Young Jaguar, The

by Zoe Saadia

  Every corner, every niche of the spacious hall seemed to be filled with polished stone or gold statues, smoothed to perfection, glimmering in the light of the torches, almost floating in the gaze of incense.

  Atolli gazed about like the last of the provincials he came with, but as the delegation was ushered on, he remembered that meeting the authorities was not a part of his plan.

  His eyes focused, brushed past the warriors filling the hall. All gazes seemed to turn toward the polished stone throne and the lower stools surrounding it, woven from reeds, intended for the closest advisers. His father was sure to stand somewhere among them.

  Atolli slowed his pace, falling behind.

  Luckily, the provincials were so busy gaping around no one noticed him slipping away, just an odd youth in a plain garb, certainly not someone worth noticing. He reached the last rows of the newcomers.

  Meanwhile, the leading foreigners opened with flowery greetings, having closed the permitted distance to the revered persons around the throne. It drew the attention of everyone present, even the warriors.

  Atolli saw his chance. A niche with a tall golden statue of the Feathered Serpent seemed vacant, and he darted for this opening, not wasting his time on looking around and maybe drawing attention to himself.

  Afraid to breathe, he stood still, sheltered by the mass of gold. Nothing. No shouted alarm.

  He breathed with relief. Now what? He was stuck behind the statue in the Palace’s audience hall, with no way to go in or out. He wanted to curse. To his left the marble surface of the wall curved with more niches and statues. Should he try sneaking from niche to niche? If caught doing this, he would be completely done for, he knew. But then…

  He shrugged and made it for the neighboring niche.

  The pleasantries, still being exchanged by the delegation and their hosts, grew fainter as he reached the far end of the hall, as a gust of night air caressed his sweating face, pleasing in its cool touch. He eyed the dark opening, sick with relief.

  Outside at last, hidden by a massive wooden column, he rested for a moment, then hurried for the railing. It was too high to jump, but the outer wall was full of ledges and footholds. He could climb down easily.

  Or up, for that matter. He eyed the massive dark wall, lit only by a few torches, in contrast to the main entrance. Above his head there was another terrace. He looked around, then scaled the railing, clutching an odd stone bulging from the roughly plastered surface.

  Poised on the edge, he examined the wall once again, then the deserted dark gardens below. It could be done, but then what? Would he go on acting foolishly, entangling himself further and further? Shouldn’t he just climb down this balcony and go over the wall?

  Yes, that was definitely the wisest course. He checked his grasp on the bulging stone and stepped onto the ledge, working his way up the wall.

  The upper terrace was not as deserted. He could hear the voices as he hung underneath, one palm clutching the railing, the other flapping in the air, his legs still firm on the upper ledge.

  He cursed silently. There was nothing he could do but wait.

  The voices went on talking, two females, their accents heavy. Slaves, for sure.

  He cursed once again. By the time they were gone, he was ready to spring up and silence them even by killing, if need be, his arm numb from holding most of his weight for so long.

  Once over the railing, he rested, massaging his palm. The upper floor had to be quite deserted, he promised himself. Who could be up there to wander about? That level should contain the royal families’ private sets of rooms, therefore would be abandoned except for the female population, who must be sound asleep by now. Chictli included.

  Would he manage to wake her up without scaring her senseless? Would she take such an interruption kindly?

  Well, first of all he had to find her. Then, he would worry about his next move. He slipped into the warmth of the nearest hall.

  The wide passageways were lit, but barely, a torch here and there stuck onto carved handholds in the walls, lined by some reddish wood. No marble for the upstairs and the carvings and statues less beautiful.

  Atolli raised his eyebrows. So the imperial wealth was heaped downstairs, for the visiting subjects to see and behold.

  Another passageway, guarded by the polished stone figure of a serpent, glimmering idly, wonderfully detailed. What now?

  He halted uneasily. There seemed to be another balcony on the other side of the long corridor. What, in the name of the gods, was he thinking? Still undecided, he crept on.

