The ceremony was conducted by the Archbishop of Canterbury. In the weeks leading up to the wedding there had been considerable debate over whether the Aztecs would allow the primate of the Church of England to conduct the marriage of a Roman Catholic princess; but the controversy never came to a head since Xochinenen indicated that she and all her family were perfectly happy with an Anglican ceremony. Pope Leo, himself a Mexican, also gave his blessing.
The transept was thronged with guests, a sea of faces framed and compartmentalized by the freshly painted wrought-iron pillars and balustrades of Joseph Paxton’s great creation. The palace had miraculously survived several fires since it was first built. It was now fully air-conditioned, and solar generators had been mounted atop its two water towers, providing constant power for heating, lighting and humidity. I had to admit it was a perfectly splendid place for a wedding.
Despite this, I sat through the service in a state of distraction, outwardly attentive but secretly wishing I were elsewhere. I think my years in hiding had given me less tolerance of state occasions than I once possessed, and it was hard to feel confident about Richard’s future happiness while I remained convinced that his bride was simply an instrument in the political ambitions of Motecuhzoma’s dynasty.
The ceremony was carried live on all six domestic channels, and the galleries were crammed with cameras, sound recording equipment and all the other paraphernalia of modern television. Foreign film crews from all the major nations were also covering the event, and I wondered if the tlatoani himself was watching from some private room in Chapultepec Castle at the very heart of the empire.
As I had expected, there was a heavy security presence, discreet within the palace itself but obvious outside, with armoured personnel carriers patrolling the environs and jetcopters hovering over the formal gardens which led down from the palace. I had no idea how I was going to attempt to locate Bevan’s mysterious installation; but I was determined to try if the opportunity presented itself.
Despite all my cynicism, I must admit that Richard and Xochinenen looked a happy and well-matched couple, Richard the perfect model soldier in his Royal Guards’ uniform, Xochinenen prettily petite in a traditional white English wedding dress. When the rings were exchanged and they finally kissed, the entire transept blazed with flashing lights, and I remember wondering if it was possibly the most photographed instant in history.
Because of the clement weather, a last-minute decision had been made to hold the reception outside on the terraces, and hordes of waiters served cold dishes and drinks while the guests mingled and made small talk among the lawns and flowerbeds. I was introduced to admirals, diplomats, members of the nobility from France and Germany, relatives of Xochinenen and Precious Cloud, financiers, businessmen, cinema celebrities – it went on and on. Very few of the most eminent British citizens and aristocrats were familiar to me from my father’s days; those that had resisted the invasion had been purged by Nauhyotl after the conquest, and the new breed thrived precisely because they accepted Aztec rule.
And so the afternoon progressed in a wearying tide of pleasantries and platitudes while I gazed at the golden sunlight burnishing the curved glass panes of the palace, my mind entirely elsewhere. I remember that I was in conversation with the Chief Quipucamayoc of Peru when an Aztec guard came to my elbow and said, ‘Excuse me, ma’am.’
I turned. It was Zacatlatoa.
‘Please forgive me, Your Highness. Could you spare me a few moments? There’s something that requires your attention.’
Under ordinary circumstances I would have needed no prompting to escape any further discussion of the potato harvest, but Zacatlatoa’s arrival made it imperative. I immediately excused myself and followed him down the stone stairways towards one of the ornamental lakes. Beyond, numerous floaters were parked.
He turned to face me. ‘I believe you requested a tour of the park. I understand you felt unwell and needed some air, an escape from the crowds. You asked me to take you on a brief flight around the park so that you could recover yourself.’
I blinked at him.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
He was a tall, sharp-nosed Aztec, hair greying at his temples. He spoke English excellently.
‘I remember, when I was a child,’ I heard myself saying, ‘our nannies used to bring us here to see the stone dinosaurs and creatures around the lake. I wonder – are they still there?’
‘Now would be a good time to see,’ he replied, indicating one of the floaters.
There was a certain urgency in his voice. I knew Maxixca was overseeing the security arrangements in the park, and I hastily glanced around. But there was no sign of him. Guests still thronged the terraces, munching canapés and earnestly exchanging small-talk. There were thousands in sight, but it was as if Zacatlatoa and I were alone.
I nodded and climbed into the floater beside him, heedless of my fine dress. But then he paused, checking his wristwatch.
‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked.
‘You will see.’
The words were hardly out when the tranquil day was shattered by a thunderous explosion. The whole of the central transept erupted, the force of the blast swiftly carrying a hot wind into our faces. Zacatlatoa was already taking off, turning the floater away as the crowds began to scream and retreat in panic from the rain of jagged glass and tangled metal. The transept was an inferno of flame and smoke.
‘Wait!’ I cried. ‘Richard, the others—’
‘Do you think this is a game?’ He was looking dead ahead, steering the craft low over fountains and yew hedges, dropping down the brow of the hill. ‘The King and his bride will have already left. The others must fend for themselves. There is no time for scruples now! We need your help.’
Desperately I strained back and saw the revellers streaming away as the fire raged higher and the skeletal structure began to cave in. Then we dropped down the brow of the hill and everything was lost from sight except for the billowing clouds of oily smoke.
‘There,’ Zacatlatoa said abruptly.
We were flying towards the Maze, in which I had got lost as a child. Beyond the ring of Lombardy poplars which enclosed it, half hidden by oak and sycamore near the Sydenham entrance to the park, I glimpsed an odd-looking conical tower rising from a cylindrical bunker-like building.
Zacatlatoa brought the floater down behind a dense stand of rhododendron. The towered building stood in front of a small lake, surrounded by electrified fencing. A pair of soldiers were on guard outside the gate, and just inside it was an armoured riot-wagon, two more soldiers scrambling across its slanting nose and into the cockpit. The gates swung open, and the riot-wagon sped off up the hill.
‘Are we going in there?’ I asked.
‘Just wait,’ he said fiercely.
He had a strong chin and high cheekbones, was too tall and rangy to be a Central Mexican.
‘What’s your interest in this?’ I asked him.
‘I’m Comanche,’ he said simply.
It was answer enough. At the turn of the century, his people, a fiercely independent race who lived in Western Texas, had risen up against the rule of Motecuhzoma’s grandfather, Xaltemoc. The emperor had responded by exterminating most of them, to the everlasting enmity of those who remained.
The moment the riot-wagon went out of sight, Zacatlatoa drove the floater down towards the gate. The guards were in position, their automatics at the ready. I began to feel frightened, ridiculously out of place in my expensive dress.