by Clare Bell
In a moment of irreverence, he slapped the sole of his foot against the frog’s stone face. If the tlatoani of Te-nochtitlan saw these and knew what they were, he would have demanded why the center frog had not been made larger than the others. Wise Coyote frowned, then caught the image of his own face frowning back at him from among the ripples in the bathing pool. Some nobles at his court in Texcoco had flattered him, saying that he resembled the Aztec ruler. Hue Hue Ilhuicamina, but it was not true. Wise Coyote’s eyes were too deepset, his nose not blunt or broad enough, his face too finely sculpted to meet the standards of ideal Aztec beauty as personified by the features of Ilhuicamina. And his eyes were too wide open and there was a touch of fear in them, for his day of birth had been One-Deer.
Some whispered that he did not have the face of a warrior, or that he had no heart to face the blood sacrifices made to Hummingbird on the Left. He smiled a little sadly to himself as he touched the scars that laced his arms and chest. He remembered pain from the strike of the obsidian-edged sword and the stab of the spearhead. For a man said to be lacking the heart and face of a warrior, he mused, he had done well. And war had not yet cut from him the thing that it had severed from so many—the gentleness of soul that kept the man within the warrior.
Perhaps that is a quality neither needed nor wanted in these times. Wise Coyote thought to himself as he climbed from the pool and let the morning sun dry the water from his skin.
He had dressed and was walking along the path to the shaded patio of his palace when he saw a boy coming to meet him. Wise Coyote opened his arms and his mantle to embrace Huetzin, his son by his favored concubine, the woman with the golden skin.
Twelve-year-old Huetzin, with his gift for working stone, was the happiest of Wise Coyote’s children, singing and running everywhere he went. But today his feet dragged and his face looked anxious. The carving in his hand that he usually would hold up proudly he grasped low in a fist held by his side.
Wise Coyote stooped beside the boy, looked up into the lad’s downcast eyes. He lifted the hand and saw in the cupped palm a songbird carved from jade.
“And what song does this bird sing,” the king of Texcoco gently teased his son. “Does he celebrate the loveliness of my gardens, or of your mother’s beauty?”
“No, lord father.”
Wise Coyote, hearing the tremble in the boy’s voice, tipped his son’s chin up. “Then it is of anger and grief he sings. Tell me.”
“It is your heir, the Prodigious Son,” the boy cried. “My mother sent me to speak to you. Oh, lord father, I am afraid.”
The king felt his heart sink within him, although he tried not to let his face stiffen. If his eldest son by his queen Ant Flower had met with mishap or illness, it would not have been Huetzin who would have been summoned to tell him. He waited, letting the young craftsman tell his story.
“I finished this bird yesterday morning and thought it so beautiful that I would make it a gift to my half brother. I took it to his palace and laid it in his hand.”
“And he found it flawed?”
“No, he was delighted and spoke of my skill. But then he put the bird aside and asked why I did not take more interest in weapons and fighting. I spoke of my admiration for the honors he had won in war and he showed me his storehouse of weapons.”
“Storehouse?”
“Oh, yes,” said Huetzin. “Many rooms, all filled with macuahuitl swords edged with black glass, arrows tipped with green, well-made bows and throwing spears.” The boy paused for breath. “And there were so many warriors at his court, lord father! I saw them walking about in jaguar skins and eagle feathers and fighting each other on the training fields.” His face darkened. “They said things about you I didn’t like, so I took the bird away and went to my mother. She sent me to you.”
“What words did they say?” asked Wise Coyote mildly.
“That the Prodigy would make a better tlatoani than you. And the Prodigy just laughed when I said I didn’t believe it.”
The boy knelt, laid his hands in the dirt and kissed his dusty fingertips in the gesture of respect. Wise Coyote straightened, his hands on his son’s shoulders. He wondered how much credence to place in the tale. Huetzin was too young and too guileless to lie. Much of his story must be true, although certain exaggerations might have been encouraged by the golden-skinned woman who was Huetzin’s mother. It was not the first time a concubine had attempted to displace a son of the legitimate wife so that her own children might succeed.