  The sound of hurried footsteps behind his back made him whirl around, his heart thumping. A squat woman, clearly a maid, stared at him, perplexed, her hands clutching a tray. A delicious aroma rose from the pottery vessels upon the tray, the heavy aroma of spicy chocolate.

  He stared at her back, at a loss as to how to proceed. When she opened her mouth and began screaming, he turned around and sprinted up the corridor.

  Darting into the first opening, he rushed up another passageway, all ears. The woman stopped screaming, but more voices joined in, talking loudly. He tried to remember the way back to the terrace, struggling to slam his mind into thinking. Darting into another opening, unable to concentrate, he heard the heavy steps of his pursuers ringing in his ears.

  “Here he is!”

  He dashed into another corridor, colliding with a frightened maid. Something fell to the floor, breaking loudly behind his back. He didn’t dare to try the doors. Breaking into one of the royal sets of rooms would make matters worse. How much worse? Hadn’t he been in the worst of the positions, anyway?

  The voices were a little further now, hindered by the fallen maid, probably. He rushed on, breathless. Feeling a cool gust of the night air, he charged for it desperately, feet slipping upon the polished tiles, his sandals askew.

  It was more like a balcony, not as large as the terrace he climbed. He hopped over the low parapet, his palms clutching the wooden railing, his legs brushing frantically against the wall, seeking for something to step on.

  He peeked past his flopping sandals, shivering. Too high to jump. He was sure to break something no matter how carefully he landed. There was also the small terrace of the main floor. Not as wide as the terrace he had climbed not so long ago – this one was on the other side of the vast building – but broader than the balcony he was clinging to, glittering with its polished stone surface in the dim moonlight. He could bash his head against the hard stones of its parapet and be done for.

  He felt his grip slipping, his palm sweaty and sleek against the polished wood. He doubled his effort to find something to step on. The voices neared. He could hear their hurried footsteps, the clatter of the warriors’ weapons.

  The decision arrived, stupid but he had no better ones. Before letting go, his feet pushed against the wall, propelling his body toward the small terrace below.

  The free-fall took his breath away. He had had enough time to tuck his head under his arms. Now, he was sure he was going to die.

  His elbows absorbed the blow, brushing past the stone parapet, tossing his body toward the balcony. It tore the protective screen of his arms, and his face was the first to meet the coldly glittering slabs of marble.

  He heard someone gasping, jumping to her feet. He didn’t care at first, the blinding pain in his head too overwhelming.

  Tearing his face off the cold tiles, surprised with the stickiness of the wet floor, he stared at the dark stains upon the glittering marble.

  “What, in the name of the Underworld…” The husky familiar voice exclaimed somewhere above his head.

  He raised his gaze, still dazed, taking in the noble outline of the high cheekbones, the large oval eyes enormous and wide-open, the generous mouth gaping. It was difficult to stay focused, his head spinning, the left side of his face numb and on fire. He touched it with his palm, wincing at the pain in his elbow. It was sticky and warm.

  The second girl, plumed and round-faced began sayi
ng something, her voice loud and high-pitched. She seemed to be screaming.

  “Stop it!” said Chictli sharply, and the noise died away.

  Another girl winced and brought her palm to her mouth. There were three of them outside as far as he could judge. Their faces kept swimming in the semidarkness and he could not tell for sure.

  The princess peered at him, leaning forward, her large troubled eyes narrowing as if trying to think hard. He knew he had to say something, something that had better make sense.

  He could think of nothing. He wished his ears would stop ringing. It was really annoying, that continuous high-pitched sound inside his head. It disrupted his ability to think.

  Then came another sound seeping through the opening, muffled but persistent. Someone was banging on the wooden screen somewhere inside the room.

  Chictli straightened abruptly, her frown deepening.

  “Please,” he whispered when she began to turn away, his lips swollen and awash with pain.

