Obsidian Puma (The Aztec Chronicles Book 1)

by Zoe Saadia

  The warriors slowed their step and he breathed with relief, welcoming the respite, not sure he would be able to keep up with them for much longer. The air kept swimming before his eyes, flickering with a light mist, and his legs felt as though made out of maguey, not firm enough to support him for real. But he was so tired! Since before dawn-break, it had been like that, pushing the dizziness and exhaustion away, tormented with hunger but paying it no attention, not counting on any food offering, not thinking how he would go on working without it. To keep himself away from courts and his family away from slavery was the first priority. He would manage somehow. He had to!

  Grateful for the pile of firewood that had been left near the shut doorway, he had stocked both braziers, having them blazing with red-hot fire by the time his master came in, nodding in grim approval. Then it was blowing the first load of powdered copper, a simple melt in a few smallish clay pots, something he was grateful for, as when the metal liquid had been ready, he managed to lift both loads and even pour their contents into their designated containers without faltering, breathless with the effort but successful. Had those been the usual midsized pots, he would have been in trouble. With the annoying dizziness and those wobbly limbs of his, he couldn’t possibly lift any of those.

  “Keep it up, boy. It’s not such a long walk now.” One of the warriors pushed him lightly, urging him to go on. Briefly, he wondered at their amiable ways. Wherever they were taking him – please not the courts, anything but that! – these people were surprisingly considerate, even polite. A wonder!

  The wideness of the glittering canal and the bridge stretching over it made him gap again, but it faded into complete insignificance at the sight of the Great Pyramid and the vibrancy of its colors. So impossibly high! He watched it towering behind another imposing building and the vastness of the walled square, with more pyramids surrounding it. The alley they turned into brought them toward another wall, this one plastered in brilliant shades, gilded at its upper parts, hurting one’s eye with the glitter of it. The opening they approached was guarded but unbarred. A few words and he had been pushed in, not violently but firmly. He wondered about it once again.

  “Where to?” puzzled one of his escorts in a low voice. “Not the main entrance, surely.”

  “Yes, the main entrance,” was the man’s laconic response. “The Palace’s servants will take it from there. Leave it to their administration to deal with.” There was a chuckle to the speaker’s voice.

  The dazzling green of the trees all around made Miztli miss the rest of the exchange, the radiant vividness of the flowerbeds, the perfection of the ornamented pathways. Dazzled, he stared, not watching his step anymore. The loftily soaring walls, the glistening stairs, so wide and polished they shone, the delicately illuminated hall adorned with gilded statues of a man’s height and more, paneled with glassy wood, the people who stared at him, the obvious discomfort of the richly dressed person who had been approached by his guards, a small army of equally meticulously clad aides hovering behind – all those were wasted on him, blending into a vibrant flow, too vivid and rich in detail to comprehend or try to process.

  “He’ll need to be cleaned,” was someone’s lofty conclusion, but he didn’t catch this person’s expression or looks. The blur of colors all around made him dizzy. “Get him to the redwood room and get the maids with the cloths to clean him thoroughly and dress in an appropriate way.” A pause. “Tell the kitchen maids to feed them. This one especially. He can’t be brought before the Revered One looking like that.”

  Then it was back to the moving, another bright room, this one cozily narrow, with a breeze coming in through the open shutters. Prettily dressed women, wet cloths, and bowls of splashing liquid, stripped but not caring, beyond embarrassment, the feel of the new clothing good, again unwarranted softness covering his shoulders, his feet rubbed vigorously, then ensconced in crude leather, this time even his heel. Like Tlemilli’s sandals, he reflected numbly, the dreamy sensation fading, banished by the tightening in his stomach. She counted on him to come back and find her. She risked so much, confronted her father, tricked the frightening man into leaving in order to help, trusting his promise, believing in him.

  Hands tugged at his shoulder, urging him back to his feet. He complied listlessly, aware of his surroundings now, indifferent to the incomparable beauty and luxury.

  “Please follow.” A good-looking middle-aged woman motioned him with her hand. But were they so impossibly polite here, from warriors to servants. Obediently, he followed. What else was there to do?

