‘You two aren’t Mexica,’ I remarked to Huemac in Nahuatl.
‘I’m from Peru,’ the young officer said immediately.
‘Quechua?’
‘Aymara.’
‘And you?’ I asked Huemac.
He had turned away to squint through the window.
‘Apache,’ he replied.
He managed to convey both pride and solidarity in the word. The second Motecuhzoma and his successors as tlatoani had succeeded in uniting the warring tribes of Central Mexico after the Spanish had been repulsed. Later, as the empire extended into the great continental landmasses to the north and south, native peoples from both regions had readily accepted Aztec overlordship in order to repel the European invaders. A true imperial ideal had arisen as a result, and many non-Mexica, like Huemac, adopted Nahuatl names.
The glidecar turned into a tree-lined square which held a statue at its centre. Here the snow was sparse. Ground-cars were parked everywhere.
We drew up outside a small mansion, its colonnaded front painted ochre and white. It was illuminated by arc-lights set in a low hedge. Steps led up to a big front door.
The young officer climbed out and retrieved my travel-bag from the rear compartment. I followed Huemac up the steps. Armed guards flanked the doorway, breath smoking from their noses. The wide door was already open, spilling out warm yellow light. Two more guards and a squat elderly woman in a thick black cardigan stood just inside. The woman kept her eyes lowered as we entered.
Huemac led me through a polished marble hallway into a room crammed with antique furniture and tall bookcases. An open coal fire blazed in a large hearth, and in front of it stood a young Aztec in the buff uniform of a non-combatant officer. His dark hair gleamed with oil.
‘This is Pachtli,’ Huemac said without preamble. ‘Extepan’s adjutant. He can tell you all you need to know.’
My travel-bag was set down just inside the door, and with a nod Huemac dismissed the young officer. He was about to leave himself, but I said, ‘Wait.’
He halted.
I wasn’t sure what I wanted to say to him. ‘What is this place?’
‘Extepan’s headquarters.’
‘I thought he was in the Ukraine.’
‘He has requested you wait here for him,’ Pachtli said, giving a white smile. ‘I also speak English, you see.’
He spoke it with a very broad Mexican accent, lisping his r’s and making ‘English’ sound like ‘Eengleesh’.
‘He knows I’ve arrived?’
‘A message has been sent to him,’ Pachtli said, still smiling. ‘You bring good news?’
‘I bring important news.’
‘Will he have cause for celebration?’
I disliked his persistence. ‘There’s good news and bad. Which I intend to give to him. Where is he?’
Pachtli’s gaze flickered to Huemac. Something told me there was little love lost between them.
‘He knows you’re here,’ the Aztec commander said. ‘He’ll come as soon as possible.’
‘The news I bring is most urgent.’
‘We’re aware of that,’ Huemac said. ‘It seems unlikely you would have undertaken this journey if it weren’t. But military considerations take precedence here. This applies whether you are a footsoldier or a princess.’
I accepted the rebuke, feeling a little shamefaced.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Thank you for bringing me safely here.’
‘You must excuse me,’ Huemac said. ‘My men will be waiting.’
This time I did not attempt to detain him.
‘Your flight was a pleasant one?’ Pachtli asked.
‘Hardly,’ I replied, tugging off my mittens and flinging them on a chair. ‘I came in a troop carrier. The important thing is I’m here.’
‘This is a very pleasant house, comfortable for your stay. The mayor lived here.’
‘Did he?’ I struggled out of my suit. ‘And where is he now?’
‘Dead,’ Pachtli replied, as if it should have been obvious. ‘The battle was hard for this city, but now it is ours.’
‘What’s left of it.’
‘Soon we will march into Moscow.’
‘You sound very confident, given what’s happened in Tsaritsyn.’
He took the snowsuit from me. ‘You’ve heard of that?’
‘Of course I have.’ I wasn’t going to admit that I didn’t know exactly what had happened. ‘Why do you assume I wouldn’t have done?’
‘We have a weapon more mighty than theirs. It will strike down all our enemies, wherever they are.’
‘Indeed?’ I warmed my hands at the fire. ‘And what weapon would that be?’
I glanced at him, and his smile faltered. ‘Ah, but I must not speak of these matters. You will be wanting some food and a warm drink, yes? It is cold, this winter Russia. That is one thing I do not like about it.’
He went out, taking the snowsuit with him.
I dragged an armchair up to the fireside, kicked off my boots and warmed my feet. Coals collapsed in the hearth, and sparks fled up the soot-black chimney.
The heat from the fire was very comforting. I stared around the room, at the lace curtains on the long shuttered windows, the crystal chandelier which hung from the ceiling, the massed ranks of books with indecipherable Cyrillic titles on their spines. Above the mantelpiece hung a reproduction of the famous Dali canvas showing the assassination of the right-wing Prime Minister Dzhugashvili in the Duma in 1939, a key event in modern Russian history which had led to the establishment of the collectivist federation under the progressive patronage of Tsar Nikolai II. Now, fifty years of egalitarian progress were threatened by the Aztec onslaught.
Pachtli returned, carrying a silver tray with a crystal-glass decanter and two short-stemmed glasses.
‘Dinner will be soon,’ he said. ‘But first, something to warm us against the cold, yes?’
He set the tray down on a chessboard table which he then placed in front of the fire. Drawing up an armchair opposite me, he filled the glasses with a brownish liquor, then offered me one.
‘What is it?’
‘French brandy,’ he said, swallowing a large mouthful.
I guessed him to be no more than twenty-five. He was handsome but somehow pampered-looking. He reclined expansively in the armchair, soon draining his glass. I sipped at my drink. I had never much cared for brandy, though tonight its warmth was welcome.
‘How long have you been Extepan’s adjutant?’ I asked.
‘Since he came here to Russia. But we have known one another many years.’
‘Oh?’
‘At the calmecac in Tenochtitlan. Both of us studied there. I served him then, as I do now. He can rely on my loyalty and discretion, absolutely.’ He poured himself another brandy. ‘My father, Apanecatl, he is one of Motecuhzoma’s high councillors.’
The name was unfamiliar, and I knew he was not a member of the tlatocan, the emperor’s inner council. Evidently Pachtli was eager to impress. I was surprised to learn that Extepan had been educated in the calmecac, where traditionally the emphasis was on a religious training, rather than the telpochcalli, where the sons of nobles usually received a thorough grounding in military skills.
‘More brandy?’ Pachtli asked.
I shook my head. ‘I’d like a bath before I eat.’
Without meeting my eyes, he said, ‘I do not think that will be possible.’
‘Not possible?’