Young Jaguar, The (3 page)

The stench increased as she proceeded toward the set
of rooms adjacent to the spacious patio. She would have to burn much incense,
she thought absently. It would take at least two burners to banish all traces
of that smell.

She could see the slender back of her daughter,
standing in front of the cloaked man. Wrapped in his dark hooded gown as if he
was cold, the priest squatted beside the nearest of the braziers. At lease, the
slaves had enough sense to bring in a brazier, even if they didn’t find it
necessary to inform the Mistress of the House.

She neared them, walking with as much of an
indifferent composure as she could muster, hoping drinks and refreshments were
on their way.

The squatting man raised his head.

“Greetings,” he mumbled, his speech difficult to
understand, the daily offerings off his own flesh, mostly the tongue, taking
its toll, reflecting on his ability to speak.    

She knew the man well. One of the priests of the
mighty Quetzalcoatl, a friend of the family.

“I greet you to my house, oh Honorable One,” she
said, as always uneasy with the servants of the gods; any of them.

She should have added more flowery pleasantries; the
reproachful glance of her daughter told her so. Yet, she could not bring
herself to do it. She didn’t want any of these people in her vicinity. The
congealed blood in the man’s matted hair screamed of his recent activities.
That, and the stench.

The priest smiled fleetingly.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting,” she added,
making an effort for the sake of the girl. “I’m sorry it took me time to—”

“The time is nothing,” mumbled the man, cutting her
off with no additional thought. “What means a little wait for our mighty gods?
Such matters of the flesh should not concern their servants.”

“Yes, of course, but still…” Now it was her turn to
mumble.

The man shifted his gaze to Flower. “Your daughter
is such an observant, attentive girl,” he said. “She’ll make a good pupil. I’ll
make sure she’ll be asked to serve her time in mighty Quetzalcoatl’s temple himself.”

Sakuna could feel the girl beside her gasping,
holding her breath. Such a pretty thing, she reflected, so tall and slender,
with her naturally graceful movements, a wonderful waterfall of shiny hair and
a pair of liquid, dark, bottomless eyes. Why was she attracted to the gods and
their temples?

“It would be such a great honor,” she heard herself
saying. “Our gratitude would know no bounds.”

The cloaked head nodded calmly. “She will begin her
training toward the Winter Solstice Festival.”

“So soon?”

She almost brought her hand to her mouth, to stop
her last words from traveling any further. The distress in Flower’s eyes was
difficult to bear.

“How old is the daughter of the Honorable Warlord?”

“She has seen close to thirteen summers.”

“It is a proper age for the girl to be admitted into
the temple’s services.”

“Of course.”

An uncomfortable silence prevailed.

“We have had word from the Great Warlord,” said the
cloaked man after a while. “He and his warriors will be entering the city at
high noon.”

“Oh, that is great news!” Now she could forgive this
man everything, the mumbling, the smell, even the attempt to take her daughter
away into the bloody ways of his people.

The priest raised his unkempt eyebrows. “Yes, it
will be good to have the Chief Warlord back among us. I hope his victories were
great and his harvest for the glory of our gods rich.”

She shivered involuntarily. This side of Tecpatl’s
activities she kept away from her thoughts with a conscious effort. She didn’t
want to think of the prisoners he was sure to bring along. Their fate would not
interfere with her joy of his return.

She glanced around. “I’m so sorry you had to wait.
I’ll make sure the refreshments are on their way.”

The man raised his hand. “It is too early to eat and
drink,” he said, preaching. Once again she had said something wrong. “I would
like you to ask the Honorable Warlord to visit me in my temple as soon as he
comes home.”

She fought her growing anger. “It might not happen
early. He’ll be sure to spend most of the day in the Palace.”

“Of course,” answered the man, rising to his feet.
“But I’ll wait for him, even after the nightfall. The trouble with his son is
grave and cannot be taken lightly.”

She could feel Flower tensing by her side and had to
lick her lips to utter the words. “What trouble?” And when the man did not
answer, she added in a breathless rush. “Who is in trouble? Surely not Atolli.”

The priest’s gaze did not waver. The cloudy eyes
stared at her, dull and unreadable.

She swallowed, fought the raising panic. “Is he all
right?”

