by Zoe Saadia
“And how would he do that, you brilliant planner?” demanded Axolin, argumentative again. He clearly didn’t like being bossed over, not by his friend. “Should he go up our school temple’s stairs out there next to the ball-court and the round pyramid and demand to see us or send us word? I can just imagine this happening. They’ll be falling all over themselves in their eagerness to do his bidding, our dignified priest-teachers and veteran warriors.”
Necalli made a face. “He’ll find a way. Won’t you?” The friendly wink was impossible to resist. “If you are sneaking around there, be careful. These people who saw you in that tunnel might have gotten a good look. Even there by that Tlaloc temple it looked as though some of this marketplace scum was scrutinizing us a little too closely. Just before the priest started yelling at them.”
The memory came back in force, making his stomach knot in a painful way. “They would have chased us if they wanted to get us.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they were afraid of the priests.” A one-sided shrug lifted a broad shoulder. “Anyway, be careful if you are going to sniff around and let us know right away.” Another wink, now mischievous rather than friendly. “If no better way occurs to you, send the word through that pretty girl, the craftsman’s daughter. She seems to be at ease around our school temple and all, eh? Running around with snotty royalty, just imagine that.”
Before he could get offended on Chantli’s behalf, Axolin grabbed his friend’s good arm. “Come, come. Or you’ll start talking any wilder than you do now. Old Yaotzin will beat all this silliness out of you, I promise you that. Unless we manage to sneak in like real quiet marketplace mice. Come, you crazy adventurer.”
Watching their silhouettes melting in the darkness, Miztli stood for a little while, blinking in confusion. What wild pieces of crazy meat those calmecac boys were, wilder than any of his friends back in the village. The haughty nobles of the mighty capital?
Well, the distant aristocrats strutting around Oaxtepec, coming to enjoy the cool air of the country, the crispiness of it, or so they were reported to claim, were nothing like that, surrounded by armies of slaves and bodyguards, impossible to get a closer look at even if one tried to do that, something the boys of their village never bothered with. Why would they? And yet, now he knew that those same unapproachable nobles were, indeed, crazily haughty, but not truly bad, not untrustworthy, not like the other citizens of the mighty capital turned out to be, all those craftsmen and metal or feather workers. How odd! People like Patli and old Tlaquitoc’s sons, treating him with the utmost coldness, with so much condescending arrogance and chill, while those calmecac boys didn’t do anything of the sort. Well, not to an unbearable degree, even that annoying Axolin.
Turning around, he shook his head. It was still pounding with pain and exhaustion, but not as badly as before. Or maybe it was his mood. And if he managed to sneak into the workshop without being noticed, then it might still come to nothing serious, this wild impossible evening, the first interesting night spent in the great city after three moons of loneliness, boredom, and desperate longing for home.
His fingers reached for the pouch, clenched around the familiar smoothness of his obsidian treasure, reassured by it like back in the temple. Then his attention snapped back to the present without an obvious cause. The bushes at the edge of the alley rustled with no breeze accompanying the movement.
His thoughts racing about, he pushed the unsettling feeling away, calculating his way hurriedly. These well-to-do neighborhoods looked nothing like the alleys surrounding the workshop, and the scent of the lake was not heavy here, barely reaching him. How far was he from his destination? And in what direction?
The silhouettes sprang into his view as he turned into a narrower pathway, the dark forms of two people. His heart came to a sudden halt, then threw itself wildly against his ribs, desperately. Were those the people whom the calmecac boy was warning him against? His instincts screamed danger. No robbers would try to harass a youth with nothing to offer but a dirty loincloth and little else.
Whirling around, he burst into a wild run, his instincts telling him that the direction of the wharves and the marketplace offered no shelter or sanctuary. The well-to-do neighborhoods! He should try to reach them or to run in the direction his companions disappeared such a short time ago.
