Secret of the Moon Conch, page 20
I end the call, give the phone back to my madrina, and plop down on the couch.
“Everything okay?” my madrina asks. The bluish light coming from the television accentuates the worried look on her face.
“Yes,” I say. “Everything’s perfect. Just what I was expecting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Calizto
Day 6-Flint of the Year 3-House (June 27, 1521)
I awaken before dawn to bathe. As I linger in the pool, considering the luxuries a young cuauhpilli might enjoy, I realize Sitlali is looking at me from her bed.
Good morning. How long have you been awake?
Just a couple of min—seconds. I have the morning shift.
I chuckle at her discomfort.
I also have an early start. I don’t know what to expect from Ehcatzin. I’ve heard his name before. He has a reputation for unconventional tactics.
That new uniform seems cool. Can’t wait to see you in it. I mean, to see how it fits your body. Wait, that is . . . She is flustered. You know what I mean.
Of course I do. But I won’t be wearing it today. It’s only for battle.
She sits up, her hair a tangle, her sleeping garments twisted. Her face crunches up as she pouts. It’s incredibly endearing.
Not fair. What if you fade completely by the time you have to suit up? I wanted to . . .
To what?
To . . . see you all dressed up for the position I got you! What else?
Enjoying the awkwardness, I make as if to stand up.
You may want to avert your eyes. I need to dry myself.
She gasps and turns away.
Calizto, that’s not funny. Give me more warning!
Hrm. Perhaps if you were less curious in the first place . . .
She picks up her phone and feigns interest in its screen while I dress. It takes some time, but a glance in the obsidian mirror shows my efforts have been worthwhile.
Sitlali, you can look.
She shrugs.
I’ve seen enough of you.
Really?
Mm-hmm. Long black hair, white loincloth, a few muscles. Same old, same old.
I should just take this uniform off, then?
Wait, what?
Sitlali whirls around.
I have donned it all: the one-piece blue-green body suit, the red ribbon for my topknot, the white sandals. I have even strapped the wicker framework to my back that lifts the quetzal feather banner into the air behind me and to my arm the new shield of my station.
Sitlali gasps.
You look . . .
Dignified? Handsome?
Pretty . . . ready. Her blush says much more, feeding my pride.
I laugh loudly. Ah, my sweet. I can feel your heart beating across five centuries and a thousand leagues.
For a moment we simply stare at each other with yearning.
Then she sighs.
Time for me to get ready too. Breakfast tacos wait for no woman.
Then I’ll release the conch to give you some privacy.
As she dresses, I change back into my loincloth and a pair of rougher sandals.
Before long, we’re walking together under a dawning sky, Sitlali to work and I to practice. We exchange a warm glance and words of leave-taking just as I step onto the training field beside the calmecac of Tlatelolco.
Ehcatzin is there already. Four other men are setting up the tlaczayan, chalking out the sparring square and placing a rack of training weapons nearby.
My captain is a svelte, hardy man of thirty years. Thin lines crisscross his arms, legs, and chest from hundreds of obsidian razors that have grazed him in battle. Badges of courage and skill. He rushes into the fray but is too fast and agile to be slain or maimed.
“Calizto. Son of Omaca,” he greets me. “Welcome to the Otontin Knights.”
“Captain Ehcatzin,” I reply, saluting with fist against heart. “It is my honor to serve.”
He tilts his head. “Ah, they told me you wore that big sword of yours strapped to your back. Let me see it, son.”
I unsling the sword and scabbard.
“What in the nine hells is this?” Ehcatzin grabs the handle and slides the maccuahuitl from the grooved wooden rectangle that covers the blade and its embedded obsidian razors.
“An invention of my father’s,” I explain. “A tlaquimiloani.”
“A shroud?”
“Yes, sir. He got the idea from the Caxtiltecah. You have seen how they keep their metal swords by their sides, protecting themselves from the sharp edges by a similar method. With the help of a woodworking cousin, he crafted one for the weapon.”