  “Quick, get behind that podium!”

  She pushed him roughly when he was not quick enough getting onto his feet, his whole body feeling as if it had been beaten and dragged through the streets full of small gravel.

  Head reeling, he stumbled toward the podium with a large golden statue, her push almost sending him sprawling.

  “One word about any of this and I will have you two flayed!” she said to her maids as the banging on her door became more persistent. He could imagine them shivering. It was easy to believe her threats; he didn’t doubt her himself.

  Would she be tempted to give him away once again?

  A shiver cascaded down his spine as he crouched behind the gleaming mass of gold, sucking the blood off his split upper lip. Well, at least this time she would not be lying. He had broken into the Palace’s grounds, and he had tried to find her.

  Chapter 9

  Sakuna rocked back and forth, crouching upon the comfortable mats of her sleeping quarters. She felt she had been there for days, maybe moons, huddled in the relative safety of her inner rooms, waiting for him to return.

  He should have been back by now. He should have come to comfort her. She had to talk to him, to tell him what had transpired, to warn him, to make sure he was safe and unharmed, to feel his protective arms around her. She needed him so much, and he was not coming.

  She glanced up at the night sky reflecting outside the high opening in the wall. The moon shone bright and indifferent. It hadn’t moved since she’d consulted it last. It was not even midnight. She’d felt it had to be near dawn.

  Why does it take him so long to come home?

  Nopalli had said they were receiving delegations all day long. But couldn’t they halt this activity for the duration of the night? The Tepanec warriors were so fond of their precious night’s sleep. Tecpatl always preached on that subject, amused with her tendency to stay awake until after midnight. So where, in the name of the Great Spirits, was he wandering now, when she needed him most? Those delegations of people streaming into Azcapotzalco from all over the Great Lake, eager to pay their respects to its new Emperor, didn’t they need to rest, too?

  The thought about the delegation brought back her conversation with Nopalli. Then came the rest of that evening. A new outburst of tears threatened to take her. She fought it off, afraid to lose control once again, afraid of the violent trembling that would follow.

  Stop thinking about that, she ordered herself, clenching her teeth. Let him come home first. Then all will be well. He would know what to do.

  Would he? Would he do what his Uncle wanted? Not likely. If he was not sure of his actions, of his loyalty to the new Emperor, they wouldn’t have tried to reach him through her. He must have been proven difficult for that awful old man to resort to such methods, trying to act through her, the despised barbarian.

  She brought her palm to her mouth, clasping it hard, trying to stop her terror from rising again. Oh gods, that man was so dreadful, so ghastly, so appalling. He wanted to frighten her, but he also wanted to take her, to sample her.

  The trembling began anew, a violent shaking. She clenched her fists hard, but it would not stop. All she could do was strangle her sobbing with her palms and wish Tecpatl would come soon!

  Think of something else, something useful that would have nothing to do with this evening, she ordered herself. But what?

  Since that morning, a few dawns ago, when she went up the roof to greet the Sun on the longest day of its journey, she had had no peace. First, the priest coming and ruining her joy at Tecpatl’s return by bringing the news of Atolli’s disgrace. Then, the Emperor’s sudden death. And now, this!

  Her world was once again coming down around her, tumbling. It had happened before, when she was a young woman and her village had been sacked and destroyed. But then, she had met Tecpatl and, while her world, indeed, had come to an end, she had managed to escape. He had saved her.

  Yet, would he manage to save her this time? Would he manage to save them both?

  And the children!

  She caught her breath. Atolli was being sucked into this swamp too, although, he was safe for now. Tecpatl would not let him sink. He would not let the Emperor’s unsatisfied brother take Atolli into his service. So this one worry could be put to rest.

  But then, if Tecpatl himself did not manage to escape this trap, they would all go down – Atolli, Flower, Tecuani, all of them!

  She could taste the blood seeping from her lower lip, where her teeth sank into it, now more angry than frightened. Well, it would not happen. It would not happen if she could help it. If there was anything she could do, besides pouring her heart out to Tecpatl, she would do it!

