by Zoe Saadia
“Honorable Warlord, I’m sorry, but they insist on talking to you and you alone. I think we should storm this place.”
Tecpatl frowned. Should he honor them with a private talk? Whatever they wanted, it would be something pushy and insolent. Didn’t they realize they were defeated and in no position to bargain?
“Nice of them not to demand of us to bring here the Emperor himself,” he muttered. “Go back, and tell them I don’t want to see them.”
“I told them as much. I told them you will not agree to see them. They said you had better come.” The man hesitated. “They said you would regret missing this chance. They hinted at having something of value to you.”
He bit his lower lip. “That is odd.” His glance encircled the archers and slingers, spreading around the two-level building, the wide path packed with his blue-cloaked warriors. “All right, I’ll go and talk to them.”
“I don’t like it, Honorable Warlord.” The broad face of his loyal second-in-command creased. “They behave as if they have something to negotiate with. But there is no possibility of that. Maybe they’re planning something treacherous.”
“Well, I had better find out what it is. It’s the Emperor’s brother, the First Son of our deceased Revered Ruler. I can’t treat him like a dirty traitor. Not yet. Not before he is declared as such.” He eased his shoulders. “Make sure our people are ready to storm this temple. Do it if you hear something suspicious, or if I’m not coming out in about…” He measured the sun. “When it has moved about half a finger. Even less than that.”
He turned and went away briskly, before Amatl would have a chance to comment. He knew his second-in-command was right. They had absolutely nothing to talk about. It might be a trap.
The heavy, polished partition moved slightly. A face peered, moved aside, admitting him in. His hand on his sword, instincts honed, ears tuned to any suspicious sound, he entered, his eyes having difficulty adjusting to the semidarkness after the brilliance of the daylight outside. He could see silhouettes of the statues, the niches, the round shape of the stone altar, the dark figures of squatting people.
“Come closer, Honorable Warlord.” It came from the man standing beside the altar. He recognized the low, husky, somewhat derisive voice of the old Emperor’s First Son.
He neared slowly, paces excessively measured, still expecting to be attacked, ready to duck, leap aside, evade a blow or a shot that might pounce on him from those various dark niches and corners.
His eyes focused on the standing man. Someone was kneeling before him, a figure that looked like a woman. Her bright cotton skirt was spread around in a perfect half circle, and she leaned forward, supported by her arms, head thrust downwards, facing the floor, the beautiful silky hair cascading as an additional means to conceal. His heart leaped, gripped with some primitive, unrecognizable fear.
“That is close enough.” The husky voice took his attention from the woman, and he straightened his gaze, now able to see more clearly the broad face with its high cheekbones and the widely spaced eyes.
“What can I do for you?” he asked coldly, remembering that until declared otherwise this man was still a Revered First Son of the deceased Emperor.
“Oh, quite a lot, Chief Warlord. Quite a lot.”
He waited, looking at the man sternly.
“How about picking up your warriors and going back to the Palace to storm it, for me this time.”
He was taken aback by the cheek of the man. He hadn’t expected anything like that.
“I can’t do that,” he said, regretting that he had agreed to come. Amatl was right, it was dangerous and a complete waste of time.
“Oh, but you can, you know? You just don’t want to. You feel you have won and you don’t want to let your victory go.” The man shook his head, almost mocking in his sincerity. “I have to give you that. You did take my victory away. You did, and no one else. So all I can do now is convince you to help me, to see my side of the story.” His attention was taken by the woman on the floor, whose shoulders began to shake. Xicohtli leaned forward and grabbed her by the hair. “And what is the better way to convince someone than by offering him something he cherishes instead.”
The last words seemed to hang in the air. They rang in Tecpatl’s ears, resonating, growing louder and louder, filling his mind with so much dread his heart seemed to stop beating. He knew who the woman was even before the powerful pull revealed her face. He must have known it all along. How could he not recognize the natural grace of the familiar figure, the gentle outline of the arms, the wonderful waterfall of her silky hair. He should have guessed. It was just that he had been distracted by the calm audaciousness of the devious man. Or was it too inconceivable to grasp?
He stared at the bottomless depth of the huge eyes, so wide open they seemed to fill the pale gaunt face, plunging the rest of the gentle features into complete insignificance. The altar, the room, the crouching people had faded too. Only those eyes were left, enormous and glittering with unshed tears, reflecting no fear, only a bottomless sadness, and love. This unwavering love. Just like last night, when he was about to strike her.
He could hear a strange sound coming out of his throat and he strangled it back with an effort. He leaped forward, but his body could not complete the movement. The obsidian dagger pressed against her throat stopped it in midair. Her lips were moving, and he knew what she was saying, her eyes had told him how sorry, so very sorry, she was.
He tore his eyes off her with such an effort, his head span.
“Let her go,” he growled between his clenched teeth.
It was so quiet he could hear a fly buzzing beneath the stone altar.
“Why would I?” asked the broad man softly.
“Because I’ll kill you the moment she dies. I’ll chop you into twenty little pieces, but I’ll make sure your heart remains whole, so I can take it out of your chest and dump it onto this altar. And then, I will kill everyone present in this room, and I will not rest until every member of your families dies, and I will take their hearts out too. While the gods will refuse my offering of your filthy heart, they might consent to have those of your wives and your children.”
