Tlacotzin was in a chamber within the residence of Xochipilli's priests. He was alone—he wanted this talk face to face. Besides, the person he'd invited was someone he trusted. At last, he arrived.
"I'm sorry to pull you away from your duties, General Omacatl."
Xilonen's father—his father-in-law—was someone who could answer his question.
"Think nothing of it. I'm glad to help my son-in-law. The messenger said you wanted to discuss something."
Tlacotzin gathered all his resolve. He needed the truth. He was a musician and thought like an artist; he didn't know the rules of a warrior's life, but he wanted to understand them—to know his father and to help his friend.
"General Omacatl, how much does a warrior earn?"
At first the general looked surprised, then he understood.
"This is about Tenoh?"
Tlacotzin nodded. As a market musician he could hope for about five cacao beans a day. As a temple helper he received ten beans a day, plus food and a roof. How much had his father—a warrior—earned?
"I don't know exactly what Tenoh made, but I can give you the current rates."
Tlacotzin listened hard.
"If you were a fresh recruit, you'd get twenty-five beans a day."
Twenty-five?! That was several days of playing in the market, or two days of temple work—with five beans left over.
"After your first distinctions, your pay might rise to even fifty beans."
"Fifty?!"
You could buy a great sack of maize for that! How many tortillas, atole, and tamales would that cover?!
"Line officers earn from 300 to 500 beans a day. But they have far more duties and responsibility than rank-and-file warriors."
The number five hundred spun in Tlacotzin's head. Ten sacks of maize. Did that mean each day he could… He lost the thread entirely. He had no idea what to do with that much cacao. The only thing that came to mind was chocolate…
"If you became an Eagle or Jaguar warrior, you'd earn from 1,000 beans upward."
Tlacotzin stopped counting. He dropped onto the mat, babbling nonsense numbers, and only calmed after a while.
When he stood, he looked at his father-in-law.
"So many beans…"
He felt he understood his father a little better, and then another thought came. What if he had to choose as that teacher—or his father—had? The dangerous but well-paid path of a warrior, or the safer but poorer path of a civilian? His father had chosen the warrior's road. From the start he'd tried to impress the woman he loved—Tlacotzin's mother. And the jade for the amulet had to come from somewhere. The knowledge weighed on him.
"Pay isn't only beans. Distinguished warriors receive land grants, privileges—even elevation to the nobility. For commoners, the army is essentially the only road to noble rank."
"But most never live to see it."
Omacatl sighed heavily.
"That's true. Most young men never rise above ordinary warriors. And many will die or be offered on the stone."
He met Tlacotzin's eyes.
"It's not said aloud, but weaker warriors are grouped into special units and sent with the aim of being captured on the battlefield. The idea is that the city won't profit much from them otherwise, but they can still serve all by feeding the gods with their blood."
Omacatl lowered his head.
"It's the same in every city. Many of the captives awaiting ritual are members of such units."
He spoke with pain.
"If not for that, the priests would go door to door through the city, seizing almost anyone who might 'do.' That's the warrior's lot: we are to die on the sacrificial stones so others need not. In exchange we get wealth and a chance at social ascent. I myself am a noble because an ancestor earned it in the city's service."
Then he looked at Tlacotzin.
"The consecration of your temple will also require offerings."
Tlacotzin nodded. That was among the things he'd been learning. As a guardian spirit he would need energy to protect the people. The sources of that energy were offerings: flowers, food, music, dances—but also blood and hearts.
"Was there something else you wished to discuss?"
"It's about my friend Itzcoatl."
He told his father-in-law how he'd met Itzcoatl, how they hadn't reached his mother with medicine in time, the party he'd thrown for him, how Cuathli had found him, the incident with Texoc, and finally being chosen for sacrifice. He said nothing about the cords he had seen around the heart.
Omacatl folded his arms and thought.
"I understand. An unpaid life-debt. That can haunt a warrior to the end of his days."
Tlacotzin knew Omacatl was right. What he said matched what Tlacotzin had seen with his father-in-law—and with Citalli.
"It really is hard to be a warrior."
Tlacotzin had spent his recent years as a musician. A warrior's honor was alien to him, almost abstract—but he tried to grasp it. He knew he would be stuck if he couldn't.
Omacatl broke into his thoughts.
"And it is truly hard to be chosen as an offering and wait for certain death."
Suddenly Tlacotzin brightened. Omacatl nodded and smiled. Tlacotzin had found the solution.
Tlacotzin was meditating. His temple was almost finished. Only a few days remained until Xochi Huetzi. He looked at his hands, then drew out his ritual bone flute. What a beautiful instrument. When he'd played in the market, such fine workmanship had been only a dream. He reached to his side; tucked by his maxtlatl he felt his old clay flute. He smiled. He hadn't played it in a long time, but he always carried it.
He raised the ritual flute to his lips and began to play. The melody spoke of sacrifice and care for one's loved ones. It was the music meant to accompany him on his final path.
He wanted very much to live—to stay with the girls, with their families, with Itzcoatl, with Citalli, with Cuathli, with everyone. But he had to die—for their common good.
When the melody ended, he smiled, pained. A knock pulled him from his reverie.
"Come in."
Citalli and Cuathli entered. Their faces were grave. Cuathli spoke first.
"Tlacotzin, we need to talk about your temple."
Tlacotzin's thoughts went back to his conversation with Omacatl.
"About the offerings for the consecration rite?"
Seeing their surprise, he explained he had discussed it with his father-in-law.
"Yes—but don't worry, we will prepare them. We've come for something else."
Tlacotzin focused; his muscles tightened, his mind alert.
"During the rite we will offer hearts. We need someone to conduct the ritual."
Cuathli pointed to himself.
"I cannot. I am Xochipilli's high priest. Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel cannot, either. They are not ordained high enough. And there is the matter of their pregnancies. They won't be able to perform more complicated rites; later they must focus on the children. Someone will have to stand in for them."
Cuathli gestured to Citalli, who bowed.
"Tlacotzin, will you accept Citalli as your high priestess?"
He looked at Citalli. He trusted her. She was a strong woman with a firm character. Freed from hatred, she had become like a mother—or an elder sister. He couldn't imagine anyone better for the role.
"I will gladly take her into my service."
Citalli smiled and vowed to guard the girls and his legacy faithfully; then she straightened.
"Cuathli—my foster-father—there's something I want to ask of you," Tlacotzin said.
Cuathli tense with attention.
"Soon I will be gone. I won't be able to fulfill my duty as a father."
Cuathli's face fell—and then filled with boundless astonishment.
"Will you take on the role of father to my children?"
Speechless, the priest pointed to himself.
"You are the finest man I know. You have compassion and wisdom, and you do not hesitate to use strength when it is necessary. I cannot imagine anyone better suited. I've already spoken with the girls. They agree—and you?"
Cuathli smiled more radiantly than he had since that cursed council and the rite of questioning.
"The only one worthy to be their father is you, Tlacotzin. I can only be their spiritual grandfather. But I will watch over them and help the girls raise them as best I can."
Tlacotzin smiled.
"I will always be close to you, and I will support you as best I can."
He smiled again. One matter remained—Itzcoatl—but he already had an idea how to resolve it. The time was near: Xochi Huetzi, the last days of his mortal life. He remembered what he had been like when Cuathli found him on the temple steps, and compared it with what he was now. It was like comparing a bud to a fully opened flower.
He was ready. He wanted very much to live—but for the good of his loved ones, he was ready to die.
He truly was a flower for the gods.