by Zoe Saadia
Yet the food brought to him afterwards, when the sun was relatively strong already, penetrating every crack in the cane-and-reed shack, refreshed him, and he found himself more attentive, even nodding halfheartedly when commanded to conform to his expected new duties, to repeat what had been required of him in general terms. Topped with the offer of water to clean himself and a neatly folded pile of pretty clothes of a sort he had never seen up close before, let alone was offered to wear, made him feel elated, nearly grateful, full of strength. Yes, he could watch some contest of would-be young warriors, to listen to the ruler of this other island preaching to his subjects bad things about Tenochtitlan, then repeat it all after being delivered back across the causeway. He would make Chantli help, he decided. She’d know how to reach her newly found friend, the spoiled snotty princess’s little brother, or if not, then she might be able to ask for the calmecac boys’ aid. After all, they were the ones to drag him into all this. There was no reason they should not wish to help at least by delivering clandestine messages. And if they didn’t, Chantli would make them, of that he was sure.
Trying to shake off his captor’s hand, not to succeed – a possibility too good to be true – but to make his point, he concentrated on the young men nearest to their vantage point, all impressive, spectacularly decorated individuals in their loincloths and short cloaks, their jewelry sparkling. Some were striding back and forth, restless and impatient, dangerously excited. Others exchanged exclamations, waving their weaponry, commenting on it, complimenting each other.
Fascinated, Miztli watched the nearest group of men comparing their slings, impressively long, tightly woven affairs, connected to wide pieces of leather to host their missiles comfortably, he presumed, having never seen such shooting devices before. People of his village used slings aplenty, simple maguey-woven strings with a widening base to hold the stone in, to help it remain still through the spinning until the desired speed was achieved. He remembered himself rotating anything that could hold in even the tiniest of rocks since being a small child, loving the sensation, proud of the accurate hits that he came to achieve aplenty with the passing of time. He was the best among the rest of the village boys, unarguable winner of every challenge. Even the older people commented on his shooting skills. Father, while preferring his good sturdy bow and meaty deer it might get, took his youngest on plenty of hunting missions, trusting him to shoot enough rabbits or birds for the rest of the family to enjoy.
Craning his neck, he tried to see better, the nearest man’s sling so long and prettily made, with such a sturdy base of decorated leather. And the missiles! Forgetting himself, he stared at the perfectly round ball one of the warriors was bouncing on his open palm, talking to his neighbor, shrugging in pretended indifference. Was it a stone polished to perfection?
“What are you staring at there?” demanded his guard, his grip tightening once again.
Clenching his teeth, Miztli shrugged and tried again to shake off the persistent grip, to no avail.
“If you try to do something silly…”
“I won’t!” He was so tired of all this! “I promised to do all this stupid listening and I’ll do it. Stop trying to break my arm!”
It came out in quite a shout, causing more than a few heads to turn at them.
“Shut up!” hissed the man, his grip not relaxing but squeezing harder, indeed set on checking his bones’ endurance. “One more word…”
“I’ll scream all I like if you won’t stop hurting me,” he answered in the matching hiss, this time careful to keep his voice low, as reluctant to draw attention as his captor was. What would he say to this well-to-do crowd if questioned? The spearmen, those who were pushing the more common crowds away, would be the first to beat him down with their spears, if not to impale him on them.
Standing the fury of the murderous glare, he forced his own not to waver, struggling to stay upright despite the hurtful pressure and the awkwardness of his own stance. People around them moved uneasily, bestowing reproachful glances of their own. The man next to them lifted his shoulders.
“Take your quarrels elsewhere,” he tossed, pursing his lips in an open disdain. “What manners!”
Miztli’s guard tensed dangerously but said nothing, turning his face away, his grip not relaxing. On the higher dais, people were stirring as well, the seated nobles and their entourage. In spite of himself, his eyes followed the tall figure in a long glittering cloak and a magnificent headdress strolling toward the edge of the high platform, as though about to address the crowded Plaza. This same Moquihuixtli – oh, but this time, the name popped into his head, when less needed – the questionable ruler of this other island? The one he was supposed to listen to carefully, remembering his words?
