Aztec

by Gary Jennings

  But then some one of the boys, I forget who, discovered the solitary act. He was not shy or selfish about his discovery, and immediately demonstrated the art to the rest of us. From then on, the boys no longer carried beans when they went on guard; they had their games equipment attached. For that is all it amounted to: a game. We held contests and made wagers on the amount of omícetl we could ejaculate, the number of times we could do it in succession, and the time needed in between for resurgence. It was like our even younger days, when we had competed to see who could spit or urinate farthest or most copiously. But in this new competition I was at hazard.

  You see, I often came to the games not long out of the embrace of Tzitzi and, as you can imagine, my reservoir of omícetl was pretty well drained, not to mention my capacity for arousal. Hence my ejaculations were but few and feeble dribbles compared with the other boys’, and often I could not get my tepúli erect at all. For a time, my comrades hooted and made fun of me, but then they began to regard me with worried and even pitying looks. Some of the more compassionate boys suggested remedies to me—eating raw meat, sweating long in the steam house, things like that. My two best friends, Chimáli and Tlatli, had discovered that they achieved vastly more thrilling sensations when each manipulated the other’s tepúli rather than his own. So they suggested

  Filth? Obscenity? It lacerates your ears to hear me? I am sorry if I distress Your Excellency—and you, my lord scribes—but I do not relate these events out of idle prurience. They all have a bearing on less trivial events which came later, and which came as a result of all this. If you will hear me out?

  Eventually some of the older boys got the idea of putting their tepúltin where they belonged. A few of our comrades, including Pactli, the governor’s son, went scouting in the village nearest our school. There they found and drafted into service a slave woman of twenty-some years, maybe even thirty. Rather fittingly, her name was Tetéo-Temacáliz, meaning Gift of the Gods. At any rate, she was a gift to the guard posts, which thereafter she visited almost daily.

  Pactli had the authority to command her to that attendance, but I do not believe she had to be commanded. For she proved a willing, even vigorous participant in the sexual games. Ayya, I suppose the poor slut had reason. She had a comical bulge on her nose, and she was dumpily built, with great doughy thighs, and I imagine she had not much hope of marriage even to a man of her own tlacótli class. So she took to her new avocation of road straddler with lewd abandon.

  As I have said, there might be six or eight boys camping afield at the guard posts on any given evening. When Gift of the Gods had serviced each of that number, the first would be ready for another turn, and the round would begin again. I am sure the lascivious Gift of the Gods could have gone on all night. But after a while of that activity she would get full of omícetl, slimy and slippery, and begin to give off the odor of an unhealthy fish, so the boys would stop of their own accord and send her home.

  But she would be there again, the next afternoon, stripped naked, splayed wide open, and panting to commence. I had taken no part in those doings, had done no more than watch, until one evening, when Pactli finished using Gift of the Gods, he whispered something to her, and she came to where I sat.

  “You are Mole,” she said, leering. “And Pactzin tells me you have a difficulty.” She made movements of temptation, her loose-lipped tipíli directly in front of my burning face. “Perhaps your spear would welcome being held in me and not in your fist for a change.” I mumbled that I was not in any need of her at the moment, but I could not protest too much, with six or seven of my comrades standing about and grinning at my discomfiture.

  “Ayyo!“ she exclaimed, when with her hands she lifted my mantle and undid my loincloth. “Yours is a choice one, young Mole!” She bounced it in her palm. “Even unawakened, it is grander than the tepúli of any of the older boys. Even that of the noble Pactzin.” My surrounding fellows laughed and nudged each other. I did not look up at the Lord Red Heron’s son, but I knew that Gift of the Gods had just earned for me an enemy.

  “Surely,” she said, “a gracious macehuáli will not deny pleasure to a humble tlacótli. Let me arm my warrior with a weapon.” She took my member between her big flabby breasts, squeezed them together with one arm and began to massage me with them. Nothing happened. Then she did other things to me, attentions with which she had not favored even Pactli. He turned, thunder-faced, and stalked away from us. Still nothing happened, although she even …

  Yes, yes, I hasten to conclude this episode.

