Young Jaguar, The

by Saadia, Zoe

  “Is there not?” She straightened up and tossed her head high. “When you kidnap people do they usually take it kindly?”

  He was taken aback. “Please,” he said, and there was a trace of an actual pleading in his voice. “There is no need to make it an unpleasant experience. I’m sure no harm will come to you.” He hesitated. “Please follow me. You are about to meet very revered persons, which is a great honor even for the wife of our Chief Warlord.”

  “Is my husband there?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “I assumed so.”

  The path twisted along the alley of tropical trees, and she breathed the fresh morning air, inhaling deeply, strangely calm.

  A slight odor of smoke reached her nostrils. She looked back and saw the Palace’s conical roof looming beyond the towering trees. It seemed that the burning aroma was coming from there. She remembered what Eek had told her about the fighting in the Palace.

  “Is my husband still alive?” she asked, completely calm.

  “I don’t know, lady.” The man shrugged. “Maybe yes.”

  She nodded. The filthy old uncle of his had not kept his end of the bargain.

  Her hand tightened around the sharp obsidian. Would she manage to kill him before she died?

  The building was small, but two levels high, as conical as any pyramid. They mounted the marble stairs, and entered a beautiful hall with as many carvings and statues as any temple would display. It all was there – the niches, the curtains, the round polished stone in the middle, the golden statue of a goddess. Which one? She never learned to tell their gods one from another. The smell was also there, heavy and nauseating.

  Near the entrance, a group of men squatted upon the mats, arranged in a half circle in front of a woven stool. They turned to watch her approach.

  The man upon the stool straightened up. He attempted to look calm and composed, but she saw that his pose disclosed nervousness – the tensed shoulders, the sagging back. He looked up, and there was surprise upon the broad, high-cheeked face.

  Leaning forward, the man peered at her. She answered his gaze, sorry she hadn’t picked the best of her clothes on this particular morning. She didn’t want to die as a commoner.

  The thick figure upon one of the mats rose to his feet.

  “What’s this?” asked the deep, familiar voice. “Why is this woman here?”

  The warrior beside her tensed. “I thought…” he began. “I thought she might be of use… this is the Honored Warlord’s Chief Wife…” He quailed under the stern gaze.

  “I know who she is!” barked the Uncle, clearly upset now. “Did she come here on her own?”

  The silence ensued.

  “Take her back! We do not fight with women and children.”

  There was a pause. She held her breath.

  Then, as the warrior lowered his head and began turning around, the man upon the woven stool raised his hand.

  “Wait! Let her stay.” The silence deepened. “Until we know the situation.”

  “But, Revered One, we cannot hold noblewomen as hostages. It’s against any of our customs.” The Uncle hesitated. “Our families are sacred.”

  Xicohtli nodded. “I agree, my most praised adviser. Our customs are wise. Yet, this circumstance is exceptional. We must do everything we can to prevent the war from spilling into the city. Her husband is unpredictable. We may still need his cooperation.” The well-kept, broad palm rose again. “Do not argue with me.” He turned toward the warrior. “Take the lady to the other room and make sure she is comfortable.”

  She was glad her feet enabled her to walk steadily. Praying that she would make it as far as the other room, she passed the glittering stinking altar, her head high.

  Was it possible he was still alive and fighting? Her heart beat wildly, and her palm clutched the small dagger so tight she felt it cutting her skin.

  The smell of the burning wood increased and now she could also hear a noise of some sort, as if people were screaming and killing each other at a great distance.

  Chapter 18

  Billowing smoke covered the eastern part of the building like a dark veil. It marred the freshness of the morning air, blurring one’s vision, choking in its thickness.

  Fascinated, Atolli watched the flames licking the plastered walls above the lower balcony, as though angry with their inability to consume it, to reach the terrace above. He remembered climbing it last night.

  “Will they manage to put out the fire?” he asked a nearby warrior.

