The Emperor's Men 7: Rising Sun

by Dirk van den Boom

  Lengsley nodded. The Japanese had really thought about these things. The Briton was righteously impressed. Behind the seemingly harmless, childlike face, a keen mind was working, based on a good sense of observation. He relaxed, began to actively engage with the subject, if only because it was a welcome relief from the current monotony of his existence.

  “We could also improve their warfare,” he continued. “You obviously use only spear, shield, knife, and those spear throwers, which I’m pretty impressed with by the way. Apart from the King’s bodyguard, the army seems to be a sort of militia into which all men are called to become warriors if the ruler wishes.”

  Aritomo smiled. “You talked to Sawada.”

  “If he has time. He is very, very busy.”

  “He is our teacher and at the same time the most diligent student.”

  “That’s probably very good.”

  “But the subject of the war is important,” Aritomo went on. “Because, of course, that’s what Inugami has in mind. Establish the rule over this city and use it as the base for an empire governed by a tiny upper class – us. A thought that meets with great approval from many members of the crew.”

  Lengsley hesitated with the answer. He now guessed what the man wanted. He listened to him, wanted to know his opinion on certain topics. But did he do so on behalf of the captain trying to find out if the gaijin was trustworthy – or did he do so because he doubted Inugami’s plans and saw Lengsley as a potential ally?

  How should he react? He actually had to listen to Aritomo Hara first, to not make a mistake!

  The conversation between the two men consequently resembled a dance of words – not one in which the partners followed each other closely entwined in a musical movement but one characterized by mutual observation, evasion, circling, without one seeking to leave the other’s orbit or someone breaking off the dance. It was a dance, because it lacked the aggression of a fight, because many clever words fell, much approval was expressed, often meant seriously, and because the two dancers considered themselves not as adversaries but also not necessarily as dance partners. The dance lasted a good hour, interrupted by brief breaks in which the participants had to be clear about the next steps, the sequence of the movements, all deliberate and very focused, but without the passionate fire and the urge, striving for a satisfactory result. But once the dance was continued, it was clear that everyone was approaching each other very slowly, metaphorically groping, carefully, and cautiously. It was all about really small steps. Everyone was ready to retreat to a safe distance as if to perform the dance on a very brittle or sloping ground. When the dancers finally finished, with a degree of exhaustion, and came to the silent agreement that nothing more was to be said during this encounter, both took some basic lessons home: that they didn’t think much of Inugami’s plans for their future relationship with the Maya. But that they wouldn’t be able to do much, as long as the majority of the crew remained loyal to the concept. That one had to try to work cautiously on Inugami to prevent the worst, that the captain overlooked how few they were, and that any mistake would mean their downfall.

  And that they’d meet again, at the appropriate time, to discuss these and other topics.

  As Aritomo Hara said goodbye, Lengsley paused for a few more moments sitting on the metal floor next to the diesel engine, thinking. No matter what the consequences of what had just been discussed, one thing was clear to him – and filled him with a certain satisfaction. Even if their relationship wasn’t fully established, now he seemed to have found someone with whom he could talk and who had a genuine interest in making their existence bearable in this time and place so as not to end up as a human sacrifice on a Mayan altar. If Lengsley could contribute to that, then he wanted to do it as part of his certainly modest possibilities. If he found a friend in Hara, it was a positive side effect that would make his life easier here. It was a real step forward to break his isolation, escape from the mental dungeon cell he had been locked into.

  Lengsley took a deep breath.

  The conversation had increased his worries, raised many new questions, and painted a bleak picture of their future.

  And yet, today was not such a bad day at all.

