The pulquería by one of the city markets. A place where joy, laughter, and gossip mingled with good food and drink. Around one of the tables sat a group of warriors. Muscled and scarred, they enjoyed their day of rest. Service to the gods and the community was hard. They had earned a cup—or perhaps several—of pulque, along with roasted sweet potatoes and grilled fruit.
In the corner, musicians played cheerful melodies on flutes and drums. Each note seemed to invite merriment.
But what drew the warriors' greatest attention was a young acolyte of Tlazolteotl. She wore a thin, scanty garment, with flowers woven into her hair. The men began to wonder what the servant of the goddess of desire hid beneath that sheer clothing. Her full lips, as if made for kissing, only stoked the fire of their imaginations. They would gladly scatter cacao beans to taste such a juicy fruit.
The decision was made—they would woo the acolyte as soon as their companion arrived. Sipping pulque to the rhythm of the music, they sent her flirtatious glances. She returned their looks with playful smiles. Their minds filled with thoughts of what they might do with her—perhaps even all at once.
At last, their companion arrived, though his face was grim.
"At last—what kept you so long?"
"You won't believe what I just heard."
Every ear in the pulquería strained. A new rumor had entered the hall, ready to spread through the city.
"For the festival of Xochi Huetzi, they have chosen the offering for Xochipilli. Tonight will be the official presentation. From what I know, it's someone young."
"You mean a young warrior?"
"He's worn the jaguar skin more than once—but now the jaguar has carried him away."
The hall erupted with laughter. Though they felt a twinge of pity for the unknown warrior, they saw no reason to hold back. The warrior's path offered prestige, status, and wealth—if one brought back captives. But it also bore risks. Every warrior knew he might one day be captured and offered in sacrifice. It was part of the bargain.
"May the techcatl be soft for him."
But their companion did not share their amusement.
"It's not funny. The offering is a young musician. With his hair still in a warrior's lock."
One of the warriors spat out his pulque, while many others turned toward him in disbelief.
"Nonsense."
"Don't joke about that."
For them, the bond between warriors and sacrifice was self-evident. Warriors brought captives to the altar—or ended up on it themselves. Such was their duty. But a musician? A boy with an unshorn lock?
It was beyond imagination. Dying on the altar was the burden of warriors. They died not only to sustain the world, but so others might live and rejoice.
"I wish it weren't so, but I heard it from a friend in the palace guard. Apparently it has to do with a vision of the high priest."
The warriors grew solemn. They remembered their own youth, the locks streaming from the backs of their heads, their dreams of glory, the risks they had faced. They remembered imagining themselves bringing many captives, felling jaguars with a single hand, becoming heroes spoken of in legend. Life had tempered those dreams, yet still they walked the warrior's path—bound by brotherhood, responsibility for their companions, for their captives, for their community.
Every man should know such things. To be denied it… was painful. Wrong. Hard to name.
But the vision of a high priest was not open to dispute. No mortal had the right to question the words of the gods—least of all warriors, who were to be the first to shed blood for them.
Somehow the pulque no longer brought cheer, tasting no different from water. Even the acolyte of Tlazolteotl now seemed an ordinary girl, like any they might pass in the marketplace without a second glance.
"When did you say the presentation was?"
"Tonight."
"Then let's go."
The courtyard of a local weaving house in a quieter part of the city. Women sat at their looms, weaving cloth. Older women taught the younger girls how to weave tight, strong patterns. They had much to finish today—cloth from agave fibers.
Work went smoothly, save for one absence: a young girl was late. Two elder weavers muttered over their looms.
"Where could she be?"
"Young people are always chasing after something and forgetting the whole world."
The older woman frowned. Work was heavy. One missing pair of hands meant the rest had to strain harder to meet the day's tasks.
"Remember when we were young? You were late once too—when you met your future husband."
"Ah yes… that was a wonderful day."
True. They had been young once as well. Youth made mistakes, but age was no excuse.
At that moment, the missing girl ran in, breathless.
"Look who finally came. Well, young lady, where have you been?"
"I'm sorry, mistress. I got caught up talking."
"And what was so important to talk about?"
The girl looked the elder straight in the eye.
"I heard news about the preparations for Xochi Huetzi."
The women fell thoughtful. It was indeed an important festival—for them, it meant much work, and also opportunity.
"Tell us what you heard."
"Tonight is the presentation of the offering to Xochipilli. They say it's a young musician."
The girls all stopped their weaving at once. An elder asked, astonished:
"Are you certain? A musician, not a warrior?"
The girl nodded. The younger weavers were instantly intrigued.
"What does he look like?"
"Is he handsome?"
"How does he play?"
