All the previous day laborers had worked hard to clear the ground for the construction of Tlacotzin's temple. The future temple was to rise beside Xochipilli's pyramid and be linked to his sacred garden. Tlacotzin smiled at the thought of resting close to that garden, though he still hadn't grown used to the idea of having a pyramid of his own.
How was he supposed to feel about it? The sense of becoming a guardian spirit was overwhelming. How does one protect a city as a spirit? It was nothing like being a warrior, as they taught in the telpochcalli, or being a musician, as his mother had taught him. Lost in these thoughts, he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't worry. We'll prepare you for that role as best we can. But not today. Today is for your betrothal."
Tlacotzin smiled. His foster father Cuathli knew how to lift his spirits. When he'd been merely a temple helper, he'd wanted to be like Cuathli: a strong man with a magnificent heart. A pity he would not remain by his side longer.
For now, the betrothal awaited. Wearing a maxtlatl and a cloak embroidered with flowers and butterflies, his mother's amulet at his neck, he walked with the High Servant of Xochipilli toward the building site.
Everything was adorned with flowers and ribbons, as if a second garden had sprung from the sacred one and was straining toward the sky. People had already gathered. From the priestly residence to the site they walked, crowds lining both sides to witness the event and honor their future guardian spirit. The girls were already there with the king and the other priests.
Drums and chanting filled the air. The fragrance of flowers mingled with marigold and copal incense. Tlacotzin took his place beside the brazier for burnt offerings and looked at the acolytes. They wore simple white dresses with flowers in their hair: Meya with plumeria for her caring, tender nature; Nenetzi with vanilla blossoms for creativity; Xilonen with red hibiscus for passion; and Izel with water lilies for her solemn spirituality.
He smiled at them. How he wished they could be far from this crowd—alone among flowers while they danced to his music…
The king and Cuathli stepped forward, and the king began.
"People of the city, we gather today to witness the spiritual betrothal of Tlacotzin and the servants of Xochipilli—Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel."
Tlacotzin stepped forward at the sound of his name.
"As you remember, by Xochipilli's will Tlacotzin was chosen as an offering for the festival of Xochi Huetzi. Yet we have received a new vision revealing the role he will assume after death."
He looked over the crowd.
"When Tlacotzin dies, he will become our city's guardian spirit—our spiritual protector."
A murmur of wonder rolled through the people.
"Here we will build the temple and tomb of our future guardian."
Tlacotzin blushed. Again he thought a simple grave in the sacred garden would have sufficed, but a temple and tomb were not for him alone—they were for the people.
"Our guardian spirit will need servants to mediate between him and us."
He gestured to the girls, who bowed to Tlacotzin.
"These four—Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel—have given him their hearts. Of their own free will, they have chosen to become his priestesses and to bind themselves to him in a spiritual marriage, a union that will outlast death and reach into the realm of the gods. Bear witness to the forging of this bond."
The ceremony began.
Musicians played the melodies Tlacotzin used to perform at the market—songs praising life's simple joys. Through the years without a father, years filled with hard work for him and his mother, he had tried to savor small delights.
Cuathli lit the offering fire. Tlacotzin felt awkward—what entered the flames today would be destined for him. It was a strange feeling.
He stood by the blaze. Meya approached.
"Tlacotzin, may my gentleness wrap you and support you in the world of mortals and of gods."
She removed the flowers from her hair and cast them into the brazier, then tied a sash around his wrist. Tlacotzin placed a necklace of beads and shells upon her neck.
"May my spirit remain with you always, and may my music never leave you."
Nenetzi stepped forward, smiling. He suspected she had crafted pieces especially for this day and would have adorned everyone if the rite permitted it.
"Tlacotzin, may my creativity adorn you and support you in the world of mortals and of gods."
She cast her flowers into the fire and tied her sash to his wrist. Tlacotzin gave her the necklace. He was shy about offering something made by his own hands—no match for Nenetzi's work—yet she smiled as if receiving gold and gems fashioned by the kingdom's finest artisan.
Xilonen came, cheerful as ever, though faintly pouty—no doubt about the private part of the ceremony. She had not been thrilled to invite her family, though Tlacotzin didn't know why. He smiled, urging her with his eyes to think only of them. She answered with a bright, teasing grin.
