Year 11 of the SuaChie Calendar, Texcoco.
The setting sun filtered its orange rays through the cane lattice-work of Nezahualpilli's private chamber, staining the stacked scrolls of Suaza paper upon the polished basalt table with gold.
The tlatoani of Texcoco sat upon a carved wooden dais adorned with motifs of rivers and quetzals, his white mantle embroidered with green threads falling in solemn folds over his shoulders. The air smelled of fresh ink and the faint sweetness of cempasúchil flowers adorning the clay vases, but Nezahualpilli barely noticed.
His fingers, stained black from the writing charcoal, drummed upon the first report, an invisible weight pressing down upon his chest. Several days prior, he had met with Painalli, the Mexica merchant whose relationship with his daughter Chimalatl still troubled him, and together they had conspired in hushed tones about a Texcoco free from the Tenochca shadow.
Now, an invitation sealed with the glyph of Ahuízotl lay open before him: a meeting in Tenochtitlan for the full deployment against Tlaxcala. Texcoco, which had remained aloof with mere supplies and minimal reinforcements, was now required to join completely.
"There are no more excuses," Nezahualpilli thought, a knot of bitterness rising in his throat.
His generals, his principal wife—a Mexica of noble lineage who knew the cruelty of her native people—and he himself fiercely opposed it. They supported sacrifices to the gods using criminals, slaves, or volunteers, as dictated by shared tradition. But indiscriminate massacres... those terrified them.
"What if we are next?" he wondered, recalling his wife's pleas the night before: "My love, Ahuízotl will not stop at Tlaxcala."
He exhaled slowly, unrolling the first report with hands that trembled slightly.
Written on suaza paper—fine, resilient, imported via the FISTC—it was a compilation of their warriors absent from the front, brought by an exhausted messenger. It detailed the first skirmishes on the eastern frontier, where Texcoco and Tlaxcala met like neighboring wounds.
"Initial confusion," he read in a low voice, his tone echoing in the empty chamber.
The Mexica, accustomed to losing only a tenth of their men in swift raids, had broken into Tlaxcalteca villages with their usual ferocity: captures for the Great Temple, minor pillaging. But the reports painted a new chaos.
"Tlaxcalteca warriors armed with suaza bronze spears," the text continued, precise glyphs illustrating gleaming blades piercing padded cotton armor.
Nezahualpilli felt a chill; he envisioned his own men, had they been there, facing edges that did not shatter like traditional obsidian.
"Twenty-five percent of warriors fallen in the first hour," he murmured, the paper crinkling under his fingers.
The confusion had been palpable: Tenochca warriors roaring in panic, retreating with wounds that bled ceaselessly.
"The gods test our alliance," Nezahualpilli thought, a cold sweat beading on his brow. Texcoco had excused itself then with 'harvest preparations,' sending only maize and blankets. But Ahuízotl did not forget.
He moved to the second report, his breathing heavier, the scent of the flowers now suffocating. This one described subsequent operations, cautious as a coyote's prowl.
"Reduction of indiscriminate slaughter," he read, relief and repulsion mixing in his gut.
After the first cruel skirmishes—villages razed, children impaled—the Tlaxcalteca counterattacked with organized fury. Bronze against bronze and obsidian: spears piercing Mexica chests, knives severing sinews. Nezahualpilli closed his eyes, imagining the stench of blood on parched fields, cries swallowed by the wind.
The crucial detail leaped out at him: "Tlaxcalteca selective in reprisals. Did not attack Texcocan border towns. Tlaxcalteca messengers confirmed: 'Nezahualpilli does not stain his hands'."
A knot loosened in his chest; his generals had advised him well, keeping troop deployment minimal.
His wife, tears in her eyes during the family council, had whispered: "They know you are different, my lord. But Ahuízotl... he will drag everyone down."
Nezahualpilli rested his forehead on the table, the cool basalt against his burning skin.
