“Many hunters are the rabbit’s death,” Köhler pointed out, picking up on the scenario he had already described. “A hundred small rowing boats full of determined warriors can be our undoing, as can a modern Roman-style frigate. Anyone who is willing to accept certain losses and is inspired by the necessary fanaticism will not be deterred by this awe if needed.”
“Of course,” Langenhagen admitted. “That is why we will exercise extreme caution and keep ourselves open to retreat. But if we build on what we have achieved so far, I am quite confident. Do you have any doubts, Köhler?”
“Navarch, I’m your deputy. It is my job to have doubts and to review your decisions.”
Langenhagen nodded and smiled. “You are good at that. Keep it up. Andochos?”
The scholar raised his head. “Navarch?”
“I will do everything we can to get a teacher – first for you, but hopefully soon for larger groups as well. And I will do everything we can to get students …”
“Children,” the man said. “Ask for young students. Nobody learns a language faster and better.”
“A mixed group. It’s a question of time …”
“No, Navarch. I am learning. Teaching is for others. I am not the only teacher on board the fleet. Well, no one specializes in languages like me, but teaching a student in Latin or even English – someone else can do that too. Almost all of the scholars we carry with us and some of the officers. I focus on learning. Teaching is not half as difficult.”
“I bow to your judgment, Magister.”
Andochos seemed to be confident that he thought it was the right decision.
It was less than half an hour before the rowboats were on their way back to the Gratianus. Yatzak and his companion looked excited, pleased, and without fear. Indeed, they couldn’t see the future, Köhler pondered while he watched the two men.
But he wanted to admit that it had gone well for a start.
32
It wasn’t that he was really a stranger here. The dialect was almost identical to his own. He looked like them and thought like them. But being a ruler meant distance, as Balkun found. You had no friends. You had no confidants. A normal king, a sprout of a long line who came to the throne after his father’s death, could have friends – old counselors who had already brought you up and sons of other high-ranking personalities with whom you had grown into adulthood. A man like Balkun was a foreign body, he was not one of them. His children, maybe, one day, if the reign of the messenger of gods would last. But he himself was the one who was put into this place, the one who was upset, a symbol of the defeat of a once proud city that would never return to its former glory. No family, no high lineage, no glorious history.
A slave as ruler, a peasant, a man of the lowest rank. A shame for the city. A pain for anyone who still felt some pride and honor, and at the same time a constant reminder that eliminating this man would only lead to Inugami coming, punishing, and appointing a new governor – one who was probably not half as gracious and as understanding as Balkun was.
The warrior slave smiled. Graceful and understanding. Had it gotten so far that he saw himself like that? Didn’t every ruler recognize himself as something special? Strong, brave, chosen by the gods, of the highest morality, of the highest intelligence, always victorious, always glorious? Mercy was not always one of the desirable qualities of a Mayan king, Balkun knew very well, who had spent the greatest part of his life serving one who really only claimed this attribute on a rhetorical level. But these qualities, which he now thought about, were they the first step toward the same reality-forgotten grandeur that well-born kings generally gave themselves in to?
It wasn’t an idle question. It was not frantic self-doubt, not a quarrel with the way his new subordinates were devoted to him. There was a very concrete reason, as tangible as it could be, made of hard stone, cut directly from the nearby quarry and carried here by the strength of many men to the former royal workshop. Balkun stood in front of the stone, a cuboid, a good three meters high, one meter wide, an imposing piece, the surface of which had already been smoothed.
Good stone, durable, a monument to eternity.
A monument to him.
Next to the cuboid stood Hetza’k, the master stonemason, and behind him three of his men. The tools of their craft lay on the tables, the chisels and hammers with which they would attack the stone, force their will upon it.
No, corrected Balkun. It was only his will that was at stake here.
There were also the pots and pans with which the stonemasons mixed the colors. The stele would become colorful and splendid and would announce the inauguration of the great Inugami and his chosen governor, praising both and highlighting their deeds. It was the custom, and it was expected of every ruler, yes, everyone was very interested in it. The stele was then placed in the central square so that everyone could read it and put its message in their hearts. With this, they would also inform Balkun’s posterity so that no one would ever forget him.
Before this could happen, the governor had to tell the stonemason what depictions the stele had to show. In regard to Inugami, he came up with many descriptions. Messenger of gods. Victorious conqueror. Descended from heaven. Enemies smashed, erased. Showing new ways, forging an empire. This made a wonderful and very impressive presentation. The more general question of Hetza’k, which news should spread their work, was less directed toward Inugami; Balkun had understood that well. It was a subtle point against him, the farmer’s son, the appointed, the oppressed.
The slave.
What acts of glory had he accomplished? Which line did he refer to? What was his status, what gave rise to the respect that the stele demanded for good Lord Balkun? Hetza’k pretended that he only wanted to serve the new lord as he did his old king; to praise him the way he liked it. In reality, Balkun had realized that he wanted to show him off. Because what other than wild lies could the slave recite? What else than to commission a picture of himself that had to be an insult to every real king?