Ehcatzin grunts as he hefts the sword. “Your elder brother’s blade. He was one of our best.”
I duck my head. “Even though I was just a boy, he taught me many things. I continued practicing after his death, under the supervision of my father.”
“Then you studied under Master Miquiztin, another valiant and decorated soldier. Does he yet live?”
I keep my eyes down. “I don’t know, sir. Our neighborhood was reduced to rubble by enemy cannon. I’ve not seen him since.”
Something whistles through the air. Ehcatzin has dropped the sheath and is brandishing the sword. “A fine weapon. Where have you gotten replacement obsidian razors?”
“Mine have never broken.”
He lowers the sword, an incredulous look on his face. “Impossible. Razors strike bone, splinter, pull free to remain in the enemy’s flesh. How did you manage such a feat?”
Trying not to sound too arrogant, I explain. “The first rule my elder brother taught me, sir. ‘The edge is for slashing, the flat for smashing.’ A severing blow with the edge will shatter the blades and perhaps the weapon. It is a move of last resort.”
Ehcatzin purses his lips, raps the oak handle with the knuckles of his left hand. “If this sword ever shatters, son, take it as a sign from the gods. I’ve not seen a more elegant and durable piece of weaponry.”
“Sir.”
Ehcatzin signals to the other four men, who come to stand beside him. “These are my squad leaders. To determine whose team you fit best, I want you to move through the thirteen olintin of the sword. You know them all, I trust?”
In answer, I walk to the weapons rack, select a practice macana and shield, give a war cry, and begin. The forms are instinct after years of practice and teaching. Each series of attacking and defensive moves puts the swordsman through every possible combination of encounters in war.
As I complete the final strike of the thirteenth olintin, parrying from a crouch before hamstringing the opponent, I lower sword and shield to kneel before Captain Ehcatzin.
“That was flawless. What other weapons are you proficient with?”
“Only melee arms, sir. I’ve little experience with bows or spears. The tepoztopilli would be my second choice.”
“Excellent,” Ehcatzin says. “Show us the five olintin of the halberd.”
Returning the shield and macana, I choose the tallest pole arm. Instead of obsidian razors, this practice weapon has flint blades embedded at the edge of its long, ovoid head. The weight is perfect, and I move through the forms, three for fighting in formation, two for duels. It feels strange to return to the thrusting, twisting, and backward jerking of the tepoztopilli. The last olin winds down with a flurry of slashing and stabbing attacks before ending with brutal blows from the weapon reversed, the handle slamming into the falling enemy’s imaginary face and throat.
Whipping the halberd around my shoulders and planting the butt into the earth, I kneel again before Ehcatzin and the others.
“Well done,” he says with an appreciative tone. “Rest for a spell. Then get padded up. You’ll be sparring with Poloc.”
I return the pole arm to the rack and stretch the tension from my muscles before sitting on the ground and looking over at Sitlali, whose image wavers with the breeze.
I almost spilled coffee on a customer, watching you.
Am I that distracting? I ask, teasing.
Your fighting moves? Yes. You yourself? Meh.
But she is smiling as she thinks it.
A cadet brings me a cup of pinolli while I rest. The drink of toasted cornmeal fills my gut without making me sluggish.
Sometime later, Ehcatzin and Poloc return, bearing helmets and sparring jackets of thick cotton, similar to the ichcahuipilli worn on the battlefield. The captain helps us into our gear, tying the jackets at our backs.
“Good. Both of you are tall, evenly matched,” Ehcatzin notes. “You know the rules. First man to step over the chalk line loses. Choose your weapons.”
Poloc, whose face is crossed by a jagged scar, selects a heavy, broad macana and a solid wooden shield. His muscles tense at the weight in both his hands. He’s quite strong but will tire quickly.
Ignoring the shields, I draw a longer, narrower two-handed practice sword. Not as heavy or dense as my own, it will still allow me to fight in the same hybrid way I’ve developed.