"Tlacotzin, may my passion warm you and support you in the world of mortals and of gods."
She tossed her hibiscus into the flames, winked, and lightly wet her lips. He remembered their playful flirting in the sacred garden. She tied the ribbon at his wrist; when he placed the necklace on her, she winked again.
Then Izel approached, lips set as if to say that ritual was no place for flirting. Tlacotzin gave her a gentle smile, and her tension eased.
"Tlacotzin, may my wisdom make your paths straight and support you in the world of mortals and of gods."
She bowed with almost ceremonial gravity, tied her ribbon, then bowed again to receive the necklace, carrying herself with something of a princess's poise—fitting for one of noble birth.
The five formed a circle around the brazier and spoke together:
"May Xochipilli bless our bond. May it outlast death and reach both the world of mortals and the world of the gods."
Though no wind blew, a storm of petals and butterflies rose from the sacred garden. They whirled around Tlacotzin and his betrothed; butterflies settled upon them, petals drifted into the fire, and the air filled with a sweet floral scent.
Cuathli proclaimed:
"Xochipilli has blessed your union. When the time comes, you will become Tlacotzin's priestesses and mediate between him and the people."
One thing remained.
Cuathli handed Tlacotzin a wooden coa, adorned with ribbons and flowers. Standing at the center of the cleared ground, he said:
"People of this city—I am one of you, a humble musician. By Xochipilli's will I am to become your guardian spirit. When I give my heart to the god, I will rest here and serve our city as your protector. I do not feel exceptional. In my heart I am a simple musician; yet I wish to help anyone I can. Whoever comes seeking aid, and I can give it—that person will receive it."
He struck the earth with the coa, symbolically beginning the work.
The people offered flowers to their future guardian. When the last was laid down, the official ceremony ended.
The public rites complete, Tlacotzin now faced what made him nervous: the private part—meeting the families of his spiritual brides before the betrothal feast.
In the residence of Xochipilli's servants he sat on a stone dais amid flowers and murals, sweet perfume mingling with incense. His brides sat to either side. Cuathli had arranged the order of visits so none would be favored, to Tlacotzin's relief.
Meya's family came first. He knew little of them beyond owning a farm on the city's edge. Announced by a priest, they entered: a man with a weathered face and a woman with a soothing smile—surely her parents—two muscular youths whose topknots marked them as telpochcalli novices likely heading toward their first campaign, and a young girl just stepping from childhood into adulthood. Their garments were simple agave fiber; the scents of earth, young maize, flowers, and fresh vegetables came with them.
"Are you well, Meya? Are you eating properly?" the woman asked.
"Of course, Mother."
Warmth spread in Tlacotzin's chest.
"Tlacotzin, meet my parents—my mother Tochtli and my father Tlaltecuini."
"It's an honor," he said, bowing.
They seemed startled by his humility.
"The honor is ours. Our daughter was chosen by Xochipilli's favorite and now is to be the sacred bride of our guardian spirit."
"Please treat me like an ordinary boy," he replied.
They looked puzzled. Meya giggled.
"Don't mind him. Tlacotzin is just too modest."
"Father, don't start spouting nonsense," one brother teased. "Our sis just found herself a beau."
"These two oafs are my older brothers, Ichtaca and Cuellea. They're in the telpochcalli," Meya said.
The brothers puffed their chests. "We're ready for campaign. We'll bring home many captives and untold riches."
"Fools. You'll bring home bruises," their younger sister shot back, making everyone laugh.
"This is my little sister, Nexochitl."
"When will you introduce me to Cuathli?" the girl asked.
"You'll meet him at the feast," Meya promised, and the girl bounced with joy.
Their father sighed. Meya explained, "Nexochitl wants to be a priestess."
The man turned to Tlacotzin. "Guardian spirit—say something to them. My sons dream of glory, one daughter is a priestess, the other wants the temple. Who will inherit my farm?"
"Don't fear," Tlacotzin smiled. "These two muscleheads will come to their senses and take up the coa soon enough."
More laughter, more easy talk, and promises to continue at the feast.
Next came a very different family. The father's hands were rough and worn, his eyes keen; the mother wore a finely embroidered dress and an intricate turquoise necklace. Two young men followed.
