The days passed. The Xochi Huetzi festival drew closer. The pyramid—and tomb—for Tlacotzin was rising so fast the future resident could hardly believe it. The laborers worked as if under a blazing sun.
But now it was evening, and they were in the middle of sacred-act practice. It was no longer just touching and kissing; they had to do everything under the priests' eyes. At first Tlacotzin struggled, but he managed to push through. There was, however, something he hadn't expected. In the telpochcalli, like every youth, he had dreamed of conquest—on the battlefield and in bed. He and the others tried to outdo one another with fantasies of leading in many captives, becoming elite warriors, how many wives they would have and what adventures they'd enjoy. Back then, having many wives in bed seemed easy and pleasant. He no longer thought so. Having many wives in bed was exhausting. When the practice ended, he collapsed onto the mat completely spent, while the girls knelt beside him—clearly still full of energy. Tlacotzin had once heard a rumor that women could drain the strength from any man. In the telpochcalli they'd thought it meant something else, but now he felt how literal that truth could be. He rolled onto his back and panted hard. Xilonen lay down next to him. He turned on his side toward her. A moment later he felt something at his back—by the touch he knew it was Izel. He looked at Xilonen and thought of the others. He was happy they could be together. He wanted to keep working with them in the temple garden. He wanted them to dance to his music. He wanted to stay with them—but he had to go to the realm of the gods. He thought they could have been a wonderful family.
Then he looked at Xilonen's womb, and a thought hit him—one he hadn't considered before. He touched her belly and fell silent. According to the vision, they would bear his children. Children. His children. His Majesty had promised support for them, as had their families and the temple of Xochipilli itself. But who would be their father?
He was a man; he should be with them and actively help raise the children. He shouldn't die—he should stay with them. And yet he had to die. For them as well.
What would he be to his children? Someone who simply gave them life and then died? Who would replace him as father? He truly couldn't find an answer.
Would he never hear them call him "Papa"?
He remembered how his father hadn't returned from campaign. He remembered perfectly the sadness and emptiness that filled his and his mother's life. His own children wouldn't know him at all. What would they feel without him?
Xilonen touched his cheek, and Izel embraced him from behind. They said nothing, but with gentle touch and warm looks they knew how to comfort him.
He was to be a guardian spirit, and they his priestesses and spiritual wives. That spiritual bond gave him hope that he would still be able to see them. He only wondered what that would be like. Perhaps, during lessons with Cuathli, he would understand.
Tlacotzin walked through the city. He wore an ornately embroidered cloak and maxtlatl, sandals adorned with flowers, and a headdress. His thoughts, however, went back to that morning.
He had been sitting in the meditation chamber. Trails of incense drifted through the air, filling his nose with the scent of copal. On the wall before him was a map of the city. A small jug sat in front of him. Flute music filled the room.
Cuathli stood behind him and spoke.
"Tlacotzin, a city is not only buildings and inhabitants. It is a living organism. Everything in it is bound in a web of mutual dependence. Farmers grow food. Warriors protect the people. Artisans produce goods. Artists gladden the people's souls. Priests guide their spirits. Officials show the people the way. Over all this the king keeps watch."
Tlacotzin studied the painting intently. He had never looked at the city this way. He had always seen buildings and people. He knew there were connections, but he had never thought them so extensive.
"The city faces many dangers—especially those its people cannot perceive. But the city has its spiritual guardians who protect it."
Tlacotzin looked at the small statues beneath the painting. Set on tiny pedestals, they represented the city's guardian spirits. One little pedestal stood empty—that one was meant for his statue. He had heard their stories all his life, but never imagined he would join them.
"That will be your role. You will be a spiritual defender of the city."
Tlacotzin felt Cuathli's hands on his shoulders.
"It's time for your first vision."
Tlacotzin looked at the vessel before him. It held pulque mixed with sage of the seer and dried hibiscus and orchid petals. He took it in both hands. The musicians began to play more intensely. He raised the cup to his lips and drained it in one gulp.