We face each other from opposite sides of the tlaczayan. Poloc assumes the traditional stance: shield up, sword held in reverse, with the blade pointing behind him. Normally, a fighter will move from that stance into an underhanded half-spindle side cut, swinging his arm in a short arc about chest-high.
Which means Poloc will do no such thing.
I flex my knees, point my sword toward the ground at an angle.
Poloc explodes into motion, running at me. I see his left arm lifting as he leans forward.
He plans to use the shield offensively. Solid oak can break bones.
Loosing a cry, I swing my sword in an arc over my head and start running too. I leap as he bends and thrusts his shield forward.
I plant one foot on the shield, another on his shoulder, and push off him with a spin, swinging my sword in a downward parabola till it slams into his helmet.
Hitting the ground, I roll into a crouch. He has whirled about and whips his sword through the air. Rather than pulling back or parrying, I roll forward under his attack and jam the end of my macana into his groin.
Poloc grunts but doesn’t stop. I’ve gotten too close, and he slams the edge of his shield down against my helmet. This blow is followed by a downward diagonal slice of his blade, which I bat away as I stand, reeling from the pain in my head.
The shield comes whizzing close again, but I dance back and catch it with the flat of my blade, twisting to wrench open his defense. I spring into the air with a cry and bring my sword down in a brutal arc that would have ripped open his armor were it edged with razors.
I duck under another of his half-spindle side cuts. He has not learned to lower that attack. Twisting away, I pull to the other end of the tlaczayan, right at the edge of the chalk, lifting my sword over my head as far as possible so that it touches the small of my back.
Poloc laughs, letting his sword dangle from the thong that binds it to his wrist. Then, as I have been hoping, he yanks the shield off his left arm and flings it through the air at me. He clearly expects I will step back and lose by crossing the line.
Instead, I bring my sword crashing down on it and hurtle toward him. A half rod away, I pull my momentum into a full spin of my body, sword outstretched.
A malacachtli. Full spindle. A jaguar move. My brother called it the metzli.
The moon.
Poloc flinches, steps back.
Crosses the line.
The 360-degree spin has pulled me into a crouch. I’m still holding my sword extended.
I lower it and stand. Poloc pulls off his helmet and grins.
“He’s a hell of a strategist,” the squad leader says. “The emperor wasn’t wrong to make him an Otomitl Knight.”
Ehcatzin shakes his head, but grins. “I’ve never seen such a strange blend of styles. But, nine hells, it works. Come, Calizto, let’s get you out of that gear and go have lunch. You can meet the other boys in our unit.”
As elite soldiers, we eat better than probably anyone in the city. Certainly better than Sitlali, who wolfs down a tortilla wrapped around meat before taking a walk during her lunch break.
I need to buy some things at the dollar store, she explains.
Like what? I ask, ignoring the ribald jokes one of my new companions is making.
Don’t worry about it.
Well, now I cannot possibly stop worrying about it. Are you hurt? Is there some new obstacle you must surpass?
No, Calizto. Just, you know, personal items.
Such as?
Things that a woman needs. Every once and a while. You know, moon cycle, et cetera?
Ah, ritual items for prayers to Coyolxauhqui?
Uh, yes, weirdo. You can buy ritual Mexica prayer stuff in the United States. Clearly.
I suddenly understand what she needs to acquire. I had older sisters for many years.
Oh! I, uh, beg your pardon. Go . . . go about your business, then. Yes. Talk later.
I look around at the soldiers. Our unit is made up of twenty men, we fifteen fighters and the five officers eating in the adjoining room. The unit breaks down into five squads when necessary, one led by the captain.
I’m the youngest, but not by much. Tzohuac, son of a general who died last year during the Night of Victory, is just a handful of moons older.
No one questions my right to eat and fight alongside them.
The emperor and their captain placed me where I am.
That’s sufficient for these men.
