Young Jaguar, The (16 page)

Tecpatl’s fist smashed into the nearest man, sending
him sprawling.

“Wake up your master, now!” he bellowed at the
second slave.

But Amatl was already in the spacious room, armed
with his sword and ready to fight. Blinking, he stared for a heartbeat, taken aback.

“What happened?” he muttered.

Relieved to see his aide at long last, Tecpatl
relaxed a little.

“We have to hurry. Get those good-for-nothing slaves
of yours to bring clean water and some cloths. I need to change too, and to
wash up. Can’t go to the Palace looking like this. In the meanwhile, you’ll
have to go and rally all our men. All of them! When you are done, bring them to
the Palace. And be very, very quick. They have to be there before the sunrise.”

 He could hear someone gasping. A woman stood in the
doorway, clutching at a colorful blanket wrapped around her.

Amatl whirled at her. “Get your maids to bring
things, to wash the Warlord’s wounds. Hurry.”

Tecpatl brought his palm to his cheek. It was still
wet, pulsating with pain. “Yes, I have to stop the bleeding. And to wash up, as
quickly as possible. Ask her to bring me a new loincloth and a cloak. Any cloak
will do.”

“The Second Wife is no good with herbs, but she has
a maid who knows those things.”

Tecpatl’s stomach twisted.
His
wife was good
with herbs. She was good with everything.

He pushed her out of his mind. Not now. She’d have
to wait for the Palace’s problems to be solved.

Amatl kept staring at him. “Who were the ones to
attack you?”  

“Xicohtli’s people.”

“They are getting bold.”

“You have no idea how serious the situation is. Many
advisers are siding with the First Son, and more than a few warriors,
apparently. Not only Xicohtli’s personal guard.” His stomach twisted again,
remembering who was now a member of the would-be-emperor’s guard. He pushed
Atolli out of his mind.

Amatl’s wife hurried back, followed by her maids,
all women disheveled, their robes messed.

“Please, Honorable Warlord, please sit,” the woman
whispered, her broad face pale, eyes frightened.

Square and short of stature, she possessed a certain
charm that made one relax in her vicinity. Tecpatl sank onto the offered mat,
suddenly aware of his bottomless exhaustion. His whole body ached, and his
limbs were scratched and bleeding too. When the maid finished washing his cheek
and moved down toward his neck, he winced. Apparently it was also cut, if only
slightly.

He began trembling, realizing suddenly how close to
death he had come this particular time, how unprotected his family would remain
if he had died under such circumstances. The Emperor would be removed for sure,
his enemies ruling the Capital.

Amatl came out, fully dressed.

“How long will it take you to bring our men to the
Palace?”

“Given that most of them live in this neighborhood,
it won’t take much time. After your speech yesterday, they won’t dare to make
trouble.” The man crossed toward the door. “Warlord, I would urge you to stay
here and rest while I gather our men. I’ll bring them here, and then you should
lead us to the Palace.” He shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I
would rather you not go to the Palace all by yourself. Xicohtli’s warriors may
still be out there, looking for you. All of them will be trying to hunt you
down now. If you reach the Palace they are all dead men.”

The maid knelt before him, offering him an empty
bowl.

“Your wound… it has to be washed with urine. Would
you please fill the bowl, Master?”

He was too tired to get up. “Just wash it with water
and put some of your ointments on it so it won’t bleed,” he said tiredly.

Sakuna would handle it much better. She would have
special herbs to put away the pain, and the touch of her fingers would never
hurt that much. He might still have enough time to go home, to talk to her, let
her take away his pain, the pain in his heart as much as the pain of his
wounds.

He looked up tiredly. “Just go and organize our men.
I have to reach the Palace as quickly as I can. The Emperor may be in danger.
He should also be warned as to what is happening, before a horde of his best
warriors descend upon him unannounced.”

Chapter 15

The storm was over. Atolli turned around and buried
his head deeper into his blanket, listening to the eerie silence that now
dominated. The straw mat rustled under his stomach, adding to the loud
breathing of the sleeping figures all around him.