"We have bought time," he reflected, "but at what cost? Our border towns sleep safely, while Tlaxcala bleeds."
The third report reinforced the pattern: measured Mexica advances, avoided ambushes, balanced casualties. But the fourth...
Nezahualpilli took it with fearful reverence, his two sources interwoven like a prophetic codex.
First, the Mexica campaigns on the Tlaxcalteca western frontier: enemy withdrawal, slow advances, villages fortified with suaza mortar.
"Losses: 30% per skirmish," cold glyphs detailing mutilated bodies.
Then, the 'friendly' document from the Suaza—finer paper, sealed with the glyph of a stylized ship. Nezahualpilli unrolled it, his heart racing.
"Approximate locations of confederate attacks," it began, precise maps marking Ocotelolco, Tizatlan, points red as blood.
"Weapons sold to Tlaxcala: 500 bronze spears, 300 knives, 200 reinforced shields. Reduced prices in celebration of the Son of Heaven."
Nezahualpilli felt a dizziness; Chuta, the young 11-year-old leader, extended kindness even in war, though this time it was directed not at the alliance, but at their enemies. Nezahualpilli understood this, as the Suaza had never shown preference for any ally; everything was simple commerce driven by the merchants of their kingdom, and did not count as formal support.
Nevertheless, what truly mattered in this last report, and especially from the Suaza section, was what appeared at the very end.
At the bottom: "We trust you will use this information as you see fit, Tlatoani of Texcoco. Michuá, General of the army of the Floating Islands Sea Special Zone. Month 8 of Year 10 of the SuaChie Calendar, Dawn City."
"Dawn City," Nezahualpilli whispered, the name evoking distant horizons beyond the Sea of the Floating Islands.
His thoughts spiraled like a whirlpool: submit this to Ahuízotl, strengthening the alliance? Or use it to negotiate with Tlaxcala, forging a secret pact?
Painalli had warned him: "The Suaza do not intervene."
But this friendly intervention from the Suaza seemed tinged with a hidden motive.
"Perhaps Chuta wants to see what we will do with this information," Nezahualpilli thought, confused. "This may be some kind of test"
One week later, Tenochtitlan.
The clamor of Tenochtitlan enveloped Nezahualpilli like a living mantle as he crossed the main causeway, exactly one week after receiving the last Suaza report in his Texcocan chamber.
The island city, the throbbing heart of the Triple Alliance, seethed with an energy that made the very air vibrate: merchants shouting offers, distant drums marking the pace of porters, and the acrid smell of ocote smoke mingling with exotic spices.
Nezahualpilli walked with measured steps, his white mantle embroidered with quetzals billowing in the lake wind, escorted by eight Texcocan warriors of stoic mien, and a great number of aides and servants.
Tenochtitlan had always been the largest and most prosperous—a leviathan of canals and chinampas that eclipsed Texcoco—but now, with the Suaza trade, it resembled a market of the entire world.
His eyes scanned the stalls with a mixture of fascination and caution: Tlaxcalteca feathers of various colors competed with Maya cotton soft as clouds; Purépecha jade shone next to bronze ornaments from the very enemies Ahuízotl swore to crush.
"Even in war, commerce binds," Nezahualpilli thought, a knot of irony in his stomach upon seeing Tlaxcalteca vessels full of maize, perhaps stolen from massacred villages.
But what most captured his attention were the Suaza stalls, innovative as ever. They sold not merely raw materials—southern fruits, sea-salt provisions, crafts, or other goods—but complete experiences.
They offered ready-made dishes: tamales wrapped in plantain leaves, filled with wild boar roasted with sweet and sour honey; seafood broths brought from distant islands, steaming in clay pots.
The people, accustomed to buying ingredients and cooking at home, had initially viewed it with suspicion—"Pay for food that is already made? Madness!"—but now queues snaked through the streets.