The afternoon is spent drilling as a unit and then breaking into squads for mock battles. Ehcatzin shifts Tzohuac to Poloc’s command, where a companion’s death has created an opening.
“With me, Calizto,” he says. There is no argument, no hurt feelings.
I learn the formations, obey orders, coordinate without showing off.
No one can ever take the place of my fallen family and friends. But by the time the day is over, I realize I need this camaraderie. The ache in my heart is dulled by their jests and battle cries. Good Mexica men, ready to die for king and country.
Walking back to the palace, I see Sitlali moving like a ghost that flitters past in the dead of night. She must be in a vehicle.
Going home? I ask, though her godmother’s house is hardly the home she wants. I curse her bastard of a father for making her weep.
Yes, Amparo is giving me a ride. She’s one of the waitresses.
Those gossipmongers who leer at the supposedly handsome womanizer? Angel?
No, she’s not one of them. She’s easy to talk to. We’re having a nice conversation.
About?
You know, what kind of fun things there are to do around here, safe places for someone like me to go and not get picked up by border authorities, mainly ICE.
Are any of those places frequented by ruffians like Angel?
Ruffians? I couldn’t tell you what kind of young men . . . I mean, I don’t—
Because you shouldn’t go to such neighborhoods. Or see such knaves.
Wait, are you jealous, Calizto?
Hardly! Jealous of some vapid twit who ruts with women like an animal, abandoning each in turn? I just want to look out for you as you have watched over me.
Uh-huh. Well, I won’t be going anywhere tonight, so you can relax. I’m exhausted. I’ll probably watch some TV with my madrina and then go to bed.
Wise choice. I’m also exhausted. And bruised. No one advertises that about being in an elite military unit. “You will ache all the time.”
Ah, Calizto! I wish I could . . . Hmm. Please take care of yourself.
I’ve requested unguents be sent to our rooms. I should be fine by morning.
I pause. The setting sun has spread crimson all over the western peaks.
May I make a suggestion? Don’t attempt to contact your father tonight. Let him stew for a while. Let him think upon his unwise choices, the pain his neglect has caused you. Let him suffer a little as well.
But I love him, Calizto.
I know. I know. Still, let your love be a hard love, Sitlali.
She says nothing for a long while. I reach the palace, walk into our suite, greet Ofirin, who wants me to tell him about my day.
Finally, sitting on the couch at her godmother’s house, Sitlali looks over at me.
My sweet, it’s for the best, I reassure her. Imagine it’s a battle. Use the right strategy.
I’m thinking about it, Calizto. I promise. Rest well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sitlali
June 28, 2019
Manuel cut the side of his index finger during the breakfast rush. It wasn’t that bad. He just had to bandage it, but he and Angel have switched positions and Manuel’s driving today.
With Angel on the grill, there’s no break from the googly eyes and the cheap come-ons. The guy is so slimy it takes every bit of my resolve not to hit him over the head with a skillet.
“Oh my Lord, look at you,” he says, when I go to wipe the sweat from the back of my neck. “You are a goddess. You know that? I would put you on a pedestal—worship you night and day if you were my girl.”
I ignore him and turn sideways to look at Calizto, whose ghostly profile is standing in line, I assume with his companions, listening to a debriefing. I want to talk to him, but he is so busy. So, I just sit on the stool by the door and watch him silently.
“Hey, daydreamer, you listening?” Angel calls to me, and I snap back to my time’s reality.
“I am,” I say, as I jump off the little stool and rush up to the flat top, where Angel’s got the next delivery order ready for packaging.
“Why do you do that?” Angel asks. “Where do you go, when you get like that?”
I shrug.
“Women,” he scoffs.
Something akin to anger replaces the slight flush on my skin. “What do you mean, ‘women’?”
Angel throws several slices of ham on the grill. “My mother used to do that, look out into space,” he says as he flips the ham. “It was like we didn’t exist or something. Like she was already gone, years before she left.”
“Left?” I ask, taking the ham and putting it in beside the eggs before I close the lid on the container and place it in a plastic bag.