With an ugly tickle of fear and bitterness within him. Wise Coyote knew he had let the Prodigy go too long without attention or discipline. How long had it been since he had visited the prince?
The young man whose battlefield exploits had won him the name of the Prodigy had been eager to leave his father’s court and build his own. And Wise Coyote had let him go too soon, perhaps out of indifference, perhaps out of reticence.
Wise Coyote knew that some nobles at Texcoco saw him as one who turned away from the blood sacrifices, one too gentle and tame to be tlatoani. Had the Prodigy learned to despise his father and had his independence tempted him to a premature challenge? Wise Coyote ran his fingers along the wound-scars of his forearm. He had bought his reed-woven throne with blood as well as wisdom. The Prodigy might need to taste both.
“It is good that you told me what is happening,” he said to the young craftsman, “but think no more about it. Return to your jade-shaping, for it creates beauty that outlives the scheming of men.” He clasped Huetzin’s fingers about the carving and sent him running down the path, the bird held high between his hands.
Wise Coyote wished that all his sons were like Huetzin, so that they crafted materials or ideas into new and beautiful forms. But at least one son had to be taught to craft the affairs of war and state so that Texcoco would have a tlatoani after Wise Coyote had grown too feeble. If none were worthy, the Aztec Ilhuicamina might move to place his own seed onto the reed throne and bind Texcoco so tightly to him that it became no more than a precinct of Tenochtitlan.
In learning the craft of rulership, a young man might taste power, a drink more heady than octli, the fermented sap of the maguey. Wise Coyote remembered all the times he had sipped it and of the bitterness that came after. He turned and went into the shadowed portico of his palace.
In his private chamber, he sat in silence, then summoned spies he had once used against enemies. Now he was sending them against one of his own house. He told the spies nothing of Huetzin’s story, only that they were to go secretly to the Prodigy’s palace and report everything they saw. Perhaps the story had exaggerated the threat of rebellion and he would only have to give his son a severe reprimand. As he sat in the shaded dark of his chamber, he feared that would not be all…
On the same afternoon in Tenochtitlan, Mixcatl continued her journey from the marketplace, through many streets and across canals. Though her new owner held tightly to her rope, he spoke to her in a friendly manner, as if he were a companion rather than a master. His name in Nahuatl, he told her, was Three-House Speaking Quail. Mixcatl could only offer the single short name that she bore, for she had no idea what her birth-sign had been.
“Perhaps a diviner-priest would be able to discover it,” said Speaking Quail thoughtfully. “As a slave, you don’t need an elaborate name. What you have will do. But without your sign of birth, how are you to know what fate the gods have prepared?”
Privately, Mixcatl thought she probably didn’t want to know, but she didn’t want to anger Three-House Speaking Quail by saying the thought aloud.
She was unsure of her ultimate destination. Speaking Quail had mentioned that he was a tutor in a school, but when she asked him where they were going, he used the Nahuatl word calmecac. To Mixcatl, who was still learning to piece together words in the Aztec tongue, the word meant only “a row of houses.” Her spirits rose. Perhaps Speaking Quail’s house was one in the row and she was to be his personal slave. She didn’t mind that, for he was
well-meaning if a little distracted.
As they drew closer to their destination. Speaking Quail became worried and began muttering to himself. “I wonder if I should just slip you in and feed you from my ration,” he said. “Maguey Thorn sent me to the market for chilies and here I return with a slave-child. Not that I fear her,” he added, lifting his chin and sending a defiant look into the twilight descending about the city. “After all, she is only the matron.”
Mixcatl peered into the dusk. The building ahead did not look like a row of private houses. It was much larger and had no window openings that looked out on the street. From within came the raucous shouts of young boys and the gruff reprimands of older men. The main entrance was draped with a lightly woven cloth hung with copper bells. Mixcatl noted that Speaking Quail held the cloth aside to minimize the jingling as he motioned her through.
“My quarters are down the hall,” he said, pointing with his chin, and headed for them with a scurry resembling the quail of his namesake. Mixcatl shrugged her shoulders and followed.
Before they reached his sanctum within the calmecac, a large woman emerged from a side corridor, arms folded and scowling.
“Where are my chilies. Speaking Quail? And what is that street urchin doing tagging after you?”
