God, what did he answer? He felt like an animal in the zoo, the visitor staring bashfully at the thing. And that, though Une Balam’s eyes were fixed on his face alone.
“I … I think …”
“You don’t have the comparison.”
Lengsley nodded hastily. “That’s true.”
“I have.”
Lengsley opened his mouth, but before he could speak, he felt her on his lips, swallowing every word in a hungry, searching kiss. The Briton closed his eyes and enjoyed the fresh taste of her touch, inhaling the smell of her skin, a mixture of sweat, the colors she had applied to her face, and an earthy odor that he found very pleasant.
More than that. She aroused him. He felt the object of her interest begin to harden. And as her slender hand pressed itself urgently between his legs, slipped under his waistband and closed around his growing member with amazing power, it no longer elicited confusion and surprise but a hot wave of desire. His searching hands found her breasts, the large, pointed nipples that stretched out expectantly. The woman huddled against him, massaging his penis, trying to escape the tightness of his pants, and then they both lay on the mats on the floor, clothes brushed away, and Lengsley’s gaze on the pale brown skin, the flawless body, the gentle sweep her thighs, which opened up attractively …
“He’s taller!” Une Balam said. “By all the gods, will I be able to receive it?”
Lengsley kissed her between her breasts, tasting her sweat.
She pulled him to her.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” she muttered hoarsely, guiding him knowledgeably. “We’ll probably find out very soon indeed.”
The experiment became a huge success.
32
Chitam looked at the assembled force and told himself that it should actually make him proud. Was not all this quite in keeping with his wish, had not he urged his father, more than once, to make Mutal’s foreign policy a bit … more expansive? Had he not promised himself, if he would once sit on the throne, to summon the men and … do things like this?
Saclemacal was an old friend and an old enemy. One did not always exclude the other. Now it was the enemy and Chitam couldn’t contradict Inugami in this. An enemy who had joined an even greater adversary to attack Mutal with a superior force, a plan that would have been successful if not for the timely and effective intervention by the messengers.
All right. Saclemacal didn’t deserve anything but retribution.
But not like this.
Chitam looked at the men, stood on the steps of the temple, and felt the expectant eyes focusing on him. All necessary rituals had been completed, all preparations made. The King was now expected to have confidence and determination to fight, to display courage and energy. Chitam didn’t lack courage, and he was also confident that this campaign would produce the desired result. But he lacked the will to fight and the energy, for he was increasingly sure that victory, the inevitable triumph, wouldn’t be his.
It would be the victory of the messengers, Inugami’s victory, as he led his own army alongside Mutal’s men, smaller and unlike any force ever commanded by a Mayan city, organized differently, with new tactics and, how Chitam was surprised to discover, with new weapons. Under the guidance of the messengers, the artisans had developed mechanical monsters that had to be served by two men. “Onager” they called these weapons, and they fired bundles of arrows, not unlike the atlatl projectiles, or mighty single projectiles that could pierce several men simultaneously. The range and penetration exceeded that of the traditional spear-throwers, but the devices were harder to use and reload. The messengers had placed them on the newly constructed carts, which were drawn by the soldiers in the absence of suitable animals. More carts served the transport of supplies and ammunition, spare weapons, and all sorts of other materials, which no longer rested on the shoulders of the soldiers – who would, therefore, arrive less exhausted at their destination, since the vehicles were pulled by a separate unit, which was solely responsible for replenishment and supply.
Chitam felt some envy. He knew that these innovations would soon be transferred to his own army – but for this campaign, Inugami’s warrior slaves would be the ones to try the new tactics and weapons.
Inugami was no coward. His troops would be at the front line. Ten of the messengers would accompany the expedition, led by their Lord himself. The others would be left behind and remain, as Aritomo had said, “diligent.”
Why did Chitam see this statement as a subliminal threat? Did he have reason for his ever deeper mistrust, yes, his fear, the growing unwillingness?
He was pretty sure there was every reason for it.
But he did what was expected of him. Wherever he lacked energy and the will to fight, his priests and clan leaders lacked neither one nor the other. They were enthusiastic about Inugami’s vision, pleased with the possibility of revenge on Saclemacal, and basked in the feeling of witnessing truly historic events. This battle would be immortalized on the great temple walls in full detail, detailing all the incidents beginning with the Battle of Mutal. Events would find their way onto the stelae and more walls, to inform posterity of their glory …
Yes, Chitam confessed.
To show the glory of the messengers. Not his, although his name was certainly duly mentioned somewhere. It was about the strangers, about Inugami, about his vision. And the goals of Chitam were heard only as long as they met the goals of the Lord of the messengers.
That, the King realized, was the real problem.
