floor of his ministry anticipating the arrival of one of his more obscure friends, the physician Alotl. These were anxious times for him and his nervousness was evidenced in the long hard strides he took as he walked back and forth within the narrow confines of his chamber. With the hour of his contemplated action approaching, he wavered and had to constantly assure himself of its essentiality to bolster his flagging resolve. The burden strained him severely, exacting its toll in weight lost and stress endured; he endlessly deliberated over it, but always he came to the same conclusion—it had to be done.
At last he heard footsteps echoing in the corridor. He walked to the door and glanced out just as Alotl came up to him.
“You are alone?” Cihuacoatl asked.
“Do you see anyone else?” replied Alotl sardonically.
“Then enter. I have been much inconvenienced by this delay. I expected you earlier.”
“An unfortunate aspect of our lives—one must always wait on physicians.”
“Well, let’s not meditate on it. Have you what I requested?”
“Oh yes, and in ample amounts too.”
“Splendid.” Cihuacoatl declared as Alotl handed him a deerskin pouch. “Can you describe its effects to me?”
“It begins with a headache, followed by sensations of dryness in the mouth
