They had set the cannon so that it would sweep the big boulevard that led to the site in front of the palace. Thereto the men of Mutal should lure the enemy, and then suddenly, upon a given signal, run away, as if all courage had left them. That was the time when Aritomo would give the order to fire, and they would do so as fast as the cannon could. The explosive ammunition would cause a massacre in the dense mass of enemies, to the extent of which Aritomo didn’t want to imagine right now.
He didn’t feel well. His stomach was upset. He had never been involved in combat. His career has gone so far without the need to raise the weapon against an enemy. Of course, this possibility had always been clear to him. He wouldn’t have joined the navy if he had any qualms about killing the enemy, if necessary.
Yet. The first time was bad, even veterans had told him. Some got used to it afterwards. Aritomo was not sure if he wanted to belong to that group. A submarine made it more convenient to kill. Often one didn’t see the enemy, or only from a distance. You didn’t have to deal with the details and the consequences. The enemy sank, that was enough.
A loud scream could be heard up to their position. Aritomo knew what that meant. The fight had begun. He fixed his binoculars on his eyes and saw the army of the King of Yaxchilan pour into the city. A thin line of defenders stood in its way, ready to retire at any moment. Mutal couldn’t muster half the number of fighting men her opponent had pulled together. Under normal circumstances, the outcome of this battle would be completely predictable.
But these were not normal circumstances, as the ruler of Yaxchilan would notice shortly.
Aritomo lowered the glass and looked around. The crew’s four best marksmen, including the Prince’s two bodyguards, had come to the bridge and were aiming above the gunner’s heads at the square in front of them. The officer regarded it as inevitable that the attackers would flee there. In addition to the salvos from the guns of the four men, they expected about 400 warriors of Mutal, all armed with atlatls, which were still hidden on the backs of the various buildings and only would come to light when Inugami ordered it.
The Maya hadn’t been pleased with this tactic. To hide? To seek shelter behind the walls instead of openly fighting? Such behavior was not particularly honorable, even if the enemy was clearly superior. Every war was a holy war, and those whom the gods chose as victors should also triumph. Inugami and Aritomo were both quite in favor of divine providence but felt it could do no harm to help out a little. Good javelin throwers firing from an elevated position at a disoriented and anxious mass of enemies sounded like a good idea to win the game without putting your own forces at risk unnecessarily.
Aritomo, too, was a friend of honorable behavior. But even more he was struck by the idea that all those who belonged to their side survived this encounter as unscathed as possible. The Maya had finally bowed and abandoned their resistance. The success would speak for itself, the Japanese were sure of it.
The screaming became louder. Aritomo looked again through the binoculars and saw the defenders slowly recoil. The attackers seemed to become even more enthusiastic by this, shouting their triumph and pushing forward with increased strength, toward assured victory. Everything went according to plan. Aritomo’s restlessness intensified. Maybe it was because good plans had always made him nervous, including maneuvers and exercises. One quickly became too confident and made mistakes.
If the men of the submarine made a mistake, this was the last thing they would ever do. There was no second plan, no retreat position, no alternative.
Yes, Aritomo thought, that was probably the real reason for his unrest. He stood with his back to the wall, as all of them. And that wasn’t a nice position to be in.
After all, it made things easy.
“Imakura?”
“We are ready, Lieutenant.”
Aritomo nodded. It spoke for his feelings that he asked more than once, but the men didn’t seem to mind. They all just hoped that the measures they had taken would stabilize the boat sufficiently. Lengsley had been very confident. But he was also not on the front deck and would fly to the ground if the boat slipped off. For now, they would only shoot single volleys. But later, Aritomo thought it necessary for at least a minute or two to keep up with the highest rate of 15 rounds per minute. The impression on the enemy had to be a lasting and an absolutely overwhelming one. And the inhabitants of Mutal had to be impressed, too, that was almost as important as the fight against the attackers, especially in the long term. The occasional volley might not even be noticed even by some of the warriors. Given the superiority of the attackers, it was also necessary to reach a decision quickly.