  15

  Tatb’u rejoiced in his army, and his army rejoiced in his brave and victorious king. The morning was beautiful, and the column of soldiers of the glorious Yaxchilan stood ready, laden with weapons and supplies, and in the most orderly fashion. Everywhere good mood could be felt, the anticipation of a campaign of epic proportions, almost palpable. The great Mutal should fall! What a fantastic outlook! Generations would speak of this war, and Tatb’u would very carefully look after it that they did, as his stonemasons were just waiting for the exact description of this special adventure, to chisel it in detail on their stelae and the walls of a new temple, which the King planned to dedicate to the great Itzamnaaj after their victory over Mutal. A temple also dedicated to this grandiose victory. It would make Tatb’u immortal – and all who were with him.

  There was no doubt in the men, no hesitation, no cautious mistrust. Everywhere expectation that victory was assured, all written in the warrior’s faces.

  And they had every reason to feel expectant. Pakul had just received news from Tayasal last night. The local king had assured Tatb’u of his fullest support. His own warriors would be ready as soon as the army arrived from Yaxchilan, and supplies were prepared for the journey to proceed quickly. The host of Tayasal was small, but a welcome asset. In addition, the news had raised the hope that the smaller neighboring city, the ruler of Saclemacal would be inclined to support Tatb’u as well. The united army of three cities would surprise and defeat Mutal. There was just nothing that could go wrong now except Saclemacal decided otherwise and betrayed Tatb’u. At the slightest sign in that direction, the king of Yaxchilan would turn his army against the traitors and plunder the city until nothing remained. Mutal would then perhaps – for now – be saved, but booty would be distributed, and the attack would send a strong signal to the region that they had to count on Tatb’u – and above all, that he wasn’t making jokes.

  Even the omen of the gods were positive. The priests had confirmed the King in his plans. If there was a good time to win, then it was now. Tatb’u had not hesitated a moment to spread this highly welcome message among his own. This had contributed significantly to the increase in general morale.

  Tatb’u raised both hands. It became quiet around him. He stood on the fourth step of his father’s grave pyramid, and it was the symbolism that the son stood on the shoulders of his predecessor and thus emphasized the stability of his rule, which certainly didn’t escape the men.

  All eyes turned to him. Tatb’u said nothing. He pointed in the direction, along the big road, to the east. There the street led their way directly to the Great Lake and their allies in Tayasal. Certainly the easiest and safest part of the journey.

  Then he dropped his arms and nodded.

  Orders were roared. Noble officers took their places, leading the men of their clan, as has been custom ever since. Tatb’u put himself at the head of the warriors he personally selected, his family, his bodyguard. He was joined by his commander, Pakul, his face full of grim joy, his eyes full of blood-lust, holding the spear with such an energy in his hands, that there was a danger that the weapon would break by the determined grip. Pakul was ready. A good sign for them all.

  Tatb’u took the first step. And his army followed him.

  The road was wide and well-developed, the warriors were experienced men, after all, they had just successfully completed a campaign. They maintained an exemplary discipline, marching side by side in a long row of two, all at the same speed. Tatb’u could have been carried in a litter, no one would’ve had denied him this right. But he didn’t lead that way. As much as his people worshiped him as the link between the earth and the heavens, so much did he value the fact that the warriors he led to battle and possibly death
also respected him as warlord. He marched with them. He didn’t carry his luggage himself – a little distance from the common people was expected –, but he used his own legs and not those of porters.

  And he marched ahead, leading the way.

  His men thanked him with a brisk step. Nobody would fall behind, nobody would falter. Not in the face of their King.

  The first part of the journey lasted only two days. Then they reached the outskirts of the relatively small town of Tayasal. The peasants working on the roadside clearing the forest to create new farmland paused in their work, watching the long worm of Tatb’u’s army as it moved toward their homeland. The King of Tayasal was forewarned and had informed his people accordingly. In the eyes of the observers was no fear, no one ran away. One was among allies, and Tatb’u’s orders had been unequivocal. No resident of Tayasal should suffer from the approaching army. All property of the allies was to be protected, and even the smallest transgression would result in the most severe punishment.

  His men obeyed. They never strayed from the path and never gave the citizens of the city more than a friendly nod, a shouted greeting. They were friends, not conquerors. Tatb’u could be proud of his warriors.

