By Gary Jennings
During this colourful and intriguing period of swords and cloaks, upheaval and revolution, a tender beggar boy, in whose blood runs that of either Spanish and Aztec royalty needs to declare his birthright. From the torrid streets of the town of the lifeless alongside the Veracruz Coast to the ageless glory of Seville in previous Spain, Cristo the Bastardo connives fights, and loves as he seeks the truth—without figuring out that he'll be the founding father of a proud new people.
As we stick to the loves and adventures of Cristo and adventure the colourful attractiveness and barbarism of the period, a vanished tradition is introduced again to existence in all its beauty.
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Additional resources for Aztec Blood (Aztec, Book 3)
Lanny didn’t know what to say. ” “No,” replied the other. ” “We’d all be happier if we did,” replied Lanny. “I, too, am conscious of weaknesses. During the war he had made money buying magnetos and such things to be sold in Germany. Then he had gone in with Robbie Budd and bought left-over supplies of the American army. Doubtless all kings, underneath their crowns and inside their royal robes, were hesitant and worried mortals, craving affection and tormented by fears of poison and daggers, of demons and gods, or, in these modern times, of financial collapses and revolutions.
Perhaps it was the rain which caused these melancholy thoughts; perhaps the spirits of those tens of thousands of dead Englishmen and Turks; or perhaps of the dogs of Constantinople, which during the war had been gathered up and turned loose on this musical-comedy island to starve and devour one another. The Prophet, born among a nomadic people, had loved the dog and praised it as the guardian of the tent; he had endeavored to protect it, but had not been able to foresee great cities with swarms of starveling curs and a dénouement of cannibalism.
He knew that Johannes had been selling Budd machine guns to Nazi agents, to be used in the open warfare these people carried on with the Communists in the streets of Berlin. Bess might even refuse to let it carry her name. Oi, oi! He was in the position only too familiar to the members of his race through two thousand years of the Diaspora: surrounded by enemies, and having to play them one against another, to placate them by subtle arts. Johannes had risen to power by his shrewdness as a speculator, knowing whom to pay for inside information and how to separate the true from the false.