He was the problem. He called himself King – an office he had never aspired with great desire, rather the opposite –, and actually he became a lesser ruler every day. Sure, he still made decisions. Inugami was only marginally interested in the administration of the city, in lawmaking, law enforcement, and public policy – all of which he gladly left to Chitam. He also ignored the religious obligations, the necessary rituals and festivals, the sacrifices for the gods. He was only interested in public buildings if they had military character or prepared to transform his holy vessel on a grandiose structure into the new landmark of the city. Everything else, the necessary sacred buildings, the planning of the agricultural areas, the maintenance – all this was still the task of the King and his servants.
And so Chitam fulfilled a role that didn’t fit the title he carried, at least less and less. This King observed how more and more of his nobles referred important decisions to Inugami, he observed those who wanted to leave everything military entirely to the Lord of the messengers, who put all their hope of grandeur and triumph in the way Inugami did prepare war.
They were quite right, as Chitam had to admit. There was no doubt that the messengers would lead them to victory. They would realize their vision of “empire.” They would push the gods more and more into the background, which also led to the fact that in the long run, they would be less and less regarded as their emissaries, a point which in Chitam’s view would have unpredictable consequences. At some point, the king of Mutal would at best be a governor who continued to oversee public buildings and was allowed to preside over festivities.
Chitam looked at his men, who were not his men after all.
Was this perspective so bad?
The King wasn’t sure. He sensed, however, that Inugami’s vision went far beyond anything that had ever been done and would cost many more lives than any campaign in Mayan history, including the capture of Mutal by Teotihuacán two generations ago.
Years of blood and tears lay before them.
Or it all turned out quite differently, and the cities, overwhelmed by Inugami’s power, eventually submitted voluntarily.
Chitam took a deep breath. He didn’t know what he wanted, but he sensed that his ability to implement his own will waned with each passing day. Once Saclemacal fell, it was clear that Inugami was the actual, if not yet official ruler of Mutal. And if the messengers governed two cities, they would make their youn
g man, the son of their own king from their own time, the greatest of all kings, king of kings, something they called Tenno, and every lord of every city would owe loyalty to him alone.
Yes, that was exactly Chitam’s problem. He wouldn’t become king of kings, but someone else – a stranger who truly didn’t deserve it, puppet in the hands of Inugami.
By the gods, how much he hated this thought!
Chitam raised his hands and blessed his soldiers as was his duty. The gesture seemed hollow and empty, though it seemed to fit the men’s expectations. He did as he had to do though it didn’t fill him with passion.
When he had finished and retired, going down the steps, measured, dignified, with a stony face, he finally disappeared into the group of his servants and priests and hurried to the construction site of the palace. Nearby he had commandeered the magnificent house of a clan-chief, but he didn’t feel comfortable there, more like an intruder, reminded of the fact that someone had dared to take his home from him – and that he had been unable to prevent this, another symbol of his increasing powerlessness.
A servant approached him. He bowed submissively. In his closest retinue, he was still the King, and Chitam sometimes felt as though he was cheating on his followers, who saw in him more than he remained to be.
He sighed. These thoughts darkened his mind, obscured the clarity of his thoughts. They led to mistakes, wrong assessments, and they would make him a grim, sad, unjust and ultimately unbearable man. His father had sought death because he believed that his son Chitam would be better able to cope with the new and unfamiliar situation. That thought alone should set him up. He owed it to his father not to let himself be dragged down by the maelstrom of gloom in his mind, falling into an abyss from which he might not be able to ascend back up again.
The servant, an old man who had served his family for a long time, approached and asked to speak close the ear of the King. Chitam’s retinue kept a respectful distance at once. It had to be a confidential matter.
Chitam bowed his head and felt the breath of the man in his right ear, as he began to whisper softly.
“Lord, you have visitors. The guest wished … to meet you secretly. I put him in a room where he is waiting for you. If you want to see him …”
Chitam frowned, grateful for the distraction. He always felt better when he was able to devote himself to tangible problems.
“Who is it?”
“One of the warrior-slaves. The one who saved your daughter’s life.”
“Balkun? He is always welcome. But secretly?”
“Only I know of his arrival.”
“It is good. Where?”
Chitam straightened, made a gesture, and dismissed his retinue. He removed his magnificent but very impractical headdress and handed it to one of the servants. There was still some time left before the army would march off. He could still take care of this. Something told him that it was well-invested time.
Balkun was waiting for him in the small room, and when Chitam entered, he threw himself on the floor in front of the King.
Chitam closed the heavy curtains behind him.
“Get up, Balkun. I’m in your debt. You don’t have to humiliate yourself before me.”
The addressed man rose hesitantly and nodded. Chitam immediately realized that a problem was bothering the warrior. It was very unfortunate that Inugami had failed to fulfill his request to release him from slavery. It was very, very unfortunate that the King of Mutal could only ask the Lord of the messengers and that he had had to accept the man’s dismissive decision.
“What are you up to, Balkun? Here, we sit.”
The warrior took his place, as did Chitam. He needed a moment, then words gushed out of Balkun.