Speaking Quail proffered a package that he’d been carrying inside his mantle. The woman took it, sniffed it and grumbled a bit, but evidently the chilies were strong enough to please her. She wore an old huipil blouse, a loose short-sleeved garment pulled on over the wearer’s head. It was dirtied with kitchen stains. Her wraparound skirt fell to her knees.
“And this little gutter-lizard?” she demanded, folding arms that were well muscled from grinding com to make tortillas.
“Please, Maguey Thorn. She was being ill treated in the market square. I thought I would buy her and give her to the school. You have often complained about having too much work.” To Mixcatl, he said, “This is Ten-Earthquake Maguey Thorn, our matron at the calmecac.”
Ten-Earthquake Maguey Thorn appeared to fit her name. She was a wide, powerful figure, with a round fat face and braids bound around her head so that the ends stuck out over her forehead like two horns. She brought an unlit brazier, ignited it, placed it in a wall niche, then scowled down at Mixcatl.
“She looks strong enough. But that face I No, Speaking Quail. This is unacceptable. She looks like one of those demon images from the jungle.”
Mixcatl felt her spirits begin to sag. Was she to be returned to the slave market after all? “I do many things,” she said in her halting Nahuatl. “Grind corn, make tortillas, wash clothes. Anything you need help, I do.”
Maguey Thorn started to shake her head with its double chins, but something seemed to stop her. “Speaking Quail, we will discuss this in the morning,” she said. “The child is hungry and tired. Make her up a bed of rushes while I see if there are any tortillas that the students haven’t eaten. And give her a bath.”
Before obeying Maguey Thorn, Speaking Quail removed the yoked collar Mixcatl had worn to market and used a salve to dress the festering splinters on her neck. Maguey Thorn watched, her fists planted on her wide hips. Her presence seemed to make Speaking Quail nervous and overly talkative. Several times he told Mix-catl that he was only taking the collar off because it would slow her down in her work, but the girl suspected his words were really meant for the matron.
After the collar was off. Speaking Quail gave Mixcatl a weary pat on the shoulder and showed her to a small room. He supplied her with two pots of tepid water and a peeled soapstone root, which made a lather when rubbed. When she had cleansed herself and washed the market grime from her cropped hair. Speaking Quail gave her a clean cloth to tie about her waist as a makeshift skirt and a rough fiber mantle to wrap about her for warmth on the rush bed. Maguey Thorn brought tortillas and a steaming bowl of squash stewed with tomatoes and peppers.
Maguey Thorn handed Speaking Quail the food, then departed, her skirts rustling. Mixcatl’s mouth watered at the aroma of the squash and spicy sauce. She took the bowl from Speaking Quail, held it between her hands and inhaled the steamy vapors, then scooped up the stew with freshly made tortillas. She ate until her belly was comfortably full and her eyelids drooping. She stumbled to the rush bed, wrapped herself in the mantle and instantly fell asleep.
The following morning Speaking Quail presented Mixcatl once again to Ten-Earthquake Maguey Thorn. Yawning, the girl blinked in the light of dawn spilling into the calmecac’s courtyard as the matron examined her.
“She is sturdy and more willing than some of the prettier slaves I have seen,” Maguey Thom admitted. “But, Speaking Quail, the head priest will see her presence as a baleful influence on the students. I cannot have her grinding corn or preparing food that would go into the mouths of the boys here. After all, we do not even know her birth-sign. And if the fathers should object, well…” She trailed off, shaking her head.
Mixcatl stood with her shoulders hunched, looking at the ground. She tried not to hate Maguey Thorn, or Speaking Quail either. He had meant well, but he really didn’t have the authority to buy her or to bring her to the school. She should have known and not let her hopes rise too far.
“Isn’t there some task she could perform that would not bring her into direct contact with the boys?” asked Speaking Quail.
Maguey Thom considered this. “Well, I need someone to collect kitchen leavings and put them out for the refuse boat. And empty latrine jars. My girls turn up their noses at such work. It would be good to have someone I didn’t have to beat and shout at to get the work done.” She folded her stout forearms over the breast of her huipil and studied Mixcatl with sharp black eyes. “She doesn’t look as if she will be too clever for the task.”