The older women gave them pitying looks. Of course—at that age, girls thought more of romance than lofty matters.
Still, it was unusual. The elders remembered watching the presentations of young warriors. It had always been solemn… and often a sight worth remembering. One woman recalled vividly a certain warrior—young and handsome, standing proud and tall, but with sadness in his eyes. To her, he had seemed achingly beautiful.
"Well then, girls, back to your looms. If we finish quickly enough, we'll go to the presentation. Let the youth feel the support of the community. Besides, there's always something to see at such occasions."
The girls eagerly bent back to their weaving, hands moving faster. To them, it was an exciting prospect. Each imagined her own vision of the boy and his music. They whispered about how he might look, what he might play.
The elder women, however, thought only of compassion for the poor youth soon to lose his life.
The temazcal in the noble quarter. A place where the secrets of the body were veiled only by fleeting clouds of steam.
A group of noble-born women exchanged gossip.
"You won't believe what happened today. My husband was suddenly summoned to the palace."
"Something important?"
For noble ladies, gossip was more than amusement—it was a weapon. Only Tezcatlipoca himself might guess what a small scrap of news could lead to.
"Preparations for the presentation of the offering to Xochipilli during Xochi Huetzi."
"A warrior?"
"No—a musician. But that's not the most interesting part."
"Oh?"
"It's how the great servant of Huehuecoyotl behaved."
Many women grimaced.
"What now?"
The priest's eccentricity was well-known, and it earned him no respect. He was widely considered a madman, a fool.
"And that's just it. Nothing. He behaved like a normal man—even like a sage."
The women burst into laughter.
"Oh, don't be ridiculous."
"Tell us what really happened."
"But it's true. They say the young musician brought by the great servant of Xochipilli played so beautifully that the 'mad coyote' himself acted with dignity—and the rest of the council went mad."
The women stared in disbelief. It seemed impossible.
"You said the great servant of Xochipilli brought him? I was at the temple recently and saw the high priest. He always had that young musician at his side, along with four acolytes. I heard his music once—it was truly wonderful. It made me want to dance."
The women grew excited.
"Is he handsome? The youth with the high priest?"
"More charming than handsome."
Then one spoke up.
"That reminds me—my sister is a priestess of Tlazolteotl. She told me four acolytes once came to her, seeking a blessing for their plan to seduce a young musician from Xochipilli's temple."
The women looked at one another.
"Do you think it's the same boy?"
One lady leaned forward.
"Poor child."
Death on the altar was an honor, yet still it seemed a waste to extinguish such young, bright life.
"Poor girls. Their hearts will break."
"May the gods help them endure the pain."
The women grew solemn. Meanwhile, the heat began to drive them out of the temazcal.
"We must go to the presentation."
The marketplace. Merchants cried their wares, swearing such bargains could be found only at their stalls. People bustled about, seeking the best deals. Corn gleamed golden in baskets; woven cloth, clay vessels, and amulets lined the stalls. Musicians sat at the edges, playing for stray cacao beans.
Along the wall walked a man, rolling a cacao bean in his hand. He had been away from the city for over half a veintena. Now he longed to drink and eat in his favorite place—and to hear his favorite flutist. Nothing cheered the heart like lively music.
But he could not find him. He asked a nearby drummer.
"Have you seen Tlacotzin the flutist?"
"No, lord. I haven't seen him in some time."
A youth with an ocarina joined in.
"And you probably won't. He found work as an assistant in Xochipilli's temple."
The man sighed sadly. He pulled two more beans from his pouch and gave one each to the musicians, asking them to play.
They struck up a cheerful tune, congratulating their colleague's success.
"You know, Tlacotzin is swarmed by acolytes now. They're practically throwing themselves at his maxtlatl."
"You jest."
The drummer quickened his beat.
"No joke. I saw it myself. He was in the garden, and four acolytes were flirting with him."
Another musician let out a sour note in surprise.
"Lucky bastard. Why won't at least one girl notice us?"
"Don't be jealous. He earned it—especially after what he went through last year."
"You mean the business with Texoci?"
The man frowned.
"What about him?"
The musician grew grim.
"He tried to extort higher rent from Tlacotzin after stealing his family keepsake."
The man clenched his fists in anger.
"The fool had to give it back in front of the great servant of Xochipilli. It wasn't long before he and his cronies were offered to Tezcatlipoca."
Laughter erupted around them. If that wasn't divine justice, what was?
Another passerby joined in.
"Interesting story—but I heard something else. Tonight is the presentation of the offering to Xochipilli at Xochi Huetzi. They're already decorating the route from the palace to the temple."
"A warrior?"
"No. From what I heard—a young musician."