Two more imposingly clad figures moved forward, following their ruler, halting a pace behind. Miztli’s heart stopped all of a sudden. Frozen in dread, he watched the unmistakably stout form, standing with his bejeweled arms crossed and the massive legs wide apart, in such familiar fashion, towering above the crowds in the way he had towered above him, Miztli, only the night before, eyeing the crowding people as he had eyed the dubious prisoner, with a mix of an open suspicion and a healthy dose of a gauging calculation. From such a close range, it was easy to decipher this particular expression.
Aware of the cold ring tightening around his chest, Miztli fought for breath, struggling against the overpowering urge to dive into the crowds and be gone, in a headless run if need be, the hurtful grip of his current abductor and his dire promises or not.
“What?” the man was whispering, tugging at his arm violently. “What happened?”
Swallowing hard, Miztli forced his eyes off the dais, his mind numb and still in a panic but noting the details – the roaring of the crowds greeting their leader, the sparkling of the contestants’ weaponry, mainly spears and arrows, their chipped polished obsidian reflecting the rays of the sun fiercely, dangerously, swaying in the air; the way the strange girl on the lower dais watched not the gesturing ruler but the terrible man behind him, her eyes narrow, brimming with concentration.
“My brave people of Tlatelolco,” the ruler on the higher podium was thundering, his voice strong and high-pitched, resonating through the packed plaza, his hands spread wide. “Today we gather to watch our daring young men display their bravery and skill, our invincible men who, if called upon to wage war or defend their beloved city, would do so with their hearts and bodies strong and unyielding, and their spirits like that of godlike jaguars and pumas, unstoppable and mighty.”
The crowds and the competitors roared again, as though having one throat instead of many hundreds. How many people were packed on the pavement of this vast square? His eyes drifted beyond the gesturing ruler again, unable to listen. The man from the warehouse was frowning now, observing his surroundings with his arm shielding his eyes, as though looking for something. Miztli’s heart missed a beat once again. Could the man see him here, in such dangerous proximity, at the base of the podium upon which the dais was situated? Would he recognize him? What would he do then?
The human lake shifted, the wave of their movement reaching even this sheltered space, causing the spearmen to struggle not to let the crowds overrun the base of the podiums and the dais. He could hear people yelling, barking orders, clearing their way somewhere further ahead. The noblemen and women upon their elevated seats were sitting straighter now, craning their necks, trying to see better. Even the mighty ruler stopped orating, motioning with his right arm, indicating the direction of the growing commotion, smiling proudly, well satisfied. Both his followers reinforced the broad gesturing, the face of the man from the warehouse clearing momentarily, turning as satisfied as that of his sovereign.
Miztli found his own gaze drifting in the indicated direction, balancing on his tiptoes, curious in spite of himself. Where the shadow of the Great Pyramid did not reach, another podium now hosted a form, a statue that hadn’t been there before. Everyone was looking this way, it seeme
d, the warriors busy clearing a space around it.
“Brave Tlatelolcan warriors,” cried out the ruler upon the dais. “You have come here to practice the arts of war, to show your aim and your skill, to display your endurance and strength.” The man encircled the packed plaza with his gaze, arms spread once again, benevolent and encouraging like a proud father inviting his children to show their skill, sure of their success and achievements ahead of time. “This stone statue was made especially for you. It will test your skill with your slingshots, your aim, your prowess with your deadly weaponry.”
Another roar of approval, this time dominated by the contestants, those who were armed with the slings, assumed Miztli, watching the shooting devices that impressed him earlier. The proud owners were waving those in the air, well above the heads of the crowds.