  Back in the statues-filled hall, a group of imposingly clad men was progressing toward the stairs and the brilliance of the outside, the headdress of one of them towering above the entire group, radiantly green. He followed it with his gaze. But were their high-soled sandals making a loud noise! Again, he wondered about his own surprisingly comfortable wear. Was he sticking around less than before? The lingering glance of another passerby, a man with a wide tray balanced neatly in his hand, informed him that he still did. Good for them. His guide pushed him hastily into another opening.

  “The workshop boy?”

  The exclamation made him forget his dazed musings. Blinking, he found himself staring, facing none other than the calmecac boys, both of them, squatting on two opposite mats, snatching greedily at the plate of tortillas that separated their seats.

  “I knew it had to do with our high-spirited royal pilli!” A careless wave of an oily palm invited him to join the feast. “Still didn’t expect to see your commoner face in the Palace, copper-melting boy. And dressed like a person this time. Nice work.”

  “What are you doing here?” mumbled Miztli, feeling called upon to say something, to respond to so much friendly chattering. The woman who brought him here dissolved in the dimness of the hall outside the opening.

  “Same as you, brother. Waiting for our fate to be decided upon. A rescue from more punishments or a deeper hole full of excrements to fall into? You name it and they may have it in store for us. We’ve been waiting here in this side-room forever by now, but before you showed up, they didn’t even think to offer us refreshments.” The well-defined eyes sparkled with mischief. “Bad hospitality.”

  “Would you shut up?” demanded the other one, Axolin, squatting with less comfort than his friend, his bandaged ankle folded awkwardly. “At least lower your voice!”

  Necalli made a face. “Help yourself to the mats and the food, working boy. You look like you need it.” The glittering eyes narrowed, turned serious. “That old craftsman went hard on you, didn’t he?”

  Nearing their cozily arranged corner, Miztli just shrugged. “And you?”

  “Did they?” His companions rolled their eyes in perfect unison, exchanging glances. “You must have fared easier than we did, working boy. There are no laws to govern your workshop, no one to flaunt your punishments before and make an example out of you.”

  “No noble father to disappoint either,” added Axolin bitterly, “to send messengers informing of his precious son’s unworthiness.”

  “They didn’t do that yet!” exclaimed Necalli, losing some of his good humor. “Maybe they won’t go so far if we behave. Old Yaotzin and even Revered Teohuatzin himself said nothing about that. ”

  “I bet they informed our fathers while we’ve been missing. You just don’t know it yet. When you are allowed to leave the school, you’ll have that stick waiting at home. Or plenty of boiling chili peppers,” he added after a thought, his grin crooked.

  Necalli was staring at the plate of tortillas, not amused anymore. “They didn’t,” he muttered in the end, pursing his lips stubbornly. “They wouldn’t be so silly as not to have yet another threat left hanging above our heads, to be used at their will.” His eyes flashed with dark anger, then cleared once again. “Sit down, workshop boy. Don’t hover there like a pretty maid not sure of her welcome.”

  That and Axolin’s snicker made Miztli drop onto the vacant mat and fast. But it was goo
d to be in this company again. Reviving, even. He reached for the nearest tortilla, still warm and oily, spilling between his fingers, dripping greenish stuffing, avocado for sure. His hunger exploded in force.

  “So what did this metal-worker of yours do to you all?” Necalli snatch another pastry greedily, yet his gaze lingered, searching in a way. “He had three culprits to deal with, more than our calmecac authorities, come to think of it. Poor man.” The twisting of the generous lips was impossible not to snicker at.

  “I don’t know what he did to the others.” He forced his shoulders into as casual lifting as he could manage, his insides again squashed by a stony fist, the devoured tortilla lying in there like a dead weight, revolting. “There was much yelling coming from the house.” He marveled at the sound of his own voice, so level. “Chantli must have had it the worst. He was yelling mainly at her when still out near the patio.”

  The calmecac boy’s back stiffened. “He has no right to punish her harshly. She did nothing wrong!”