The man shook his head. “He is not all right. He may
be expelled from
calmecac
.”

Her relief was so endless she had to fight the urge
to smile. He was not hurt.

Then she began to comprehend. “Expelled from
calmecac
?
But that’s impossible! What has he done?”

The priest turned away and began trotting toward the
garden. “Make sure the Warlord comes to visit me tonight.”

Chapter 3

The old ruler was dying. There could be no mistake
about that, knew Tecpatl, kneeling before the pile of mats, his sandals and
weapons removed. The man was already old when he came to rule the empire – a
royal heir of more than fifty summers – but still a proud, cruel, warlike
leader, wise and domineering, a fit emperor for the great city of Azcapotzalco.

The leading men of the nation were pleased,
expecting much from this particular royal progeny. Yet in the course of the
fifteen summers that shone upon Acolnahuacatl’s rule, the man had outdone any
of his subjects’ expectations.

With no hesitation, he had launched series of raids
against the troublesome Aztecs, making the uncouth newcomers understand which
nation around Texcoco Lake was the most powerful to be reckoned with. Then,
after thoroughly humbling the most warlike of their neighbors, he promptly took
them under Azcapotzalco’s protection, against the wrath of Culhuacan.

The small Aztec nation was safe for now, but there
was a price to pay. The Aztecs were to supply their new patrons with an
unlimited amount of warriors whenever demanded.

And the mighty Tepanecs didn’t make them wait. While
the Aztecs were busy founding their new capital upon one of the muddy islands
of the Great Lake, the demands began trickling in. The old ruler had decided to
turn on Azcapotzalco’s historical rival–Culhuacan.

Reinforced by a horde of the warlike new subjects,
Azcapotzalco’s warriors had pounced on its sister-city, in less than ten
summers succeeding in taking over most of their trading routes and dependable
towns and villages. The surrounding districts and settlements, which had paid a
tribute to Culhuacan up to these days, began sending their yearly payments to
Azcapotzalco instead. The Tepanecs’ empire was expanding.

And he, Tecpatl, took a considerable part in this
rapid conquest, he reflected with satisfaction. So many raids, so many battles,
so many victories. He shook off the memories and concentrated on the fading
features of the dying man. 

 “I’m glad you came back in time,” muttered the old
Emperor. “My gratitude to the gods knows no bounds. In their kindness they’ve
allowed me to receive news of yet another victory before sending me on my
Underworld journey. I hope they’ll allow me to stay around you, mortals, for a
little longer, to witness the captives you brought being sacrificed to the
glory of our wonderful keepers.”

“I pray for this, Revered Emperor,” answered Tecpatl
gravely. “I pray you will guide us for many moons to come, before embarking on
your Underworld journey.”

“We all join in the Warlord’s prayer,” murmured the
men in the background. There were four more of them, the ruler’s closest
advisers, and they stood at some distance, apparently not missing a word.

Tecpatl fought the urge to wipe his forehead, to get
rid of the sweat that accumulated above his eyebrows, threatening to penetrate
his eyes, running down his back. The unbearable heat of the midsummer could
have been tolerated more easily inside the plastered walls of the Palace, but
for the two braziers glowing in the proximity of the revered person, whose old
fragile body was carefully swathed in feathers and soft skins.

The old man smiled faintly and shook his head.

“Come closer,” he whispered. 

Tecpatl shifted forward, uneasy with the request. He
wasn’t allowed so near the Revered Emperor before. Very few of the advisers
were, and he was not even one of them.

He blinked, hoping the sweat beads would remain
where they were, as he watched the old man raising his head with an effort.

“Closer.”

The reek of the dying flesh hit Tecpatl’s nostrils
worse than the stench of the temple priests. He forced his face to remain
still, not allowing his throat to swallow.

“Keep an eye on Tezozomoc. He will rule after me. He
is not the First Son, but he is strong. He will keep the empire together. He is
good at managing things. My other sons will receive each a province for
themselves, to rule as they see fit.” The dying man coughed and his strained
gaze blurred. Tears ran from the old watery eyes. Tecpatl shuddered and was
about to rise in search of some water, when the heavily lidded gaze cleared,
holding his. “Beware of Xicohtli, the First Son. He may… try take… take
control. Tezozomoc is better fit to run the Empire. I have chosen him. Xicohtli
can’t rule, he’ll ruin everything I have achieved with so much hard work. Make
sure, will you?”