He could hear them gasping behind his back. Xicohtli’s face twisted and the arm pulling at her hair shook. The large eyes blinked, but did not drop, holding Tecpatl’s glare. The full lips tightened into a thin line.
“If I let her go, you will kill me anyway, but in killing her I will, at least, have some sort of revenge.” The padded shoulders shrugged. “And you can kill my wives. I’m not so foolish as to get attached to them. Let alone to pin it all on one insignificant woman of common origins. You could have made a great leader, oh Honorable Warlord, but for this soft spot of yours. It makes you weak. This woman makes you weak. If I kill her, I’ll be doing you a great service. I’ll be freeing you.” The lips quivered, stretched a little. “But it is not my intention. I want to use this soft spot of yours. You ruined my plans, but now you are about to make it right, to correct what you did. Because of this woman you will betray your Emperor, something all the pressure from your superiors did not manage to achieve. It’s too bad they underestimated you. I wish I had known how strong and yet how weak you are. This woman would have been in my hands before my father’s body was cool. She would not be harmed, oh no! Such treasure should be cherished. She was the means to our success. Too bad we didn’t know that.”
He knew Xicohtli was right. He’d known it all along. She was everything to him, she was life itself, and he hadn’t seen it, taking her presence for granted, unaware of how fragile it all was, how easily it could be taken away.
And he also knew that Xicohtli was correct about this other thing. His love for her, his need of her, were inappropriate, uncivilized, unfitting for the Chief Warlord of the Great Capital. She was to die now, and he should not feel as if the world were about to end, but he felt it all the same. He knew it would end.
He stared at the sharp obsidian pressed against
the gentle curve of her throat. It had left a mark already. Even in the dimness of the temple, he could see the gold of her skin taking a darker shade against the polished blade. He wished he could lean on something, because his legs were about to give way.
“Come on, Warlord. We don’t have the whole afternoon to stare. I’m sure you left your warriors with the instructions to attack should you not come out. So please, tell me. Will you help us? Because if you won’t, let us get on with it.”
The blade pressed harder, nicking the skin. As she winced, he could see drops of blood, her blood, glittering upon the glassy surface. He could imagine how it would splatter, pouring like spilled octli, thick and oily, but darkly red, while she would sag slowly, oh so slowly, and her eyes would still be with him, still seeing, still reflecting her thoughts, but blurring rapidly. He had seen many cut throats. He had cut many himself.
“No!” he cried, surprising himself. He saw his hand shooting forward, half commanding, half pleading. Was he not in control of his movements anymore?
“Good.” The pressure of the blade lessened. The other hand tugged at her hair, when she sagged a little. “So, now let us discuss our possibilities. What can you do for me?”
“What do you want?” He had to clear his throat but still the question came out so gruff he wasn’t sure he was the one to say it.
“Well, as I said, I would love you to take your men and go storm the Palace for me. Can you do that?”
“My warriors will not agree.”
“They seem to follow you quite blindly.”
“They are not following me blindly. They are grown men, and they are the best of our people. They follow the leaders who make sense to them, the men who can take care of them and make sure they are not wasting their lives for nothing. If I ask them to turn around and fight for the other side, because I decided so for my personal reasons, I will cease to be a worthwhile leader for them.” He felt the calming effect of being able to talk about something not related to her exposed throat.
“Well spoken. And yet I need you to do just that. Make up your mind and do it fast.”
The dagger pressed again, drawing more blood. Her shoulders convulsed. He could see her face twisting, lips pressing tight, trying to suppress a cough. He could not feel his palms anymore, so tightly were they clenched. She was going to die anyway, yet he could not watch her going in front of his eyes, choking in her own blood.
“I’ll do it.”
***
She felt the hand clutching her hair letting go. It caught her by surprise, taking away the much needed support. She reeled, but before she could lose her balance, the arm grasped her shoulder, digging painfully into her flesh.
“Come on, Chief Warlord’s little wife. Get up, get up.” The blade, pressed into her throat, moved a little, sliding toward her chin momentarily, pushing it upwards. “Get up, brave lady. Don’t lose your presence of mind just yet. We were impressed with your wife,” their tormenter added, addressing Tecpatl. “She is brave. No silly woman’s tricks, no begging. Impressive, very impressive.”
She could see his eyes, enormous in the paleness of his face. Their gaze was wild, not completely sane anymore. She’d never seen him like that. Not even the night before, when he was drunk and desperate with jealousy. Back then, he was angry and sad, but now? Now he was scared and haunted and about to give up. Oh, she had never, never seen him afraid or resigned. Not him. Never him.
The anger gave her the strength to get up. Heedless of the blade pressed under her chin now, indifferent to the arm digging into her shoulder, she stared at his trembling palms, the set jaw, the crust of the fresh cut crossing his swollen cheek, another thinner red line sliding down his neck. All the fresh bruises and scratches, and the way his skin hung vacantly upon his thinned cheekbones.
