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examined his amber. After a long pause he spoke. “You are right, Oquitchli. I had not seen it. My most sincere apologies. I did not intend to sell you inferior goods.” He bowed respectfully to my father, his glance flicking nervously towards the raised platform where the council was gathered. These men had the duty of overseeing the market, ensuring that all was sold in the correct place and at the correct price. Penalties for those caught cheating were high: a dishonest merchant would be shamed, perhaps even stoned, if his crime was great.
    My father chose to believe Popotl’s mistake was genuine. “No matter,” he said. “What else can you show me?”
    More stones were produced, and these my father also gave to me for my inspection. At last we purchased what he needed: nothing so spectacular as the amber, but all gems of fine quality.
    We made our way through the crowds without speaking. Along the canal, over the bridge that spanned it. As we journeyed homewards, my father stopped walking and turned to face me.
    â€œI did not see the fault in the amber,” he said thoughtfully. “Indeed, I did not even know you were right until Popotl confirmed it.”
    I said nothing, but was astonished at my father’s sudden trust in me. I also wondered with some alarm what would have happened if Popotl had not admitted the flaw.
    â€œIt seems your eyes see more than mine these days, Itacate. I think I must make use of them for grading the stones I work with. I would like your help for a short time in the mornings. Will you mind being taken from the kitchen?”
    It was but a small lessening of my domestic burden, yet much discipline, much self-control, it took to prevent myself crying out with joy. I kept my eyes lowered until I could compose my features into a suitable expression.
    â€œNo, Father,” I said humbly. “I shall be happy to aid you however you wish.”
    He nodded, content, and walked onwards. Again I followed, but now my blood thrilled. Sad though I was that my father’s sight had dimmed with age, I felt like a slave who had touched the palace walls and gained freedom. To be invited into my father’s workshop – to have my assistance sought – was like having a new life spread out before me, and the sight of it was glorious.
    My father did not go straight home, but wandered awhile through Tlaltelolco. He had stopped and turned to speak to me once more when I smelt smoke. I was not alone; suddenly everyone in the crowded street looked towards the temple.
    With no warning and no apparent cause, it was violently ablaze. As we watched, wings of flame rushed from the doors of the sacred shrine that topped the pyramid and flared into the sky. For a moment, I was immobilized with shock, but screams of “Bring water!”, “Fill jars!”, “Put it out!” and “The temple must not burn!” brought me to my senses.
    With so many people dousing the fire – it seemed everyone who heard the cries ran to help – surely the building would be saved? A woman came from her house, a jar under each arm. Taking one from her, I filled it from the canal and ran up the steps, throwing my water on the flames. They only seemed to leap higher in response.
    I sped back to the canal. Two, three, four times I scaled those steep steps, and each time the blaze grew stronger. The frantic crowd continued to work, but it was in vain. Although the pyramid streamed with water – my clothes were drenched – the fire would not be put out. At last the throng of people was beaten back by the terrible heat. Stone crumbled like charcoal and with a great crash the temple fell.
    Following that heated roar came a deathlike silence broken only by the sound of blood pounding in my ears. I stared at the smoking ruin, sick with fear at what it might mean.
    For then the crowd began to whisper of what – or who – had caused the gods such offence