Peace is a precious thing.
I reminded myself of that as I looked over the village. Mud and thatch huts rose from the hot, muddy sand, shading their occupants from the wrath of the sun goddess. In between, scraggly green weeds grew on and around the tan dirt paths, which had beaten down by hundreds of bare feet over the ages.
Wherever there was soft dirt, there were farms. Ripe maize hung at shoulder-height, while beans and squash carpeted the ground. One of the maize fields had been deemed ripe, and now the slaves were at harvest, their bare backs brown and even red in the sun.
Even from my distance, I could hear the shouts of the overseer. One woman stood in the middle of them, dressed in the bloom of feathers, jewels and war paint that women always wore. She shrilled out orders to the slave boys, making them flinch whenever she looked at them.
As I watched, one of the boys collapsed on the edge of the farm, pawing at the dirt, struggling to get himself up. It was only a matter of time before the slave driver saw him.
I couldn't watch anymore. I leaned into a jog, my bare feet padding on the hard dirt path, the hot air flowing across my bare chest and shoulders, brushing back my medium-length brown hair. My itchy woven collar bounced with my stride, scratching at my neck.
I knelt by the slave boy, taking one of his hands. He looked pitifully up at me.
"My back," he said softly. "It hurts."
"Hey!" barked the overseer, "what do you think you're doing?"
My muscles froze up. Before I could convince myself to move, the overseer's hand clamped onto my shoulder and pulled, sending me flat on my back. Her bare foot came down on my chest, almost choking me, and I stared worriedly up at her, shielding my eyes.
The overseer looked no less intimidating when I could see up her loincloth. Her white-painted face seemed like a second sun, blasting me with all of its intensity, and her strong, tattooed arms hung like snakes, ready to throttle me if I made a wrong move.
"Get out of here, boy," she snarled. "These slaves aren't going to harden up on their own. The last thing I need is for some stupid cock to come in here and s-"
"Get off my boy!" yelled a new voice.
I cringed. The overseer looked over at the speaker. I did too, but I didn't need to. I knew that voice.
A woman marched up to us, short but stocky and mean, with skin a shade darker than everyone else's and with black fangs painted under the corners of her mouth. Her black hair hung down to her shoulders, billowing out like a cape, and her muscular arms were festooned with woven cuffs heavy with polished stones. A wreath of feathers held together by a tough rope hung around her waist, holding up her dun grass skirt.
This was Maccuahuitl, my wife. My mother had married me to her three months ago, and, since then, Maccuahuitl had never let me forget that I belonged to her.
A shadow fell over me. I looked up, seeing Maccuahuitl looming over me on all fours, her hair spilling down around her. She brought her mouth down inches from mine.
"What do you think you were doing here?" she whispered, in breathy, sinister voice. "Huh? What's the big idea?"
"That slave," I said, with all the resolution I could muster. "He needs help."
"Oh, I bet you were helping alright. You were fucking him, weren't you?"
"No."
"Yeah, I bet you were. You and those fucktoys over there? You were having a good time, weren't you?"
"No!"
She grabbed my chin and forced my head to the side, turning my eyes to a field full of slaves, all of them watching me with fear and fascination. Maccuahuitl's breath tickled my ear.
"Well, you don't get to have fun with them anymore," she huffed. "You hear me? I want kids next spring, and you're staying hard until then. Got it?"
I failed to respond. A hand reached down under my loincloth, and fingers closed around my unguarded manhood, hot and tight. She pumped it once, and I gasped.
"This is mine," she said, "not yours, and no one uses it until I say so, got it?"
"Yes... yes, my wife."
"Hah. Good."
Finally, her fingers lifted away, and she marched off, holding her head high. I lay limply on my back for a second, still recovering from her sudden domination.
I turned back to the slaves, massaging my chin, and looked for the sun-sore boy. Before I found him, the overseer's eyes met mine, searing anger at me. She opened her mouth to say something, then froze. Her scowl melted, and, for the second time, she stepped worriedly back. The slaves did the same.
Turning around, I saw what had frightened her, and I suddenly wished I could be in the fields with her.
Nemamauhtilo walked up to me in her commanding imperial stride. I did the only thing a man can do; I stood up straight and waited.
"You," she said, pointing to me, "was that woman harassing you?"
For one moment, my mind was a formless whirlpool. Nemamauhtilo was the one woman who even my wife feared. A generation ago, the Itecotlaca empire had come to our village, demanding tribute. It had seemed benign at first, until we learned that the empire demanded not only food, but human beings to be dragged off to sacrifice to their goddesses. We had resisted, and the Itecotlaca imperials had put down the rebellion. They had taken a dozen prisoners, including men, and left Nemamauhtilo behind to keep us obedient. We had cowered under her cruel eyes ever since.
And now those eyes were fixed on me.
"Answer me, boy," she said icily.
"No," I stammered out. "I'm... that's my wife. We're..."
"I was referring to the slave driver. I know you are not hers."
"Oh," I said, "No. No, I'm fine."
Nemamauhtilo stared lethally at me, and I braced myself to be sentenced to the altar. Instead, she turned smartly around and marched away.
I breathed a quick sigh of relief, then turned and sprinted off to the jungle before anyone else could threaten me.
In the jungle, I was safe. This thick, sticky morass of hot leaves and flowers bordered the northern side of the village, and it stretched as far as anyone cared to explore. It was the perfect place for my friends and me to socialize. We spoke freely there, safely away from feminine judgment, and some of us even made love, if we had such inclinations. When we returned, we always brought baskets of fruits and vegetables we had picked along the way, and the women had no reason to suspect we had been up to anything else.
Now the other boys gathered in a sand circle in sight of a grotto- one of our favorite clearings. There were seven of us there already. Three of them stood a distance away, but still within earshot, adding to a half-filled basket of guavas, tomatoes and other goods in the middle of the clearing. The rest sat around the basket, talking or fidgeting. The sun, the sand and the air were all so stiflingly hot, a few of the boys weren't even bothering to wear their loincloths, letting their organs hang free or rest on the sand were they sat.
The other boys all greeted me with upraised hands and casual fanfare. I smiled and returned the gesture as I sat in the clearing, keeping my loincloth on.
"It's been a long time," said Icniuh, my best friend. "Come here..."
He reached for me, and I swept him up into a hug, feeling his hot, slippery skin on mine. We kissed, and I could feel his well-practiced lungs pulling on me in gentle pulses. His fingers touched my firm stomach, then crawled down beneath my loincloth.
"Ooh," I moaned. "Not now. I'm married, Icniuh. We can't do this anymore."
Icniuh's fingers pulled reluctantly away, but he couldn't resist trailing them on my skin for a few more seconds, letting me feel his heat.
"How's the marriage going?" he asked, sitting us both down on a log.
I frowned, knowing that there was no escape from that question.
