But was he, the Gaijin, capable to do so?
The Prince seemed to think so. Or he was desperate enough to try to talk to anyone who was available to him.
“Let’s sit down again,” Lengsley murmured. The nighttime fire around which they had gathered had already started to go out, so he added some branches. “So your fate – I can’t see the future, my prince.”
Isamu looked into the flames and nodded. “Nobody can. But I would like to know what you would advise me, which way to go.”
“It depends on your wishes and ideas.”
“I thought of my duty.”
Lengsley nodded. “When fulfilling your duty is your wish –”
“What is my duty?”
“Good question. If we believe Captain Inugami –”
“That’s my problem,” Isamu interrupted. Lengsley saw the otherwise controlled and motionless mask that the Prince always seemed to wear getting crumbly. Emotions became visible, and they had to be quite violent. “I do not believe him.”
Lengsley didn’t know what to say. It was difficult for him to internalize the Japanese concepts of discipline and obedience. After all, it wasn’t just about belief. Many may have doubts about the Captain’s plans. But no one admitted it openly, except perhaps Aritomo, who was high up in the hierarchy itself. Lengsley was not a soldier, but he knew what the Japanese thought and what alternatives they had if they tried to break the cycle of obedience and discipline. Often enough, only dishonor or even suicide remained. His comrades were too quick at hand with death for Lengsley’s taste.
Isamu knew all of this much better than Lengsley, because he had been trained that way all his life. If he was willing to cross these invisible barriers, the limits that Japanese society had placed around him, the Prince’s despair must be greater than Aritomo had assumed. And often desperate actions grew out of desperation. The fact that Isamu spoke to Lengsley – well considered – certainly had its meaning.
“I don’t want to rule over these people, Mr. Lengsley, neither by name, as a mere symbol, nor seriously. They have their own dynasties, as venerable and old as those I am from. I have no right to do so. And I do not share Captain Inugami’s attitude, who treats the people here like things or pawns like they are just tools with which to accomplish his great plans. I know that I will never see my home again. And you know what? It doesn’t matter to me. I do not long back to the court, I do not miss the rules, the stiff ceremony and all the expectations that have been imposed on me without ever having a realistic prospect of sitting on the throne. I see this journey as a way to freedom.”
Lengsley nodded slowly. “But the captain blocks this path, Isamu.”
“That’s the way it is. I cannot and will not accept that.”
Lengsley was surprised at the Prince’s intense speech. Put forward in well-spoken words that betrayed both his intelligence and his education, he had not turned clouded his true feelings and aspirations. Ichik sat next to him and probably understood more than enough of what his friend had just said. Lengsley felt a great burden placed on his shoulders with the Prince’s trust. If Isamu revealed his true feelings and intentions to him and Aritomo, wasn’t there a great responsibility for both of them? And how did one want to do it justice? The hope of advice and assistance was clearly evident from the Prince’s words. Lengsley was still clearly overwhelmed with it.
To say this to the Prince would cause too much disappointment. Then who else did he have to turn to?
“Have you spoken to Aritomo Hara about these things?”
“Once and not so clearly. It’s difficult for him too.”
Isamu had put the first officer’s dilemma in one simple sentence. That he said this spoke of his ability to observe. And it became Lengsley’s burden. Isamu, in his perception of hierarchy, obedience, honor, and discipline, had come to the conclusion that Aritomo Hara, with all his goodwill and understanding, had his hands tied in many ways. But Lengsley …
Lengsley was the Gaijin, even at the best of times one who was on the margins, outside, who didn’t belong, couldn’t belong at all. And Isamu, in his thinking, with his doubts and hopes, felt more like a stranger, more and more so, and apparently believed that Lengsley was most likely to be the one who would understand … and help him.
It had a certain logic, but it didn’t help the British very much.
“What do you expect of me, Isamu?”
The Prince nodded slowly, gave Ichik a long look. He took a deep breath.
“I know that it sounds insane and dangerous, Mr. Lengsley. But I want to do what I can only accomplish before the golden cage around me is completely closed. I want to run away, Mr. Lengsley.” He stared into the Britishman’s eyes as if this would prove the seriousness of his intentions. “I want to run away as soon as possible, and I want you to help me with that.”
6
Ixchel’s sister Nicte cried quietly. Aktul put a hand gently on her mouth, which immediately silenced the girl. Ixchel narrowed her eyes after nodding encouragingly at her sister. Nicte didn’t cry out of fear, but out of exhaustion. Ixchel would never dream of reproaching her for that.
From the edge of the forest they could see the first farmsteads that surrounded the city in a wide circle. It was early morning, the chill of the night was still in their bones. They had waited for the darkness on a tree, sitting in the mighty branches, half asleep, half awake, a reason for Nicte’s exhaustion and her helpless reaction to it. They had already been on the road for days to make sure that pursuers kept their distance. They had fed on what the forest had provided, and Aktul was an experienced hunter-gatherer. They weren’t hungry, but they were dirty, tired, and especially the little one cried often. A bad environment to deal with the violent death of one’s mother, the shock of flight, the struggles, the insecurity, and fear. Ixchel dreamed violently every night when she got some sleep, and the horror of the visions terrified her. Nevertheless, she did not wake up crying but with a quiet determination not to suppress the violence of these images, but to use it instead. Her goal had to be to use the power behind it to turn it against those responsible for their misery.