Nezahualpilli smiled to himself, remembering his first visit to the "Hogar de Za" (House of Za) in Tenochtitlan, more than two years prior. It had been an afternoon of diplomatic reconnaissance: the sweet scent of tamarind and chili had drawn him to a hut adorned with Suaza fishing nets.
He tasted a wild boar roast, juicy and spiced with unknown herbs, which exploded on his palate with bittersweet notes; then, a broth of octopus and conchs, fresh as the ocean itself, served in a fine ceramic bowl.
"They segregated the nobles," he reflected, recalling the private table with cotton cushions and Taíno musicians, versus the simple yet generous rations for the common folk—a tamal and hibiscus water for a handful of cacao. Now, that renown was spreading: nobles paid for lavish banquets, commoners for quick but irresistible bites.
"Chuta teaches prosperity without conquest," Nezahualpilli thought, his pace quickening toward the palace.
But beneath the nostalgia, the burden of the meeting with Ahuízotl weighed on him—the full deployment against Tlaxcala demanded Texcocan warriors, and his excuses were running thin.
Ahuízotl's palace stood like a stone jaguar in the sacred heart, its walls adorned with carved skulls and frescoes of bloody victories. Two priests guided him through hallways scented with copal, to the throne room.
Ahuízotl, tlatoani of Tenochtitlan, nearing 50 years of age, awaited on an elevated dais, his wide face furrowed by war scars, a black mantle embroidered with eagles devouring serpents.
"Brother Nezahualpilli!" he exclaimed, his voice booming like drums, rising for a formal embrace. Nezahualpilli bowed his head, smelling the incense and the sweat of power in the air.
"Tlatoani Ahuízotl, may Huitzilopochtli bless this alliance," he replied, his tone courteous yet measured, seating himself on a low stool.
They exchanged customary courtesies: inquiries about their wives' health, blessings for the gods, a sip of warm pulque served by silent slave women. The sweet liquid burned his throat, reminding him of the reports hidden in his satchel—attack locations, Suaza weapons sold to Tlaxcala.
Ahuízotl reclined, his dark eyes gleaming.
"Let us speak of glory, brother. Our battles against the Tlaxcalteca dogs are legendary." He magnified the results with theatrical gestures: "Hundreds captured for the Great Temple! Villages falling like ripe maize. The alliance advances undefeated!"
Nezahualpilli listened, his face impassive, but he boiled inside. He knew the truth of his reports: 30% casualties, measured advances, massacres that yielded ferocious counterattacks. Tenochtitlan concealed the losses to inflate its pride.
"Glorious achievements, tlatoani," Nezahualpilli said, his voice soft as silk. "Texcoco celebrates your valor. I humbly apologize for our scarce warriors—the harvests demanded hands, and my temples... you shall see."
Ahuízotl looked at him skeptically, eyebrows furrowed, a tense silence hanging like smoke. "Temples?" he finally growled.
Nezahualpilli felt his pulse quicken, noting the suggestive tone—suspicion of treason. "Yes, great Ahuízotl. We plan a secondary temple for Huitzilopochtli, eternal as the stars, and another for Quetzalcóatl, feathered serpent of peace."
He spoke with genuine passion, hands gesticulating.
"My warriors now build, they do not fight—Aztec stone, resilient Suaza mortar! Thanks to my position in the FISTC, I obtained materials and tools. The temple will venerate the gods for millennia, stronger than any war."
The air lightened; Ahuízotl blinked, confusion softening his face. In his mind, he had imagined plots against Tenochtitlan—rumors of palatial expansion in Texcoco for new sons and concubines fueled doubts. But this... this was pure Nezahualpilli: a fanatic for art, poetry, architecture.
"The Suaza are peaceful," Ahuízotl reflected aloud, suspicions evaporating. "Two years without friction. The only issue is that they trade with our enemies."
Ahuízotl nodded, leaning back. "Tell me of this FISTC, then. Ships? Can we procure them?"
