‘Looks like it’s all up for the Russians,’ Bevan remarked.
I was angered by the casualness of his tone. Sharply I said, ‘Have you been sitting here all morning?’
Slouched in his armchair, he turned his head in my direction, looking both quizzical and wary.
Immediately I relented. ‘I’m sorry. But I can’t contemplate the war without thinking about Margaret and her children.’
The commentator began a panegyric about the bravery and steadfastness of the Mexican armies and the nobility of their cause. Bevan levelled the remote and blanked the picture.
‘Excuse my manners,’ he said, for once sounding genuinely regretful. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m not exactly thrilled at the prospect neither.’
He got up and went off to fetch my lunch.
Over the past year, there had been little friction between us and no hint of skulduggery on his part. Since the war in Russia had begun, security at home had been tightened, and everyone seemed to be lying low. Bevan’s contacts with the underground appeared to have lapsed, and we had made no progress in discovering the purpose of the Quetzalcoatl structure. Bevan claimed to have been as surprised as I by the bomb at the Crystal Palace, and he continued to insist that he had never had any contact with Zacatlatoa or any other pro-English Aztecs at the complex. In the complex itself, everyone was preoccupied with the invasion, and domestic concerns took second place, at least on the surface.
Yet I continued to wonder about the building in the park. Why the religious motifs, when inside it had an obviously technological function? Were they mere ornamentation, or did they have some more sinister meaning? To me, the Aztecs, courteous and correct though they usually were, seemed to retain a secret life which was hidden from outsiders. How much devotion did they retain to their pre-Christian heritage, with all its horrific trappings?
Of course it was hard to imagine diabolic rituals taking place in secret at Richard’s court: there was no evidence of it whatsoever. It was the same in the countryside at large. While there were occasional reports from fearful locals about night-time ceremonies at Aztec garrisons, no specific details ever emerged – or if they did, they proved innocuous: a drunken birthday, the feast of a saint, victory for the Mexican football team in the Columbus Cup. Typically Aztec soldiers held Catholic services in sequestered churches or in chapels at their barracks, so their religious observances were to a large degree private. There was nothing but rumour and hearsay about less Christian behaviour, and informed opinion dismissed such stories as the febrile inventions of popular superstition.
In fact, though it pained me in some ways to admit it, the country was generally tranquil, despite the upheavals elsewhere. Extepan’s governorship continued to be characterized by moderation and restraint. Local civil courts had been re-established, the police force was once again fully operational, and the occupying Aztec armies tended to keep themselves aloof from all affairs that did not involve military or security matters. The province – for that is what it had become – was settled, and people seemed accepting of the new order.
I viewed all these developments with a resigned dismay. I continued to miss Victoria greatly – my friendship with Precious Cloud was an obvious substitute – but I tried to busy myself in what work I could accomplish. That previous summer I had toured Scotland. Deprivation was rife there in the aftermath of Maxixca’s onslaught, but Extepan accepted many of my proposals for emergency action, and even went further than I had expected by agreeing to establish a Scottish Assembly to oversee the reconstruction of the country. Though I knew there was a sense in which my involvement only added further legitimacy to Aztec rule, I felt it was the only thing I could do.
Meanwhile, across the Irish Sea, while the rest of the world was focused on the Aztec invasion of Russia, Maxixca had moved swiftly from Ulster to complete a summer’s conquest of the whole of Ireland, hitherto a neutral power. He was promptly installed as governor, and proceeded to impose his authority with uncompromising force, suppressing all forms of dissent with such violence that the Primate of All Ireland actually appealed to the Pope for clemency. Needless to say, his protests were ignored, enabling Maxixca to boost his reputation as a military leader with an authoritative style of governance which was certain to appeal to conservative opinion in Tenochtitlan. Though the Irish people had my deepest sympathies, I was relieved he was gone from London.
Extepan’s new second-in-command was a Caucasoid Aztec from the Louisiana province of Greater Mexico called Iztacaxayauh. He had British ancestry on his mother’s side and declared himself an anglophile. As acting governor during Extepan’s absences, he proved himself Extepan’s man, continuing the policies of social reform and minimal Aztec interference in domestic affairs of state.
Under any other circumstances, the conquest of Ireland would have dominated the attentions of the media, but it was treated as a mere sideshow to the campaigns in Russia. Tsar Mikhail’s empire, which had once stretched from the Balkans to the Aleutian Islands, was now reduced to the heartland of the Russian peoples west of the Urals. True, this was where most of the empire’s industrial and military power was still concentrated, and the Russian armies had shown great resilience in fighting back after several major defeats; but it was hard to imagine the empire surviving much longer. And if it fell, there was little to stand in the way of global Aztec domination.
That evening there was a formal dinner at the complex to welcome the new Japanese ambassador to Britain. Japan, long a vassal state of the Aztecs, was important strategically and economically as a producer of high-quality electronic equipment for the empire. But I chose to attend the dinner less for diplomatic reasons than for the opportunity to talk informally with Extepan, whom I seldom saw these days.
Richard and Xochinenen were also present at the dinner, though not Precious Cloud, whom Extepan announced was suffering from fatigue and confined to her bed. Richard and Xochinenen continued to give every appearance of being happy together, though rumours persisted that the marriage had not been consummated. Over the past year, Xochinenen had grown from being a girl into a young woman. She favoured European dress, had mastered English and remained popular with the British public, as did Richard, whose lack of pomp and circumstance endeared him to everyone.
I bided my time until the dinner was over and we retired for coffee and cognac. It was Extepan who approached me, complimenting me on my dress and saying it had been too long since we had last spoken.
‘I need to talk to you now,’ I said bluntly.
He allowed me to draw him aside so that no one else could overhear.
‘I’m worried about Precious Cloud,’ I told him.
‘Ah,’ he said, staring into his brandy glass. ‘Everyone seems concerned about her these days.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Of course. I know she’s been unhappy. I think the burden of carrying our child has weighed very heavily on her. Her doctors are monitoring her condition very closely.’
‘Doctors can only do so much. She needs help from you most of all. You’ve got to support her, encourage her, make her feel…’ I searched for a suitable word, ‘… cherished.’
He looked at me. ‘Don’t you think I’ve been trying to do these things, Catherine?’
‘She’s lonely,’ I told him. ‘Homesick. She needs reassurance. She needs to see her family. You should try to take her away for a while after the baby’s born.’