Young Jaguar, The

by Zoe Saadia

  “No, you tell her you were afraid to get wet, so you did not deliver her message.”

  The girl muttered something that sounded Mayan and obscene.

  “You are really pushing it,” she ended in Nahuatl.

  Hurriedly, she ran toward him, her pudgy arm attempting to shield her head from the rain.

  “My mistress is on the terrace upstairs.” She pointed upwards. “She wishes to see you.”

  He turned to the door.

  “Not that way!” There was an unconcealed glee in the maid’s voice now.

  He turned around. “What way then?”

  “That one.” She pointed upwards once again, indicating the stony floor of the terrace above. “Over the railing and up the wall.” She smiled broadly, enjoying herself. “These were my mistress’s orders,” she added, seeing his stare.

  “That’s what she said?”

  “Word for word. Over the railing and up the wall.” The naked triumph in the girl’s eyes made him want to strangle her.

  “If you are lying, I will kill you,” he said. “Nothing will save you if it was not what she said.”

  He turned around and went back to the railing, trying to drop over it as gracefully as he could, knowing the cheeky maid would be watching, wishing him to disgrace himself.

  The exercise of climbing was harder than the previous night, the wet surface making it difficult not to slip, the persistent rain obscuring his vision, making him blink.

  When he clung to the upper railing, gathering his strength to toss himself over, he had enough time to regret accepting the mysterious invitation. What if she wasn’t there? Why would she wait outside in the rain?

  But she was waiting, leaning over the railing, peering into the furious sky, her hair wet and flowing, her blouse soaked and clinging to her body.

  “Isn’t this storm just wonderful?” she asked, not turning her head, but probably hearing him slipping over the marble stones.

  He stared at the wet material outlining her body, unable to shift his eyes. She didn’t wear any cloak, just the light blouse and a skirt with no girdle.

  “Don’t you love storms?” She was still watching the sky, waiting for the next flash of lightning, perhaps.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “I love this one.”

  “Why?”

  “All sorts of reasons.”

  She turned to watch him as the lightning flashed. Her face shone brightly in a dark frame of the wet, plastered hair, her eyes glittering, happy and unreserved. Water trickled down the perfect cheekbones, gleaming around her generous mouth. The darkness returned, and he was grateful for it, as he was finding it difficult to tear his eyes off the roundness of her breasts outlined by the wet cotton.

  “So you climbed my terrace once again.” She made it a statement, the lightness of her laughter teasing.

  He shifted uncomfortably, aware of the waves of excitement running down his stomach. “You invited me this time.”

  “Did I?”

  “If your insolent maid is to be believed.”

  “Oh, Kaab doesn’t like you either. She thinks you are wild and arrogant. She tried to talk me out of inviting you.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Me? I never share my thoughts.” The dark lips stretched into half a smile. “Come here and see the lightning. It’s beautiful from up here.”

  The gardens down below and the glittering roofs, indeed, looked better from her terrace. He leaned over the railing.

  “Did you see me down there,” he asked.

  “No, of course not!” she exclaimed, and he knew she was lying. He could see his previous vantage spot clearly.

  So, he thought, suddenly surer of himself. She had watched him from here, and then she had asked him up.

  “Do you always greet the rain like that?”

  “No, not always.” She was calming down, in control once again. “I love storms, real storms. Like this one. I wish there were more summer storms around our Capital.”

  “Maybe in Coatepec they have more storms.”

  Her playful mood was gone once again. “I’m not sure we’ll reach Coatepec any time soon.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Since I’m a figurine in this game, I guess I’m entitled to know.”

  “Not all figurines are important enough to be entitled to anything.”

  He tensed. “So which figurine am I?”

  She turned to watch him, her glance appraising him, teasing and amused. “You are a valuable, nicely polished piece of jade in a very grand bean game.”

  “Tell me about this particular game.”