The crowd swallowed hard.
"You think it's Tlacotzin?"
They looked at one another. Tlacotzin was a marvelous musician. Someone like him could draw the notice of Xochipilli—and he had no family to stop him. But none wanted to imagine such a fate. At last someone said:
"We must go to the presentation. There we'll learn the truth."
And all agreed.
Before the palace and the temple of Xochipilli, work bustled. Acolytes and workers hung garlands of flowers from houses and across streets. Elite warriors in eagle and jaguar garb took their positions. Sacred musicians lined the path. The platform before the royal palace was transformed into a garden.
Crowds gathered. People of all classes came to see the one to be offered to the gods. The hum of gossip buzzed like a hive. The air itself was heavy with solemn expectation.
But one among them found the crowd terrifying.
Tlacotzin clung to the edge of a palace window, peering down at the square.
"This is impossible."
He looked like a frightened rabbit, hiding in its burrow from a predator.
"There can't be this many people for the presentation. I know—there must be a festival. Yes, before the presentation there's a festival."
He could not believe so many had come to see him. After all, he was only a temple helper, a street flutist. The festival he imagined was the perfect explanation.
"A festival. Yes, today's a festival. Too bad I can't play—I'd earn enough to cover rent for three veintenas."
Fear clouded his mind. He forgot that he hadn't played in the market for a long time, nor rented a room.
"Girls—what's this festival for?"
Meya, Nenetzi, Xilonen, and Izel stood behind him, heads bowed. They did not know what to say. They themselves were on the verge of despair, yet they held back their tears. They would not burden their beloved with more grief.
Cuathli had sought another way—but none existed. Itzcoatl had tried to change fate—without success. Even the king, guardian of cosmic order and highest servant of the gods, could not help. He had chosen as a ruler must: the good of the community.
What could four young acolytes do?
Meya could prepare the most delicious dishes the mortal world knew—but they would not satisfy the gods.
Nenetzi, with the finest cloths in existence, could not weave anything worthy.
No matter how beautiful and sensual Xilonen's dances, the gods would scarcely notice.
Izel was the most stricken of all. All her years of study told her the truth: a heart could only be replaced with another heart.
Each of them thought the same: she would gladly give her own heart to Xochipilli, if it meant the other three could remain with Tlacotzin. But it was futile. They could sing, play, and dance—but they could not rival Tlacotzin's music. And it was not they whom Xochipilli had chosen. No omens, no visions spoke of them.
Everything pointed to Tlacotzin—the young flutist they loved and had given themselves to. They remembered Tlahcoatl's warning that loving him would bring pain. Yet they had no regrets. They cherished every moment spent together. Wonderful moments—but soon to be taken away.
At that moment Cuathli entered. The girls looked at him. Their eyes held no reproach, only the silent question: What do we do now? How do we live after such a loss?
Cuathli embraced them gently, seeing the tears brimming in their eyes.
"Do not cry, girls. I know it is hard, but you must show him your support."
It was hard for him too. He did not know how to bear the pain himself. But he had to go on.
He laid a hand on Tlacotzin's shoulder and knelt beside him.
"Great servant of Xochipilli, what is this festival for? Surely this many people could not have come only to see me."
"Tlacotzin—there is no festival. Believe me, they all came for you. Their reasons may differ, their feelings too—but all came to show you support."
Tlacotzin said nothing. He gripped the windowsill and slowly rose. After a moment he stood upright. Still uneasy, still staring at the crowd, but no longer trembling. He hunched slightly, ashamed of his earlier display.
"I'm sorry."
Cuathli placed a hand on his shoulder.
"There is no need to apologize."
Then, from behind them, came a dry, official voice.
"Forgive me, great servant of Xochipilli and chosen one, but we must begin preparations."
A lower dignitary entered with attendants. They set up screens, dividing the chamber in two. Then they dressed Tlacotzin.
The youth flushed red, unaccustomed to being clothed by others. Soon he was arrayed: a white maxtlatl, a white cloak, his mother's amulet, sandals. On his face a red band across the eyes, three red stripes upon his chin. Over his chest, at the heart, a crimson line like flowing blood.
They anointed him with flower oils, and he was ready.
When he stepped out from behind the screens, he saw the acolytes. The girls wore simple white dresses bound with red sashes. On their feet, plain agave sandals. Their faces bore red markings: vertical lines running down from the eyes, horizontal lines above the brows. Each wore a simple necklace of floral symbols. In their hair were woven marigolds, hibiscus, and orchids.
Despite their plain attire, they seemed to him achingly beautiful. He longed to tell them everything would be as before. But he knew it would not. His days were numbered.
Now he had to face the crowd.