Something swished and he didn’t understand what made him stumble, shoving his face into the dusty stones of the paved road. Disoriented, he tried to push the stupid stones away, the buzz in his ears annoying, interfering with his ability to hear. The next thing he knew, someone’s heavy body was upon him, making the struggle to get up more difficult.
He squirmed wildly, beyond panic, like back in the lake, but unlike the hostile water and the monsters inhabiting it, this time, there was no one to come to his aid, to help against the crushing weight. The last thing he felt was an explosion in the back of his head and then it was under the water, sinking into the suffocating darkness, helpless and terrified, hopelessly lost.
Chapter 9
The chance to sneak away came only when her brothers burst into the house, sweaty and soot-smeared, demanding their well deserved meal, complaining about the difficulty of their day, overrunning each other with the loudness of their grievances.
Despite her own mounting worry, Chantli couldn’t help snickering. It was too funny how alike they looked, with their faces so dirty and their expressions mirroring each other in their indignant resentment, their lips just a thin line, barely there.
Father had been away through the most of the day, attending an important meeting, the gathering of his craftsmen guild and the other unions of the city. Even the influential Traders Guild would sometimes grace such gatherings with its haughty, all-important presence, a whole class above the rest of the respectable people of the city. Which left both her brothers to mind the workshop, to do all the work, even the less pleasant task of the actual melting.
Oh, but did the need to maintain raging fires, blowing into clay-tipped straws, and maneuvering pots overflowing with liquid metal leave them bubbling with fury, as red-hot as the braziers, muttering about worthless pieces of dirt from the provinces. The amount of curses heaped on the head of the missing apprentice was staggering, so much frustration and rage! Every time Mother sent her into the workshop to try to be helpful in little things, she heard them cursing the village boy, promising to discipline him in ways that made her scant body hair rise. No, no one liked to do the melting, the task her brothers forgot how to do since that boy arrived here. Which served them right. On that score, she smirked unashamedly when sure that no one was looking her way.
Yet on another account, the account of the missing village boy, she was worried sick. Why didn’t he come back yesterday, late at night or not? He was supposed to, wasn’t he? He had nowhere to go, nowhere to sleep or eat, and he must have cherished his place at Father’s workshop. He wouldn’t just scamper away as her brothers suspected he did. He was not that sort of a person. But if not, what happened to him at that Tlaloc temple or on his way back? What made him not return?
Her worry mounting, she kept running into the workshop under every pretext, hoping to see him back, even if facing dire punishments. If he cared to retell their previous evening’s adventures, she would have helped him by backing his story. Father wouldn’t be thrilled to discover that she took a part in it, running around after darkness and in the company of boys; oh yes, Patli was right at pointing that out while swearing her to secrecy on their way back. Still, she resolved to tell some of it if it helped the village boy get out of trouble. He deserved that.
However, as the day dragged on, and her chores at the house were completed – plenty of weaving, her loom sporting an almost ready piece of an intricate pattern, then helping Mother with meals, sorting maize, grinding some of it, the chores their only slave usually did but not always, not on the busy days – she became worried for real. Something was wrong, something had happened, and the only way to find out was to ask Pat
li to find his calmecac friends, or better yet, to go with him and do the asking herself. They might know, or at least might try to find out Miztli’s whereabouts. They seemed to be good boys, courteous and helpful, especially the one called Necalli, so handsome and full of great spirits. He would be glad to see her too, she knew, feeling her face beginning to burn worse than the melting room braziers, trying to cover these obvious signs of embarrassment. But she was silly for thinking these kinds of thoughts, wasn’t she?
However, no one was there to watch her and her anxiousness. Patli was not yet back from his telpochcalli, maybe not allowed to leave on account of coming back to school so late last night. Which left her alone with her worries, with no one to turn to for help or, at least, to share her misgivings, while the shining sun deity kept rolling along the sky, leaving her with less and less hope of seeing the village boy return, with or without good excuses to keep him from punishments but still alive and not harmed. What had happened at the Tlaloc temple?
