The Gardens of New Tenochtitlan

Fiction

The dome of the floating garden shuddered when the wind hit from the north. Inside, the temperature was maintained at a constant, oppressive twenty eight degrees Celsius. Tizoc sat on a low stool of polished cedar. He watched Baron Von Kest. The Baron was draped in a heavy cotton cloak of imperial crimson, a garment unsuitable for the local climate but mandatory for the audience. Around them, the chinampas floated in a basin of heated brackish water. Cacao trees, transplanted from the coasts of the south, struggled in the artificial light. Their leaves were a pale, sickly green. Between them, the bright, violent orange of marigolds bled into the grey mist that clung to the glass ceiling. The server approached. He moved with a measured pace, placing a vessel of frothed chocolate before the Baron. The liquid was bitter, spiced with vanilla and a hint of chili. "Drink," Tizoc said. His voice was dry. Von Kest reached for the vessel. His fingers, pale and calloused from a lifetime of managing cold wheat fields, shook slightly. He did not lift the cup immediately. He waited for the ambassador to nod, a protocol established during the annexation of the Rhine territories. "The tribute from the northern provinces is short," Tizoc noted. He did not look at the Baron; he looked at a cluster of epiphytic orchids clinging to a support beam. "Twelve percent less silver than the previous cycle." Von Kest drank. The heat of the chocolate seemed to clash with the chill still clinging to his skin. "The mines are flooding, Excellency. The winter was longer than the records predicted." Tizoc finally turned. His eyes were obsidian, reflecting the dim light of the dome. "The Empire does not recognize the unpredictability of weather. The Empire recognizes results." Tizoc reached out and plucked a petal from a nearby flower. He let it fall into the Baron's chocolate. The orange petal drifted on the brown foam. "You will find the remaining silver, Baron. Or we will find a governor who can." The silence that followed was filled only by the rhythmic hiss of the steam pipes. Outside, the snow began to fall, blurring the line between the glass and the sky.