Alec Devlin: Empire of the Skull

Philip Caveney

Prologue

Itzli walked out onto the platform at the top of the step pyramid and held up the obsidian dagger that was his namesake, so that the people in the plaza below him could see it. A cry of exaltation went up and he gazed down upon them, his features set in a benevolent smile; but as always at such times, it shocked him to see how few of his people were left. Over the past few years, so many had succumbed to sickness, and it seemed to him that fewer children were being born than at any time in the city’s history. But the Lord of Mictlan had spoken to him in a dream a few nights earlier and had told him that more sacrifices were needed, if the city was to return to its former glory. Today, the god’s demands would be met, in full. The black dagger would do its work and fresh blood would spill down the temple steps.

His name was Itztli, which meant ‘obsidian,’ the hard volcanic stone from which the Aztecs fashioned knife blades. He was a high priest of the city, the most powerful of them all and he had risen to his position by displaying total commitment to Mictlantecuhtli, the god to which this sacred temple and the city itself was dedicated – the God of the Dead, the ruler of the night, the all-powerful Lord of Mictlan, the lowest section of the underworld. Behind Itztli towered a huge statue of the god, depicted as a grinning skeleton, arms extended as though to welcome the souls of the slain into his protection; and from the open maw of the great flue behind the statue, a powerful heat rose steadily into the sky. Lately, Mictlantecuhtli had been expressing his displeasure by spewing smoke and ash from his underworld domain; and occasionally he had given vent to his anger, with great rumbling roars that shook the very ground upon which his city stood. Itzli knew that the God was demanding yet more sacrifices. Beneath the statue’s feet stood the blood-stained altar where those sacrifices, both animal and human, were made.

But first, the crowd needed to be prepared. Itztli strode backwards and forwards on the platform, his arms raised, his expression jubilant; he smiled down at his people and he let his voice ring out loud and clear.

‘Let the ceremony begin!’

Below him, the crowd cheered him on, eager for the blood-letting to begin. For them, this was a joyous occasion and the atmosphere below was rowdy as people shouted their encouragement. Vendors moved through the crowd selling pulque, the powerful beer made from fermented cactus juice and others offered peanuts, sweet potatoes and corn pancakes. Crowds of children ran here and there, shouting and playing their games of pretend warfare.

Itztli glanced to his left where the emperor Chicahua sat on a gilded throne. The name meant ‘strong’ but for all the fine ornamentation he wore – the quetzal feather headdress, the golden earrings, the hand woven cloak of finest cotton, nothing could hide the fact that he was a rather podgy twelve-year-old boy, so short that with his fat bottom on the throne, his sandaled feet didn’t even touch the flag stones. He was being fed cocoa beans by his hand servant, Patli, and he looked quite bored as though he would rather be anywhere else than here.

Itztli worked hard to keep the resentment off his thin face. The boy had come to power only because earlier that year, his father Ahcautli, had contracted a fever and died. Chicahua was not the first child emperor among the Aztec people and nor would he be the last, but what a tragedy it was that he should have turned out to be such a weakling, a boy who thought of sweets and toys and not much else, a boy who looked to his servant for guidance in most matters. Itztli feared for the city if such a boy should be left in control and deep in his heart he knew that he could not allow such a situation to continue for much longer. Little wonder the Lord of Mictlan was so angry. Many of Itzli’s fellow priests had whispered to him that he was the true power in the city, that he was the one who should be giving the orders around here. But he knew that he must bide his time and wait for the right moment to arrive.

For now, there were the demands of his god to be observed. Itztli looked to his right, where the captives were waiting, naked save for loincloths. The men were bound together with ropes and they were trembling and weeping as the moment of their deliverance approached. These were ignorant natives from some far-flung jungle village, captured and taken prisoner by the jaguar warriors of the city, who with each passing year were obliged to wander further and further through the rain forests in search of suitable victims.

Itztli lifted a hand and gestured to the priests who waited a short distance away, both of them wearing masks, one of Mictlantecuhtli himself, the other of Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent, the god of civilization. At Itztli’s command, the two priests strode across to the captives and gestured to the guards to release one of them. The rope was cut and one man, a thin, dark-skinned fellow with a bone nose plug and shell ornaments in his ear lobes was pushed forward. The priests each took one of his arms and led him towards the altar.

He was so terrified, he could hardly stay upright. His eyes were wide and staring and his mouth hung open as though his jaw had lost all of its strength. He was mumbling something over and over and Itztli surmised that he was praying to some obscure jungle god, because the warrior knew his time was at hand and he was asking that his journey to the underworld be an easy one.

Itztli stepped back and the two priests brought the man to the low stone alter and laid him on his back, each of them holding his arms out to the sides, so he could not struggle. The man was gasping for breath, but he continued to pray, as Itztli moved back to stand over him. He looked up towards the sky and raised the obsidian dagger, the black jagged blade glinting in the sunlight.

‘Great Mictlantecuhtli!’ he cried. ‘Guide my hand. May this first sacrifice find favour with you.’

He looked down at the man’s chest, selecting just the right spot. He lifted the dagger and brought it down, hard and fast. Then he made a quick and sure horizontal thrust, opening the chest and he plunged his free hand inside to grasp the still beating heart. A second quick thrust with the dagger released the heart from it’s fleshy home and he lifted it in his bloody hand so that the crowd could see it. A great roar of approval swelled from below him, drowning out the terrified gasps of his victim, who was staring up at his own heart in mute terror, his whole body shaking with the shock.