  “He has every right, you know.” Again, Axolin, the voice of reason. Miztli felt like demanding from that one to shut up as well. “She spent a day and a night away from home. Think what your father would have done to your sisters if they did something like that. Mine would invoke every parental right there is in the law. In the best of cases, that non-existent sister of mine would be married off to the most meager villager with no fields to work.” His grin flickered grimly, not brightening the atmosphere. “It’s good that my father has only sons.”

  Necalli was staring at the diminishing plate. “She didn’t do anything wrong. We got carried by that stupid canoe and she was the bravest. Certainly the bravest out of her family representation,” he added with a snort.

  “Her father wouldn’t care about that.”

  “Didn’t you manage to see her today?” The scowling eyes were upon him again, demanding. “You must have seen her sometime during the morning. It’s high noon now!”

  “No, I didn’t,” tossed Miztli, incensed. He had his own troubles to deal with. He wasn’t Chantli’s keeper. “She wasn’t allowed to run around outside, obviously.”

  “But in the house…”

  “I’m not allowed in there.”

  The pointed eyebrows climbed up in surprise. “Why not?”

  To just shrug felt safer.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” insisted Necalli. “You can’t not be allowed in the house at all. You must eat and sleep somewhere, don’t you? Even slaves sleep inside houses and you are not a slave.”

  He clenched his teeth tight. “I am now.” It came out strangled, a gruff, muffled sound.

  Both boys were gaping at him, wide-eyed. He stood the incredulousness of their stares for another heartbeat, then dropped his own. It was disheartening, the depth of their surprise.

  “How? Why?”

  He studied the ornate doorway, wishing to spring to his feet and run out.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” insisted Necalli, forceful as always, not about to let go. “One doesn’t become a slave just like that. What did you do?”

  “Ran away with you all, absented myself for three days, didn’t do my work, caused damage.” The words spilled out monotonously, even dully.

  “What damage?” Axolin’s eyes were as narrow as cut on a tree bark.

  “The damage my absence has caused.” It pleased him how detachedly he was talking, with so little feeling. “It’s equal to a theft, a taking of goods, all this time that I was out and not working. In court, it counts as theft.”

  “A theft?” cried out Necalli, incredulous. “What nonsense!”

  “Who told you all that?” Axolin was squinting dubiously, one corner of his mouth tugging with a skeptical grin. “That craftsman of yours, I bet.”

  This time, Miztli felt like dissolving in thin air. Staring at the prettily ornamented tiles, he said nothing.

  “If your absence from the workshop could be considered as a theft, half of Tenochtitlan would be strangled or sold into slavery by now,” cried out Necalli. “No, two-thirds. Most of the city, everyone who didn’t feel like getting up with sunrise, took their time returning from a journey, got lost, or any other plentitude of reasons. It’s pure nonsense what you told us just now. Think about it!”

  He tried to do that, his mind buzzing, thoughts rushing around in silly circles, refusing to organize. There was much sense in what they said. Theft was a serious crime, punishable by death even back in his village, but how could one’s going away from his duties be considered a theft?

  “So he told you that you stole from him by going away for a few days without permission.” Axolin was arriving at his conclusions and fast, his eyes still narrow, lips twitching with the satisfaction of a hunter following a clear trail of footprints. “And to make it up to him, you will have to sell yourself into his slavery until the debt is paid. Did he tell you that?” There was a triumphant glitter to the boy’s eyes.

  Miztli found it safer to just shrug, taking his own eyes away again.

  “Well, it won’t work in your district’s court, I can tell you that,” contributed Necalli. “No judge in his right mind would agree to that claim.”

  “But were you paying attention to the old Axactzin’s class back when the man tried to drum some laws into our heads, brother.” Axolin’s laughter was healthy, his elbow making its way toward his friend’s ribs. “And here I was thinking you were busy snoring with your eyes open.”

  Necalli laughed as heartily. “It was boring, yes, but I remember some things.” His forehead furrowed. “Twenty ears of maize, no? Twenty ears of maize as the maximum cost of the stolen property to be sold into slavery until it’s paid. Or the culprit is strangled.”