Two minutes with thirty rounds, that would put the submarine in strong vibrations. And squatting on a pyramid instead of lying in the water was a huge difference.
Aritomo continued to stare through the binoculars. The fighting toward the palace had increased. It wouldn’t be long now. Chitam would dissolve the last line of defense and then give his men the order to flee, not too fast – the attackers should remain incited to persecute – but fast enough to strengthen the prospect of a near and quick victory in Tatb’u. So the enemies should be lured to the square and thus into the field of fire of the twelve-pounder.
It went along nicely.
Aritomo turned on the magnification as the mass of soldiers approached. He saw the warriors of Mutal, led by nobles who wore the characteristic headdress. He also believed that he had seen the signs of Chitam himself, in the middle of the fray, surrounded by the men of his bodyguard, on the front line. The Prince had to feel a great deal of anger, anger at those who had killed his father, and at his father, who had only known to pursue this one way. Aritomo was sure there was more to it than the willingness to make the highest sacrifice for his city. Maybe if his vocabulary allowed it one day, he would talk to Chitam about it.
He felt that it was important. Important for the future of Maya and Japanese alike and in a different way than Captain Inugami imagined.
“Stand by!” he warned. The first of Chitam’s men poured into the square screaming and waving their arms, either to lure the opponents with verve by serious attempts of exaggerated acting, or because they were afraid that the metal atlatls of the holy messengers would kill them if they wouldn’t make a lot of noise.
Aritomo raised an arm. “Now wait!” he exclaimed loudly. “Wait!”
Then they came.
Like a tidal wave, they streamed in, thousands of soldiers, victoriously howling, as the cowardly defenders of Mutal fled before them, past the palace, entering the square, as they broke through the feeble lines of their enemies. It had to be a joy for the men of Yaxchilan, a triumph beyond compare.
Aritomo clenched his teeth. “Wait!” he said again. “Just one moment!”
21
“The fools! We have them!”
The words left Tatb’u’s mouth, as he saw the ranks Mutal’s men breaking. Triumph shimmered in his eyes, the certainty of a man who was about to accomplish the greatest victory of his life, who would make history. The palace was unprotected in front of them. The occasional volley of an atlatl from the roof of the palace didn’t disturb anyone. The shots were acts of desperation, hoping for a lucky hit. By now it should be clear to all, attackers and defenders, that the gods had blessed the King of Yaxchilan and would give him total victory. Already, the men were storming the King’s edifice, ready to break any resistance that might still be apparent within the large building. Tatb’u had given the explicit order to renounce destruction and wild looting. Mutal was a great prize, a prey of considerable proportions. And all of it belonged to him. He would distribute what was to be distributed, but no one would carry any valuable object from the city without having first obtained Tatb’u’s permission. Tatb’u intended to be very generous, but he had to exercise total control.
Riches were of value only if they were preserved.
For a moment, Chitam had met him in
the battle – if one wanted to call the feeble retreat of Mutal’s men a battle. The Prince showed his incompetence as a warlord and as a fighter, as he pitifully tucked his tail in every attempt by Tatb’u to meet him and sought a way out. He hadn’t looked for a fight, ran around like a coward, and instead of being an example to his men, he called them to back down the moment they were particularly hard-pressed. What a miserable behavior, unworthy of a true king. This city deserved to be defeated.
Deeper and deeper, the invaders streamed into the city, conquered one building after another. The inhabitants of Mutal hid themselves in fear.
The trouble was that the blood paid by the city’s warriors was not half as high as Tatb’u had hoped. No rivers of blood. Yes, men fell, but rather because they didn’t run away fast enough. This wasn’t a real fight. They drove Mutal’s elite before them. Where did the fame of this mighty city come from? If the best proved so weak, it must have been a gigantic trick by the ruler of Mutal, who persuaded his neighbors that the big city was invincible and of significant military power. In fact, Mutal was made up of women who wore men’s robes and wielded their weapons in the air just for decoration. And those loud cries and laments when they ran off! In the face of this spectacle, would all of the gods not conceal their faces in shame and crown those of Yaxchilan as victors solely because they were no longer prepared to endure this terrible tragedy?
