It started the same way it always did. A raised voice, a sharp reply, a hand on the hilt of a blade. No one was dead yet, but someone always got hurt.
This time, it was over a woman from Cempoala. She wasn't a noble, nor was she married. That was enough to make her a target.
"She's got the look," one of the younger Mexica said, swirling a clay cup in his hand. "Smart eyes. Clean teeth. You see her weaving yesterday? Should be working for us. Yaoquizque Tequitiliztli needs women who know how to keep their mouths shut."
"She's not yours to decide for," a Tlaxcalan snapped. He was older, face hard, brow already furrowed deep from years of sun and war. "She was dancing by our fire last night."
"She was looking for food."
"She ate our food."
Someone kicked a stool over. The woman, already gone, had known better. But the argument kept going.
"I'll speak to Cuetlachtli," said another Mexica. "If I'm named Calpixque, I'll need her in my house."
"Don't say that shit around us," the Tlaxcalan warned, standing now. "You don't even know if you'll be picked."
The tension wasn't new. It had been building since Tohancapan. Some of the wealth taken there whether it was cacao, copper, clean fabric. Was meant for the Tlaxcalans while the land and to a certain extent the inhabitants, were meant for the Mexica.
Some of the Tlaxcalteca had started taking more than they were told to. A few Mexica didn't stop them. Others demanded it be redistributed. There were no orders yet, no clear line of authority. That made room for men to act like wolves, testing each other's patience.
But now, it wasn't just women or spoils. Now it was drink.
"You watered it down, you bastard!" a tall Huexotzinco barked, slamming his jug down. "I know what I tasted yesterday. That wasn't the same."
"I didn't touch it," the man across from him replied, arms crossed. "You left it by the fire. Maybe it boiled off."
"You think I don't know how heat works? That spirit, what's it called again?"
"Tequila."
"That shit. Ehecatl's recipe. The one they say burns clean and fast? That's what I poured. But this? This is nothing. This is piss in a jar."
Laughter broke out behind them. Someone mimicked pouring from a phantom bottle and staggered like a drunk.
Another voice called out "Wasn't it you who threw up behind the women's quarters last time? Maybe your guts just gave up."
"Fuck you."
Shoving followed. Clay shattered. Men leapt from their seats, ready to grab arms if needed.
The Yaoquizque Tlapixque were already watching. A few had circled closer but hadn't stepped in. Not yet.
"Break it up!" one barked finally. "You want to fight, do it with blades after everything has been accounted for, not before."
The men didn't scatter, but the tension eased enough to hold.
That was the thing no one was saying aloud.
The order hadn't come yet.
No one knew who would be made Calpixque. Not in Cempoala. Not in any of the smaller towns around it. Not even among the older warriors. Everyone had a guess. Some had the right blood, others the right scars. But Cuetlachtli hadn't sent word and named anyone, not yet.
So they waited. And drank.
And fought.
The tequila didn't help. It was stronger than pulque, faster too. Ehecatl's idea, some said. Fermented agave, cooked down and re-brewed through some method distillers had been taught. Now it spread like fire across the ranks. One sip, and your belly warmed. Two, and your tongue loosened. Three, and the gods felt closer than they should.
But no one knew how to stop once they started.
"Say what you will," one of the Cholulan captains muttered that evening, nursing a cut above his eye. "Pulque never made a man stab his own cousin."
"Pulque never tasted like this," someone else replied, already drunk, already smiling.
Arguments were common. Broken jugs were piling up outside campfire circles. One man lost his tooth in a fight over a mountain goat. Another, they said, had nearly drowned trying to piss in the river at night.
And always, the talk circled back to titles.
"If I get named," one Tlaxcalan said, leaning on his spear, "I'm putting a stop to this sharing shit. We earned more than them."
"You're not Mexica," someone said.
"And yet I'm here."
No answer.
…
…
…
The day's sun was long gone. Night settled in, humid and thick. The smoke from the cooking fires clung to clothes, skin, and hair. The laughter softened, but never fully disappeared. Someone sang an old song in a low voice. Another sharpened his blade while listening to the others debate whether the next town would surrender or burn.
Near the edge of camp, a small group of Yaoquizque Tlapixque passed by in silence. One of them paused, watching the men gathered by a jug.
"Third fight this week," he said flatly.
"They'll learn," said his partner.