  The man shrugged. “I hope they will. Think about all this splendor melting in the fire.” He narrowed his eyes. “Curious, how the right side of the Palace caught fire.” He shook his head and glanced at Atolli. “Come on, Jaguar Boy, let’s move.”

  They were all calling him that now, after Cuatl had started the fashion. His ability to climb and sneak in and out undetected had earned him this nickname. By now, they all knew he was the Warlord’s son, good at fighting but unruly and wild otherwise. They eyed him with the amusement of mature warriors detecting potential in the young inexperienced cub. So Jaguar Boy it was.

  He didn’t mind. The nickname was an honorable one, even flattering. And they did arrange for him to have an obsidian sword to replace the club after the initial fighting on the Palace’s stairs. His father was too busy for that, leading the attack, once again a magnificent man of unlimited authority. He had watched him covertly and swore to be more like him in the future.

  They proceeded around the corner, but there were no more enemies left. Xicohtli’s people were either killed or had fled, although the would-be-emperor himself was nowhere to be seen. Some of the advisers were also missing.

  “We have yet to comb the Palace’s grounds,” said Cuatl, nearing them. He was also elated and full of hope. He was not an elite warrior, but just a man from the Emperor’s personal guard, yet after these events he hoped to be noticed by the Warlord, en-route for the much-longed-for promotion into the exclusive ranks of the best people in the Empire.

  “Maybe he is still in the Palace, hiding,” suggested Atolli.

  “Don’t think so. They rounded up most of his people and the family members. No one wanted to go down in the fire.”

  He thought about Chictli. “What will happen to his family?”

  “Nothing. What should happen to them? Women and children and slaves have nothing to do with it.”

  “They will put Xicohtli to death, no?”

  Cuatl’s massive shoulders shook with disdain. “Not sure about that. The Emperor may want to hush the matter. He doesn’t want all our neighbors and allies hearing about the trouble. It may give them ideas. So he might as well pretend that nothing happened. Xicohtli will be sent to exile. Maybe to the same Coatepec he was destined to go to, anyway.”

  “Where are the survivors?”

  “I think around the main entrance.”

  Glancing at the upper terrace, Atolli tried to curb his impatience.

  “Wonder if anyone got caught in the fire,” he muttered, watching the slaves rushing about the lower balcony, hauling up pots and buckets of water. “I’ll go and take a look.”

  Raised eyebrows were his answer.

  Rounding the corner, he saw groups of blue cloaked warriors spreading out into the gardens, ignoring the wide, groomed paths. The hunt for Xicohtli had begun.

  He watched his father, his torn dirtied cloak replaced with a new one, leading the main group, brisk and determined, his old self, distributing brief orders and gesturing curtly.

  His heart squeezed with a surge of wild pride. The man had prevented this revolt, resolutely and single-handedly, standing up against so many important persons of influence, worshipped by his warriors, the best of the nation.

  Oh how lucky he was, to have such a man for a father, he thought, sinking deeper into the shadows, unwilling to be noticed. Hunting down the Emperor’s brother was not part of his plans; he had something better, more urgent to do.

  When
the warriors were gone, he drifted toward the huddled survivors. Wild looking, disheveled and dirtied, scared beyond reason, they were sobbing or crying openly, or staring at the unmarred façade of the main entrance.

  He scanned their faces. No, the haughty princess was not among them, he saw with a surge of relief. He didn’t want to find her here, weeping and mourning with this pitiful crowd. But then, where was she?

  He halted a slave that came down the stairs, soot-smeared and clutching an empty bucket.

  “Is there anyone left in there? Maybe upstairs?” he asked.

  The slave eyed Atolli suspiciously, clearly unable to place the obsidian sword with the cloak-less, scratched, dirty owner of the exclusive weapon. Finally the man shrugged, careful not to offend someone who might be of importance.

  “Some people are still up there,” he said.

  “Anyone of the royal family?”

  “Yes, of course. Mostly those.”

  “The First Son’s family too?”