  On the large main square, they were received as befitting. Tatb’u noted with great satisfaction that his ally had kept his word. His men were standing by, and since it was still early afternoon and they wanted to get on as fast as they could, they would rest for a moment, then immediately continue on their way.

  There was a brief ceremony to give priority to the city’s favorite deities, and then the men of Tayasal joined the growing army. The Lord of Tayasal, that was agreed, would not participate in the campaign himself and remain behind, but he sent two of his sons, whom Tatb’u allowed to march beside him.

  The whole visit lasted no more than two hours, then the united army was already on the way to Saclemacal.

  Tatb’u felt more and more confident with every passing day. That they enjoyed the grace of the gods was manifest in many ways. The weather was wonderful, ideal for making progress. As they rested at the Great Lake and set up camp for the night, Pakul sent a number of men to fish. They came back so loaded with booty that a big welcome was shouted and very quickly the tempting scent of roasted fish spread throughout the camp. Tatb’u made a scene of sitting close to one of the fires and tasting the catch; he not only praised the chef in charge but also pointed out that this special blessing made clear how much they were favored by the gods. This too quickly made the rounds and raised the general mood. When they set off again at dawn to cover the rest of the way to Saclemacal, it took not longer than an hour until they met emissaries from that city, who conveyed the kindest greetings and welcomed the army most warmly. Fifty porters were under the advance command sent from Saclemacal, and they all carried large containers of fresh chi. Tatb’u made sure everyone was served a cup at lunchtime, which once again positively influenced the morale of the men. The assurance of their friends from Saclemacal to stand firmly in the forged alliance and to wait eagerly to punish Mutal for its arrogance was also well-received. Tatb’u felt that this was a perfect time and basked in the prestige that fell on him as a leader due to this fact. His outwardly modest and affable manner worked particularly well in this atmosphere. His warriors would, he was sure, carry out each of his orders without hesitation and with dedication. And even Pakul’s good humor showed that the General thought he was approaching a slaughter of outstanding quality that could only end with a triumphant victory.

  All the wonderful joys stopped once they finally reached Saclemacal, though. The welcome was heartfelt, the warriors were ready, and they were all well looked after again. They exchanged the latest information about the conditions in Mutal, and here it was the first time that Tatb’u heard of a strange phenomenon that had haunted the city. The story was confusing and contradictory, and he wasn’t sure if the story was true or a result of overindulgence of chi. Clear was, however, that something unusual had happened that claimed the attention of the King of Mutal at the moment. They would soon be able to convince themselves how much truth was in the adventurous rumors that were being delivered to Tatb’u. But the most important fact was that the inhabitants of Mutal were very, very busy and that this occupation had nothing to do with the approaching army.

  He listened to the various stories for a while. There was talk of an apparition, a boat of the gods, men who had risen from a great fish that smashed temples, invisible weapons that killed silently and without a miss. Normally this last message would have been something to worry him – but those stories were so outrageous and so absurd that the King just could not take them seriously. To develop a different strategy based on this idiocy, neither him nor Pakul found necessary.

  This was a critical moment of the campaign. Saclemacal was full of spies from Mutal. No matter what the locals now knew, the army would rush ahead of the news of their advance. Mutal would be able to prepare itself, fast and inadequate, which was exactly what Pakul expected. The faster they advanced, the clearer their victory would be. Tatb’u decided to rest one night in Saclemacal and leave the next morning. Spies might have a day’s march in advance, but that wasn’t enough for a troubled city to take all the necessary defensive measures. One could only hastily summon your own warriors, and their morale would be bad. And since Tatb’u, through the distribution of his army and the way they camped in and around Saclemacal, cleverly disguised the true strength of his forces, the enemy would certainly expect a far smaller offensive force than those who would finally attack his lines.

  Everything was wonderfully arranged, as the King of Yaxchilan observed with pleasure.

  16

  “Well, tell me, son.”