But then the Finisher stepped forward, his machete raised and one swift stroke took the victim’s head from his body. The Finisher lifted it by the hair for everyone to see and he strode around with it for a few moments, displaying it to every section of the crowd. Then he flung it down the steps of the pyramid. At the bottom of the steps, eager helpers ran forward to catch it and place it on an empty spot on the skull rack – and a few moments later, the victim’s headless body was thrown down another flight of steps like so much discarded rubbish.

Now from the other captives rose the sound of sobs and wails of despair, for there was no doubting the fate that lay in store for them.

Itztli threw the heart onto a brazier of hot coals and relished the smell of it burning. Then he took the opportunity to parade forward again, striding backwards and forwards, his bloody hands raised as he took in the acclamation of the crowd. He knew that they both loved and feared him. Loved him, because they knew that he was their guide to the ways of the gods. Feared him, because they realised how easily they might find themselves on the sharp end of that deadly obsidian blade.

He gestured to the guards and a second captive was released, this time an older man, powerfully muscled and carrying the tribal scars that spoke of his position within his tribe. He seemed not to fear death as the first man had done, but came forward without hesitation and looked Itztli in the eyes, as though challenging him to do his worst. Itztli favoured the man with a mirthless smile, telling himself that such bravery would quickly evaporate when the man found himself looking at his own beating heart. Itztli stepped back and allowed the two priests to stretch the warrior across the sacrificial stone.

He stepped forward and raised the knife. He looked the heavens again.

‘Great father,’ he roared. ‘Show us that you approve of our sacrifice. Give us a sign, so that we might understand.’

And then there was a noise from the sky – a strange, loud rumbling sound, like thunder, but different, because this sound was a continuous roar that seemed to fill the heavens with its power. From below the sound of the crowd changed to gasps of astonishment. Itztli saw that people were tilting back their heads to gaze upwards and that some of them were pointing up at the clouds.

He lowered the dagger and looked where they were looking and a gasp spilled unbidden from his lips. Something was crossing the sky low above his head, something he at first took to be a huge bird. But he very quickly saw that this was not a thing of bone and flesh and feathers but something that men had made. Its wings were static, outstretched, not moving up and down as bird’s wings would; and it’s hard body glittered in the sunlight as though made of metal. It was knifing downwards at a steep angle and as Itzli watched, the noise of the machine rose to a prolonged howl, the sound of a beast in mortal pain.

Down in the crowd, the sounds of amazement quickly became shouts of fear, because this was something that none of them could understand. People began to run away in all directions, making for their homes, their bloodlust forgotten.

The dagger dropped from Itztli’s hand as he lost himself in the wonder of the moment; and even the intended victim was sitting up, staring at the mystifying thing that was passing overhead. Itztli was not afraid. He knew that this must be the sign he had asked for. He could see that whatever this strange apparition was, it could not stay airborne for much longer. As it passed on over the city, it was dropping lower and lower in the sky. From where he stood at the top of the pyramid, he could see it long after it must have passed out of the sight of the people below. He saw that it was moving on across the rain forest and that at any moment, it would disappear into the green depths that lay all around it. He waited and for a few moments, there was a deep silence, deeper than any he had ever known.

Then he heard it. The distant crashing of vegetation as the huge bird ploughed into the rain forest. It sounded like the end of the world. He stood there, looking and on the horizon, he saw great clouds of birds whirling up from the forest canopy all around and the noise seemed to go on for a very long time, before it finally stopped and everything was silent again. He looked down at what was left of the crowd below. Those who had not fled were looking hopefully up at him, expecting him to take control. He glanced at Chicahua. The boy was sitting on his oversized throne, his mouth open, revealing several partially chewed cocoa sitting on his tongue. He looked rigid with terror, and beside him, Patli wasn’t much better, his wizened features arranged into an expression of dismay. No point in expecting any decisions from that direction.

Itztli turned and motioned to the head guard over by the captives and the man hurried forward.

‘My lord?’ he inquired.

‘Take your best warriors and go and find the place where the great bird came down,’ he said. ‘Bring back anything of interest you find there.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ The guard bowed his head respectfully and Itztli could tell that he was frightened.

‘Do not be afraid,’ he said. ‘The gods have sent us this sign to help us. You should feel honoured. Now hurry along.’

The guard nodded and then gestured to the prisoner, who was still sitting on the altar, looking dazed.

‘What of this man, my Lord?’ he asked.

‘Put him back with the others and lock them up,’ said Itztli. ‘The omens are not good for sacrifice today. We’ll postpone the ceremony.’

‘Very good, my Lord.’ The guard took the prisoner by his arm and dragged him back to his companions. They were led away down the steps, still roped together, their expressions stunned, all of them no doubt amazed to find that they were still alive.

‘Itztli!’ The high priest turned to find Chicahua gazing fearfully up at him. ‘What does it mean?’ he gasped, unaware of the fact that a stream of brown sludge was dribbling down his chin. ‘Is it the end of the world?’

Itztli smiled and tried not to picture himself putting his hands around the boy’s throat and choking the life out of him.

‘Your highness, it’s a good thing.’ He gestured at the huge stone skeleton that towered above them. ‘The Lord of Mictlan sends us his blessing and tells us that things are going to improve. There’s nothing for you to worry about. Nothing at all.’ He stooped and picked up the obsidian dagger from the pool of blood in which it lay. He bowed respectfully to the Emperor.

Then turning away, he descended the steps of the pyramid.