"Tlacotzin, my family: my father Tlapalli—the finest jeweler in the city—my mother Yoltzin, who oversees several weaving houses, my older brother Mixcoatl, Father's assistant, and my younger brother Coatl, a soldier," Nenetzi introduced.
"We're proud that our daughter's hands serve the gods—and that she met such a gifted musician," the mother said. Tlacotzin blushed, rubbing his neck—and inadvertently displayed his amulet. The jeweler's eyes fixed on it.
"That amulet?"
"Yes, Father—that one," Nenetzi replied, then to Tlacotzin: "Forgive him—he's been intrigued ever since he heard of it."
"How could I not be? You praised it as a masterwork and a symbol of love," Tlapalli murmured, leaning in. "And you were right. Exquisite carving, delicate, precise… Wait—I know this piece! It's my master's final work!"
All stared.
"Are you sure?" Yoltzin asked.
"As if it were yesterday," he said, drifting into memory. He told of his aged master, determined to retire with a cup of pulque and a view of a garden, who nonetheless took on one last commission when a warrior brought jade from campaign, asking for a betrothal gift. Passion had moved the master's hand, and the result surpassed all expectations. The girl accepted; days later the master died peacefully among flowers and pulque. "Since then I've tried to create something as fine. Skill matters—but passion is a mighty tool."
"You're not usually so sentimental, Father," Nenetzi teased.
"Your father has that side too," her mother laughed. "But he's a perfectionist who loves his craft."
"You love crafting jewelry as well," Tlacotzin told Nenetzi.
"And you take it seriously," Xilonen added. "Remember when we asked you to make something to match the amulet?"
"I'm good—but not that good," Nenetzi protested.
"And I'm the one who's too modest?" Tlacotzin smiled. "You have a great gift. Believe in yourself and you'll make the most beautiful amulets."
"I agree," said the older brother. "You could make pieces fit for the royal court—if you hadn't joined the temple."
"So now every bauble for the court will be dedicated to the guardian spirit?" the younger joked.
"Nenetzi—divine bride and sacred artisan. It has a fine ring," their father said.
"I promise to craft the loveliest works for my spiritual husband," Nenetzi vowed, blushing.
Then came Xilonen's family—much to her discontent. She had said from the start there was no need to invite them. Tlacotzin wondered why—she was so open with everyone—until a furious shout split the air.
"LIKE HELL! I REFUSE!"
"General, you overstep your rank."
"LET ME GO! THAT'S AN ORDER!"
Xilonen buried her face in her hands and muttered, "Again." A massive, scarred, bound man—blazing with rage—was promptly flattened by a single blow from the woman escorting him.
"Don't worry," Xilonen sighed to Tlacotzin. "He's fine."
"Xilonen, speak of your father with more care," the woman chided gently.
Her father?! Tlacotzin had imagined a jolly, open man—not a roaring jaguar. The woman smiled—predatory, like a jaguar in tall grass.
"I am Ilhuicatl, Xilonen's mother, and this is my husband Omacatl. Forgive him—he hasn't grown into giving his daughter away."
"He hasn't grown into anything that isn't fighting," Xilonen snorted.
"He isn't a demon, child," Ilhuicatl said softly. "Sometimes he has good ideas. You did well in Xochipilli's temple, didn't you?"
"They didn't want me at Huitzilopochtli's," Xilonen shot back. "Said I lacked discipline."
"You always walked your own path—a wild rabbit among tame ones," her mother said. "Our family boasts great warriors. You could have been one of the greatest."
Her siblings filed in—three hulking men and a sister no less formidable.
"Cuetzpalli, Ahuiliztli, Chimalli, and Teyacapan," Ilhuicatl presented.
"You should join the army," a brother urged. "Remember the guy you kicked in the balls and slapped? We talked about that in barracks for weeks."
"And did they mention the king scolded me? Use your head for once, virgin," Xilonen snapped.
"I'm not a virgin!"
"Oh? Who's the lucky catch?"
"I'm not saying."
Their mother broke it up. "Enough. If this girl exists, I want to meet her. Ahuiliztli, it's time to think of marriage."
Teyacapan sized up Tlacotzin. "He doesn't look strong. What do you see in him?"
