by Zoe Saadia
Obsidian Puma
The Aztec Chronicles, book 1
By
Zoe Saadia
Copyrights 2016 by Zoe Saadia
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means whatsoever, without prior written permission from the copyright owner, unless by reviewers who wish to quote brief passages.
For more information about this book, the author and her work, please visit
www.zoesaadia.com
Table of contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Afterword
Chapter 1
The ball bounced against the sloping wall, missing one of its marks by a mere fraction. Grinding his teeth, Necalli lunged toward it, throwing himself in the direction of the ricocheting rubber, knowing he had no chance. It hit the ground with a loud thud, bouncing lightly, indifferent to his team’s looming defeat.
“Bring it here.”
The commanding voice of Yaotzin, the veteran warrior responsible for today’s training, rang with the utmost contempt. Not bothering to take the ball with his hands, as the trainer or the Master of the Game was allowed to do, the old warrior motioned curtly, indicating his wish to receive it as a throw. His unprotected-by-leather hip greeted the rubber missile readily, bouncing it off several times before using an elbow to send the ball toward the farther side of the wall, causing it to fly in an impressive arc, as though shot from a dart-thrower. It missed the mark by another fraction; still, all the boys held their breath, awed by so much expertise and skill.
“Here, on the court, the ball is your enemy,” the teacher went on, not needing to gesture in order to send several students rushing to retrieve the discussed object. “You can’t best it as long as you fear it, as long as you try to keep yourself from harm. No matter how hurtful the collision with it or your fellow players can be, no matter what it requires of you to prevent the ball from meeting the ground, you do whatever it takes, and much more than that. You do not think of yourself.” The piercing eyes moved from face to face, penetrating, not letting their gazes escape. “If you must slide upon the dirt to insert yourself between the ball and the earth in order to prevent the forbidden contact, you do just that.” This time, the fierce glare singled out Necalli, glimmering with the frostiness of the midwinter moon. “What should you have done that you didn’t?”
To clear his throat or lick his lips was not an option. “I should have reacted faster, should not have taken my eyes off the ball.”
The contempt in his interrogator’s gaze deepened. “Did you look elsewhere?”
“No, I didn’t.” He needed to swallow, his throat as dry as cracks in an ancient pyramid wall, threatening to harm his ability to speak. “I should have taken into account that it might not hit the mark, should have positioned myself closer and been ready.”
That came out surprisingly well. The teacher’s lips, which were nothing but an invisible line until now, reappeared to enliven the stern mask. Weak with relief, Necalli watched the harsh eyes return to the rest of his fellow pupils.
“You have to treat this court as a battlefield. Your eyes should always assess and reassess the situation, the lay of the land and its current condition – is it dry, wet, bumpy, well flattened? The mood of your fellow players and your rivals as well – are they hopeful, fearful, full of enough fighting spirit, lacking in it? And all the while, you do not lose the sight of the ball and its possible next destination. You take it all into account, and you are always, always ready to change your tactics accordingly, to readjust your plans. Just like on the battlefield.”
The flinty glare encircled his audience, half twenty pupils in all, the last class of the day. No young boys among those, and no training priests either. Only sons of nobles and a few gifted commoners who, upon reaching the age of fourteen and if having shown outstanding abilities, were chosen to attend calmecac, this exclusive school of the Royal Enclosure; very few of those. The rest of the city youth, a multitude of commoners and even some slaves, were sent to their local neighborhoods’ telpochcalli-schools upon reaching their fifteen summer, learning crafts and regular warriors’ skills. Calmecac groomed future leaders, elite warriors, and politicians – and priests.
“Back in positions!” The shout echoed between the sloping walls, sending the boys scattering. “Remember, you never fear the ball. If you fear it, you lose. No halfhearted attempt will help you to best your rubber enemy, no irresolute commitment. It can hurt you, but you are not to be concerned with any of this. Only then will you best it and make it do what you want.”
Up on the tribunes normally reserved for the watching nobility when a true game was played, a few younger students – mere children but of the royal family – clung to the stone parapet, watching with unconcealed curiosity. And so did Axolin, sporting his bandaged ankle, exempted from this sort of lesson, however temporary, pleased with himself. A lucky frog-eater. When sure that the stern veteran wasn’t looking at anything but the ball he was preparing to hurl flying into their midst, Necalli sent the youth a fleeting grin and an unmistakable gesture of his upper arm, the rudest motion of them all. The guffawing that washed the upper tribune was distant but unmistakable too. The royal children must have appreciated his vulgar gesturing.
“Pay attention!”
The ball was bouncing off the wall again, nowhere near his location. Still, he rushed toward it, mainly to prevent the teacher from getting angrier with him than he already was. Of all afternoons, today he didn’t want to earn disciplining that would warrant his staying in school for this particular evening. Patli had promised that the temple near the wharves and the old causeway – not truly a causeway but more of a bridge leading to the neighboring island-city, a relatively short earthwork – would be well worth their attention, and as much as he distrusted that telpochcalli boy, the commoner from the slums of Tenochtitlan near these same wharves, maybe to be admitted to their calmecac because of some outstanding abilities, there was no doubt that he would kill for the opportunity to explore the underground tunnel of a strange temple, even though they didn’t even know to whom it was dedicated. Or at least the commoner boy didn’t tell. Still, a temple was a temple and to roam its secret passages was the opportunity of a lifetime, not to be missed.