  Chitam waited until the servant had left his father’s private quarters and the heavy curtains at the door had been closed both in- and outside. He looked at the cup of chi in his hand, the contents of which he hadn’t touched yet, a rather unusual behavior for the Prince. Old Siyaj didn’t urge his son. He knew him well enough, his weaknesses as well as his strengths. In recent years, he had to admit, he had occasionally doubted the adequacy of the designated heir to the throne for this exalted task, whether or not he was in the right frame of mind to take on the burdens of the office. Chitam drank too much and was attached to young girls, his religious zeal left much to be desired, and he liked to sleep long during daytime. In fact, his sister Une Balam was far more deliberate and, in many ways, more intelligent than Chitam, who often acted quite impulsive. But then, in the last two weeks since the arrival of the messengers of the gods, another quality had appeared in the Prince, even at the beginning of the incident itself. His determined action and eager learning, the skillful way he found access to the god’s messengers and his interest in the consequences of this encounter for Mutal – all this quite impressed the old king. In addition, the highly salutary influence of his wife became apparent, who would become a very capable queen – a key reason why Siyaj had then initiated the marriage, as these positive investments had manifested in young Tzutz very early. Since Chitam was too simple to effectively avoid the manipulations of his wife unless she openly challenged his resistance, he was actually quite confident about his successor.

  And the matter of the god’s messengers seemed indeed to reveal unimagined abilities in his son.

  Siyaj was impressed, almost against his will.

  He therefore deliberately left these things to his son, especially remembering that he himself wouldn’t have done it half as well. The circumstances had made Chitam more than he had been before. But this wouldn’t have been possible if the potential hadn’t already dwelt inside the young man.

  So old Siyaj rediscovered pride for his son, and he nourished that feeling with this council of war, which he held exclusively with the Prince. There was a need to make decisions, and Chitam seemed to be able to provide the King with very valuable advice.

  Although, at the moment, his son seemed
to be a bit confused.

  “I’m not sure, Father.”

  “About?”

  “About some things.”

  “Tell me what you are sure of.”

  Chitam nodded and placed the cup. “The god’s messengers are far ahead of us in everything. Their craftsmanship exceeds my imagination. The weapons they use are so powerful, and I don’t understand how they work. They are well-organized and follow the orders of their ruler, named Inugami. They speak two different languages – not just variations of the one common in the various regions inhabited by the corn people but two really different languages, of which they teach us only one. They are not all the same despite their common origin. Some are kinder than others. Some are open to us, others hide things. There are not many. I have been near their vessel several times now and have watched it intensively. There can’t be more than 30 or 40 men, Father. And I think it’s important that it seems that they didn’t bring any woman with them. At any rate, we never saw one.”

  Siyaj nodded, feeling reassured in his new confidence in his son. “What are they hiding?”

  “Their intentions. Father, they are no doubt sent by the gods, nothing else can explain their appearance. But they themselves are normal people like us. They dress differently, they speak differently, they look different – though not much –, but I’m convinced that if I push my blade into the breast of one of them, I would see blood, and the man would die. They are people – special people, but no more than that.”

  Siyaj nodded. Chitam only confirmed his own impression.

  “Go on, son. What else did you learn?”

  Chitam thought for a moment. He obviously didn’t want to talk too lightly to his father, must have noticed that he showed growing respect for him. He wanted to avoid mistakes that would result from hasty words. “They learn more about us than they reveal, Father. I ask questions, but I often get no real answers. Sometimes that’s probably because we can exchange so few sentences meaningfully. But our mutual language skills are getting better every day. On both sides there are some who study and teach with vigor. But sometimes I think they don’t want to give me an answer. That in turn may be because they lack the will to do so – for example, when it comes to the question of their origin or their mission. Or the cause is that they can’t tell me because they don’t know it themselves. That sometimes seems likely to me. And that makes me think the most, because if they are holy messengers … then they should know everything. And actually, they should speak our language because it was given to us by the gods.”