  “Yes, I think it was that. Or maybe more. Maybe two twenties. Or maybe two baskets full of maize up to twenty ears each.” The taller boy waved his hands in the air. “Who can remember all this? We are to be warriors and leaders, not filthy scribes. When it’s my time to be an emperor’s most important adviser and a judge in this or that court, I’ll refresh my memory.” A snicker. “Then I’ll look up old Axactzin and ask him.”

  Necalli was guffawing as well, supporting his bandaged arm with his good one in a familiar gesture. “So don’t worry, brother.” The crinkling eyes focused on Miztli again, their wink unmistakable. “No judge would sentence you to that much-coveted slavery of yours. Not until you actually steal something. His hammer or whatever other tool your craftsman is fond of.”

  Miztli’s head reeled. “But it’s too late. I already agreed. I am his slave now. There is no way back from it.” He felt silly talking like that, in a breathless rush. They were staring at him again, their eyebrows arching in a ridiculously similar manner. “I agreed beforehand, so he won’t take me to the court. You don’t understand. He’ll do it, he meant what he said. This is the law. And then my family… my father… I can’t let it happen!”

  Necalli’s forehead was again wrinkling like an old blanket. “You are afraid to go to the court? But that’s so silly. The judges know their work. They are good judges, usually. And you can’t agree to anything without their involvement anyway. You can’t just start slaving on your or his say-so. It’s not lawful. How would you know when your debt is already paid? How would you determine the amount of what you owe? How would he?”

  “Yes, man. That’s what judges do. No smelly craftsmen, or traders, or anyone else, for that matter, can make or implement laws. That’s just ridiculous.”

  He tried to take it all in, his head hurting. “But I agreed already,” he muttered helplessly. “I can’t go back on my word.”

  “You can’t agree to anything on his say-so, you stubborn, thick-headed villager,” cried out Necalli, exasperated; yet his grin crinkled, taking the edge off of the offensive title. “What you agreed on wasn’t lawful. It doesn’t work like that in Tenochtitlan, even if in your village, you all may be selling yourself left and right if you feel like it, not stepping outside your houses to do that. Here
, it is different, and that annoying would-be owner of yours is a liar and a thief himself, stealing your freedom and making you agree to unlawful things. He promised you the judges would find you guilty, didn’t he? That they would strangle you right away?”

  He shrugged again, feeling incredibly stupid, wishing to break something on account of it.

  “What else did he promise?” demanded Axolin shrewdly. “You wouldn’t be cringing so fast if it was only about that strangulation. You are no cowardly Patli.”

  “He said my family would be sold into slavery to pay my debt after I’m strangled,” he muttered, the tiles of the floor gaining the entirety of his attention again, such pretty patterns.

  “What a lowly piece of excrement!” Necalli flailed his good arm in the air, its fist clenched. “After this Palace’s interrogation – if we survive it, that is – I’m off to visit that workshop of yours. Eh, Axolin? How about we talk to that brother of yours, the brood of that other mealy-mouthed fowl that is preceding your mother, eh? He knows his way around laws and rules, that one. He’ll intimidate that craftsman into paying Miztli half of his workshop in order to forget this whole thing.”

  Axolin was beaming. “Not a bad idea. Chichimitl might agree. He is the best of my brothers and this visit promises to be fun. He won’t miss something like that.”

  Miztli’s heart was making strange leaps inside his chest, beating too fast, threatening to jump out. “I… you don’t have to… it’s too kind of you two.” He licked his lips hastily, needing a gulp of water, desperately at that. “I… I’ll manage, somehow. I didn’t know. I thought that he meant what he said. I thought it was lawful. I… I don’t know why I didn’t think straight…” For the life of him, he could not admit to the bottomless fear of the last night, the choking quality of it, drowning in his own terror, helpless like a broken canoe in the rapids of the highland streams. Oh, but how vivid this memory was, how real, even now, half a day later and in the safety of the bright beautiful room, in the company of these boys, so light with their banter, so sure of themselves, set on helping him, eager to do this. But he didn’t deserve that, did he? “I just didn’t think. It was stupid of me. I… I thank you for telling me all this, for wishing to help…”