In the end, the moment she could sneak away without being too obvious about it, counting on Mother being preoccupied with two spoiled overgrown crybabies, Chantli didn’t waste any time. Patli would be a great help, but she couldn’t wait for him to come home. She had to do something!
Feeling strange in her best festive huipil pulled over her regular skirt hastily, she rushed along the busy alleys, her sandals’ sturdy leather soles clacking pleasantly against the dusty cobblestones. It would be better if she could linger for long enough to take care of her hair, to arrange it nicely like on the day before. Would they let her near the huge towering temple or that precious noble school? Yesterday, she stuck out like a red tomato in a pile of green avocados, drawing dubious glances while huddling under the temple’s stairs with that boy Ahuitzotl, even though she had been dressed in her very best clothes, her hair combed and arranged wittily, divided at the nape, then pulled up in the respectable manner of the well-to-do ladies, while now it was simply tied behind her back. A bother! Would they banish her before she’d have a chance of finding either of the boys?
The sun was still strong, blazing unmercifully, reflecting off the polished plaster of colorful walls. The stones of the Great Pyramid were so smooth, their colors slick and glittering, the buildings around it towering high. Slowing her step, she slipped into the narrow alley, attempting to circumvent the smaller pyramid until able to come out next to the round Quetzalcoatl’s temple, and another lower pyramid as close to the stairs and the hidden entrance as possible. But for this boy Ahuitzotl to be there and waiting, like yesterday!
To her disappointment, her calculation was no good, bringing her back to the Central Plaza next to the wrong pyramid, the one belonging to Tezcatlipoca, judging by the symbol adorning the temple towering upon its top. The mighty deity of the night and the wind, patron of nobles and warriors but their punisher as well, the smoking mirror, the spirit of double meaning, the good and the bad of the darkness. Shuddering, she hastened her steps, only to nearly bump into an open litter that was progressing along the wide alley, turning into the vastness of the Plaza as she did.
Desperately, she tried to sway out of its way, the exclamation of the sturdy litter bearer she collided with ringing in her ears, gaining power. His elbow pushed her away with enough force, sending her crashing into the dusty stones, but the warriors who slowed their pace were the ones to leave her breathless with fright, the anger upon their faces, their open impatience.
“What in the name of the Underworld?” one of them cried out, towering above her, his brow wrinkled dourly, face the color of a thundercloud. “What’s with the marketplace scum running all over the Plaza of the Royal Enclosure? Disgusting!”
The assaulted litter bearer muttered something, while the rest of his peers and the other warriors nodded vigorously in agreement.
“Where did you come from, girl? What are you seeking here?” The growling demand made Chantli go numb with fear. Such a bark! “Get up and stop staring. Answer the question!”
A sensible proposition. She tried to make her limbs work.
“Or better yet, run along, girl, and fast,” offered another warrior, less foreboding than his peer, almost amused. “You have no business sneaking around noble places. Don’t come near the Royal Enclosure again.”
The beautiful woman upon the cushions of the open litter leaned forward, her forehead adorned with an exquisite sparkling diadem, the polished topaz reflecting the afternoon sun. “Do proceed,” she said coldly, addressing the servants. “You can’t stop every time you step on a marketplace rat.”
The litter bearers turned away hastily, and the warriors stopped chuckling.
“Go away, girl,” repeated the first man, pushing her with the tip of his sandal, as though afraid to mar it with an actual kick. “Run along and don’t come back here, ever.”
The assortment of bared and sandaled feet began drawing away, enabling Chantli to breathe again. Her hands trembled too badly to help her in her frantic attempt to get up; still, she put it all into the effort to gain an upright position, so terribly clumsy, swaying as though she had been drunk on pulque, the spicy beverage that Father and other respectable people consumed rarely and only in the privacy of their homes.
“Are you well, girl?”
“Have you been hurt?”
Some of the passersby slowed their steps, peering at her with a genuine, good-natured concern, their expressions inquiring. One of the men caught her elbow as she swayed, helping her up deftly, with what looked like practiced skill. “Did the warriors hurt you?”