Suddenly everything began to spin. Incense trails whirled; shapes blurred. At last the vision swallowed him.
As the image sharpened, he cried out in fear. He was high above the ground. He flailed arms and legs in panic—until a voice full of authority spoke:
"Do not fear, young one. You are not falling."
He stopped flailing and realized he was floating freely. When he looked back over his shoulder he saw great blue butterfly wings sprouting from his back. He tried moving them—suddenly he began to drop. He quickly figured it out and beat upward.
He was flying.
Truly flying.
He skimmed the sky, climbing and diving. At last he hovered and looked down. Below lay the city. Funny—at this distance it looked like a collection of little figurines. He glided over the streets, watching people go about their business, then rose again and hung in the air. He looked over the city and the encircling jungle, fields, and river. It was an astonishing view. He wished he could show it to those he loved.
"All right, young one. You've had your flight—now we must talk."
Tlacotzin turned. The figure behind him had butterfly wings too, but black and gold. He recognized him at once. He matched the first of the statues. He was the city's founder.
"Your Highness," Tlacotzin said, bowing.
"Raise your head, young man. In our situation, only my seniority places me above you."
Tlacotzin bowed even lower.
"That won't do. I am merely the founder. Thanks to me the city could grow—but that is all."
The founder laughed.
"You're even more modest than they say. Such a youth is a treasure."
Tlacotzin smiled. Everyone said he was too modest, that he was exceptional—but he had never felt exceptional.
"If it helps, I order you to raise your head, Tlacotzin."
He straightened. The founder looked him over.
"I see something troubles you."
Tlacotzin stared in surprise.
"With years of experience you can read such things at a glance. Don't worry—you'll learn it too. So what troubles you?"
Tlacotzin told him of his worries—of the children he would leave behind, and of Itzcoatl, his friend whose heart was bound in cords. The Founder fell thoughtful.
"Young one, I wish I could help—but I cannot. Handling such things is part of your training and your future work. You must manage it yourself. Trust me—everything you need to find the answers is close to you. You just have to find it."
Tlacotzin sighed.
"Will you stop speaking to me then, young one?" the founder teased.
"Perhaps," Tlacotzin managed.
They spent a while longer as the founder imparted his wisdom, and then the vision ended.
Now Tlacotzin walked the city, visiting places that mattered to him. With him were Cuathli, a few warriors, and his four betrothed, each in a simple white dress with her flowers in her hair.
First they went to the place where his home had stood. On the former burn-site now stood a sturdy new house and workshop. Another family lived there—potters with a small son. They spoke for a while. He was glad such friendly people had moved in.
Next they went to the market where he had played. He found his old acquaintances and was happy things were going well for them. They laughed about his success with women; the girls joined in teasing them. In the end everyone laughed.
Then it was time to visit the telpochcalli. Nostalgia washed over him—the same familiar drills and shouts. Among the students, only new faces, which was no surprise. His cohort had already graduated. A bitter thought crossed his mind: how many of them would be offered on the stone? Surely more than a few. Then he heard an argument off to the side. He saw a new instructor and a heavily pregnant woman—his wife, most likely.
"Understand, you did the right thing."
"I know, it's just that…"
The woman studied him.
"I won't earn what I did in the army here."
She cupped his face in both hands.
"We don't need honors. We need you. You earn enough; we'll manage together."
The man embraced his wife. Tlacotzin had to admit she was right. A child needed a father. Without a father, life had been hard for him and his mother. But a family needed cacao as well. In his thoughts he addressed his dead father:
"Father, for how many beans did you take such risks?"
Tlacotzin knew the value of cacao. He knew how essential it was for survival. But how much had his father earned? How much did a warrior make? He didn't know—he had never had the chance to join the army, so he'd never learned the pay.
Then it struck him. There was someone who could answer.