Chapter 1 — Born to Die

“Before the Earth existed, there were five gods,” her father croaked in his worn voice. He glanced at his daughter as she held her dutiful place in the calmecac, the school for noble children. The other girls watched with jealous eyes. No matter how they remained in the temple as priestesses and worked in diligence their whole lives, they would never hold such an honor as hers.

Cacama, the Tlatoani — the ruler of Texcoco — rose from his lectern and hobbled to his last love. The wars of his youth had left his knee as damaged as his hope.

“Tomantzin,” Cacama said as he presented his daughter to the pupils. “This is my youngest daughter. When the New Fire ceremony begins, she will save our great city of Texcoco from the weak sun and give us another fifty-two years of prosperity.” He reminded them that the gods tolerated the people for fifty-two years in exchange for one of their own. The girls bowed their heads to the ground in reverence for her sacrifice.

When the lesson ended, the girls resumed their duties while Cacama and Tomantzin walked through the palace gardens. Lush greens rolled into cloud-tipped mountains, but at the last turn they slipped through the palace side door. Shadows from the roof erased the sun’s glisten on her long black hair — a symbol of youth and virginity.

At his throne the old ruler eased himself into the stone chair. As Tomantzin drew away, he grasped her hand and drew her close. The shallow ridges of ritual bloodletting scarred his arms. Stroking the ebony cotton that fell from her head, he whispered, “Toma.”

“The gods have blessed you as… they blessed your mother.” He smiled at memories of her mother and brother; a woe lingered in his eyes. Toma thought of the death that had given him peace of mind — how her mother had died a warrior in childbirth, how her brother had only breathed a few times before his soul left the world. With Toma, her father could take pride: she would die as a messenger to the gods, spend four earth years in the Eastern Paradise, then return to Texcoco in the form of a hummingbird to signal the gods’ acceptance.

“When you see your mother in the Eastern Paradise, tell her I never forgot.” His fingers grazed her cheek and pushed her hair from her face.

“Father, you may see her yourself,” Toma said. He cannot go to Mictlan, she thought — he is the Tlatoani, after all.

He shook his head. “No, my daughter. I do not want to stain your innocence.” He placed a soft kiss on her forehead.

Jarring their moment together, the palace doors swung open and messengers spilled through, shadows at their heels. Bowing low, the envoys declared, “Message to Cacama, Tlatoani of Texcoco, from the Huey Tlatoani, Moctezuma of Tenochtitlán.”

Cacama waved them nearer. The old man’s back straightened on the throne. “What does the Huey Tlatoani say?”

The lead messenger steadied himself after the long journey. “The Huey Tlatoani says this: Celebrating Xilonen, goddess of our maize, requires blood to sustain favor in her eyes. Send to the city of Tenochtitlán ten virgin girls as a tribute to Xilonen.”

Toma snorted with her head bowed. Ten daughters? she thought. Why not slave girls or captives? Why must they always come from Texcoco?

“Texcoco follows the Huey Tlatoani, Moctezuma of Tenochtitlán,” Cacama mumbled, waving the messengers away. The palace doors closed, and he dropped his head into his palm. “Ten more of our daughters.” He rubbed his temples; Texcoco was nearly as large as Tenochtitlán, but Tenochtitlán had conquered them and held greater power within the Triple Alliance.

“Sacrifices must always come from the great cities of Texcoco and Tlacopan, never from Tenochtitlán,” the old Tlatoani grumbled, thinking of his brother Ixtlilochitl and the bargain he had made with Moctezuma — a bargain that had secured his throne but placed his family under the Emperor’s shadow.

“Ten more daughters, Toma, and yet he still asks for you, my only daughter, the last of my father’s line,” Cacama said, gazing into her cacao-colored eyes. The sorrowful smile that crossed his face betrayed his devotion and his fear. He could have remarried, borne more children, but after losing his queen and many sons in battle, he kept his heart only for Toma.

A deep voice from the shadows bellowed, “Tlatoani!” Toma stood at the blunt cry, ready to defend her father. Men stepped from the dark — Eagle Warriors, their war-blackened skin and eagle-head helmets, maquahuitl bloodied at their sides.

“Tomantzin, leave us,” her father whispered. She bowed, slipped behind the throne, and watched as two warriors presented themselves. “Great Tlatoani of Texcoco, we come from the Tlatoani of Tlacopan, Chaucomac,” the larger man said, bowing. “We overheard your grievances against the Huey Tlatoani. Chaucomac shares them.”

“Only the day before, the Huey Tlatoani demanded ten of our virgin daughters be sent as sacrifice…” the smaller man continued. They stepped toward the throne, voices rising with urgency — a dangerous treason curling under their words: if they struck together, they could rise against Tenochtitlán.

Cacama held up a hand. “We shall not go up against the city of Tenochtitlán, for we shall fail.”

“We shall fail if we go up each city on its own,” the deep voiced man returned. “But if Texcoco and Tlacopan rise together, we will conquer Tenochtitlán.”

“You speak of treason,” Cacama said at last.

“Then if you are not for us, you are against us,” Chimalli growled, the air of menace tightening like a drum at the edge of war.