Tatb’u was sure that the god of Yaxchilan, Itzamnaaj, would certainly not be very pleased with this war. The attackers really did what they could. But nothing more was achieved than running after Mutal’s warriors. And the new king was the first to speed away! That wasn’t a real pleasure at all. If only for Pakul’s sake, he had to bring this to an end, and if he had the enemies executed at the end of the day instead of killing them in battle, then it should happen just so.
Nobody would praise the greatness of Mutal anymore.
For many years, embarrassing silence would reduce the fame of this city to nothing.
Then he saw what his spies had told him. From a distance, it hadn’t been easy to observe, but now the shape and dimensions of the … thing that rested on the unfinished structure were more clearly discernible. For a tiny moment, Tatb’u had felt awe, indeed, he wanted to admit, had considered the idea of perhaps carrying the attack with a little less force and more caution. But the thing was just sitting there, and if it served any purpose, it seemed to be nothing more than looking weird. And Mutal’s men didn’t expect much from it or they would fight more manly, knowing that whatever, at the right time, would come to their aid.
Silly thought.
Indeed, Tatb’u had within reach the greatest triumph of his life. He was now sure that Siyaj had sought death, realizing that his city would fall. The old man didn’t want to be sacrificed in a ceremony or even taken to Yaxchilan as a prisoner, he wanted to make himself a martyr. Thus, despite his violent death, he was a bigger coward than even Tatb’u had thought possible in his contempt. Siyaj was of the same weakness as his miserable son and must have instilled this attitude early in his Chitam’s cradle. A family of weaklings, without a doubt.
But the King wiped away the thought. That was the past. Now he had to make sure that nothing stood in the way of victory. And what was more appropriate than to chase after the fleeing enemy, whose lamentation was like mocking the gods, so to help as many as possible of those unworthy to go from life to death?
He ran with his bodyguards past the palace where fighting was still underway. The mass of Mutal’s warriors, however, wailed back into the direction of the … thing that still didn’t do more than just …
A crackling thunder shook him.
Did something collapse?
Then another loud thunder. Tatb’u staggered and covered his ears. Something cracked in it like when he climbed a mountain. A sudden, forceful wind blew through the streets.
The warrior before him, a second ago upright and powerful, collapsed, covered in blood. The King stared at the man who was missing an arm, gone as if by magic. Tatb’u looked around. He heard screaming, real lamentation, and he saw blood everywhere. He saw … broken limbs, arms, legs, a torso that was lying on the ground, dismembered by many knives, its innards spread out on the pavement. It was all … suddenly so different.
Again the thunder. And then again and again and again. Dull and dark, with lighter, crackling sounds in between, in even faster order. Tatb’u wiped blood from his eyes and realized only now that something had hit him on the head and the red brook ran down his face from his hair. He dropped to his knees, for he felt a little dizzy.
Around him, his warriors fell to the ground, and cruel wounds ripped open their bodies. They all screamed and were stunned because there was no enemy to see, no knife, no atlatl, just those noises, then bright light where … something happened. Men fell back without a wound, as if they had run against a wall in full swing.
Tatb’u had a bad headache. He decided to sit down. A little rest might be good for him.
Everything around him was in disarray. The thunder clearly came from the black thing on the pyramid. It sounded monotonous, and with the same cadence of its occurrence the warriors of his army died around him. They died without knowing what killed them, without being able to defend themselves. Some looked almost weird in how they raised their shields. Once, Tatb’u saw a shield being torn off with the arm behind it. Then he was startled when suddenly men emerged behind the pyramids and wielded weapons he knew well: atlatls, a few hundred, fired from elevated position to a maelstrom of dying, over-challenged attackers, and they demanded a high toll of blood.
