Jaguar Princess (3 page)

The man paled, started to back away, but the guardsmen held him firmly.

The Lord of the Market shook a brown bean into his hand, held it between thumb and forefinger and squashed it flat. “Wax mixed with amaranth dough,” he said.

“Honorable one, I did not know. I accepted the beans in barter earlier today. Had I known…”

The slave merchant began to shout and other vendors in the crowd began to boo and jeer. Several cried out that they knew this man and that it was not the first time he had tried to pass off counterfeit cocoa beans.

“You are sentenced to be tried by the Court of Six,” said the Lord of the Market. “Your purchase is to be surrendered.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

The guardsmen marched after him with the counterfeiter between them, followed by the angry old flower-seller, still berating him shrilly about her damaged basket.

The slave merchant took the rope tied to Mixcatl’s collar, but she could see he did not look pleased.

“All that time and effort wasted without a real sale/’ he complained. He glowered at the girl as he led her back to the selling platform, and she heard him muttering that he would rather drop her in the canal than haul her back to the jobbing lot in his boat if she were not bought by the day’s end.

“That would be a waste of one who is strong in body and spirit,” said a light voice above Mixcatl’s head. She turned, stared up at a young man with cropped black hair, a dark purple mantle with embroidered golden stars and a thin, ascetic-looking face.

“She is a young wildcat, better drowned than sold. I will be the one dragged before the law courts if she escapes from you and runs wild again.”

“I am a tutor at the priests’ school. We need a sturdy young slave to draw water and carry out slopjars.”

The slave merchant only growled and spat. Mixcatl felt her eyes widen. She measured the new arrival, wondered how fast he could run.

“I will give you two cotton mantles for her,” the young tutor said. “They are not new, but freshly washed.” He brought out a bundle from beneath his cloak.

The slave merchant looked relieved. “Done,” he said, with only a quick glance at the contents. “Take her and go quickly. I warn you, you will only have yourself to blame if she wrecks your kitchens and runs wild among your pupils.”

He placed the rope end in the young man’s hand. Mixcatl studied her second new owner of the day. She balanced on her toes, wondered if she could jerk the rope from his hand and make a second run. She felt weary, heard her stomach growl. Freedom seemed suddenly less attractive
than food. At least eating would give her time to think.

The young man knotted the rope about his wrist, ending any chance of losing his grip to a sharp jerk. He gave Mixcatl a keen look. “I don’t like tethering a child, but until we’re out of the market, it will help you resist any temptation.”

Thinking of hot corn tortillas baking on a stone griddle, Mixcatl put aside her thoughts of freedom, bowed her head and followed her master.

IN THE SUNRISE
direction from the Aztec city of Tenochtit-lan lay a city-state called Texcoco. It stood on the eastern shore of Lake Texcoco, the swampy, shallow body of water surrounding the Aztec capital. Independently ruled by an allied tribe called the Chichimecs, Texcoco had long been a flourishing trade center. Wise Coyote, Tex-coco’s
tlatoani
or Revered Speaker-King, saw that his city could not compete with the Aztecs’ military strength. Instead he had entered into an alliance with them and concentrated on making Texcoco the capital of art and learning for the Aztec Empire.

In addition to his estates in the city itself. Wise Coyote owned lands at Tezcotzinco, in the hills above the lake. Here he had built a palace of sapphire-blue stone and surrounded it with gardens full of rare and exotic flowers. Whenever he tired of life in the city, he retreated to Tezcotzinco.

Today he had come to the gardens to bathe. A fresh wind blew between the hills, but the sun was strong and warm on Wise Coyote’s back as he pulled his knotted mantle off over his head. He laid the cloak on the grassy bank beside his turquoise headband, loincloth and blue sandals, then waded into a pool that nestled among the rocks.

Had the pool been formed naturally from the gathering of mountain streams, the king would have dipped quickly and shivered back into his clothing. Human hands and the will of the tlatoani himself had changed the form of the hills and the flow of the streams. Now water gathered behind stone dams, trickled into shallow collecting basins and ran along troughs of sun-warmed rock until it spilled into the bathing pool.

Wise Coyote lay back on his elbows, his head and shoulders in the sunlight, the rest of his body in the water’s soothing caress as it made its way to the outflow and cascaded down into the channels and pools below. Idly, he lifted a foot and touched the center one of three stone frogs who sat by the poolside. He’d had them made, half in jest, as a present for his queen. The frogs represented the cities of the Triple Alliance in the Valley of Mexico. The two on the outside were the cities of Tlacopan and his own city of Texcoco. The center frog, and the one with the most severe goggle-eyed stare (at least it seemed so to Wise Coyote) was the Aztec city of Tenoch-titlan, the self-declared center of the world.

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.