“Everything okay?” my madrina asks. The bluish light coming from the television accentuates the worried look on her face.
“Yes,” I say. “Everything’s perfect. Just what I was expecting.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Calizto
Day 6-Flint of the Year 3-House (June 27, 1521)
I awaken before dawn to bathe. As I linger in the pool, considering the luxuries a young cuauhpilli might enjoy, I realize Sitlali is looking at me from her bed.
Good morning. How long have you been awake?
Just a couple of min—seconds. I have the morning shift.
I chuckle at her discomfort.
I also have an early start. I don’t know what to expect from Ehcatzin. I’ve heard his name before. He has a reputation for unconventional tactics.
That new uniform seems cool. Can’t wait to see you in it. I mean, to see how it fits your body. Wait, that is . . . She is flustered. You know what I mean.
Of course I do. But I won’t be wearing it today. It’s only for battle.
She sits up, her hair a tangle, her sleeping garments twisted. Her face crunches up as she pouts. It’s incredibly endearing.
Not fair. What if you fade completely by the time you have to suit up? I wanted to . . .
To what?
To . . . see you all dressed up for the position I got you! What else?
Enjoying the awkwardness, I make as if to stand up.
You may want to avert your eyes. I need to dry myself.
She gasps and turns away.
Calizto, that’s not funny. Give me more warning!
Hrm. Perhaps if you were less curious in the first place . . .
She picks up her phone and feigns interest in its screen while I dress. It takes some time, but a glance in the obsidian mirror shows my efforts have been worthwhile.
Sitlali, you can look.
She shrugs.
I’ve seen enough of you.
Really?
Mm-hmm. Long black hair, white loincloth, a few muscles. Same old, same old.
I should just take this uniform off, then?
Wait, what?
Sitlali whirls around.
I have donned it all: the one-piece blue-green body suit, the red ribbon for my topknot, the white sandals. I have even strapped the wicker framework to my back that lifts the quetzal feather banner into the air behind me and to my arm the new shield of my station.
Sitlali gasps.
You look . . .
Dignified? Handsome?
Pretty . . . ready. Her blush says much more, feeding my pride.
I laugh loudly. Ah, my sweet. I can feel your heart beating across five centuries and a thousand leagues.
For a moment we simply stare at each other with yearning.
Then she sighs.
Time for me to get ready too. Breakfast tacos wait for no woman.
Then I’ll release the conch to give you some privacy.
As she dresses, I change back into my loincloth and a pair of rougher sandals.
Before long, we’re walking together under a dawning sky, Sitlali to work and I to practice. We exchange a warm glance and words of leave-taking just as I step onto the training field beside the calmecac of Tlatelolco.
Ehcatzin is there already. Four other men are setting up the tlaczayan, chalking out the sparring square and placing a rack of training weapons nearby.
My captain is a svelte, hardy man of thirty years. Thin lines crisscross his arms, legs, and chest from hundreds of obsidian razors that have grazed him in battle. Badges of courage and skill. He rushes into the fray but is too fast and agile to be slain or maimed.
“Calizto. Son of Omaca,” he greets me. “Welcome to the Otontin Knights.”
“Captain Ehcatzin,” I reply, saluting with fist against heart. “It is my honor to serve.”
He tilts his head. “Ah, they told me you wore that big sword of yours strapped to your back. Let me see it, son.”
I unsling the sword and scabbard.
“What in the nine hells is this?” Ehcatzin grabs the handle and slides the maccuahuitl from the grooved wooden rectangle that covers the blade and its embedded obsidian razors.
“An invention of my father’s,” I explain. “A tlaquimiloani.”
“A shroud?”
“Yes, sir. He got the idea from the Caxtiltecah. You have seen how they keep their metal swords by their sides, protecting themselves from the sharp edges by a similar method. With the help of a woodworking cousin, he crafted one for the weapon.”