The face of Hetza’k could not tell what he was thinking. He was quite the respectful servant. His helpers all the more, submissive in the background, ready to start work immediately. He waited for instructions, and it was up to Balkun to give them and to make himself look ridiculous in front of everyone. This did not require a large audience. There were enough here that the word of his lies would quickly take to every corner of the city. And when the stele stood, when it was read, they all laughed at the hubris of the peasant-slave, who had been raised above his stand and now thought he was something he was not and never would be.
A smart move.
Balkun smiled and indicated a bow.
“Noble master,” he said in a soft voice. “I am so honored to be immortalized by your capable hand that I lack the words to express my feelings correctly. You know, I am a man of simple origin, and I am not used to seeing my role and my person standing in the light of the gods. Do you have instructions and content enough for the great Inugami?”
“I think so, great ruler.”
Hetza’k himself had made some good, thoughtful suggestions, and Balkun had approved them all with a dignified nod. Only somehow the stonemason hadn’t thought much about the great Balkun, the one blessed by the messenger. Here he needed the instructions himself, in all modesty.
Not so quickly, Balkun thought.
“His appearance in the boat of the gods?” he asked. “His victory over the invaders? The blessing of new ideas and weapons? The submission of this city, without resistance, blinded by the greatness and wisdom of the mighty messenger of the gods?”
Balkun refrained from smiling. That little cut had to be, and it had hit. According to Hetza’k’s expression, his mood darkened somewhat. The stonemason bowed low so the governor would not notice his annoyance, and Balkun accepted the gesture with silent acceptance.
“Everything as it happened,
sir,” Hetza’k forced out and straightened up again, his face a motionless mask. “But how should we glorify you now, great ruler?”
There was the tiniest undertone of irony in the man’s voice, and if Balkun would have been an irascible and easily offended man, that would have been enough to punish him for it. But, he had cleared that up in the meantime, he was gracious and understanding, and apart from that a simple man who was used to insults from his wife, his masters and life in general.
“I am only a tool of the messengers. I stand by his side as a loyal servant. As the lord of the city, describe me as a builder, as someone who ensures peaceful order. Describe me as someone who has adjusted the rites and customs, all following orders. Let me be what I am, an executor of a stronger will. Give my name, but show modesty in it. Do not add a title other than Servant of the Messenger of Gods. Never put me over him. Let my feather helmet be humble. I don’t fight, but I sit in court. I don’t speak to the gods, but I don’t act arbitrarily. I lack anger, I do not punish harshly and unfairly. But in everything I sit at the feet of Inugami, I am alone without power and without a family, an obedient man who pays respect to his master and demands the same from the inhabitants of the city.”
Hetza’k stared at Balkun.
That was definitely not the answer he was expecting. It wasn’t the silly overconfidence, it wasn’t the cheap pathos he’d wanted to make fun of. It was a clear statement, a humble one, an honest one, and it did not speak of self-exaggeration. No honors for the little Balkun, no fame he never earned, no immortality he didn’t deserve. He was only what everyone else was expected to be, an obedient subject, willing to carry out the commands of the Lord.
His helpers also looked somewhat disappointed. It would no longer be a joy to spread the words of the slave on the throne in all directions. There was so little in it that gave rise to laughter or contempt.
Balkun shook his head gently. No, there was something for contempt, but it was another kind of condescension that would now trigger his words. The point was not that he exalted himself, but that he turned out to be what everyone thought he was: the peasant, the dumb servant, the slave. A man without guts, not even capable of showing off, who just sat there and was tool in the hands of someone else without his own will.
This contempt, yes, Balkun would have to live with it. But to ridicule himself and lose the last bit of dignity, he wouldn’t do that favor to anyone here.
He exchanged a few more words with those present, pretending that he did not notice their disappointment or even bitterness at his answer. All of them showed themselves to be in a hurry and tried to make suggestions to the ruler on how his – terrific – idea could be implemented. Balkun was reasonably certain that they would do as he had said and would not carve any hidden statements into the stele that did not honor him. Balkun might only have been a peasant, but he could read, and the stonemasons should have realized that he hadn’t fallen completely on his head.
When he returned to his palace, he felt exhausted. Dealing with the city’s small and large intrigues required a lot of strength, more than he had anticipated. The cool stone bench in the courtyard of the palace, which he had chosen as his favorite place, was more inviting than ever. He crouched, got water and some fruit, and was about to ask to be left alone for a few moments when a servant came up to him.
“Lord, this requires your attention.”
He said that with a certainty that indeed piqued Balkun’s interest. He put down the cup he had just emptied and nodded to the man.
“What is it?”
“A woman and children came to see you when you were at the stonemason’s. The woman claims to be Bulu and your wife, straight from Yaxchilan.”
Balkun jumped up, stared at the servant in amazement. His heart started pounding, and he grabbed the man’s shoulder and pressed it so that his face grimaced painfully.
