by Zoe Saadia
They began climbing the wet stones, slipping and cursing. He could count at least four different voices.
“He could not climb it so fast, Honorable Leader,” panted someone.
“The Warlord can do many things that you, useless lumps of fat, cannot. Get over the wall and fast. And remember, he is dangerous.”
Tecpatl held his breath as the two silhouettes materialized out of the misty darkness. They went past his hiding place carelessly exposed, and he fought the temptation to kill them, wanting their peers safely over the wall before revealing his presence. One of the warriors brushed his sword over the bushes right above his head.
“There is enough space to hide here, you know,” he said thoughtfully.
Tecpatl’s hand shot forward, grabbing the man’s ankle, pulling it with such force, the warrior fell flat on his back. Giving the stunned man no chance to recover, Tecpatl pounced on him, pinning him to the ground with his own weight, one palm pressing into his mouth, pushing back the bubbling scream, the other thrusting the obsidian blade into the softness under the warrior’s ribs.
There was no time for another blow. The hurried footsteps of the other man made him roll over his prey in time to avoid the crushing touch of the other's sword. Grabbing the sword of the wounded warrior, he leaped aside to avoid the next blow, then slashed at his assailant’s feet, not bothering to get up just yet.
The blow was perfect. It cut into the man’s knees and made him collapse as heavily as a cut-down tree.
He sprang to his feet and paused to take a deep breath before rushing toward the spot he imagined the leader might still be lingering. Yet, the man was ready, leaping at him out of the darkness. Their swords met, clashing, holding on, measuring each other’s strength.
“Who sent you?” hissed Tecpatl, not recognizing his own voice, so hoarse and unsteady it sounded.
The man grunted. “You know it very well. You and your emperor are done for.”
Tecpatl disengaged and hacked at his opponent, not planning his blow. “That still remains to be seen.”
The man parried the attack and held it with a surprising strength. “You are a great warrior, but you stand no chance against five seasoned men. It was a nice diversion, to make us think you went over the wall, but my warriors are on their way back now. And you are not at your best, after running drunk all over the city in this rain.”
Tecpatl ground his teeth. “I’ll take great pleasure in killing you.”
He disengaged his sword so suddenly the man wavered, caught off guard. Anxious to use it to the maximum effect, he hacked toward the momentarily exposed ribcage, but the warrior hurled himself forward and so avoided the lethal touch of the razor-sharp obsidian. He crashed into Tecpatl, and they fell to the ground, their swords rendered useless.
Caught under the man’s weight, Tecpatl tried to reach for his knife, his other hand fighting for his opponent’s throat. The knife of the man was out first. He could see it swooping toward his eyes, the upper part of his body reacting as if of its own accord, pushing the weight of his assailant with the last of his strength, locking his shoulder against the pressing arm.
He felt the knife slicing his cheek and pushed harder, propelling it away from the side of his neck. His hand reached for its destination, clawed into the softness of the warrior’s throat, his knee kicking at the man’s groin.
His opponent groaned, and the lower part of his body slipped aside. Both arms groping for the strangling hand, he let the knife free for a moment. By that time Tecpatl had reached his own dagger. His fingers fighting to keep hold of the throat, he aimed his other palm deep into the man’s lower belly, twisting the blade hurriedly, his senses still panicked.
It was over in a heartbeat. He heard the man gasping, felt the body upon him going limp, getting heavier and harder to push off.
With no strength to do otherwise, he crawled from under the squirming limbs, oblivious to the screams and the splattering blood.
His legs trembling, he got up, gathering his sword and running away, toward his previous destination, wishing to put as much distance between him and the remaining warriors of this dying leader.
***
Like the rest of the elite warriors, Amatl was of minor nobility, his house relatively small – a one-story construction of various rooms, a patio, a small garden. No magnificent dwellings like in Tecpatl’s neighborhood, and no sturdy slaves guarding the gates.
Tecpatl raced up the well-kept path and banged on the door, caring neither for the owners nor for their neighbors. Two terrified slaves sprang out of the darkness as he pushed the wooden partition. Armed with sticks, both waved them aimlessly in the air.
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 warrio
rs 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.