Ehcatzin grunts as he hefts the sword. “Your elder brother’s blade. He was one of our best.”
I duck my head. “Even though I was just a boy, he taught me many things. I continued practicing after his death, under the supervision of my father.”
“Then you studied under Master Miquiztin, another valiant and decorated soldier. Does he yet live?”
I keep my eyes down. “I don’t know, sir. Our neighborhood was reduced to rubble by enemy cannon. I’ve not seen him since.”
Something whistles through the air. Ehcatzin has dropped the sheath and is brandishing the sword. “A fine weapon. Where have you gotten replacement obsidian razors?”
“Mine have never broken.”
He lowers the sword, an incredulous look on his face. “Impossible. Razors strike bone, splinter, pull free to remain in the enemy’s flesh. How did you manage such a feat?”
Trying not to sound too arrogant, I explain. “The first rule my elder brother taught me, sir. ‘The edge is for slashing, the flat for smashing.’ A severing blow with the edge will shatter the blades and perhaps the weapon. It is a move of last resort.”
Ehcatzin purses his lips, raps the oak handle with the knuckles of his left hand. “If this sword ever shatters, son, take it as a sign from the gods. I’ve not seen a more elegant and durable piece of weaponry.”
“Sir.”
Ehcatzin signals to the other four men, who come to stand beside him. “These are my squad leaders. To determine whose team you fit best, I want you to move through the thirteen olintin of the sword. You know them all, I trust?”
In answer, I walk to the weapons rack, select a practice macana and shield, give a war cry, and begin. The forms are instinct after years of practice and teaching. Each series of attacking and defensive moves puts the swordsman through every possible combination of encounters in war.
As I complete the final strike of the thirteenth olintin, parrying from a crouch before hamstringing the opponent, I lower sword and shield to kneel before Captain Ehcatzin.
“That was flawless. What other weapons are you proficient with?”
“Only melee arms, sir. I’ve little experience with bows or spears. The tepoztopilli would be my second choice.”
“Excellent,” Ehcatzin says. “Show us the five olintin of the halberd.”
Returning the shield and macana, I choose the tallest pole arm. Instead of obsidian razors, this practice weapon has flint blades embedded at the edge of its long, ovoid head. The weight is perfect, and I move through the forms, three for fighting in formation, two for duels. It feels strange to return to the thrusting, twisting, and backward jerking of the tepoztopilli. The last olin winds down with a flurry of slashing and stabbing attacks before ending with brutal blows from the weapon reversed, the handle slamming into the falling enemy’s imaginary face and throat.
Whipping the halberd around my shoulders and planting the butt into the earth, I kneel again before Ehcatzin and the others.
“Well done,” he says with an appreciative tone. “Rest for a spell. Then get padded up. You’ll be sparring with Poloc.”
I return the pole arm to the rack and stretch the tension from my muscles before sitting on the ground and looking over at Sitlali, whose image wavers with the breeze.
I almost spilled coffee on a customer, watching you.
Am I that distracting? I ask, teasing.
Your fighting moves? Yes. You yourself? Meh.
But she is smiling as she thinks it.
A cadet brings me a cup of pinolli while I rest. The drink of toasted cornmeal fills my gut without making me sluggish.
Sometime later, Ehcatzin and Poloc return, bearing helmets and sparring jackets of thick cotton, similar to the ichcahuipilli worn on the battlefield. The captain helps us into our gear, tying the jackets at our backs.
“Good. Both of you are tall, evenly matched,” Ehcatzin notes. “You know the rules. First man to step over the chalk line loses. Choose your weapons.”
Poloc, whose face is crossed by a jagged scar, selects a heavy, broad macana and a solid wooden shield. His muscles tense at the weight in both his hands. He’s quite strong but will tire quickly.
Ignoring the shields, I draw a longer, narrower two-handed practice sword. Not as heavy or dense as my own, it will still allow me to fight in the same hybrid way I’ve developed.