“He whose aim proves the best and the deadliest will be declared the most outstanding warrior among you all,” cried out the man from the warehouse, his voice low but powerful, sending a new surge of panic up Miztli’s spine. But did he recognize this voice!
The Tenochtitlan beauty upon the lower dais shielded her eyes, scanning the plaza and the base of their podium with her gaze in her turn, her prettily full lips pursed with displeasure. When her eyes rested on him, she relaxed visibly, her proud head crowned with a glittering diadem, nodding imperceptibly, with grudging satisfaction. But this woman was as annoying as she was beautiful!
The angular girl, he noticed, was frowning, staring at the royal woman as well, her face twisting with distaste. When her eyes darted back to him, they were still frowning, but he was too busy to get incensed once again, distracted by the sensation of the crushing grip upon his elbow relaxing. A glimpse of his guard’s face showed him that this one was observing the dais of the ruler and the men upon it as well, the standing dignitaries. Seizing upon a chance, Miztli pulled his arm away, moving it to return the feeling.
The ruler was speaking again, gesticulating vigorously. But this man liked using his hands! He reminded Miztli of that boy from their village, the one who could not say a single word without outlining it in the air. To mimic this one was always fun, the surest way of getting hearty laughs from everyone around.
“The best shooter among you will be rewarded by your Emperor in person.”
In what way? wondered Miztli, feeling better by the moment, out of his captor’s clutches, even if temporarily. Was there a way to slip away, to disappear in this lake of people, everyone busy and gaping, not caring about foreign boys or their belonging in this Tlatelolcan crowd? Why should he care about their contests, even if spectacularly large, or their rulers’ speeches, to be eager to run and report it to some royal boys of Tenochtitlan Palace?
The orating ruler stopped waving and turned around, strolling back toward his lavishly decorated seat. His followers seemed to be doing the same, yet the scary man from the warehouse seemed not to be in a hurry, hovering near the edge, scanning the crowds below his feet, his gaze sliding up toward the lower dais, lingering upon none other than the displeased beauty, measuring her thoughtfully as though trying to find an answer. Then, as though stimulated, the penetrating gaze slid downwards and straight toward them, sparkling with triumph. At the same moment, Miztli felt himself yanked once again, pulled backwards, stumbling into a man standing next to him, treading on someone’s sandaled feet.
“Come, quick!”
Fighting to keep his balance, even though it was difficult to fall flat in such a melee, he followed for some time, finding it easier to escape the new grip, not as firm or as uncompromising as before, not in this more densely packed part of the crowd. Here the smell was stronger, an odor of sweating bodies clad in plain maguey cloaks or even without any such adornment at all. Thrilled with the possibility of simply bolting away, he fought his watchdog’s repeated attempts to recapture him fiercely, not about to be dragged anywhere now, not after being so close to his freedom as he was.
The man cursed venomously, but so did the crowding people, pushing them with their elbows, cussing with much spirit, eager to see the happenings upon the plaza, from where deafening sounds of shattering stones and crushing rocks came in a powerful surge.
“You stupid half wit,” his former abductor was hissing, grabbing the side of Miztli’s cloak after a less successful attempt at capturing his elbow, which Miztli made sure to land into his attacker’s ribs instead. It was a good blow that resonated through his own battered body, but it made his pursuer waver and his attempt to seize any more of his parts became more careful.
“Stop it, you stinking frog-eaters.” A mountain of a man shoved them away with enough force to have them crashing into the packed bodies to their left, cramming some of them into roughly laid stones of a crumbling wall. Curses erupted everywhere, colorful in their ferociousness and venom.
Struggling against a possible fall now, elbowed and pressed from all around, Miztli tried to push his way toward the dusty stones, momentarily frightened. If he fell in such a melee, he would be done for, trampled or worse.