“Bring her in immediately.”
“It could be –”
“Bring her! Immediately!”
The servant turned and hurriedly left the courtyard. It only took a few moments, then he came back and accompanied by …
Balkun swayed. The storm of emotions was too strong, it could no longer maintain manly control. He didn’t care who saw him and talked about it. There were no words to express what was going on anyway.
Bulu. It was her. His kids. There was no doubt about it.
For a few minutes, nothing followed but a silent hug. In terms of its intensity, it not only expressed the long period of separation but also all the fears and longings accumulated in it. It was like a liberating catharsis, concentrated on a few moments in which Balkun did not want to think and did not want to see, but only bathed in the relieved feeling of happiness.
When they broke apart, servants hurried over with seating. Food was brought in, sun protection put up. Someone at court had understood that the position of the ruler now included a wife and that it would be well-received to take appropriate measures. Whoever had arranged this, deserved Balkun’s gratitude.
They sat in the shadows, and Bulu, her cheeks still wet from the tears of reunion, reported on her conversation with the new king of Yaxchilan, their trip here, which had been exhausting, and how other friends and relatives were doing. The conversation jumped back and forth, sometimes overwhelmed by her feelings, pausing for a moment, while the children, who were more relaxed and eager to eat, added something. Balkun listened in silence until it was his turn to tell the story of his very strange life since the attack on Mutal, and Bulu, though she must have heard some things, was wide-eyed at the changeable fate her husband was going through.
Finally, exhausted from the trip and the emotional storms, Balkun had the apartments prepared so that his family would find peace. Here, too, the court officials had anticipated his orders, and everything was ready. For a tiny moment, Balkun felt almost joy in becoming the master of this city. After all, that was why the King of Yaxchilan had sent his family to him.
Of course, he had no illusions. It had nothing to do with philanthropy or pity. Nachi had undoubtedly been very calculating. This was a step to remind him, Balkun, of his old loyalties, his origins. The fact that there was neither a demand nor a request, that Nachi had almost made an advance payment without being assured of anything, fit into the picture. Balkun felt that he was grateful to the unknown king and that his critical attitude toward Inugami was confirmed. He may have conquered his old home by now, maybe Nachi was already a dead man. Balkun did not expect the defenders to be able to defend themselves against the disciplined force of the attackers for a long time.
But whatever seed the distant king had intended to sow in his heart, Balkun was certain that a fruit would sprout from it and thus the plan Nachi pursued was successful, regardless of whether he was still alive or not.
33
When they came to the first stone building, which consisted of more than one floor, an arrow hit the man next to him. The warrior gave an angry grunt and involuntarily grabbed the shaft that stuck out of his right shoulder and broke it off. He was smart enough not to want to pull the arrowhead out himself. Inugami saw that the man was now holding his battle ax in his left hand.
He smiled.
He liked that attitude.
“The House! Forward!” he cried, feeling an energy surge through him. The excitement of the battle, which triggered a unique concentration, could not be compared to any other feeling. It was as if the arrow hit had broken the dam. He felt that he was ready now and his warriors with him.
Two fighters in front of him, men of his bodyguard, kicked the barred door and pushed it back. Shadows became visible, a spear jerked forward, but the attackers skillfully evaded. Then they yelled something and stormed into the dark hole of the entrance, and Inugami followed them.
Hectic movements. There was a scream. A gargle, expression of pain. The call of triumph, fitting to it. Little was to be
seen, much was in the shadow. The metallic smell of blood mixed with the dust on the floor, then a shadowy shape as it approached him, a damp ax gleaming in his hand. Inugami’s right rose, he pulled the trigger. The pistol twitched. The shot echoed slightly, the attacker was hit, stopped dead, and then collapsed. Inugami took a step forward, sensed the presence of other warriors, saw a man guard his body guard trying to push past him.
Inugami went faster, climbed over the dead whose life he had just wiped out. The passage was narrow.
A room opened that led to a small courtyard. An atlatl was shot at him, safely from the roof, the javelin brushed his armor – as far as one could describe the plate woven of plants and fabric as such – and struck somewhere behind him. Inugami looked up, ducked involuntarily. He felt the draft of an ax above his head, then went on the attack himself. Inugami shot out of his crouched position. The enemy was still looking for cover, but it was too late. The blood-red dot on his chest announced the end, and he died quickly. Then the roof, a man who swung the atlatl again. Inugami used the time, targeted. No waste. Every shot counted. The pistol twitched, the bang echoed in the yard, piercing, then the scream, and a body went down, out of sight now.
His comrades, Yaxchilan’s defenders, stared at him. They had never seen such a weapon, such a death. They exchanged glances, eyes widened, and their hesitation, their surprise, immediately fatalized them when Inugami’s men invaded, took advantage of the moment, and immediately overran their weak resistance. It was crushed all around him, and for a moment the captain looked in vain for an enemy, calmed his violent breath, his pounding heart.
The Emperor's Men 8 Page 23