“Lord, I have something to tell you – a memory from the night your palace was set ablaze. I … I have kept it to myself so far. But now we are facing a campaign, and I fight on the front line. However superior we may be, it may well happen that I won’t survive this fight. The gods are unfathomable in their counsel. But if I die, my knowledge is lost. That mustn’t be, at least, I think so.” Balkun hesitated. “Sometimes it’s better to take things to the grave. But in that case, my conscience urges me to reveal something to you, though I can not foresee where it leads to.”
Chitam was attentive, curious. He raised his hands. “Speak, Balkun, and if it is your will, I won’t tell anybody what you reveal to me.”
“I gladly accept your promise, but I’m not sure you’ll be able to keep it.”
“You doubt my word?” Chitam’s question sounded not aggressive but genuinely interested.
Balkun hastily made a negative gesture. “There are situations in which it will become clear who you must have received this information from. But I’m aware of this risk. Speaking to you gives me a feeling of liberation. The danger is very present, and you can hardly protect me. Seen that way …” Balkun sighed briefly. “It wouldn’t be bad if I found my end in Saclemacal.”
Chitam shook his head. “We don’t want to talk like that, Balkun. So speak, what is on your mind regarding the events of that night?”
“For a brief moment, I saw the people who talked to the arsonist, gave him the material for his crime, and so I regard them as his employers or supporters.”
Chitam’s eyes narrowed. “Someone I know?”
“Nobody I know in person, so I can’t tell.”
“So what’s your secret?”
Balkun stretched, his face strained, as if he had to squeeze out the next words with willpower.
“One of these men was undoubtedly a messenger of the gods, my lord.”
Chitam stared at Balkun, as if he couldn’t quite grasp the meaning of these words, but then he nodded slowly, very slowly, as if this would help to classify the statement correctly and give a fitting answer.
“I should ask,” he said slowly, “if you are sure, Balkun.”
“I am indeed.”
Chitam saw no hesitation and no doubt in the face of the Yaxchilan man, and so he believed him. The King closed his eyes for a moment. He wasn’t that surprised. It was wonderfully befitting. Just as he was thinking of what role he played in the great plans of the messengers, they did their own considerations. And someone – probably Inugami himself – had come to the conclusion that the best solution would be to eliminate the stubborn king and then either choose a new candidate of his own or immediately overthrow the old system altogether.
What did that mean?
Well, since this attempt failed, there would undoubtedly be more.
Chitam felt cold, although the morning already began to develop the familiar, oppressive sultriness. It was by no means the rule that Mayan kings fell through internal revolts or assassinations. It happened, certainly, as there were sometimes extreme situations, such as particularly hated or incompetent rulers, injured vanities, or the helping hand of a foreign rival. But if a Mayan king died violently, it was usually directly at the hands of the enemy, either in combat or subsequently as a prominent sacrifice in a ceremony for the gods of the victor.
What should he do? How to protect his family?
Balkun didn’t say anything, and Chitam sensed how he was being watched by him, not without pity, but above all relieved to be rid of the information that had been in his heart. Chitam could imagine that this knowledge must’ve been a burden, and he knew it because he now felt the weight on his own shoulders.
“Thank you, Balkun,” he said finally.
“What will you do?”
Chitam looked searchingly at the man. Was he honest and trustworthy enough to talk to him about these things? Didn’t he have to be someone who in the end was more loyal to his master than to him? It was difficult to assess Balkun because Chitam was convinced that the man wanted one thing above all else: to return home to his family and there, more or less, to be left alone.
What would he be willing to do if he had the s
erious prospect of fulfilling his wish?
“I have to think about it,” the King said.
“If I …”
“No fear. No one will know it from me.”
Balkun hesitated but left it at that. Chitam didn’t mind his doubts. Who would trust a king who owed no account to anyone but the gods? And these, in turn, were apparently not very happy about Chitam of Mutal when they sent messengers who tried to burn him alive.
Chitam was certain that the gods had little to do with all this, and that the strangers, mysterious as they were, pursued goals and intentions that a priest would only be able to explain if he was an expert in power-politics.
Balkun got up. “If I may leave you now, my lord? If I’m absent for too long, it raises questions.”
Chitam waved. “Go. I wish you a successful fight, a victory, and your survival.” He meant that honestly.
“Thank you, my lord.” Balkun bowed before pushing aside the heavy curtains in front of the doorway and leaving behind a very thoughtful and increasingly depressed King of Mutal.
Chitam just sat there for a while. He failed to make a clear decision. He was scared of so many things: his life and that of his family, the traditions of his city, the future that now seemed so unpredictable. In the past, the prophecies and invocations of the priests had been something that gave a sense of direction and confidence, but today all this seemed stale and empty. The messengers turned everything upside down and robbed him of all the confidence he had. He could no longer even trust his own people, the closest advisers and servants, for it was difficult to gauge how many of them were already infected by the grandiose vision of Inugami and, in case of doubt, would also decide against their King.
The Emperor's Men 7: Rising Sun Page 26