"And if they don't?"
The man shrugged.
"Then the next shipment of tequila goes to the officers first. Not the rank."
"And if they start fighting?"
A long silence.
Then a dry chuckle.
"Then the Cihuacoatl gets exactly what he wants."
He said nothing more. Just walked off into the dark.
…
…
…
Maxixcatzin had only taken a dozen steps back toward the piles of counted goods when raised voices cut across the square again.
Not shouting yet. But close.
He paused, already knowing the pattern. Same tension. Same rhythm. It had been repeating since the city fell.
Two men stood near the edge of a courtyard where broken pottery still littered the floor. One wore Mexica markings on his forearms, clean lines cut with discipline. The other had the looser posture of a Tlaxcalteca, shoulders squared, jaw set, hands already twitching toward his belt.
Between them stood a young woman, eyes lowered, arms folded tight across her chest. She had not moved since the argument began. That detail did not go unnoticed by Maxixcatzin.
"She came to me first," the Mexica said, voice clipped. "I offered protection and a place to work. Fair terms. Food, safety, no chains."
The Tlaxcalteca scoffed. "You offered paperwork. I offered silver."
"That's not the same."
"No, it's simpler."
The woman shifted her weight slightly. Neither man noticed.
Maxixcatzin exhaled through his nose and walked closer, sandals crunching softly over grit and shattered tile. The two men noticed him at the same time and straightened instinctively.
"My lord," the Mexica said quickly.
"Tlacatecatl," the Tlaxcalteca added, more stiffly.
Maxixcatzin looked at neither of them at first. He glanced instead at the woman. Her face was tired, not fearful, but distant. Like someone who had already learned that men often argued about her without asking her anything.
Then he looked back at the two of them.
"You both sound like men arguing over a pot of stew," he said calmly.
They blinked.
"Hungry. Loud. Convinced the bowl belongs to you because your hands are closer to it."
The Tlaxcalteca frowned. "We are only trying to settle—"
"You're trying to win," Maxixcatzin corrected gently. "There's a difference."
Silence fell. A few nearby soldiers turned their heads to listen without fully staring.
Maxixcatzin crouched and picked up a small shard of broken clay from the ground. He rolled it between his fingers thoughtfully.
"When a river floods," he said, voice even, "the fish do not belong to the loudest fisherman. They belong to the one who understands the current."
Both men stared at him, clearly unsure.
He continued, tone drifting just enough to sound like a proverb rather than a command.
"And when two hands pull at the same rope, the rope does not choose. It simply burns both palms until they let go."
The Mexica opened his mouth, then stopped. The Tlaxcalteca scratched the side of his jaw, eyes narrowing in thought.
Maxixcatzin let the words sit. Didn't clarify. Didn't explain. He stood back up slowly.
"Figure out which of you is pulling," he said lightly. "Then decide whether the rope is worth the skin."
He stepped away before either of them could respond.
Behind him, the two men remained silent. Not resolved. But quiet. Thinking.
That was enough for now.
Maxixcatzin returned to the stacks of tribute with a faint shake of his head. Women, houses, drink, status. The same arguments wearing different faces every day. He was tired of it. Not angry. Just worn thin by the repetition.
He honestly hoped that half assed words would make the two idiots ponder long enough to forget about the woman, and hopefully they come up to their own respective conclusion to what he said, because he doesn't know what the fuck he was saying. He just hoped it sounded wise enough to make them both respectfully fuck off.
He knelt again beside the ledger stones, brushing dust from the symbols with two fingers.
This part at least made sense.
Numbers did not argue. Goods did not lie. Weight was weight. Count was count.
A copper bracelet meant exactly one copper bracelet. A sack of maize was either full or it wasn't. Loot could be tallied. Tribute could be divided. Roads could be measured. Messages could be sent.
People were messier.
He adjusted the arrangement of three small crates, aligning them more precisely with the rest. A runner nearby took note and mirrored the correction on the opposite row.
"Add the salt jars from the northern storehouse," Maxixcatzin said quietly. "They weren't counted yet."
"Yes, lord."
He watched the man jog off, then looked once more toward the courtyard. The two men had moved apart. The woman was gone.
Good.
Maxixcatzin returned his attention to the work.
There was still too much to organize. Too much to send. Too much to secure.
And unlike arguments, this part actually mattered.