  Oh, but she was always so far from the Palace’s gossip, from politics, from all this hectic activity Azcapotzalco’s nobles loved so much. Unlike Nopalli. She could try to make use of the silly young woman. It was easy to make her talk.

  Tomorrow, she decided. Tomorrow she’d make a point of visiting her again, under the pretense of caring for her sick child. It would be interesting to hear what the young lover-of-gossip had to say about the late Emperor’s sons and their suitability to rule the Empire.

  She shivered. To visit that house once again?

  Well, the old horror of Nopalli’s Revered Father, Tecpatl’s Great Uncle, did not live there. He happened to visit there this evening, but he most definitely wouldn’t be around at high noon. He should be busy at the Palace, planning and scheming, trying to change the emperors.

  But first of all, this very moment, she was going to talk to Atolli. They all claimed he was too young to understand, but she was going to disregard this particular Tepanec custom. He was old enough to go out and risk his life fighting. So he might be old enough to participate in the deliberations that had a direct impact on his whole future. In her lands people were regarded old enough for such discussion at fifteen.

  Pleased with her steady steps, she headed for the bowl upon a reed-woven podium. Splashing fresh water onto her face and drying it with a cotton cloth made her feel better.

  She picked up her obsidian mirror. No, she could not go out looking like that, with her cheeks puffy and her eyes red. She could not let her servants or her children, see her so weakened.

  She searched through her chests. Where was that yellow cream she had once been persuaded to buy at the market? Decent women were not to use cosmetics, yet all noblewomen improved their appearance whenever they felt like it. They kept the waxy yellowish substance, along with perfumes and rosewater, and some indigo to make their hair shine.

  Her eyes could not be helped now, but her cheeks would look better yellow than glaringly red. She didn’t understand how yellow was to make a woman look better when first arriving at Azcapotzalco, but now she’d become used to it. It was a fashionable face color, and the touch of the yellowish cream upon her cheeks was soothingly cool.

  Paces light and determined, she went out of her quarters, making her way through the main hall and across the patio
.

  Flower’s room was quiet and peacefully dark, but torchlight flickered in her youngest child’s quarters. The little rascal! He could never be made go to sleep at a reasonable time of the night.

  She opened the door quietly and stopped in her tracks, startled. Mecatl sprawled in front of Tecuani, both boys sleepy but trying to proceed with their bean game.

  They jumped, staring at her guiltily.

  “Greetings, Mistress of the House,” said Mecatl, first to recover. He showed all of his large teeth in the exaggeratedly innocent smile.

  “Mecatl, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, we were just playing. Umm, didn’t notice it was so late. I’ll be off now.” He sprang to his feet and was about to dash for the opening.

  Amused, she blocked his way.

  “Come on, little rascal, what is going on?” She still remembered him as a cute little boy, still could not think of him as a grown up youth, almost a warrior, although he now towered above her, a whole head taller than her.

  “Nothing, nothing at all.”

  He was so anxious to leave, she burst out laughing.

  “Where is Atolli? Has he fallen asleep, and you went out looking for company?” She glanced at Tecuani. “And you, you should be asleep for half a night by now. What will you do in calmecac next year?”

  “Mecatl did just fine.” Her youngest son’s grin was as playful, as mischievous as usual, but some shadows hid in the depths of his eyes, too.

  “Mecatl, there is no need to go home when it’s so late,” she said, unbalanced by their strange uneasiness. “Go to Atolli’s room and sleep with him. There are enough mats over there, but I’ll get the servants to bring more.”

  Mecatl was growing unsettled with her every word, his knuckles whitening as he clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, growing worried. “What happened?”

  A thought flashed and she turned around and rushed for Atolli’s old room. It was still his, although, of course, he had lived in his calmecac for many summers by now, coming to sleep at home only for holidays and short breaks.