"And I don't see what the calmecac boys see in you," Xilonen shot back. "Challenge every suitor to a duel and beat him—you'll end up alone."
"Your sister's right, Teyacapan," Ilhuicatl added.
"They only care about my breasts and our status," Teyacapan huffed.
"I understand," Tlacotzin said. "You don't want to be a means to an end. You want to walk side by side."
"Oho, Xilonen found a clever one," Teyacapan grinned. "Give him a few veintenas on the training ground and he'll be perfect."
Tlacotzin blushed, remembering how telpochcalli training had only made him leaner, not burlier.
"Maybe look for someone calmer—not necessarily a warrior," he suggested.
"Without fighting? I can't last a day without at least one duel," she gasped.
"Only one?" her brothers chorused. "Not ten?"
Sorrow pricked Tlacotzin. This family orbited combat; Xilonen was a flower that had sprung from stone.
Omacatl rose at last and fixed Tlacotzin with a stare that sent a shiver through him. Xilonen looked ready to pounce; Ilhuicatl readied another righteous punch—when suddenly the general's battle-aura faded.
"That amulet… Where did you get it?"
"From his father," Xilonen answered coolly. "A betrothal gift to his mother."
"What were your parents' names?" Omacatl asked.
"My father was Tenoch, a warrior. My mother Malinali, a weaver and gifted flutist. Both are gone," Tlacotzin said.
"So you are Tenoch's son…"
Silence fell. A deep sorrow poured from the man.
"You knew him?" Ilhuicatl asked.
"Yes," Omacatl said. He spoke of telpochcalli days, of friendship despite class, of campaigns together. Of Tenoch transformed by love for a simple weaving flutist, of jade won in war, of the day he saw Tenoch walking with this very amulet—clearly on his way to propose. He had rejoiced for his friend, but parental obligations had kept him from the wedding.
Ilhuicatl's eyes brimmed. "So that's why you were so distracted then. The first time I put you to rights," she teased softly.
"And with that blow I knew I could walk beside you the rest of my life," he smiled.
He spoke of years as brothers-in-arms, of his first daughter and Tenoch's son, of growing conflicts with Xilonen's free spirit, of the campaign after which Tenoch never returned—dead or taken. He had looked for Malinali but hadn't wished to appear uninvited. "I fought your nature, Xilonen," he finished. "I should have let you fly like a hummingbird—but even a hummingbird needs a nest."
He turned to Tlacotzin and Xilonen.
"Never thought my wish—to introduce my friend's son to my daughter—would be granted like this. I regret that Tenoch and his wife are not here. They would be proud."
He drew breath.
"I, General Omacatl, bless the union of my daughter Xilonen and Tlacotzin, Flower of Xochipilli, son of my friend."
Tears streamed down Xilonen's face as she embraced him.
"Cuathli told me you'll bear Tlacotzin's children," he whispered. "Avoid my mistakes."
"Yes… Father."
They wept until no tears remained. For the first time in years, Xilonen truly felt part of her family. Omacatl told Tlacotzin to ask him anything—no question too foolish.
Tlacotzin could scarcely believe what had unfolded—the amulet's tale, his father's bond with Xilonen's.
At last, Izel's family entered, moving with measured dignity that reminded him of Cuathli officiating a solemn rite. Three of them, richly embroidered cotton, wealth without ostentation, the faint scent of incense and floral oils. Izel bowed with grace; Tlacotzin tried to match it.
"I, Tezcacoatl, royal official, father of Izel—servant of Xochipilli and chosen bride of our future guardian spirit—salute Tlacotzin, who bears the noble title Flower of Xochipilli, whose music delights the soul and heals hearts."
Tlacotzin felt flattered—and then flushed.
"I, Xochitl, wife of Tezcacoatl, greet Tlacotzin, whose music fills hearts with joy and mends the soul," said the mother.
The younger sister bowed.
"I, Itotia, younger sister to Izel, bride of he who will be our guardian spirit, greet Tlacotzin, whose music fills hearts with joy."
It was hard to believe she was the younger—where the gods had been sparing with Izel's curves, they had been generous with Itotia's. Grounded where Izel was ethereal.