  “As I said, it’s a very grand game. The stakes are so high some players have forgotten why they began playing in the first place. But our jade figurines have kicked out many of the opposite ones already. I think we’ve just passed the dangerous squires in the middle of the field. So now it’s just a matter of time.”

  “How many figurines does the other side still have?”

  “Not many.”

  “My father?”

  She hesitated. “We don’t know yet.”

  “You don’t know if he was kicked out of the game or you don’t know if he is still might be of some use?”

  She looked at him searchingly. “I really don’t know. I’d tell you if I knew.”

  He bit his lips. “He won’t be persuaded. Your people should leave him alone.”

  “They are your people now too.”

  He sighed and stared at the opaque wall of rain.

  “Don’t be so sad,” she said softly. “You did very well today. They were impressed.”

  He continued staring at the rain.

  “You know, you can go back now,” she said suddenly. “I didn’t invite you here to talk politics and mourn the past. Now, because of you, all the magic is gone.” Her voice shook with anger. “I just feel soaked for no reason. And it’s all your fault.” Her eyes were black in the darkness, staring at him, her plucked brows forming a straight line, adding to the effect. “Go away the way you came.”

  His gloominess evaporated. He caught her wrist as she turned to go.

  She pulled her hand angrily. “Don’t you dare! I’m not your market girl.”

  He laughed, suddenly elated. “You are definitely not a market girl. They are never as beautiful, as smart, as powerful.” He could feel the blood pulsating in the delicate arm inside his palm. “But all the same. You watched me from your terrace, and you invited me up.”

  She pulled at her hand once again, obviously not put out with her lack of success.

  “You think so much of yourself. You are not that appealing.”

  But she did not renew her attempts to leave. The lightning struck again, and he saw her eyes, the anger, the doubt, the anticipation…and more.

  Her soaked hair was sticking to her face, framing it. One wet tendril ran across her cheek. He reached out and removed it gently, his fingers catching the feel of her skin, sending waves of warmth down his stomach.

  Then, suddenly she stepped forward and was in control once again.

  “So, what do warriors do after climbing princesses’ balconies?” she whispered.

  His legs felt weak, glued to the glittering floor. He hadn’t expected anything like that. She was right, she was no market girl. He could sense her impatience, and her uncertainty.

  Hesitantly, he pulled her closer. She did not resist, but her body was tense against his.

  Their kiss was awkward, artificial. In this aspect the market girls put her behind. He had kissed those aplenty. He had even lain with one such. Not a very uplifting incident, both of them so frightened and inexperienced. Then, there had been a maid, responsible for cleaning and laundry. A grown woman. Oh, how flattered he was when, in the previous summer, she took notice of him. There was no silly talking or flirting. The woman just sneaked into his room and did wonderful things that made the market girls pale into insignificance. He left his
market trips for the rest of that summer until the maid was sold away, apparently not as good at doing the laundry. Or maybe his parents had found out, not appreciating the additional task the woman had taken upon herself. He was sorry when she left.

  Chictli’s hands pushed him away. “That’s better,” she whispered, apparently satisfied with the prosaic kiss. “Fancy talking politics in such a wonderful storm.”

  He pulled her back, but she resisted this time.

  “Enough of that. Time we go back.”

  She beamed at him, her eyes shining as if challenging. Through her soaked blouse he could feel the warmth of her body. As she moved to break away, her breasts brushed against his chest, leaving a burning sensation in their wake.

  He pulled her back, forcefully now. He didn’t dare to kiss her again, but he could not let her go, not yet.

  He could see her eyes changing. Wide open now and startled, they stared at him, almost the same level as his. Her breath came in gasps. The full lips parted slightly, indecisively, gaping at him. He could smell sweetmeats on her breath.

  He couldn’t help it. He had to kiss her, and this time with no reservations.

  His lips opened hers, forceful, eager, his tongue seeking. She fought him. He could feel her fists beating at his chest, her palms clawing his cloak. It felt as if the next lightning bolt sizzled through him, setting his body on fire, his limbs out of control. His arms were locked around her; he could not set her free even if he wanted to.