And she had to be strong for Nicte. Strong for the old Aktul, who struggled admirably with the sudden responsibility for the two princesses, but who could not use any additional crying or despair. Ixchel had to show him her strength so that he could use his moderately. Her survival was dependent on this.
And thus the precondition for Ixchel to be able to inflict terrible revenge on the murderers.
She had her guess who those might be.
Her legs and feet ached. It was incomprehensible to her how old Aktul had mastered the strength to march so extensively, often with her little sister in his arms. Unimaginable energy prevailed in the warrior, who now had to take care of the two girls and didn’t even complain or seem to struggle. He was very determined and had given Ixchel several suggestions for a safe haven, which she had all considered well. Last but not least, it was the news that her mother received shortly before she left that prompted her to make a decision.
Now it would prove whether it was the right one.
“How do we do it, Aktul?” she whispered. The door of a mud hut was knocked aside, and a woman stepped outside, an empty calabash in one hand and in the other a little boy, who was still rubbing sleep from his eyes. The woman looked around, seemed to take in the peaceful morning before heading for their own well, which spoke of the wealth of this farmer. It could even be a low noble, considering the size of the hut and the adjoining buildings, definitely someone of a certain rank, who had built so generously out here at the city limits, because he was also watching the border for his masters. From here the road went straight to the center, and a fast runner could quickly announce any visitors – peaceful or hostile.
“We have to prevent people from not taking us seriously. We look like homeless people, like vagabonds. An
d we have to gain access to the right people. So we only have one chance.”
Ixchel did not say that not only did they look like vagabonds, that was basically what they were, an insight that, a thought which, however, would not strengthen their confidence.
“Will he listen to us?”
“If we get the chance to speak to him in person –”
“It shouldn’t be that difficult.”
Aktul laughed softly. “He’s a fickle man, I heard. Your grandfather wasn’t always sure if he could trust him. He delivered both truth and lies. It was not always easy to separate one from the other, as I’ve heard.”
“Still, he remained in my grandfather’s service.”
“He somehow did, one way or another.”
“Then he’s committed to Mutal.”
Aktul shook his head. “I don’t think he has ever felt really committed to anyone or anything. Besides its own convenience and safety, maybe. We’re a threat to both, Princess.”
Ixchel understood that. But there was no alternative, and they had decided. “You speak.”
“That won’t be enough.” Aktul fixed the girl with a steady glance. “You will have to convince him, my dove. It depends more on you than on me.”
Ixchel nodded. She was not afraid. Since the death of her mother, she felt full of a holy determination, a strong courage. She would remove all obstacles, that was her goal. A fickle spy who sometimes served Mutal and sometimes his actual masters, and who did not consider loyalty an outstanding personality trait was not an obstacle, not even a challenge. He was no more than a flight of stairs on their way up, toward the completion of their mission, her retaliation.
If the step turned out to be brittle, she would simply skip it.
“Then we shouldn’t wait any longer,” Ixchel decided, and the old warrior bowed instinctively. There was no doubt in his mind that she was the princess, his master’s daughter, and no matter how big the age difference, he knew that Ixchel was an extraordinary young lady.
And that had become even clearer in the days of flight than before.
He seemingly served her with joy.
They left the edge of the forest and went into the open. They walked the first hundred yards without paying any attention, but then the woman saw them both as she looked up from the well to watch the little boy who had started his morning toilet. The sudden distrust in her eyes was somewhat alleviated by the fact that Ixchel’s little sister hurried straight to the well without further ado, crouched next to the astonished looking boy and used the water to wash the sleep from last night out of her eyes – and the dirt that spread across her face.
Children had something soothing. Nevertheless, the woman opened her mouth and shouted, “Agun!”
Aktul and Ixchel stopped near the woman, at a safe distance so as not to appear threatening. The woman’s eyes saw the weapons, the man’s spear and his atlatl, then, with astonishment, not only the girl’s atlatl, but also the strange apparatus she carried with her, the messenger’s magic killing device.
“Agun!” The shout had been a little more urgent this time.
“Don’t be afraid, woman,” Aktul said softly. “We are friends of Agun and would like to talk to him.”
“Friends?” The distrust was so clearly audible that it almost jumped at the visitors. “At this time … what friends?”
“Let me talk to –”
“What’s happening?” came a male voice. “I’m not awake enough to –”
All eyes turned to the entrance of the mud house, from which now came a wiry, slightly leaning forward man who was a good ten years older than the woman, only dressed in a cloth that he had wrapped around his loins. The man interrupted himself, came out completely, and then walked fearlessly toward the visitors. He might be older, maybe as old as Aktul, but he shared the watchful gaze and the almost dissecting powers of observation with the soldier, something that Ixchel saw as a good sign. No one who panicked about anything.