Nezahualpilli exhaló his internal relief, pulque soothing his dry throat. "The FISTC—the Floating Islands Sea Trading Company—unites peoples, tlatoani. Principal members: Suaza, but also with Purépecha, Tlaxcalteca, Chichimeca, Mixteca, Maya, and people from distant islands like Taínos and Caribs. Caravans by sea and land, fair barter."
Ahuízotl listened eagerly without interruption, his fingers drumming, as if he were weaving plans.
Nezahualpilli continued: "Ships... as Moctezuma said: small and medium available. Large ones are rare, reserved for their king Chuta. But they are costly—a medium one for a hundred loads of cacao, or the equivalent in jade."
"They may serve us," Ahuízotl murmured.
Nezahualpilli nodded, his mind turning: reveal the Suaza weapons to Tlaxcala? ... Not yet.
Ahuízotl murmured a few things while Nezahualpilli debated whether to use the information gained from this meeting.
"Ships, Nezahualpilli! Imagine using them to carry our troops in fleets across the northern sea; we could attack their rear with our full strength. Tlaxcala would be choked like a fish in a net!" He leaned forward, his black mantle rustling. "Tell me, Tlatoani, do you know a way to bring Suaza artisans here?"
Nezahualpilli felt a knot in his stomach, calculating every word.
"Great Ahuízotl, it is difficult," he replied with a measured tone, the pulque still sweet on his tongue. "Their ports have strict controls—entry and exit of goods, people... they watch like falcons. To spirit away important artisans would be like stealing the sun."
He saw annoyance tighten Ahuízotl's face—furrowed brows, tight lips, ready to rant—and he raised a conciliatory hand.
"But... in their libraries I saw basic blueprints for naval construction. Their workshops... That might serve us."
He paused, noting the spark of interest. "Though this would violate the restriction you and Moctezuma imposed two years ago—nothing regarding the copying of their knowledge."
Ahuízotl snorted, but his eyes lit up. "Bah! That restriction was for trifles. Disregard it for this—naval knowledge for the glory of Huitzilopochtli."
He reclined, satisfied, while Nezahualpilli exhaled his internal relief. The conversation was turning away from the full deployment against Tlaxcala, from his demanded Texcocan warriors; it connected perfectly with the tlatoani's requests.
"In Texcoco, we have learned," Nezahualpilli continued, his voice confident. "We have created large boats: high mast, reinforced cotton sail, capacity for fifty warriors or one hundred loads of maize. A solid base for your plans."
He visualized the Texcocan lake, their prototypes tested in calm waters—the result of Painalli and local artisans.
Ahuízotl straightened, delighted, a wolfish grin curving his lips. "Admirable disposition, brother! Connect me with your artisans—or the key merchant." Nezahualpilli felt his pulse quicken; the time was now.
"Painalli," he said clearly. "A Mexica merchant, established in Texcoco years ago. He has achieved this—Suaza contacts, practical knowledge." Ahuízotl nodded vigorously.
"Excellent! Depart in glory, Nezahualpilli." He stood, embracing him with a powerful, sweat-laced hug. "And... the Great Temple requires expansion. You will oversee it."
"Of course, but it will have to await the culmination of the other two temples." Nezahualpilli nodded and then bowed his head, stepping out into the clamor of Tenochtitlan with a lightened chest—suspicions dispelled, proximity gained.
One week later, Texcoco.
Nezahualpilli's private chamber in his Texcocan palace breathed peace at sunset, golden rays filtering through the cane lattice-work, illuminating suaza scrolls upon the basalt table.
Facing Nezahualpilli, Painalli waited standing, his blue tunic embroidered with Mexica motifs, his young face serene yet alert.
"Tell me of Tenochtitlan," Painalli asked, his voice soft yet direct, seating himself when Nezahualpilli motioned.
The tlatoani exhaled, leaning back into his dais.