"Tlacotzin, Flower of Xochipilli," he said, bowing, "a simple musician who longs to bring joy with his music."
"You speak with pauses and a tremor," Tezcacoatl smiled, "but with training you'd master rhetoric. You'd have been a fine priest, had Xochipilli not called you to his divine garden."
"Truly modest," the mother added. "Do not deny it. Citalli's healing is undeniable proof."
He reddened again. He hadn't felt he had done anything at all with Citalli—only rejoiced to see her in daylight again.
"In days you achieved what priests could not in years," the mother said, then to Izel: "Daughter, a great responsibility falls to you."
"Of course, Mother," Izel replied, bowing. "I will give spiritual aid to all who seek it and keep my husband's memory."
That was Izel: serious, wise, and in her element—she seemed to blossom.
Her mother chuckled. "Yes, responsibility—but I meant something else. You will soon be a mother."
Both Tlacotzin and Izel blushed.
"We can't wait to see our grandchild," the mother said. "Motherhood is no easy task. Do not hesitate to ask me for counsel."
Tezcacoatl added, "Your sister admires your dancing—and your betrothed's musical talent. I hope to find her a husband who will cherish her passion, though it will not be easy."
Family mattered deeply to them, albeit differently than to Meya's kin.
"I am truly blessed," Tlacotzin said. "The gods have bound me to wonderful girls and their families. I regret that I must go to Xochipilli's garden. I would stay longer among such people."
"You honor us," Tezcacoatl bowed. "A youth with so pure a heart is a treasure. Now I see why Cuathli wished so dearly to keep you with us."
Together they said, "To the gods one offers only the best."
"A quick study," the father smiled at Izel.
Tlacotzin promised Itotia he would play at the feast, and her eyes shone.
One family remained—guests he had invited himself.
They entered with stately grace—aristocrats, like Izel's kin.
"Thank you for accepting my invitation," Tlacotzin said.
"The honor is ours," said the lady in gold and jade, fragrant with costly oils. "We are deeply grateful that you saved our son."
Then to the girls: "Venerable sacred brides, I am Malinalxochitl—Itzcoatl's mother and the matriarch." She bowed, and they returned it.
"This is my husband, Acamapichtli—former military commander, now my partner in managing the estate."
He bowed in silence; deeds were his language.
"I hope my son hasn't been a burden," she said.
"Not at all. Without him I would not be here," Tlacotzin answered.
The father smiled; Tlacotzin glanced at Itzcoatl and saw the cords still knotted round his heart. Why did he torment himself so?
"Tizoc," said a composed voice—the elder brother—"provincial administrator at court. Forgive my brother—he's too honorable, still gnawed by his 'life-debt.'"
"I've told him, and I'll tell anyone," Tlacotzin said firmly. "Without his support I would have taken my own life. He owes me nothing."
Tizoc smiled—a cool, pragmatic politician. "You see, brother? The debt was paid—slowly—by faithful friendship. Time to move on. Shall we find you a wife?"
"Find one for yourself first," Itzcoatl shot back.
"A sound idea," their mother approved. "Capture a foe soon, and we'll start looking."
"Both of you should think of marriage," the father added. "It's duty to the line."
"I need to lose the topknot first…" Itzcoatl muttered.
"What are you saying?" a lively girl cut in. "Your friend still has a topknot and he won four girls. You'll find a wife. And if not—we'll teach her to love you."
"Teicui," he groaned. "My little sister—learning the ways of the salons."
She adored her elder brother—perhaps too much. Wise folk praised Itzcoatl in her presence.
Itzcoatl had often tried to draw Tlacotzin into the family circle, but both sides had hesitated: Tlacotzin refused to live on charity; the elders had an image to uphold. Too much favor to a commoner—even one who had saved their son—would look bad. Tlacotzin could not blame them; back then he had been a nobody, a street flutist. Nobles could not lavish grace at random.
He sighed, then they proceeded to the feast hall.
Bound by ritual, Tlacotzin and his brides had a set menu—but that hardly mattered. What mattered was talking with everyone about everything—and nothing. He played the flute freely and laughed with all. It was a wonderful feast. For this one day he forgot that Xochi Huetzi crept closer—and with it, his death.
For one evening, none of it mattered.