  “I really don’t know, Master. I’m assigned to the downstairs terrace.” With an apologetic glance the man rushed off.

  So, she might still be up there. He headed for the main entrance, careful not to run into someone who knew him, knowing that most of the warriors were now busy searching the gardens.

  Mounting the stairs, the way he had done only a few dawns ago, melting into the crowds, unnoticed and uninvited, he dove into the stench and the suffocating dimness of the main hall.

  Smoke pounced on him, and although the heat was bearable, it enveloped him heavily, stinging his eyes, pressing against his lungs as he progressed. He contemplated leaving his sword, having no girdle with which to attach it comfortably. Deciding against it, he rushed on, trying to remember the layout of the Palace.

  The wooden beams groaned as he ran up the marble stairs. Those were still unharmed, but the lining of the walls creaked ominously, as if trying to warn him.

  He coughed and halted for a moment to rub the tears out of his eyes, wishing he had carried a bucket of water like the rest of those fighting the fire, not to douse the flames, which did not reach this second floor yet, but to toss it down his throat to quench the burning sensation.

  It was relatively quiet upstairs, most of the frenzied activities conducted on the first troublesome floor. Still the smoke in the lined corridors was thick.

  He coughed, his instincts urging him toward the spark of the outside. He remembered racing down these corridors only a few evenings ago – another lifetime as it seemed to him now.

  The terrace he had climbed yesterday beckoned. He burst out, gulping the fresh air.

  When he looked around, he gasped. She was standing there, clutching the railing, exactly the same as last night. Had she never left?

  No. He remembered her pushing him away and running into the darkness of the doorway, angry with him for forcing on her that marvelous, breathtaking last kiss.

  There were also other differences. No wonderfully fresh, inspiring storm was thundering all around, but relentlessly malicious flames shook the dry air, filling it with stinking smoke. Chictli’s outfit was also different, her clothes wrinkled and smeared with soot, her hair askew. And her eyes! The large, oval eyes held no trace of the former haughtiness and amusement. They stared at him with such loathing and hatred, he fought the urge to take a step back.

  “Get out of here, you traitor!” she hissed. “Get out of my sight before I call my father’s warriors and order them to chop you into a thousand little pieces.”

  He watched her, rigid and tense. To his left someone was wailing. He glanced there, welcoming the distraction. The plump form of Kaab was huddled under the railing, curled into a sobbing ball.

  “You filthy, uncouth, stinking traitor, you half-breed, you savage, you filthy piece of dirt!” She almost spit with rage, her face twisted, but still beautiful, the fierce, uncontrollable rage suiting it, attractive in its wildness.

  “Listen,” he said as calmly as he could. “You have to get out of here. If they don’t manage to put out this fire, you’ll be trapped up here.” He took a step forward.

  Fists clenched, she moved closer. “Get out, get out of my sight now!” Her nostrils widened, trying to take enough breath. “I swear I will kill you. I’ll do it myself and I will take great pleasure in doing it.”

  One palm came up, clutching a dagger. It was small and of a sort he had never saw before. The thin blade sparkled darkly against the midmorning sun.

  “Chictli, you have to let me take you out of here,” he said, his heart pumping madly. “When you are safe out there, you can hate me all you like.”

  The polished obsidian sparkled when she threw herself at him. He had no difficulty deflecting the blow, her wrist so delicate and fragile, so easy to hold against. The nails of her other hand sank into his chest, and he had to drop his sword in order to remove them. Pinning her arms to her body, he pressed her against his chest.

  “Please,” he said, trying to control his own agitation. “Let me take you out of here. Please, stop trying to kill me. I don’t want to hurt you.” With his free arm, he tried to wrestle the small dagger from her hand. She clung to it desperately, wriggling in an attempt to break free. “Please, don’t make me hurt you.”

  He pressed the delicate bones, and she gasped and loosened her grip. The dagger fell onto the floor, clattering against the cold marble. He kicked it away.