“But how can I?” Tecpatl stared at the old wrinkled
face, dumbfounded, at a loss. He was the Chief Warlord, but he was not even a
member of the council. His Great Uncle was. The old ruler should have talked to
his uncle or some of his peers. They were all there, waiting anxiously outside
the royal chamber.

“You are my Chief Warlord,” blurted the cracked
voice. “You are the best of my warriors. I trust you. Advisers are not for
this; they have their own interests to take care of, you understand?” There was
a hint of a sly, almost playful smile in the corners of the empty mouth. “You
came back in time. It’s a sign. Make sure. Tezozomoc is to rule the empire. He
is the one I chose. Make sure.” The blurry gaze clouded, drifted. “Make sure.
It’s so cold. They should carry me out into the sun. Tell them. Now go.”

Obediently, Tecpatl rose to his feet, his body stiff
after kneeling there for a long noon.

Every pace measured, he went past the group of the
closest advisers, trying not to notice their gazes scanning his face,
attentive, consumed with curiosity.

They peered at him, desperate to know what had
transpired, what had been said, why the dying ruler had chosen to whisper into
his Chief Warlord’s ear.

Ignoring them, he picked up
his weapons and sandals, relieved to step through the wide doorway into another
set of richly decorated rooms.

So, Tezozomoc is to rule, he thought. Well, he is
not a bad man. He may prove as fierce, as powerful, as domineering, as his
father, not a complete nonentity to be sure. He would abide by his great
father’s laws and guidelines, so the empire would not fall apart.

On the positive side, he, Tecpatl, as a Chief
Warlord, was likely to receive more independence to plan his campaigns. It will
be good, he thought. He would finish Culhuacan once and for all.

“Nephew.”

The deep voice tore him from his reverie, ringing
eerily between the plastered walls.

“Welcome back, Nephew.” The older man looked up at
Tecpatl. A whole head shorter than his nephew, he was almost as wide in his
shoulders, which gave the impression of an exaggerated thickness. The small,
usually squinted eyes, set in a broad, weathered face reinforced the feeling,
adding a measure of cruelty and danger for the onlooker to beware. “I heard
your victories were great.”

“Thank you, Revered Uncle.” Tecpatl lowered his
head, acknowledging the compliment with just the right amount of humbleness.
“I’m glad I was able to serve our people once again.”

“Your return could not be timed better.”

“I regret to return under these sad circumstances.”

 “Has the Emperor spoken to you?”

“Yes.”

A fleeting silence prevailed as the eyes watching
Tecpatl narrowed.

“What did he tell you?”

 “He said he was glad to hear of yet another victory
of our people. He said he hoped to witness the Great Festival’s sacrifice.” He
hesitated. “He said Revered Tezozomoc, the Second Son, is to rule after him.”

“Is that so?” The thickset man’s gaze slipped over
Tecpatl’s face as if appraising the younger man with a new amount of interest.
“What else?”

“Nothing much. I don’t know if Revered Acolnahuacatl
meant what he said. I’m not the right person to talk to about these matters.
His mind might have been already taking the path of the dead.”

The penetrating gaze did not waver. “Did he speak to
you privately?” The deep voice held a slightest trace of surprise.

“Yes, he honored me with a short conversation at the
closer proximity to his divine person.”

“That is highly unusual.”

Tecpatl nodded, glancing toward the wide opening in
the wall, catching a glimpse of the beautiful garden outside. He could hear the
water trickling in the ponds.

The eyes boring into him went flat. “Do you think
Tezozomoc would make a good ruler? Would he be the right choice?”

Tecpatl returned the gaze. “It is not my place to
judge on such matters.”

The heavyset man nodded and relaxed almost visibly.
He was getting old, reflected Tecpatl. Once upon a time this formidable man
would not be readable under any circumstances.

The urge to escape the Palace welled. He thought of
the spaciousness of his own gardens, of the feast that was sure to contain
every delicious snack he had ever indicated as his favorite, of the ardent,
exuberant welcome-home which was sure to await him.