"Just as we supposed: full war against Tlaxcala. Ahuízotl dreams of utterly destroying them, even thinking of using the sea for his aims." Painalli nodded, but his eyes widened at the next detail. "He is interested in the Suaza ships. He desires Suaza artisans, and since we could not steal minds from the Suaza Kingdom, I suggested he speak with you, who have succeeded in creating those large boats."
Painalli blinked, surprised and confused, his brow furrowing slightly.
"I... I shall take charge," he murmured, his voice tight.
Nezahualpilli scrutinized him, interpreting the reluctance: Chimalatl, his daughter, the love that bound them.
"You may take Chimalatl with you," he offered, gently. "To accompany you during your stay in Tenochtitlan."
Painalli frowned further, vehemently shaking his head. "Not necessary, tlatoani. I will handle the primary matter—I will appoint a lieutenant to remain there. I will travel frequently if required, but Chimalatl stays here. Her safety is paramount." His eyes shone with protective resolve, his hands clenched in his lap.
Nezahualpilli felt pride swell in his chest—Painalli's care, his foresight, painted a worthy son-in-law.
"The idea of a wedding... it does not seem far-fetched," he thought, warmly.
With this proximity Painalli would have to Ahuízotl thanks to the ships, Painalli would gain power, and justifying the union between the two would be simple, with Mexica nobility approval.
"Well spoken," he replied, his voice paternal. "You make me proud."
Painalli bowed his head, relieved. Then, Nezahualpilli drew the secret report from the cedar chest, unrolling it with reverence. "Michuá, a Suaza General, sent this: Tlaxcalteca locations, weapons sold. What are your thoughts? Why would he send this?"
Painalli read it swiftly, his face hardening.
"I believe this is not support for the alliance, nor does it appear intended to be delivered to Tenochtitlan." He looked up, his eyes piercing. "They seek for you to gain reputation and power in this war."
Nezahualpilli frowned, confused. "¿How?"
Painalli leaned closer, his voice low and precise. "Those numbers... only initial deliveries. The current date, according to the Suaza merchants, is: Month 2, Year 11 SuaChie. They have sold far more to Tlaxcala—spears, shields—since that time."
Nezahualpilli blinked, still lost. "And?"
Painalli looked him directly, gravely. "I believe... the war will be prolonged for years. Perhaps... it will not be resolved."
Nezahualpilli froze, his heart pounding. He visualized eternal bloody fields, Texcoco free amidst the chaos, the Suaza observing from afar.
"Gods," Nezahualpilli whispered, his mind spinning.
Painalli nodded. "You should use it to seize more power in this war, perhaps negotiate peace and win allies."
The chamber filled with heavy silence, the sun sinking, shadows lengthening like uncertain futures.
.
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[A/N: CHAPTER COMPLETED
Hello everyone.
Sorry for the delay, but I have an idea for a novel in mind, and I can't get it out of my head, so I spent many hours just putting together the general framework, since it's actually two novels that take place at the same time.
Back to the novel.
We return to the perspective of Nezahualpilli, the king of Texcoco. He's still in a tense situation with the Mexica, but he manages to escape. By the way, I remind you that Painalli, or Menasuca, as he's known to the Shadows, is a Mexica merchant.
On another note, I don't know if you've asked yourself: Why doesn't Chuta simply support one side and put it in power?
Well, that was never Chuta's goal. In fact, do you know what his goal is?
UFD: The Tlaxcalans were a Nahuatl people from the Central Highlands of Mexico, whose main characteristic was their political organization as a republic of four independent lordships: Tepeticpac, Ocotelulco, Quiahuixtlán, and Tizatlán. This allowed them to resist the expansion of the Mexica Empire.
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Read my other novels.
#The Walking Dead: Vision of the Future (Chapter 86)
#The Walking Dead: Emily's Metamorphosis (Chapter 32) (INTERMITTENT)
#The Walking Dead: Patient 0 - Lyra File (Chapter 11) (INTERMITTENT)
You can find them on my profile.]