Clawing his way up the half-crumbled wall, he somehow managed to gain a foothold, perching along with other improvising observers, momentarily relieved. In the immediate proximity of his awkwardly sandaled feet, a gushing lake of heads was splashing forcefully, the brawl they had caused progressing at full speed, with much spirit, heedless of its original reason. From his elevated position, he could see people further away watching the competition, like him climbing upon every possible obstacle to see better. Yet some were clearing their way in this direction, very determined. A group of men, maybe three or more, their eyes focused and their faces grim.
Someone screamed, and Miztli’s eyes leapt toward the portly form of his former captor, crashing his fist against someone’s jaw, shoving his way toward his wall, swearing venomously. About to leap toward the safety of the other side, whatever might wait for him there, he glimpsed the pushing newcomers reaching the tussle, diving in with single-minded determination, like a canoe spreading lake’s waters, relentless and implacable. In less than a heartbeat, they were upon his pursuer, colliding with the bulky man in force, his scowling face registering a childlike surprise, reflecting in the unnaturally round eyes and a gaping mouth to match. In another heartbeat, the unseemly stunned face disappeared, plummeting between the agitated people and their feet, putting up no fight whatsoever.
For another fraction of a heartbeat, Miztli just stared, aghast, before his body threw itself over the wall, following his instincts rather any thoughtful reaction, landing on the vacancy of the polished stones, pell-mell, with his hands and feet, terrified beyond reason. Who were these people? Scrambling up frantically, he didn’t pause to look behind, racing along the wall and in the direction of the deafening noise. Back toward the noble parts of the plaza, his petrified senses urged him, back where people behaved more reasonably.
He could hear the shouts, the heaviness of their footsteps resonating against the cracked stones – or was it just his imagination? The low wall ended abruptly, with the clamor rising, the deafening bedlam of roaring shouts and explosions of smashing stones and shattering pieces. To his left, the royal podium with both daises could be seen clearly, still an island of relative tranquility as opposed to the rest of the spacious square, towering above the pushing crowds.
His heart pounding, he paused, less dismayed than back among the brawling riffraff. People were pressing here and jumping to see better, but not as wildly or as violently as back by the wall. Was his former abductor still searching for him? Was he alive to do so? He shuddered. Who were those people, the ones who had barreled in to confront this man specifically, clearly going after him? And maybe him, Miztli, too. Were they connected to the nobleman upon the royal dais?
Think, he ordered himself, think. The causeway, he needed to find the way back to the causeway. To cross it and find Chantli, ask for her help at finding that calmecac boy, the reasonable one of the two. He might be able to think of something.
The thought
of coming back to the workshop he preferred to ignore entirely. There was no way to pacify old Tlaquitoc, to try to explain or reason. What would the old metalworker do? Nothing pleasant, one could be sure of that. Would he throw his absent apprentice out? That would be not such a bad development, but Father’s disappointment might be too great. Oh mighty deities, but how to make it all right again?
The warriors guarding the royal dais were pushing the pressing crowd away, using their spears as though they were poles. He turned back toward the low wall, then his blood froze once again. One of the men who had accosted his kidnapper was posing at the top of his previous perch, looking straight at him, gesturing vigorously.
His mind went numb all at once. The noises receded. As if in a dream, he whirled forcefully, barreling his way into the packed wall of people, oblivious of reason. The spears blocked his way, pushing him roughly with their wooden parts, shoving him aside. He resisted their force, his mind running amok. These people, they were coming! They were after him, and not to kidnap, his panicked senses told him. They wanted to knife him just like they did to that other man!
The spearman was yelling at him, threatening. He could not understand his words, but the meaning was clear, related through the furiously twisted mouth and eyes. Behind his back, he could feel people pushing. His pursuers already? Did they move through the crowds as though there was no one there, so forcefully and with such ease?
He tried to sneak past the guarding warrior by faking a movement toward the other side. It worked to a degree, as the man lurched at the same direction, but as he charged past, another warrior’s javelin shoved into his side, sending him crashing ahead and into the space they were trying to protect from his intrusion.