We face each other from opposite sides of the tlaczayan. Poloc assumes the traditional stance: shield up, sword held in reverse, with the blade pointing behind him. Normally, a fighter will move from that stance into an underhanded half-spindle side cut, swinging his arm in a short arc about chest-high.
Which means Poloc will do no such thing.
I flex my knees, point my sword toward the ground at an angle.
Poloc explodes into motion, running at me. I see his left arm lifting as he leans forward.
He plans to use the shield offensively. Solid oak can break bones.
Loosing a cry, I swing my sword in an arc over my head and start running too. I leap as he bends and thrusts his shield forward.
I plant one foot on the shield, another on his shoulder, and push off him with a spin, swinging my sword in a downward parabola till it slams into his helmet.
Hitting the ground, I roll into a crouch. He has whirled about and whips his sword through the air. Rather than pulling back or parrying, I roll forward under his attack and jam the end of my macana into his groin.
Poloc grunts but doesn’t stop. I’ve gotten too close, and he slams the edge of his shield down against my helmet. This blow is followed by a downward diagonal slice of his blade, which I bat away as I stand, reeling from the pain in my head.
The shield comes whizzing close again, but I dance back and catch it with the flat of my blade, twisting to wrench open his defense. I spring into the air with a cry and bring my sword down in a brutal arc that would have ripped open his armor were it edged with razors.
I duck under another of his half-spindle side cuts. He has not learned to lower that attack. Twisting away, I pull to the other end of the tlaczayan, right at the edge of the chalk, lifting my sword over my head as far as possible so that it touches the small of my back.
Poloc laughs, letting his sword dangle from the thong that binds it to his wrist. Then, as I have been hoping, he yanks the shield off his left arm and flings it through the air at me. He clearly expects I will step back and lose by crossing the line.
Instead, I bring my sword crashing down on it and hurtle toward him. A half rod away, I pull my momentum into a full spin of my body, sword outstretched.
A malacachtli. Full spindle. A jaguar move. My brother called it the metzli.
The moon.
Poloc flinches, steps back.
Crosses the line.
The 360-degree spin has pulled me into a crouch. I’m still holding my sword extended.
I lower it and stand. Poloc pulls off his helmet and grins.
“He’s a hell of a strategist,” the squad leader says. “The emperor wasn’t wrong to make him an Otomitl Knight.”
Ehcatzin shakes his head, but grins. “I’ve never seen such a strange blend of styles. But, nine hells, it works. Come, Calizto, let’s get you out of that gear and go have lunch. You can meet the other boys in our unit.”
As elite soldiers, we eat better than probably anyone in the city. Certainly better than Sitlali, who wolfs down a tortilla wrapped around meat before taking a walk during her lunch break.
I need to buy some things at the dollar store, she explains.
Like what? I ask, ignoring the ribald jokes one of my new companions is making.
Don’t worry about it.
Well, now I cannot possibly stop worrying about it. Are you hurt? Is there some new obstacle you must surpass?
No, Calizto. Just, you know, personal items.
Such as?
Things that a woman needs. Every once and a while. You know, moon cycle, et cetera?
Ah, ritual items for prayers to Coyolxauhqui?
Uh, yes, weirdo. You can buy ritual Mexica prayer stuff in the United States. Clearly.
I suddenly understand what she needs to acquire. I had older sisters for many years.
Oh! I, uh, beg your pardon. Go . . . go about your business, then. Yes. Talk later.
I look around at the soldiers. Our unit is made up of twenty men, we fifteen fighters and the five officers eating in the adjoining room. The unit breaks down into five squads when necessary, one led by the captain.
I’m the youngest, but not by much. Tzohuac, son of a general who died last year during the Night of Victory, is just a handful of moons older.
No one questions my right to eat and fight alongside them.
The emperor and their captain placed me where I am.
That’s sufficient for these men.
The afternoon is spent drilling as a unit and then breaking into squads for mock battles. Ehcatzin shifts Tzohuac to Poloc’s command, where a companion’s death has created an opening.