  Then, suddenly, her lips were reacting, letting his tongue in, welcoming it with a surprising ardor. Her body relaxed against his, melted in his clutched arms. The storm, the terrace, the Palace, the groaning trees down below had disappeared. There was nothing except the amazing sensation of their bodies against each other, fitting perfectly, merging with the raging storm.

  When their mouths finally parted they stared at each other, breathing heavily. Her eyes were enormous in the paleness of her face, unreserved in a way he had never seem them before. They stared at him, astounded and wild.

  Then the panic flooded in. She pushed him away violently and ran into the dimly lit entrance.

  ***

  The roaring of the thunder began to recede when Tecpatl stopped briefly, forced to pause for breath. Huddled under the dark mass of a low wall, he leaned against the wet stones, gasping, his legs trembling. Water ran down his disheveled hair, trickling under his cloak, soaking his heavy girdle and his loincloth.

  Impatiently, he wiped his face. The slight odor of blood startled him. He brought his palms closer, blinking away the remaining drops of rain. In the darkness he could see the dark pattern of cuts on his right palm, some still bleeding.

  He cursed softly. The filthy flask, he thought. How stupid it was of him to break the damn thing. But she did love it, didn’t she?

  He shuddered at the thought of her. How could she? After all these summers, and at such difficult, insane times! Was she having an affair? Well, what else could it be? What else would make a woman leave her house for an unknown destination after dark?

  Yet, when she came back, she didn’t look guilty, not in the least. The way she behaved he could have thought he had imagined his coming home and not finding her there.

  Had he imagined it?

  No! He punched the damp stones behind him, wincing at the pain. The rain almost stopped, and he could hear no more growling of the distant thunder.

  He looked up, trying to make out the dark temporary constructions all around him. Had he made it as far as the marketplace? How insane he must have been, running along the soaked alleys as though all the creatures of the Underworld were after him.

  Clutching his chest to stop the pain, he peered at the semidarkness, trying to banish the thoughts of her, the memory of her face at that last flash of lightning, when she had rushed toward him, unconcerned with the possibility of him hurting her, as devoted, as loving as always. As if nothing had happened.

  He groaned aloud, then heard the gravel crackling under someone’s feet

  “Look, there is some manure eating drunkard over there!”

  A figure materialized out of the darkness, the spare frame of some market frequenter. The heavy speech of the commoner was accompanied by a hiccup.

  Tecpatl could hear more careful footsteps as his hand reached for his dagger, slowly and carefully, not pulling it out, not yet.

  Another man neared. “Do you think he’s too drunk to see?” He peered at Tecpatl, obviously recognizing neither the warrior’s lock, nor the muddied cloak. “Look, frog-eater. Are you too stunned? Let us see what you got.”

  As the man reached for Tecpatl’s cloak, the obsidian dagger shot out, cutting neatly into the softness of his upper belly. The commoner cried out and grabbed his stomach, not yet understanding what had happened.

  The second man was quicker to recover. Leaping away from Tecpatl’s knife’s reach, slipping on the muddy ground, he rushed back into the darkness, indifferent to the cries of his companion.

  Tecpatl glanced over at the screaming figure wriggling in the mud. He contemplated finishing the man, but then shrugged and ran after the first one, feeling better by the moment. It was good to vent his mounting frustration, at long last.

  Racing up the twisting paths, he followed the sounds of the crashing gravel. He just had to kill this man. Grabbing the man’s foot as the slim figure attempted to scale the low wall, he pulled him down with a powerful tug, not letting his victim fall, pinning him against the wall, holding a knife to the skinny throat.

  “You stinky dung-eating peasant,” he hissed. “Do you still want to get something from me?”

  The man mumbled something inaudible.

  “I’ll cut your throat and feed your flesh to the market’s rats. They are feasting on your friend right now, but they’ll get here fast enough.”

