Free Age of Aztec by James Lovegrove Page A

special contempt, perhaps because we were so civilised and they were not. Where they knew only aggression, we knew peace. Where they had their god-given technology, we had astronomy, sciences, art, all of which we had devised on our own. Where they had a single supreme ruler, we had a system of sovereign city states that worked collectively for the good of the nation as a whole. They loathed us for being all they could never be, and we paid for their envy by being abused like dogs and butchered like cattle.”
    “Conquest is never pretty. You want to compare sob stories? How about Southampton, eh?”
    “One city destroyed is hardly the equivalent of an entire race nearly wiped out.”
    “The Aztecs flattened the place with fusion warheads. Well, the French navy did, on their behalf. I visited there once, sort of a pilgrimage. It’s marshland now, all the way to the sea. A few bits of building left standing, covered in moss. The spire of an old church. And no graves. Thousands upon thousands killed, all in a single day, and not a single headstone to mark it, because there were no bodies to be buried. They’d all been incinerated.”
    “I see the outrage in your eyes, hear it in your voice. Southampton happened long before you were born, yet you feel considerable anger about it. You must understand it’s the same for us. The injury on the Maya was inflicted longer ago, but it was terrible, and we have not recovered.”
    “We both hate the Empire, then. We have that in common.”
    “We do. And we, my men and I, have been doing our bit to let the Aztecs at home know that their act of near-genocide has been neither forgotten nor forgiven.”
    “So you’re, what, a local guerrilla faction?” said Stuart.
    “Precisely.”
    “I’ve heard the rumours. Rebels in the rainforest, carrying out hit-and-run raids on Empire targets. That’s you?”
    “We’re one of several loosely affiliated Mayan groups who’ve made it their mission to harry the Aztecs in Anahuac – sabotaging installations, killing dignitaries, and so forth. It’s a thankless task. There are very few real Maya left. Most of the inhabitants of the Yucatan are so homogenised, so downtrodden, so under the yoke, that they regard us as traitors. Everybody around us scorns us and would rather we were dead. Yet we fight on, in the name of our distant ancestors, exacting revenge for their deaths and seeking to re-establish an independent Mayan state.”
    “And of course the Empire reciprocates.”
    “Violently, which doesn’t aid our cause one bit. The retaliation for our attacks is always wildly disproportionate. Ten civilians are killed for every one Aztec official we execute. Whole villages are razed to the ground on suspicion of harbouring rebels. People are tortured horribly if it’s believed they’re withholding information that could lead to our capture.” Chel raised his hands and let them drop into his lap. His eyes had lost some of their amiable twinkle. “It’s awful. I feel guilt for the deaths of these innocents as if I personally have slain each and every one of them. Yet we must soldier on, because our motives are good, our goal a noble one.”
    “This is all very fascinating,” Stuart said, “but...”
    “But how does it relate to you? We in Xibalba have been following the Conquistador’s activities for a while, Mr Reston. Following them closely.”
    “Xibalba?”
    “My group’s name. Taken from the Mayan word for the underworld, the land of the dead. We consider ourselves as belonging there. Our skull makeup is disguise, like your mask and armour, and is intended to unnerve and intimidate our enemies. But it also symbolises our creed. We are, we believe, as good as dead. Every raid we embark on could be our last. Each of us isn’t simply prepared to lay down his life, he has in effect done so in advance. ‘Only by dying do you leave leave Xibalba.’ That is our motto. We are committed to the hilt. We fight, liberated from