  Gift of the Gods finally gave up in annoyance. She threw my tepúli back against my belly and said petulantly, “The conceited cub warrior saves his virginity, no doubt for a woman of his own class.” She spat on the ground, abruptly left me, seized another boy, wrestled him down, and began to buck like a wasp-stung deer….

  Well.

  His Excellency did ask me to speak of sex and sin, did he not, reverend friars? But it seems he cannot ever listen for long without turning as purple as his cassock, and betaking himself elsewhere. I should at least like him to know what I was leading up to. But of course—I was forgetting—His Excellency can read of it when he is calmer. May I proceed then, my lords?

  Chimáli came and sat beside me, and said, “I was not one of those who laughed at you, Mole. She does not excite me either.”

  “It is not so much that she is ugly and slovenly,” I said. And I told Chimáli what my father had recently told me: of that disease nanáua which can come from unclean sexual practices, the disease which afflicts so many of your Spanish soldiers, and which they fatalistically call “the fruit of the earth.”

  “Women who make a decent career of their sex are not to be feared,” I told Chimáli. “Our warriors’ auyaníme, for instance, keep themselves clean, and they are regularly inspected by the army physicians. But the maátime who will spread themselves for just anybody, and for any number, they are best avoided. The disease comes from unclean parts, and this creature here—who knows what squalid slave men she services before she comes to us? If you ever get infected with the nanáua, there is no cure. It can rot your tepúli so it falls off, and it can rot your brain until you are a stumbling, stammering idiot.”

  “That is the truth, Mole?” asked Chimáli, quite ashen in the face. He looked at the sweating, heaving boy and woman on the ground. “And I was going to have her too, just so I would not be jeered at. But I had rather be unmanly than be an idiot.”

  He went at once and informed Tlatli. Then they must have spread the word, for the waiting line diminished after that evening, and, in the steam house, I often saw my comrades examining themselves for symptoms of rot. The woman came to be called by a variant of her name: Tetéo-Tlayo, Offal of the Gods. But some of the schoolboys continued recklessly rutting on her, and one of those was Pactli. My contempt for him must have been as obvious as his dislike of me, for he came to me one day and said menacingly:

  “So the Mole is too careful of his health to soil himself with a maátitl? I know that is only your excuse for your pitiable impotence, but it implies criticism of my behavior, and I warn you not to slander your future brother.” I gaped at him. “Yes, before I rot, as you predict, I intend to marry your sister. Even if I become a diseased and shambling idiot, she cannot refuse a nobleman. But I would prefer that she come to me willingly. So I tell you, brother-to-be. Never let Tzitzitlíni know of my sport with Offal of the Gods. Or I will kill you.”

  He strode away without waiting for me to reply, which, in any case, I could not have done at that moment. I was dumb with dread. It was not that I feared Pactli personally, since I was a shade the taller of us and probably the stronger. But if he had been a weakling dwarf, he was still the son of our tecútli, and now he bore me a grudge. The fact was that I had lived in trepidation ever since the boys began their games of solitary sex, and then their couplings with Offal of the Gods. My poor performance, and the derision I endured, those embarrassments did not wound my boyish vani
ty so much as they put fear in my vitals. I truly had to be thought impotent and unmanly. Pactli was as underwitted as he was overbearing, but if he ever began to suspect the real reason for my seemingly feeble sexuality—that I was lavishing it all elsewhere—he was not too stupid to wonder where. And on our small island, it would not take him long to ascertain that I could be trysting with no female except …

  Tzitzitlíni had first caught Pactli’s interest when she was only a bud of a girl, when she visited the palace to attend that execution of his own adulterous sister princess. More recently, at the springtime Feast of the Great Awakening, Tzitzi had led the dancers in the pyramid plaza—and Pactli had seen her dance, and he had been fully smitten. Since then, he had repeatedly managed to encounter her in public and had spoken to her, a breach of manners for any man, even a pili. He had also recently invented excuses to visit our house two or three times, “to discuss quarry affairs with Tepetzálan,” and there he had to be let enter. But Tzitzi’s cool reception of him and her unconcealed distaste for him would have sent any other young man slinking away for good.