He shut his eyes tight and tried to empty his head off
any thoughts that might frighten away that elusive sleep. He was dead tired,
and he needed to get some rest. Whatever tomorrow held at stake, he wanted to
face it rested and at his best.

What will happen
? he asked himself for the
thousandth time. Would they stop lingering in the Capital and start moving for
Coatepec?

He wished they would. He needed to get away from
this place – the Palace, the city, his family.

He pressed his face into the crude surface of the
mat. He would never be able to face his family again, never! Not after
betraying them like that. How could he explain to them that he hadn’t meant to
do this; that it had happened without him noticing.

And what if Chictli had not told him everything?
What if they did intend to get rid of his father?

Chictli! Another worry. He shouldn’t have kissed her
like that. She was really angry at him now, and with a good reason. That last
kiss he had forced on her, and she was no market girl. She was the First
Daughter of the Emperor’s brother who was about to become an Emperor himself.

He cursed and turned around once again. Everything
he did, he did wrong. Only a few dawns ago he had been the best student in his
calmecac
,
his life pleasantly organized, his future bright. And now, now he was in the
middle of a maelstrom, his life out of control and going in all sorts of wrong
directions.

He clenched his teeth and buried his head deeper
into the soft cotton of the blanket.

He may have drifted to sleep after all, as when he
turned around once again, feeling he had not slept at all, the mist flowed into
the room, bringing along a delightful freshness. Nearby a voice was whispering,
pressingly, urgently. Someone was urging someone else to get up.

The other person stirred and murmured.

“Shh!” hissed the first one. “Don’t ask questions;
just come to the leader’s room. I’ll get the rest.”

His eyes opened just a fraction, Atolli followed the
figure of the warrior bypassing his mat and crouching before the nearby one.

“Chapol, wake up.”

“Is it happening?” The warrior nearby Atolli was
wide awake with an admirable swiftness.

“More than that. Come out quickly. I’ll get the rest
of the groups’ leaders.”

“Is the Warlord dead?”

“It’s not that simple, so just come.”

The man went for another crouching figure, while
Atolli’s neighbor sprang to his feet, re-tying his breechcloth as he ran,
slipping carefully between the sleeping warriors.

Atolli felt his heart coming to a halt, then leaping
wildly inside his chest. It thundered in his ears, interrupting his ability to
hear more, to listen to the whispering of the first warrior, crouching now
beside another mat.

He pressed his palms against the crude surface of
his mat and was grateful for the blanket covering most of his face. Laying perfectly
still, he tried to make his breath as regular as he could, afraid they’d come
to wake him, too.

They did not. The rustling and the whispering went
on for some time, then the spacious room returned to its quietness.

He waited, listening to the snores of the remaining
warriors. He could hear the first hesitant chirps of the birds down in the
gardens. Raising his head carefully, he watched the multitude of mats and the
people sprawling upon them, peaceful and undisturbed. But for the absence of
the warrior on the nearby mat, he might have thought he had dreamed the whole
thing.

Getting up quietly, he tied his loincloth, still wet
from his night’s adventures. It clung to his body unpleasantly, making him
shiver with cold. He didn’t pause to put on his sandals. Barefoot and silent,
he slipped into the brightening mist of the gaping corridor.

The quietness enveloped him as he progressed down
the hall. No whispering, no stirring. Then he saw a small light flickering. It
came from under one of the doorways, yet, the wooden partition was shut tight,
and he could hear nothing but muffled voices.

He calculated hurriedly. He had been walking the
corridor that was running along the outer wall. Turning around, he made his way
back to the sleeping hall and out into the chill of the terrace.

The sky was brightening as he went over the railing,
its marble touch familiar, his legs finding no difficulty locating the
by-now-well-known ledges. How many times had he climbed it in the past few
days?

Yet, this time he didn’t go up. Fingers clutching at
the slippery stones, he trod along the wall, careful and as soundless as a
jaguar on his warpath.