“With me, Calizto,” he says. There is no argument, no hurt feelings.
I learn the formations, obey orders, coordinate without showing off.
No one can ever take the place of my fallen family and friends. But by the time the day is over, I realize I need this camaraderie. The ache in my heart is dulled by their jests and battle cries. Good Mexica men, ready to die for king and country.
Walking back to the palace, I see Sitlali moving like a ghost that flitters past in the dead of night. She must be in a vehicle.
Going home? I ask, though her godmother’s house is hardly the home she wants. I curse her bastard of a father for making her weep.
Yes, Amparo is giving me a ride. She’s one of the waitresses.
Those gossipmongers who leer at the supposedly handsome womanizer? Angel?
No, she’s not one of them. She’s easy to talk to. We’re having a nice conversation.
About?
You know, what kind of fun things there are to do around here, safe places for someone like me to go and not get picked up by border authorities, mainly ICE.
Are any of those places frequented by ruffians like Angel?
Ruffians? I couldn’t tell you what kind of young men . . . I mean, I don’t—
Because you shouldn’t go to such neighborhoods. Or see such knaves.
Wait, are you jealous, Calizto?
Hardly! Jealous of some vapid twit who ruts with women like an animal, abandoning each in turn? I just want to look out for you as you have watched over me.
Uh-huh. Well, I won’t be going anywhere tonight, so you can relax. I’m exhausted. I’ll probably watch some TV with my madrina and then go to bed.
Wise choice. I’m also exhausted. And bruised. No one advertises that about being in an elite military unit. “You will ache all the time.”
Ah, Calizto! I wish I could . . . Hmm. Please take care of yourself.
I’ve requested unguents be sent to our rooms. I should be fine by morning.
I pause. The setting sun has spread crimson all over the western peaks.
May I make a suggestion? Don’t attempt to contact your father tonight. Let him stew for a while. Let him think upon his unwise choices, the pain his neglect has caused you. Let him suffer a little as well.
But I love him, Calizto.
I know. I know. Still, let your love be a hard love, Sitlali.
She says nothing for a long while. I reach the palace, walk into our suite, greet Ofirin, who wants me to tell him about my day.
Finally, sitting on the couch at her godmother’s house, Sitlali looks over at me.
My sweet, it’s for the best, I reassure her. Imagine it’s a battle. Use the right strategy.
I’m thinking about it, Calizto. I promise. Rest well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sitlali
June 28, 2019
Manuel cut the side of his index finger during the breakfast rush. It wasn’t that bad. He just had to bandage it, but he and Angel have switched positions and Manuel’s driving today.
With Angel on the grill, there’s no break from the googly eyes and the cheap come-ons. The guy is so slimy it takes every bit of my resolve not to hit him over the head with a skillet.
“Oh my Lord, look at you,” he says, when I go to wipe the sweat from the back of my neck. “You are a goddess. You know that? I would put you on a pedestal—worship you night and day if you were my girl.”
I ignore him and turn sideways to look at Calizto, whose ghostly profile is standing in line, I assume with his companions, listening to a debriefing. I want to talk to him, but he is so busy. So, I just sit on the stool by the door and watch him silently.
“Hey, daydreamer, you listening?” Angel calls to me, and I snap back to my time’s reality.
“I am,” I say, as I jump off the little stool and rush up to the flat top, where Angel’s got the next delivery order ready for packaging.
“Why do you do that?” Angel asks. “Where do you go, when you get like that?”
I shrug.
“Women,” he scoffs.
Something akin to anger replaces the slight flush on my skin. “What do you mean, ‘women’?”
Angel throws several slices of ham on the grill. “My mother used to do that, look out into space,” he says as he flips the ham. “It was like we didn’t exist or something. Like she was already gone, years before she left.”
“Left?” I ask, taking the ham and putting it in beside the eggs before I close the lid on the container and place it in a plastic bag.