“Necalli!”
The yell of his friend from the tribunes made him look up in time to see the ball descending like a bird of prey, aiming to reach him, out of all people. Catching his breath, Necalli disregarded the impulse to leap away from its path, clenching his teeth, preparing for the hurtful contact, tilting his body in hopes of making his upper arm meet the onslaught. Surprisingly, it worked. As painful as it was, his elbow did send the ball back into the air for Acoatl, the best player of the school, to catch it comfortably on his hip, launching it toward the nearest mark on the sloping wall. One more point for their team of five.
Unimpressed, the teacher regarded Necalli with a dour frown. His previous state of dreaming was apparently not missed, even though he did exactly as he had been told; confronted the ball when it might have been easier to avoid it. How frustrating! He ground his teeth, his arm hurting
, but not like his pride did. The old school master had something against him today, damn it.
A glance up at the tribunes told him that Axolin was amusing himself with a conversation involving one of the royal offspring, a ten-summers-old brother of Tenochtitlan’s Emperor, no more and no less. Even now, three summers later, the election of their new Emperor was still the talk of the city, the elevation of a young man when many eligible members of the royal family were there and available, ready to occupy the dearly coveted reed-woven throne. The old Head Adviser, the legendary Tlacaelel, wished it to be so, unwilling to take the burden of the reign himself once again, naming young Axayacatl, the grandson of the deceased Emperor Moctezuma Ilhuicamina, instead, even though everyone knew who made Tenochtitlan into what it was through the last four decades, since the fall of the Tepanec Capital; still, the doughty old man Tlacaelel kept away from the actual title, remaining to serve as the Head Adviser three emperors in a row.
Shaking his head, Necalli got rid of irrelevant musings, concentrating on the ball. No, he would not earn additional chores that would make him remain in school instead of enjoying his well-deserved free afternoon. Not today!
“But did you keep getting old Yaotzin mad, brother.”
Axolin was the first to greet him at the end of the game, hopping down the sloping tribunes with the happy vigor of one who didn’t have to run and sweat since the high noon, his limp unnoticeable, barely there. However, he did bother to close the distance before speaking, making sure that the back of the leaving school master was well away from hearing range, already reaching the far end of the court. Exempt from the game and more vigorous weaponry training for the time being, Axolin still didn’t fancy sharp tongue-lashing or even detention for the evening; cleaning schoolrooms or bringing in firewood was not his idea of a good time.
“Are you going to huddle up here until it gets dark?”
Necalli just grunted in response. Perching on the low wall, he inspected his injuries, incensed. Everyone made mistakes, especially while running around the ball court, trying to prevent the heavy rubber from touching the ground while not allowed to use one’s hands or feet. It was a difficult challenge and not such a pleasant pastime, even though there were boys who dreamed of nothing but being allowed to join the official games on some bright, lucky, benevolent day. Why they would wish to be slammed and pushed and hit all the time, either by the desired ball or by their fellow players, Necalli didn’t know. The ballgame was not such a joy, besides the recognition it brought to the most famous of its players, those who represented Tenochtitlan against other city-states or just large towns, either partners in the famous Triple Alliance or the subjected provinces and their humbled but still very much alive and kicking nobility and ball players. Oh yes, the heroes of the ball court were sought after by the prettiest of women and the highest of nobility alike.
Making a face, he snorted, watching the grazed skin of his left upper arm. It bled but only a little, as did the other scratches and bruises, a mandatory thing on such afternoons. It was so much better to run around, fencing with training swords or shooting spears from atlatls, taking down faraway targets. If only they were allowed to shoot a real bow! Or at least to see one close up. Patli boasted that a boy from his uncle’s workshop came from the lands where even little children ran around carrying their bows as though they were mere daggers. He was an uncouth villager from the far south with a spectacular name: ItzMiztli, Obsidian Puma.
“Are you going to sulk and fume until it gets dark? Old Yaotzin went hard on you, but it wasn’t that bad, and he said nothing about staying in school in the afternoon.”
Axolin was not about to let him be, beaming with wellbeing, his hair glittering, oiled and gathered in an intricate bun – a halfhearted imitation of the Eagle Warriors’ hairdo. What an annoying piece of discarded tortilla! Necalli fought the urge to stick his elbow into his friend’s temptingly unprotected ribs.
“He just pointed out what I did wrong. He wanted to make sure I understood.”
The tall boy’s laughter shook the sunlit enclosure. “And this is why you are sulking up here, hiding from others, glowing like a thunderstorm cloud, ready to burst?”
“Shut up!” Jumping down the cracking stones, Necalli scowled, embarrassed by the realization that even his closest friend could see through him so easily. What if the others managed to do this as well? “I didn’t care for that one’s reprimands. It was stupid of me to miss the ball that first time. It could be intercepted.” Finding no better object than the lower slab of the stone wall, he kicked at it, making sure his sandaled foot did not connect with the crumbling plaster too forcefully. He had enough injuries as it was. “Don’t you want to be invited to play in the real game when our time comes?”