  More terrified mumbling. He was about to press the sharp obsidian, when the man’s body went limp.

  Taking a step back, he let the man fall. Damn commoner, he thought, tying his dagger back into his girdle. There was no pleasure in killing such a cowardly market rat.

  Feeling somewhat better, he went back. His head throbbed, but the effect of the drink was wearing off, he was sure of that. He could finally think clearly.

  The ache began to return, but he shook it off. He wouldn’t think about Sakuna. His domestic problems would have to wait. The Palace’s troubles were graver and more dangerous.

  He would have to organize his warriors, preferably tonight. He would notify the Emperor, and they would be ready. The opposition would have to make its move now. They were committed and could not wait much longer, not after his uncle’s attempt to confront him. His speech to his warriors had made them come out openly. One good turn. Their enemy wouldn’t be fully prepared.

  The darkness was softening, as some of the moonlight managed to break through the thick, stormy clouds. Briskly, he went up the wide avenue, now able to see the messed stands of the marketplace around him. He couldn’t go to the Palace, looking like that. Where could he bathe and change? Not at home surely. He was not ready to face her, not yet.

  Amatl, he thought. His most trusted assistant. He would need to wake him up anyway, so his place would do.

  He hastened his steps, wishing to reach his aide’s dwelling. His wet clothes clung to his body, making him shiver in the night’s breeze. The silhouette of the Great Pyramid loomed, showing him the way. The elite warriors’ neighborhoods lay in a comfortable proximity to the Palace.

  The silence, typical to the after-storm, enveloped him, heavy and unsettling. It seemed as if all living creatures had abandoned the great city this night.

  But what about the dead ones?

  The wind mourned hollowly between the stone walls. He could hear an occasional groaning of a tree, a rustling of a rolling pebble. The mist was spreading as if some of the clouds, torn by the wind, sank heavily onto the wet earth.

  He looked around, scanning the fog. The sensation of being watched we
lled. His eyes could not penetrate the darkness, his ears unable to pick a particular sound, the thundering of his heart making it difficult to hear.

  He noticed he was almost running and forced himself to a stop. The damp air clung to his lungs, but still he tried to breathe deeply, to calm his frayed nerves.

  Damn it! he thought. Calm down, you stupid half-wit. Calm down.

  His head still throbbed – a usual thing after consuming so much octli. But not a usual thing for him. He was not fond of this beverage and its much admired qualities. People tended to behave foolishly after even a small amount of this drink, and he despised those who still went on consuming it.

  Had he done something stupid this evening? He winced at the pain in his damaged palm as he clenched his fists tight, his nails sinking into the rough flesh. Well, it was not the time to think about it. She would have to wait.

  He resumed his walk, stepping with exaggerated caution. The faint crack of a branch reached his ears, although no new gust of wind followed.

  He tensed and kept his step, all ears now. The wet leaves rustled, but sometimes their rustling sounded harsh, as if someone was treading upon them carefully.

  Slowly, he pulled his sword, keeping to the middle of the avenue, away from the possible traps of the dark corners. Here, another unusual sound, as if someone had slipped in the mud and regained his balance, perfectly but not quite soundlessly.

  When the familiar hiss tore the darkness, he was ready, leaping toward the dark form of the opposite wall. The arrow swished by, its feathering whispering past his shoulder. He made much noise as though attempting to scale the wall, diving, instead, under the broken bushes adorning the wide lower stones.

  The hurried footsteps were not concealed anymore. They rushed toward him, more than a few, their sandals plopping on the wet gravel.

  “Where, in the name of the dark spirits..?” whispered someone.

  “No chance he went over the wall,” cried out another voice.

  “Shut up and spread out!” This one sounded more authoritative, and Tecpatl marked his whereabouts. “You two scan this side of the wall. He may have run on along it, while you, stupid half-wits, made it here so noisily. The rest – over the wall.”