Maxixcatzin stood beneath the shade of a leaning tamarind tree, hands on his hips, watching his men stack crates and sacks in neat rows. The sun beat down heavy, but the work continued without pause. One of the younger warriors wiped his forehead, grinning as he heaved another bundle of dyed cotton onto the pile.
"Cihuatlampa alone gave us seven crates," he said, chest puffed out. "That town bled gold and didn't even know it."
Maxixcatzin nodded, barely smiling. He was counting in his head, then again on his fingers. Copper rings, jade trinkets, dyed cloth, smoked fish packed in sealed jars, cacao, chili, salt, tools, fine pottery, deer hides, chickens, maize. Real tribute. Real trade goods. It wasn't some hollow promise or ceremonial gift. It was loot, taxed and tallied, and finally theirs.
For the first time since he was a boy, he felt like they weren't just surviving.
"Bring over the list again," he said, and a scribe hurried forward with a folded bark-sheet record. Maxixcatzin unrolled it slowly, eyes scanning the crude glyphs that stood for each altepetl his men had passed through. Some of those towns had surrendered without a fight. Others had to be starved or broken. The ones that resisted had paid more.
By now, ten percent had already been pulled from every pile, just like Ehecatl's orders said. The Mexica took their turn of the agreement, silent and methodical. No complaints, no delay. That alone told him more than words ever could.
They were sticking to the deal.
He never thought he'd see the day.
Behind him, a group of elder Tlaxcalteca were seated under a cloth canopy, sipping from gourds and watching the final counts. One of them, Tlalnahuac, was fingering a polished obsidian dagger with a look of satisfaction.
"We were starving five years ago," he muttered. "Now look at this. Enough food, enough copper, enough salt to last two winters if we ration."
"More if we trade smart," another added. "The lowlands always need salt."
Maxixcatzin half-listened. His mind was already moving ahead.
He turned to the man with the records. "You have the full amount from Cuetlachtli's front?"
"Yes, lord. And from Cuauhtémoc's too. Totals are combined here." He tapped a long line of symbols at the bottom.
Maxixcatzin knelt, brushing the dirt away from a small ledger stone beside him. He began scratching a new line of marks with the edge of a broken blade, doing the math himself. His own men had hauled in enough that, even after giving up the mandatory tithe, he could still claim his twenty percent of the tax pool.
It wasn't just fair. It was generous. The Mexica didn't have to give him a cut of what they skimmed off the top. But Ehecatl had sent word weeks ago, confirming it: Maxixcatzin was owed twenty percent of all front-line taxes collected. A proper cut. Not for show. Not symbolic.
That changed everything.
He rose to his feet, dusted his hands off, and nodded to his aide. "Get the runners ready. We're sending this batch home. North and east."
"To Tlaxcala?"
"To all four capitals. Send a full chest to each. I want the nobles to open them in front of the people."
The aide blinked. "All four?"
"All four," Maxixcatzin repeated. "This isn't just for the rulers. This is proof. Let them see it. Let the old women see it. Let the boys see it. Let the scribes write it down."
He looked back at the rows of goods and men. Some still carried bandages beneath their armor. Others had burns, bruises, bits of Castilian steel tied around their necks like trophies. These weren't just warriors. They were messengers.
"For years we've been told we were encircled," he said quietly. "That we were surrounded. Sanctioned. Cut off. That if we didn't bend the knee to the triple alliance, we'd never trade again. No salt. No copper. No future."
He looked east, toward the hills.
"Well, now the alliance kneels with us. And we trade as equals."
Someone chuckled softly behind him. "Or better than equals."
Maxixcatzin didn't answer. He was already walking toward the carts being loaded. The crates were sealed tight, marked with red ochre and twisted cords. Inside, each box was packed with care: enough copper to buy goodwill, enough cotton to clothe dozens, enough food to remind everyone that this war wasn't just blood and fire.
It was wealth. Real, earned, and delivered.
By the time he reached the road, one of the scouts rode up with news.
"Report from the south. More Castilians in hiding. Xicomecoatl's people too."
Maxixcatzin waved the man off.
"Good. Let Cuetlachtli deal with it. Our part's done."
He watched the first mule cart start its crawl northward, wheels creaking, hooves kicking up dust.
The road back to Tlaxcala wasn't short. But it would carry something the east hadn't seen in a long, long time.
Prosperity.