Her anger kept welling, turning into an uncontrollable rage. They hurt him, and they kept hurting him, now through her.
She clasped her fists tight and winced at the pain as Eek’s dagger cut into her skin. It was small and sharp, good polished obsidian, perfectly fit for a woman to carry.
She pushed it out, so her palm was now clutching the small handle, the lethal glassy point peeking out of her fist, expectant, urging her to proceed.
She didn’t think how to do it. Beside herself with anger and frustration, heedless of the larger dagger pressed against her throat, she whirled around, her arm raising high, moving in an arch, accumulating more and more power with the drive of her body.
It was startling how it jerked to a stop, the small blade buried deeply in the heavyset man’s neck. It went in with so little resistance she thought it would never stop.
She saw the thick arms shooting up in surprise. The dagger that was pressed against her throat dropped, clattering softly against the floor tiles.
Fascinated, she stood there, watching the large well-spaced eyes widening, gaping at her. The mouth opened and closed, but which sounds came out she didn’t know. Her ears may have picked a tone, but her mind was unable to comprehend it.
Then, the blood spurted, and the terrified eyes slipped out of her sight, and she felt herself falling, but Tecpatl’s arms were around her, pressing her tight against his chest, supporting her, and she knew she was safe. And when the trembling began, she didn’t care because his arms just pressed her closer, giving her strength, and the means to hide and wait for the uncontrollable sobbing to pass. In his arms it was alright to be weak for a moment, even for a whole day.
She also thought about the blood seeping from the side of her neck, and her jaw, drawing a burning line where Xicohtli’s dagger had cut her when she whirled at him. It felt wrong to smear it upon the pureness of his brilliant blue cloak.
Epilogue
She lay in his arms, snug in his embrace, her face comfortable against his chest. The sun shone through the opening in the wall, the merry midmorning sun. They didn’t care. They were not about to get up. The time of day did not matter. Not as it would have before. Before they had known how it would feel to lose each other.
She slid her palm along his stomach, then bent to kiss it. She could feel it rumbling under her lips.
“I’ll get my maid to bring us some food,” she laughed. “Can’t let you die of hunger. They would never forgive me. The Emperor would be furious.”
“Let him.” He pulled her on top of him and ran his palms through her hair, careful not to touch the crust of the glaring red that ran down her jaw line, circumventing her neck and sliding down her right shoulder. She appreciated that. The cut, though in no way dangerous, hurt, despite the various ointments smeared upon it.
She bent to kiss him, careful not to disturb his wounds as well. They were both in no condition to love wildly, she thought amused, although, as always, he paid no heed to his injuries, indifferent to any of the cuts unless it was threatening to rot. His cheek worried him a little, she knew. It was cut deeply and still oozed some smelly substance.
How do they put up with so many wounds? she asked herself, as she made herself comfortable on top of him, confident in feeling him stir. She had been cut only this once, and she would never want to undergo such an ordeal again. It hurt; the treatment no less than the wound itself.
She kissed him more ardently, her hands sliding along his chest, purposeful, seeking to entice, to arouse, to please. He reacted, pulling her closer, but she pushed him back, making him lie still and enjoy her touch with no interruption, loving him for his pleasure, and for hers.
Later they ate, still loitering between the clean cotton blankets, not about to get up. To set foot outside would mean to separate, even if for a little while, and they were not ready for that. Not yet.
She winced, nibbling on the slice of avocado.
“It hurts to chew,” she complained. “How long will it take for these cuts to heal?”
He laughed. “You are an expert on herbs. Make yourself another ointment.”
“I can’t. My husband keeps me busy in bed all the time.”
&
nbsp; “He really should get up and go about his duties.”
She grasped his arm. “No! Not yet.”
“Well, I suppose they’ll send for me when my absence becomes too obvious.” He devoured another tamale, then drank thirstily. “Your activities in bed make one thirsty.” He measured her with a glance, eyes twinkling. “If killing people makes you so ardent in love, I shall take you along on my campaigns.”
She winced, not ready to think about what had happened yesterday. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
He gathered her into his arms.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t joke about it. It’s just that you made me so proud. They never knew what you are made off, but I did, I always knew it. Twenty warriors, remember? The elite ones, if you ask me.”
She smiled faintly. “I was so stupid to fall into their hands in the first place. So desperately stupid.”
“What were you doing in the marketplace that morning, anyway?”
She shrugged. “I really don’t know. I was distraught and out of my mind with worry and all.” There were some things he should never, never, find out.
He watched her closely. “I can guess, you know?”
Her stomach turned.
“I know you.” He went on, lips twitching, his amusement spilling. “Tell me the truth. You wanted to show them all, me included, that no one locks you in the house. No one. Am I right?”
She laughed against her will, her relief welling. “Well, I didn’t like this edict of yours. That’s true.”
He shook his head, his face darkening. “I wish that night had never happened!”
“Me too.” She smiled and reached for his hand. “But it doesn’t matter. It is all in the past. And you are the hero of the Capital, and they all worship you. The whole city, not only your warriors. My maid told me what they said in the markets this morning.”
“A hero that spends his days in bed.”
“Extremely uncivilized!”
They laughed and proceeded with their meal.