“She understands what you tell her,” said Speaking Quail.
“All the better if she is backward. She will have no thoughts of bettering herself and will need no schooling. All right. Speaking Quail. We’ll try her out for a while. But any sign of balkiness or temper and back to the market she goes.”
Mixcatl raised her head, barely daring to breathe. Would they let her stay after all? Carrying slopjars might not be the most pleasant task, but anything was better than being sold again and possibly falling into the hands of someone like the man who had tried to buy her with counterfeit cocoa beans. She shuddered inwardly every time she thought of him.
She put the memory aside and listened, for Maguey
Thorn was addressing her directly. The matron spoke slowly and too loudly, choosing simple words meant for a very young child. For a moment Mixcatl rebelled inwardly. Her features might be brutish, but she knew there was nothing wrong with her wit. But that same wit told her to retain the mantle of dullness that Maguey Thom had thrown upon her. She was suddenly glad that her tongue still stumbled over Nahuatl and that her shock of black hair had been only roughly cropped by her previous owner and now tumbled forward to hide her eyes. She didn’t want Maguey Thorn to look too deeply into them.
The matron turned to Speaking Quail. “She is to stay out of the courtyard and the rooms where the priests are teaching their classes. She may enter their quarters only to empty the refuse jars.” Abruptly she turned to Mixcatl and explained it all again in a way that made the girl want to squirm with impatience. “Do you understand?”
Mixcatl nodded. After giving her another once-over and a final harrumph. Maguey Thom led Mixcatl to an open room with a large raised firepit that served as the kitchen. Speaking Quail departed with a wave.
“That young man should get married and have children of his own instead of bringing me waifs like you,” said the matron as she handed Mixcatl a small bowl of maize porridge, dished a larger one out for herself and plumped down on her mat. Mixcatl made no answer, for she was sure Maguey Thorn was speaking to her out of habit rather than of any expectations of a reply. The porridge was flavored with sage, making it surprisingly tasty. Even though she had eaten the previous night, Mixcatl gobbled it down eag
erly, wishing there was more.
She then set about the tasks she had been given, learning them quickly over the next few days. At first she labored about the hearth and courtyard, directed by scrub-girls and kitchen drudges. To her fell the lowly job of gathering up scraps and squashed or spoiled vegetables that had been rejected as unfit for the cookpot. She scraped them from the floor with her hands, dodging the quick steps and impatient tongues of the cooks.
“Out of my way, you little garbage-gathering toad!” came the shrill words and a wooden spoon would descend on her shoulders or back. Mixcatl would scuttle out of their way, cramming her handfuls in the slopjar she carried or, if a morsel was not too dirtied or bruised, into her mouth.
When she wasn’t working or scavenging about the kitchen, she made the rounds of the calmecac’s living quarters. She took the vessels that served teachers and students as chamber pots, emptying them into larger jars and carrying those to the canalside in back of the school. If there were no other tasks to be done. Maguey Thorn would summon her to help with the wash.
Elbow-deep in soaproot suds. Maguey Thorn became more relaxed and talkative, exchanging banter with her girls over the ceramic washpots and giving Mixcatl an occasional word. Maguey Thorn would not allow the slave girl to wash or rinse the clothes, nor could she touch them when clean. Instead Mixcatl brought armloads of soiled loincloths and mantles, some white, some beautifully embroidered with brilliant colors and patterns.
“Ah, those priests,” Maguey Thorn sighed to herself, as she held up one emerald-green cloak that had been stained with sweat and streaks of an oily black grime. “They don’t appreciate how much work goes into keeping them properly dressed, they don’t.” She plumped the garment into the washpot, squeezed it and scrubbed the folds together. “One wearing and it’s a mess. Between that black body paint they smear themselves with and the oil from their hair, well!” She pummeled the garment so vigorously that Mixcatl thought she might tear it to shreds and grumbled, “Religious penance, they call it. Well, it’s just an excuse to be filthy, that’s what I think. I can’t believe that the gods appreciate stinking tousled mops.” She snorted and pulled the mantle out, dripping and somehow intact, and even appreciably cleaner.
