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Jessie Mason lives with her nose in the pages of history. But she is discovering that the past is a dangerous place where she doesn't belong, and knowledge alone is not going to save her.
Jessie’s life has become a series of terrible challenges. Now she must lead her friends in the hopeless task Grandfather set them: hunt down and destroy the Time Stones. But her leadership has already failed. Tip has left them and Abe has simply disappeared, while she and Kes are trapped in the heart of an ancient empire in turmoil.
Thrust into a fractured, threatened Mexica nobility, Jessie is immersed in a way of life, fascinating and disturbing in equal measure, yet powerless before the approaching Conquistadors and the impending clash of cultures.
Even as the fabulous city of Tenochtitlan descends into savage violence, Jessie’s determination to succeed is undiminished. But with world history taking a new, bloody direction before her, she is finally forced to decide which is more important: continuing the task or simply surviving.
Excerpt
Advancing slowly along the avenue was a procession of splendour and colour. Barefooted, in a bright red cloak and tunic, a man walked at its head, holding a golden staff in his outstretched arm. Following him were a dozen drab road sweepers. Jessie chuckled quietly. It didn’t seem to register that the dust and dirt they were sweeping, ended up in the faces of the kneeling crowd, who evidently weren’t allowed to move or protest. The street sweepers moved along, but Jessie’s attention had already been grabbed by what followed. She stared, enthralled, at the starburst headdresses of gold, flamboyant cloaks and tunics with dazzling feather work and animal furs. There was more gold: the greaves on their shins, armlets and bracelets, labrets in their lips, nose and ear rings. The lords, the princes, the kings of the empire, blinked yellow gold and they walked barefoot, in two silent, dignified columns, with their emperor Moctezuma between them. He sat upon a litter of silver and gold, studded with precious stones, and decorated with flowers. Four bearers, one on each corner, great nobles in their finest clothes and jewels, bore the emperor and his throne upon their shoulders. But all Jessie could see of the great man were his golden sandals and bare shins. A shimmering canopy of feathers shielded him from the sun, like one huge wing of the most fabulous bird. The litter swayed gently in time to the steps of the bearers, and the feathers gleamed green, gold and blue, outshining the manufactured decoration of the nobles.
The procession passed, the onlookers got to their feet and whispering voices steadily grew in volume.
“Look,” Jessie pointed to the lake, where an armada of canoes jostled for space along the causeway.
The leading conquistadors, four armoured horsemen, with banners on their lances, were almost at the end of the causeway. The two groups closed on each other until stately Mexica royalty and hardened Spanish adventurers finally came face to face on the edge of the island. It was still too far and too crowded to see anything of the meeting from the rooftop. Jessie drummed her fingers on the wall impatiently. She guessed there were words of welcome, perhaps gifts to be exchanged. Eventually, after what felt like an interminable time for pleasantries, the emperor’s litter rose again, turned, and with the two columns of nobles reformed, began its return journey. The crowd knelt once again. But Moctezuma’s passing wasn’t greeted by the silence it had commanded earlier. A low whisper continued and bowed heads turned to view the strange sights which followed.
Large, powerful dogs led the Spanish into Tenochtitlan. They crossed and re-crossed the street, investigating the unfamiliar scents. One barked, another growled, and the startled spectators edged back as far as the surrounding throng allowed.
Horseshoes rang sharp and loud, on the flagstones.
“What are they?” Tonauac whispered fearfully at her shoulder, hands over his ears.
The armour-clad horses were nervous with the tightly packed crowds on both sides. Their flanks were flecked with sweat and more than one snapped and snorted at the alarmed Mexicans.
“Those are horses,” Jessie replied.
The conquistadors had to fight to control their mounts, which they did with calm, confident authority. Jessie remembered Tip describing her first experience of horses. She appreciated how terrifying they must seem, and how astonished they would be to see the horses controlled so skilfully. Perhaps, she thought, command over these fearsome beasts was precisely the impression the Spanish wished to convey.
A single standard bearer followed. He swung the standard to the left and right, so the large white cloth snapped loudly open, before he launched it high and caught it cleanly when it fell back. He tossed it from left hand to right hand, and back again, and each time, the banner unfurled to display the large red cross of St James above an appreciative audience.
In steel helmets, shining breast plates, and drawn swords, a company of foot soldiers followed the banner. They marched eight abreast, crowding the avenue from one side to the other. Jessie saw scrapes and dents in their cuirass chest armour, repaired clothing still stained with the blood of battle, and bandages covering healing wounds. Unkempt hair and scruffy beards couldn’t hide their gaunt faces. But their eyes were clear, fixed and determined. They were rough, experienced fighters, and the silence which descended as they passed suggested the crowded spectators recognized the nature of these unwelcome visitors.
“What is this they wear?” Tonauac whispered. “It shines like silver.”
“Steel,” Jessie answered. “Much harder and sharper than silver.”
Another squadron of horses clattered past with jingling harness. The riders had steel helmets but dressed in simple shirts and jerkins of padded cotton. Each carried a long, steel tipped lance. Then came the last of the infantry, with crossbows, swords and muskets. Jessie noticed the conquistadors ignored the crowd who had come out to see them. She’d not seen any wave, not one gesture of greeting. Their attention was instead fixed on the buildings, the side streets and the canals: wary and on their guard.
A final group of horsemen brought up the rear. Alone, at the head, was a rider Jessie knew, beyond doubt, was Malinche: Hernan Cortés. It wasn’t the gold chain and medal which hung round his neck, or the gold tracing which decorated his armour, or that his horse’s steel skirts were more brightly polished. He was unremarkable in appearance, medium brown hair, minimal red-tinged beard and average height. It was the smile he wore, a smile of satisfaction, of success, which he bestowed upon the crowd with friendly confidence. Cortés engaged with the crowds as none of the others had. He was a leader, and he had accomplished his goal.
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