  And now the vile Pactli told me he was going to marry Tzitzi. I went home from school that night and, as we sat around our supper cloth, after our father had given thanks to the gods for the food before us, I bluntly spoke up:

  “Pactli told me today that he intends to take Tzitzitlíni to wife. Not perhaps, or if she accepts him, or if the family gives consent. But that he intends it and will do it.”

  My sister stiffened and stared at me. She drew her hand lightly across her face, as our women always do at something unexpected. Our father looked uncomfortable. Our mother went on placidly eating, and just as placidly said, “He has spoken of it, Mixtli, yes. Pactzin will soon be out of the primary school, but he still must spend some years at the calmécac school before he can take a wife.”

  “He cannot take Tzitzi,” I said. “Pactli is a stupid, greedy, unwholesome creature—”

  Our mother leaned across the cloth and slapped my face, hard. “That is for speaking disrespectfully of our future governor. Who are you, what is your high station, that you presume to defame a noble?”

  Biting back uglier words, I said, “I am not the only one on this island who knows Pactli to be a depraved and contemptible—”

  She hit me again. “Tepetzálan,” she said to our father. “One more word out of this unruly young man and you must attend to his correction.” To me she said, “When the pili son of the Lord Red Heron marries Tzitzitlíni, all the rest of us become pípiltin as well. What are your great prospects, with no trade, with only your useless pretense of studying word pictures, that you could bring such eminence to your family?”

  Our father cleared his throat and said, “I care not so much for the -tzin to our names, but I care less for discourtesy and infamy. To refuse a nobleman any request—especially to decline the honor Pactli confers by asking our daughter’s hand—would be an insult to him, a disgracing of ourselves, that we could never live down. If we were let to live at all, we would have to leave Xaltócan.”

  “No, not the rest of you.” Tzitzi spoke for the first time, and firmly. “I will leave. If that degenerate beast Pactli … Do not raise your hand to me, Mother. I am a woman grown, and I will strike you back.”

  “You are my daughter and this is my house!” shouted our mother.

  “Children, what has come over you?” pleaded our father.

  “I say only this,” Tzitzi went on. “If Pactli demands me, and you accede, not you or he will ever see me again. I will leave the island forever. If I cannot borrow or steal an acáli, I will swim. If I cannot reach the mainland, I will drown. Not Pactli or any other man will ever touch me, except a man I can give myself to.”

  “On all of Xaltócan—” our mother sputtered. “No other daughter so ungrateful, so disobedient and defiant, so—”

  This time she was silenced by our father, who said, and said solemnly, “Tzitzitlíni, if your unfilial words had been heard outside these walls, not even I could pardon you or avert your due punishment. You would be stripped and beaten and your head shaved. Our neighbors would do it if I did not, as an example to their own children.”

  “I am sorry, father,” she said in a level voice. “You must choose. An undutiful daughter or none.”

  “I thank the gods I need not choose tonight. As your mother remarked, it will be a few years yet before the young Lord Joy can marry. So let us speak of it no more now, in anger or otherwise. Many things may happen between now and then.”

  Our father was right: many things might happen. I did not know if Tzitzi had meant everything she said, and I had no chance to ask her that night or the next day. We dared no more than to exchange a worried and yearning glance from time to time. But, whether or not she held to her resolve, the prospect was desolating. If she fled from Pactli, I should lose her. If she succumbed and married him, I should lose her. If she went to his bed, she knew the arts of convincing him that she was virgin. But if, before then, my own behavior made Pactli suspect that another man had known her first—and me of all men—his rage would be monumental, his revenge inconceivable. Whatever the hideous manner he chose for slaying us, Tzitzi and I would have lost each other.