He could see
her
, dressed in the best of her
clothes, bathed and groomed, waiting for him, exalted and impatient; still
beautiful, still desirable, still in love with him, still unruly and not
fitting, just like fifteen summers ago when he had met her for the first time.

“You are sure Tezozomoc will give you all the
commands you might desire.” The older man made it a statement.

Tecpatl forced his mind to concentrate. “I hope he
will trust me as has his father before him.”

“How long will it take to make Culhuacan crumble?”

“Not very long. Their warriors have grown soft. They
are not a worthy enemy anymore.” Relieved to steer from the dangerous ground of
politics, he added: “I’ll be happy to finish them off and re-open the war
against the Mayans.”

“Not the Aztecs?”

“Oh, the Aztecs make good warriors. But they are
barbarians. They are few and unimportant. Culhuacan is the worthy enemy. They
are our equals, our peers.”

The face of the elder man remained still, but
something in the depths of the narrow eyes changed. “You do wise staying away
from the Palace’s affairs, Nephew. You are a warrior and you better keep it
that way.”

“I thank you for your invaluable advice, Revered
Uncle,” answered Tecpatl politely.

They strolled toward the entrance, unhurried. “Will
you go home now?”

“If my presence is not required in the Palace, I
would rather go home, if for no other reason than to bathe thoroughly and
change.”

“Of course.” The smile of the older man was almost
genuine. “You might also want to sort out your son’s problems.”

Tecpatl halted abruptly. “What happened? Is my son
in trouble?”

“Yes, your elder son by the barbarian woman of yours
is about to be expelled from
calmecac
.”

The air left Tecpatl’s lungs at once, as if a fist
had crushed into the softness of his stomach. It made him feel dizzy. “What has
he done?”

The thickset man shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. I
heard it rumored around the Palace’s chambers this morning.”

Tecpatl strained to achieve a calmness he did not
feel. “I thank you sincerely, Revered Uncle.”

“Do not thank me. While you are usually attentive to
good advice, there are times you do close your ears to reason. You should
follow more of our wise ancient customs. It’ll keep you from trouble most of
the time.”

***

Tecpatl walked up the wide, well-swept road, his
legs swallowing the distance without noticing. He considered going straight to
the temples and the school’s district, but then decided it would be better to
visit his home first. He had to know what the trouble was before he could think
of how to cope with it. He also needed to bathe and change his loincloth and cloak.
And to see
her
.

The longing for her swept him, made him hasten his
step. She would be waiting now, as always, so eager, so ardent, not bothering
to conceal her love as a civilized woman would. Should.

Yet, curiously, this behavior of hers had never
upset him, never left him embarrassed. He loved her loving him so. She made his
home a safe haven to relax, to drop any pretense. Inside his own walls, he had
no need to be alert or watchful or on guard. He could lay back and be himself,
although sometimes he wished they had had no slaves sneaking around.

He wiped his forehead and glanced at the sky. It was
high afternoon and suddenly he realized he would not be expected; not yet. The
Emperor’s condition released him from the usual meetings and procedures, but
the rumor would not make it to the city so fast.

On a sudden impulse he switched his direction, then
looked around and, seeing almost no passersby, sneaked along the low wall.
Reaching the rear of his spacious dwelling, he looked around once again, then
feeling light and boyish, took off his sword and scaled the low stone partition
leading toward his gardens.

Sure enough, she was there, kneeling among the
flower beds, wholly engrossed in yet-another-unladylike occupation of her. It
was only recently that she’d developed a passion for herbs and their magical
quality, so now, she would spend her days tending her plants and hanging around
the kitchen areas, boiling potions, making the kitchen slaves angry. She, who
had done everything to avoid working her people’s fields in her youth, he
thought amused.

Moving like a true jaguar, he came closer, making no
sound, disturbing no leaf or pebble. Oh, she did look like a barbarian,
kneeling in the dirt, her skirt pulled high, revealing the smoothness of her thighs,
now marred with lumps of earth.

He felt himself stirring. Once upon a time, so long
ago, at her people’s lands, she had come calling for him, coming straight from
the fields, wearing nothing but a breechcloth with an apron, her young skin
sweaty and smeared with earth. His urge to take her back then had been almost
overwhelming. He'd had a hard time restraining himself. She had not been his to
take. But now…