“Who are you?” he asked and stopped in front of the two, not unfriendly, but with a good deal of suspicion in his voice.
“They want to see you, Agun!” the woman said, shaking her head from behind.
“Me? Who are you?”
The question was addressed to Aktul, who bowed slightly.
“My name is Aktul, warrior of the Chitam, protector of Ixchel, the king’s daughter.”
“Mutal?” The question had come in a whisper, and Ixchel watched the man’s nimble gaze flick to the right and left, the way his wife put a hand over her mouth, and took her boy by the hand.
“Mutal. We have to talk, Agun.”
The man’s gaze now focused on Ixchel and her sister, and recognition shimmered in his eyes. “You are the princess – you are both the daughters of Chitam, the daughters of Lady Tzutz.”
“Why don’t you let us in, Agun?” Ixchel said, also not unkindly, but in the attitude of a young woman who might one day have the right to ascend the great throne of Mutal.
The man looked at his wife, then nodded hastily.
“Quickly, before the neighbors wake up. Your visit is surprising and, above all, disturbing given the news one hears from Mutal.”
Aktul took hold of the man’s forearm. “Wait until you hear what I have to say, Agun from B’aakal. Your surprise will increase, as will your dismay.”
Agun looked at the warrior first, then at Ixchel. “So you need my help.”
Ixchel smiled cheerlessly. She hadn’t missed the lurking in the man’s voice. She followed him inside the hut and knew exactly what was going to happen. It was, as always, when people appeared at court and had something to offer that their grandfather might have wanted but couldn’t force.
Negotiations started.
She would not need Aktul’s help for that.
She could do that herself.
7
“You can rejoice, the victory is complete!”
The messenger’s face showed his joy and pride in bringing this wonderful news to Aritomo. It was at that moment that the officer realized for the first time that he had secretly nurtured a little hope, even hidden from himself – the hope that Saclemacal would have defended himself better than expected and that a lucky throw from an atlatl or the targeted hit of a powerful warrior would have killed Captain Inugami.
Aritomo closed his eyes as if trying to savor the feeling of triumph. Instead, he tried to ignore the disappointment that this highly dishonorable hope, contrary to all the rules of his professional existence, had remained unfulfilled. And his disappointment that he did not intend to suppress this emotion.
“Thank you. Thank you for this good news. I hope the honorable Inugami is doing well?” He wrestled with the question and the messenger’s radiant smile widened.
“He is fine! He distinguished himself in the fight, searched for and found the enemy! Now he sits on the throne at Saclemacal and dispenses his justice.”
Aritomo knew how to classify the nuance. Chitam was not seated on the throne of the conquered city personally, if there was one at all. Of course, Inugami would continue, at least for a while, to maintain the illusion that it was only acting in accordance with the ruler of Mutal. But the messenger, whether wanted or not, had already torn off the veil in his report and said what more and more of the Maya thought – and many of them, apparently, with the ardent enthusiasm of a belligerent people who were committed to the imperial vision of their new savior.
Aritomo had to admit that Inugami was on the right track. And even if he did not show great appreciation to the Maya, he still seemed to have kindled a fire in them. The question was whether he could keep it under control.
“Did the honorable Inugami say anything about his future plans?”
“Not to me, but I’m bringing this letter and its instructions to you. But everyone knows that Tayasal will fall next.”
The messenger produced a carefully folded sheet of paper, which he gave to Aritomo, bowing. It was covered with the thin, printed characters that were characteristic of Inugami’s handwriting.
“I thank you. Now go and rest. I’ll call you if I need your services.”
“My Lord!” The messenger bowed and disappeared.
Aritomo was well aware of the curious looks of the other Japanese who were with him in the courtyard of their shared accommodation. The letter would contain no response to the first officer’s last letter to Inugami after the assassination attempt. This may arrive soon, and Aritomo was afraid of the orders that followed. Depending on Inugami’s mood, especially his anger and contempt for the “savages,” his reaction was completely unpredictable, and if he asked Aritomo to make an example, it would pose considerable problems. The nobleman who had instigated the murder had been arrested and imprisoned, and Chitam’s return was awaited for his trial. Aritomo could have ordered a punishment himself – nobody here would have seriously opposed this –, but he shied away from the beginning of a cycle of violence and counterviolence. It was difficult to wage a war both externally and internally, but he wasn’t sure whether Inugami would see it that way.
He unfolded the letter completely and read.
The captain’s words were tight and businesslike. He reported victory, listed losses, and described the resources of the much smaller city of Saclemacal with even greater contempt than his attitude toward Mutal. The messenger hadn’t exaggerated. The struggle had been one-sided, victory was absolute, and Aritomo raised his eyebrows in astonishment when he heard about Inugami’s staffing decision. He had appointed Balkun, the savior of Chitam and his family, to the position of governor of the city, giving him honor and office … to an extent that Aritomo would never have believed possible.
He dropped the paper, ignoring the expectant looks from the others.
An interesting move.
The Emperor's Men 8 Page 5