  Ayya, many things did happen, and one of them was this. When I went to The House of Building Strength at the next day’s dusk, I found my name and Pactli’s on Blood Glutton’s roster, as if it had been ordained by some ironic god. And when our squad got to the appointed patch of trees, Offal of the Gods was already there, already naked, sprawled, and ready. To the astonishment of Pactli and our other companions, I immediately ripped off my loincloth and flung myself upon her.

  I did it as clumsily as I could, a performance calculated to make the other boys believe it was my first, and a performance that probably gave the slut as little pleasure as it gave me. When I judged it had gone on long enough, I prepared to disengage, but then the revulsion got the better of me, and I spewed vomit all over her face and naked body. The boys roared and rolled on the ground with laughter. Even the wretch Offal of the Gods was capable of recognizing the insult. She gathered up her garments, and she clutched them over her nakedness, and she ran away, and she never came back.

  Not long after that incident, four other things of note occurred in rather rapid succession. At least, that is how I remember them happening.

  It happened that our Uey-Tlatoáni Axayácatl died—very young, from the effects of wounds he had received in the battles against the Purémpecha—and his brother Tixoc, Other Face, assumed the throne of Tenochtítlan.

  It happened that I, along with Chimáli and Tlatli, completed what schooling was afforded on Xaltócan. I was now regarded as “educated.”

  It happened that our island’s governor sent a messenger to our house one evening to summon me immediately to his palace.

  And it happened that, at last, I was parted from Tzitzitlíni, my sister and my love.

  But I had best recount those occurrences in more detail, and in the order of their happening.

  The change of rulers did not much affect the lives of us in the provinces. Indeed, even in Tenochtítlan, little was later remembered of Tixoc’s reign except that, like his two predecessors, he continued work on the still-rising Great Pyramid in The Heart of the One World. And Tixoc added an architectural touch of his own to that plaza. He had stonemasons hew and carve the Battle Stone, a massive flat cylinder of volcanic rock which lay like a stack of immense tortillas between the unfinished pyramid and the Sun Stone’s pedestal site. The Battle Stone was nearly as high as a man and about four strides across its diameter. Around the rim were low-relief carvings of Mexíca warriors, Tixoc prominent among them, engaged in combat and in subduing captives. The flat round top of the stone was the platform for a kind of public dueling, in which, a long time later, and in an unusual way, I would have occasion to participate.

  Of rather more immediate concern to me, at that time, was the end of my formal schooling. Not being of the nobil
ity, I was of course not entitled to go on to a calmécac of higher learning. And my record as Malínqui the Kink in one of our schools, and as Poyaútla the Fogbound in the other, had hardly been of a nature to make any of the higher schools on the mainland invite me to attend at no cost.

  What particularly embittered me was that, while I hungered in vain for the chance to learn more than the trivial knowledge our telpochcáltin could teach, my friends Chimáli and Tlatli, who cared not a little finger for any further formal learning, did each get an invitation from separate calmécactin—and both of those in Tenochtítlan, my own dream destination. During their years in Xaltócan’s House of Building Strength they had distinguished themselves as tlachtli players and as cub warriors. Though an elegant nobleman might have smiled at the “graces” the two boys had absorbed from The House of Learning Manners, they had nevertheless shone there too, by designing original costumes and settings for the ceremonies performed on festival days.

  “It is too bad you cannot come with us, Mole,” said Tlatli, sounding sincere enough but no whit less happy at his own good fortune. “You could attend all the dull schoolroom classes, and leave us free for our studio work.”

  Under the terms of their acceptance, both boys would, besides learning from the calmécac priests, also be apprenticed out to Tenochtítlan artists: Tlatli to a master sculptor, Chimáli to a master painter. I was sure that neither of them would pay much heed to the lessons in history, reading, writing, counting, and such, the very things I ached for most. Anyway, before they departed, Chimáli said, “Here is a good-bye gift for you, Mole. All my paints and reeds and brushes. I will have better ones in the city, and you may find them useful in your writing practice.”