“N-no.” She hated the way her voice shook, so badly it made her stutter. Their faces were swimming, blurring behind the welling tears. “I… I th-thank you. I’m g-good. I have to… have to…”
“Don’t cry, little one.” This time, it was a female voice, gentle and lilting, pleasant to the ear. “Here, let us dry those tears, eh?”
The touch of the soft cloth brushing against her face made Chantli feel better. “Thank you. I’m not… I didn’t…”
“Here, here.” The round homely face beamed at her with an encouraging smile, the woman’s hand coarse but friendly, wiping the tears away. “Now run along, little one, and don’t fail to move aside when the royalty’s litter is nearing.”
The others nodded with vigor, their faces open, studying her with curiosity, lacking in hostility or reproach. “It’s difficult not to recognize the Emperor’s mother’s litter, eh? The symbols and the amount of the warriors alone…” One of the men, a construction worker or maybe an engineer, judging by the state of his short dusty cloak, shook his head. “Couldn’t you see that, girl? Weren’t you taught to use your eyes?”
“Yes,” joined several enthusiastic voices, talking all at once. “You should look around more carefully.”
“Unless not used to strolling in these surroundings,” suggested someone. “Where did you come from?”
“Not from anywhere near,” declared the man with the dusty cloak, pleased with himself. “She is from out there, from the slums that have nothing to do with this part of the city. That warrior was right. She is better off keeping away from here. Do you hear that, girl?”
Numbly, Chantli nodded, wishing nothing more than to disappear from the surface of the earth, never to return. The home, the wharves, and the marketplace were a much friendlier place, familiar and good, not eager to hurt or humiliate her, to make her feel like the muddiest leftover off the old food stall.
“I have to… have to go back, yes,” she muttered, suddenly anxious to escape their talk and attention. They were no better than the arrogant noblewoman and her violent escorts, thinking themselves worthier than her only because they were used to walking around the Great Plaza and the Royal Enclosure.
Her anger rose, giving her enough power to push her way through. They were still talking, offering advice or maybe just gossiping now, discussing her lack of knowledge or belonging. She didn’t care. Tenochtitlan’s slums? No, her neighborhood wasn’t like tho
se cane-and-reed clusters of houses next to the old causeway or the worst of the wharves. How dared they talk about her like that? Back home, behind the marketplace’s district, she knew when to move away, of course, when litters or warriors escorting richly dressed ladies appeared. One was required to clear one’s way in order to let those pass. Still, they wouldn’t push people into the mud, unless challenged with rude answers. Not like the vile warriors and the disgustingly haughty noblewoman they carried. Was it truly the Emperor’s mother up there in the palanquin? A filthy piece of rotten fish, that what she was.
Rushing along the crude crumbling wall, she fought her tears, blinking violently, not about to let those blur her vision. If it happened, she might bump into yet another litter or procession, offered insults or condescending advice. But for something like that not to happen in the first place. She didn’t come from the slums, she did not!
From behind the low wall, cries and shouting reached her along with the dim booms of a heavy object crashing against it, making a dull sound. A ball game? It was easy to recognize those particular noises. Not an official game with a multitude of watchers and a lot of pomp. She had been taken to such a game only a few moons ago, when Tenochtitlan’s team competed against the visiting Texcoco, its players and its dignitaries, along with the entire population of the Great Lake that seemed to crowd every vacant space around the Great Plaza. But this time, it was probably just training or a local game.
Slowing her step, she hesitated, the temptation to peek in great, difficult to battle. The ballgames were a thrilling thing to watch, even when it was nothing but marketplace boys drawing an improvised field in the dust, tossing their cherished rubber, having no walls or marks to hit but the only rule not to let the ball touch the ground.
“Commoner girl!”
A high-pitched but somehow familiar cry made her jump, looking around frantically, seeking the source of it.
“Up here, you silly.”