“Of course.” Axolin made a face. “But the way you played today, brother, you will be lucky to be invited to watch.” This time, it was the tall boy’s turn to snort thoughtfully. “Acoatl plays better than anyone in school. He’ll be invited, mark my words.”
“Acoatl sucks in all the rest. Even a pitiful training sword looks like a stupid stick when he uses it, and he can’t write two glyphs together.”
“But he hits the ball like no one else does.”
“Who cares!”
“I’ll be playing as good as Acoatl, even better.” This time, it came from the boy, the royal offspring, who had apparently tagged after Axolin, feeling entitled after being graced with a conversation. Emperor’s brother or not, this one was nothing but a pitiful pilli, a child as yet.
Necalli snorted. “We’ll see about that. For now, that ball would squash you flat and make a puddle out of you if it lands upon you.”
The boy’s face took the color of a moonless night. He was called Ahuitzotl, Necalli remembered, such an exotic name. “Not like it almost squashed you when you were busy dreaming while they played.”
A sharp pilli. Necalli made a face at him.
“Not bad!” As expected, Axolin felt magnanimous enough to appreciate a critique that was not directed at him. “He got you there, brother, he did!”
“Shut up.” He rolled his eyes toward their royal company, knowing that annoying ten-summers-old pilli or not, one didn’t goad imperial brothers. “Run along, cub. Join the next game and make us win. Or better yet, go straight ahead for the imperial games. You’ll make our Tenochtitlan team invincible.”
“You are nothing but a stupid vomit-eater, good-for-nothing drinker of excrements out of public pits!” cried out the boy before turning around and bolting toward the next low wall, leaping up it with an admirable agility, scaling it with true skill. Ahuitzotl, the Spiny Water Monster, reflected Necalli, a mystical creature from the Great Lake’s waters that people feared and revered in the same breath. The way that one climbed more suited a cat-like creature. They should have called him Aocelotl, a Water Jaguar.
“Since when do you make friends with stupid children?” he demanded of Axolin, who, in the meantime, found it fitting to succumb to another fit of laughter. “They are such a nuisance, those stupid cubs, running between your feet, getting in the way. Thinking the world of themselves because they came from the Palace and were admitted to school the moment they stopped wetting themselves. Disgusting!”
“But he got you going, brother.” Finally over his hearty spell of mirth, Axolin shrugged, still grinning. “I was bored, and he is a nice pilli, not pompous like the rest of them, and not stupid either.” Another shrug. “I wish they’d let me out of the stupid bandage. It’s boring to be out of everything, and my stinking ankle isn’t hurting that bad.”
“It stinks well enough. Or maybe it’s the rest of you.” Avoiding the hit of the elbow that was directed into his ribs with true zeal, he measured the lengthening shadows that were stretching across the perfectly swept ground. After the actual ball game, the court needed much attention, but their pitiful messing around it left the vast square looking almost untouched. “Patli said to meet him around that old temple near the old causew
ay. He said that today it’ll be deserted for certain.”
This made Axolin lose some of his breezy aplomb. “We can’t!”
“Yes, we can.” Frowning, Necalli glanced around once again, reassured by their obvious lack of company. Even their fellow calmecac students had scattered away, huddling in quiet corners like they did, inspecting their injuries or loitering with no particular purpose. No one was in a hurry to rush back to school, only a short walk across the court and beyond the two smaller pyramids and the temple their school was adjacent to. No one was in a hurry to return to the trap full of more chores and demands. “Old Yaotzin said nothing about punishments or additional duties, or lessons, or anything. He scampered off quite hastily himself, come to think of it.”
“Still, you can’t go back to school, then run all the way to the old causeway, tour an underground temple, and count on getting back in time. They won’t miss our absence at the midnight rites. Fancy getting in trouble for real?”
“We may make it if we hurry. Also, if we start straight away from here.” Chewing his lower lip, Necalli pondered their possibilities. “They said nothing about any more lessons, and we brought a lot of firewood in this morning, so they won’t be anxious to send us out again, not this time of the day.” He glanced at the sun, pleased to see it hurrying toward the western side of the distant Palace’s wall, certain now. “We can do without detouring through school. They won’t notice.”
Axolin was scowling, his hands making a mess out of his make-believe topknot. “They’ll go down hard on us if they notice. That commoner friend of yours and his schemes! Are you sure he can be trusted?”
Smoothing his loincloth, trying to make it look presentable despite its violent brushes with the dust of the accursed court, Necalli just shrugged.
“If he isn’t, then he is in for a good beating, that one. So don’t worry on that score. You’ll get your chance at revenge.” Grimacing, he inspected his sandals, not an impressive sight with all the dust covering the wittily adorned leather. “He isn’t a friend of mine. It’s just that he is full of ideas, not as stupid or as uneducated as his telpochcalli classmates. Those telpochcalli boys are such stupid bores.”