  “Chictli, listen to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. I know I let everyone down, you and my father and everyone. I know it and I don’t expect you to forgive me.” She was still fluttering in his arms, but now he could feel her beginning to sob. “I will never bother you again, I promise. Just let me take you outside, away from this fire. Then I will never come near you, I promise you that.”

  Suddenly, her body went limp in his arms. Her face pressed against his chest.

  “I hate you, I hate you so much,” she sobbed, pressing closer. “You ruined it all. How could you? I trusted you, my father trusted you, his warriors, everyone. How could you?”

  His chest felt as if about to burst.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. Even now, matted with soot, it still smelled of rosewater along with the odor of fire. “I didn’t mean to betray you and your people. I just couldn’t leave my father with all this mess. I would never do this to you, to you of all people. I wish I could do something to make it right.”

  She was calming down, snug in his embrace.

  “It’s all over, isn’t it?” she asked after a while, raising her face up to his, eyes sparkling with tears. “Is my father dead?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, fighting the urge to kiss her. “I hope not. They may want to hush the affair, you know? So maybe he will just go to Coatepec as planned. As if nothing had happened.”

  “I can’t believe it!” she said through her clenched teeth, breaking away from his embrace. Shoulders sagging, she went back toward the railing. “Out for Coatepec? I can’t believe it. It is over. ”

  He picked up his sword. “Come. I can’t leave you here.”

  “Go away,” she said tiredly. “I will not be rescued by you. If it’ll make you feel any better, go down and send someone else up here.”

  He stared at her for a heartbeat, then began turning around.

  “Enjoy your drab little life in the shadow of your great father,” she called out, when he stepped into the smoke of the corridor.

  “Thank you. I will,” he muttered, the familiar irritation returning, filling the emptiness spreading inside his stomach.

  ***

  “Do we storm this place?” asked Amatl, eyeing the small temple dubiously.

  “No, not yet.”

  Tecpatl felt his elation welling. Was it almost over, at long last? The rebels were being put down, the Emperor was safe, his son safe and proven braver and more efficient than he could have hoped for. His warriors had not betrayed him, and he had led them bravely and wisely and together they had s
aved the day.

  He suppressed a smile. These two hectic days that had almost driven him crazy, had proved to be of some use after all. He did prevent this attempt to overthrow the lawful Emperor, he and no one else. Tezozomoc was well aware of it, and he would reward his faithful Chief Warlord.

  Reward with what? Well, probably with many more worthwhile commands, to take his warriors wherever he liked. The wars against the fierce Mayans would be great to re-open. But first, home!

  He frowned, remembering the last night. He had been drunk, and he could hardly remember what transpired, but surely he did many stupid things, said words that should not have been uttered.

  He shifted uneasily, remembering his suspicions, his accusations. She was surely not guilty of anything. As soon as this matter ended, he would rush home. He’d tell her how sorry he was, and they would forget all about it.

  “Pick a few warriors and go up there. If they will let you in, tell them we don’t want to harm them. Tell them to come out peacefully, so we can escort them to see the Emperor.” He hesitated. “I want it to be you, someone of importance. It’ll make them feel better. After all, some of them are quite revered in there.”

  The veteran warrior nodded.

  “In the meanwhile I’ll put our archers and slingers all around this place. Just in case.”

  He watched the blue-cloaked figures mounting the stairs, wishing Xicohtli would hurry. Damn stupid of the would-be-emperor to hide in this forsaken temple. This place could be stormed so easily.

  He measured the sun, seeing it was already nearing zenith. The smell of the burning wood was not as strong here, in the middle of the royal gardens. Still it was present. He hoped they would put the fire out quickly. Had he waited a little longer it would have been completely unnecessary to ignite anything. He had acted recklessly, rushing out to do something so dangerous, but then he hadn’t known his warriors were so close.

  He could see Amatl talking through the slightly opened screens. It took them some time. What were they arguing about?

  When the tall veteran turned around and descended the wide stairs, he seemed unusually upset.