Tatb’u realized that his prophecy about the flow of blood was going to be true. Just not quite as he had imagined.
Then the thundering stopped. Everywhere people ran and fought. Everything was mixed up. Tatb’u was really not feeling well. He wanted to straighten up, but he lacked the strength.
He looked up and saw someone wearing a very beautiful headdress. Royal insignia. It had to be the son of Siyaj, the heir to the throne. Chitam. Yes, that was his name. Tatb’u realized that he was no longer able to think very quickly and clearly.
Chitam looked down at him without pity. Tatb’u understood now. It was a painful realization that stirred up in him. He had been so wrong, had been so sure of victory. What a stupidity. Yes, he couldn’t expect pity. Not from the son of Siyaj, and not from Itzamnaaj, whose reputation he had disgraced, to which he had paid no honor. So close to victory, he had failed so massively. What a punishment. What a hubris. Tatb’u didn’t know what he now deserved, and his mind was foggy. He would soon find out, because as soon as he took the next step, he was sure of that, he would be reproached for his transgressions.
Wiping his face faintly, he looked up at Mutal’s new King, who stared at him with irony in his gaze.
It was probably time.
It was over.
Tatb’u nodded, as Chitam craned his spear backward to let the weapon sink into the chest of the King of Yaxchilan with deadly precision.
That was just right.
Death was a mercy for him. At least, Tatb’u was spared many a sight when his lifeless body finally fell to the ground, stretched out, covered in blood, in their faces surprise and grief coming from a profound humiliation that the gods had prepared for them at the last moment.
He didn’t see the worst.
He didn’t see hundreds of his followers, in complete panic and without guidance, leaving the streets of Mutal and running blindly into the jungle, pursued by furious peasants venturing out of their huts, struck down by sticks or knives led by untrained men. As women stepped out of the house and shouted insults after the fleeing, words filled with filth, and some brave ones took it upon themselves to thrust the occasional blade into the body of a fugitive.
He no longer saw how the seemingly disorganized crowd of Mutal’s warriors turned like a man, drew arms, closed the ranks, as Prince Chitam himself took co
mmand, how orders were given and obeyed. He no longer saw Mutal’s suddenly disciplined and effective force pursuing the fugitives or fighting those who sought to disappear in nooks and crannies, how the atlatls sowed death and harvested blood, how the warriors marched on, the shields lifted up against the feeble resistance of the desperate, and drove the men of Yaxchilan away from the squares, through the streets, accompanied by the shouts, insults, and mocking of the inhabitants.
He no longer witnessed the capitulation, in which the leaders of the units from Saclemacal and Tayasal threw down their weapons, laying flat on the ground, arms and legs stretched out to stop fighting for themselves and their men. Chitam had given clear instructions for this case and ordered that all those who surrendered should be spared until their fate was determined by him and the priests. Tatb’u didn’t see the remaining leaders from Yaxchilan, so suddenly robbed of their allies, finally abandoning all hope and begging for mercy where no escape seemed possible. It was not long before hundreds of prisoners were rounded up by the warriors of Mutal, all in one place, bound and humiliated, often injured and shocked at the unexpected turn of events, desperate at the lack of favor by their gods.
All this Tatb’u from Yaxchilan no longer saw, and that was a good thing.
22
Inugami and Aritomo marched past the mountain of piled corpses. Although everyone around them was very busy – recovering injured and dead, repairing damage to the buildings and the ground caused by the twelve-pounder –, there was an expectant, almost reverent silence. The glances with which the two officers were considered were no longer characterized by too much shyness and fear like a few days before. They also lacked the mistrust that Aritomo often perceived, subliminal, often associated with great caution or anxiety, yet recognizable if one took a close look at the behavior of their hosts.
The Emperor's Men 7: Rising Sun Page 15