His effort had paid off. The muffled voices carried
clearly out of the opening in the wall.

“We are not ready,” said an agitated voice, a trace
of a panic in it too clear to miss.

“Who says we are? But we are left with no choice.
The moment the Warlord’s warriors are here, we are all done for.” The voice
paused. “Listen to me, all of you. We can rush out and try to make it happen,
even if it wasn’t the way it had been planned. Or we can wait here and lose it
all. We cannot pretend that nothing happened. Not anymore. Not after the
attempt on the Warlord. Such a miserable failure! Stupid manure-eaters! Seven
warriors, led by the best of our men! Bested by one drunken bastard.”

“He is the Warlord because he is that good, no?”
muttered someone.

“They should have shot him from a great distance.”

“I heard they tried that too. The annoying piece of
dung just ducked. The gods are watching over this man.” He paused again. “Damn
bad luck! They were supposed to wait for him to fall asleep, but our great
noble leader was really mad with his barbarian wife. So he just drank himself
senseless, screamed at the little savage when she bothered to come home and ran
into the rain. The stupid beast, he didn’t even hit her. He should have, if you
ask me.” The man chuckled. “They thought it would make their task easier in the
beginning, but then they lost him in all this storm, and when they found him he
was as eager to hurt someone as they were eager to hurt him. Damn bad luck.”

“They were sloppy to lose him,” grunted someone.

“Of course, but it’s done now.”

“So what do we do?”

“I say we go and kill him and…” The man paused. “And
whoever is with him.”

“We can’t!”

“Not the Emperor surely!”

There was a short silence. “We are about to have a
new Emperor, aren’t we? So this one goes anyway. So why not now? It may prevent
the fighting in the city, if we think about it. We don’t want to kill many of
our peers. The elite warriors are all loyal to the Warlord, but if he is dead…
They may see our side. Many have been approached before.”

“We should consult our superiors,” said a new voice.
“We can’t act on our own.”

“You are correct, but then… what do you want us to
do? Send a word to the Revered Adviser? By the time his answer arrives, the
Warlord’s warriors will be here by twenties upon twenties. We are the future
Emperor’s personal guard leaders. We can decide. This move is in the sphere of
the warfare. Do you send a request for an approval when you are out there
attacking a village?” Another pause. “Our problem,
both our problems
, is
right down this hall, across the building, behind the opposite terrace. With
both of them dead our problems will be no more.”

“You suggest we run across the hall and storm the
Emperor’s quarters?” asked someone incredulously.

“Why don’t we ask the Revered First Son himself?”

More silence. “Well, it’s nearing sunrise.” The
voice was suddenly so close, Atolli’s heart stopped. He clung to the cold
stones, afraid to breathe. His feet began seeking their way back up on the
slippery ledge.

“What do you all say? Shall we dare wake the Revered
One?” The contemplating voice rang clearly as if the speaker had stood next to
Atolli. Then a head popped out, scanning the brightening sky.

At first, the man was so immersed in his thoughts,
he didn’t notice the figure perching upon the ledge. Then he turned his head,
startled. The large eyes widened, staring at the youth with such disbelief,
Atolli wanted to laugh.

There was no time to panic. As the man began opening
his mouth he jumped into the grounds down below, curling into a ball,
protecting his head with his arms, rolling down the light slope, breaking some
bushes on his way. Luckily it was just the first floor, he reflected, picking
himself up hurriedly, not paying attention to his scratched, bleeding elbows
and knees.

He didn’t bother to look up. There were more heads
popping out of the window, he knew. He could hear their agitated voices as he
dove into the higher bushes, leaping for the safety of the royal gardens.

When he finished circumventing the Palace, reaching
the opposite terrace, it was already bright. He could hear slaves rushing
about.

Shrugging, he headed on. He had not much choice, had
he? The opposite terrace was within an easy reach, although scaling its wall
took him an effort, the touch of the rough stones hurting his scratched skin.

He crossed the marble partition and was about to
sneak toward the opening, when a powerful blow from behind sent him sprawling.
He pushed at the cold stones and rolled away, managing to avoid a vicious kick
from a thick sandal.

Two warriors stood above, peering at him, astounded
and indignant.

“What, in the name of the Underworld…?” cried out
one. His sandal tried to reach for Atolli’s ribs.

“Wait!” yelled Atolli, somehow managing to leap onto
his feet. “Wait, I have something very important to tell the Warlord. You have
to let me in! You have to!”

The warriors stared at him, wide-eyed.

“And who are you? A divine messenger?” asked one.

His companion doubled over with laughter.

“Listen, it’s important. Please, just send for him.
Please!”

“How did you get here, you little piece of dung?”
asked the first warrior, stepping forward, pressing against Atolli. “Did you
climb this terrace? Did you?”

It took him an effort not to step back, the giant
frame of his assailant intimidating, sending screams of alarm down his spine.

“Just call for him. Please! If he refuses to see me,
then you can kill me for climbing this terrace.”

“I can kill you right now. I don’t need to stand
your conditions to do that.”

“But what if I’m right? The Warlord would be really angry
if you killed me before I could relate my message to him.”

The warrior glanced at his friend. “The little piece
of dirt has guts, eh? What do you think? Shall we check with the Honorable
Leader first?”

The second warrior measured Atolli with a glance. “I
don’t think so. Look at him, all scratched and dirty, looking worse than a
beaten slave. Would you dare bring something like that in front of the
Honorable Leader?”

“You don’t have to allow me in,” said Atolli
hurriedly, sensing the first warrior’s indecisiveness. “Just tell the Warlord.
Tell him Atolli needs to see him urgently.”

The man laughed. “Would he know you by some strange
nickname?”

“Please.” He tried to control his welling panic.
“It’s so very urgent!”

 The formidable palm dug into his shoulder
painfully. “Come, and if he won’t see you, I’ll chop you into twenty little
pieces, personally and with a great pleasure. See this sword?” The palm pressed
harder, making Atolli bend and watch the obsidian sword attached to the
formidable thigh. “All those sharp obsidians will be chopping at you piece by
piece. Get it?”

Atolli nodded. His throat was so parched he didn’t
trust it to form the words.

***

The Emperor reclined on what looked like a palanquin
that was not to be carried. Maybe it was a podium cushioned with so many padded
mats one couldn’t see what it was made of. He picked at various plates spread
in front of him with a lack of interest, listening to his Chief Warlord, face
sealed.

Atolli hardly spared the mighty ruler a glance. He
had never seen the Emperor, any emperor, at such close proximity. No youth of
his age and status would have seen the mighty ruler except from a great
distance, through the state celebrations, when the Revered One would poise on
the top of the Pyramid, amid his faithful servants and priests. Until yesterday
he would have killed for such an opportunity as this, but now his eyes were
glued to his father’s face.

Unable to tear his gaze away, he watched the
formidable man he had worshipped all his life, talking in a calm, measured way,
honoring the mighty Emperor but not afraid of him. Oh, his father was a great
warrior.

Yet, this morning Atolli could see the man was far
from being at his best. The wide back was as firm and erect as always, but it
seemed to take the Warlord some effort to keep it straight. The massive
shoulders sagged imperceptibly; the wide palm clutched the sword’s handle a
little too tightly.

However, it was nothing compared to Father’s face which
looked the worst, haggard and thin, the high cheekbones protruding, eyes puffy
and red-rimmed, the gash across his cheek glaring ugly and fresh, running down
his neck to disappear into the depths of the plain unadorned cloak.

Atolli’s stomach twisted. To hear about his father’s
previous night’s adventures was one thing, but to see the results of those was
quite another. 

His capturer was busy talking to the warriors
guarding the entrance. Both shrugged at the hesitant explanation, eyeing
Atolli’s dirty barefoot appearance with an open contempt.