Plans.
Which brought him back to the task at hand.
“Work is being done in the fields. I hardly see any warriors,” Inugami said.
“There will be scouts who have been hidden from us,” the general replied.
“What can they do more than watch the approaching disaster?”
“Nothing.”
“Can we expect a desperate act? A big mass suicide?”
Ahk looked at the Japanese strangely. The question was not completely absurd. There were situations in which suicide was acceptable even among the Maya, a kind of honorable way out of a lost situation. But this was by no means common and usually affected only individuals.
“Hardly,” the nobleman said finally. “If someone kills himself before our attack, then it’ll be the hapless king, to save himself the shame of submission. His son will expect us to confirm him in office, demand a tribute, acknowledge the formal supremacy of Mutal, and return home afterwards.”
Inugami nodded. Lasting conquests certainly occurred in the history of this people, but were by no means the rule. In a successful campaign, the opponent submitted, if he got the opportunity to do so. Kings continued to rule or were replaced by a new dynasty that swore allegiance to the victors – which didn’t always last too long because at the latest the sons were often no longer bound by the promises of their fathers. It rarely happened that governors were deployed and soldiers were stationed. Each warrior was always a farmer who was needed at harvest and sowing season and therefore had to return home after the end of an attack to tend to the fields. Only the nobility and priests could afford to be permanently involved in the task of government or spiritual considerations. But that was not enough to govern a once conquered city permanently and directly.
Inugami thought to change that.
He just didn’t know exactly how.
It all depended on how they would be received in Saclemacal.
“We take the risk,” he said finally in English, the language Ahk had learned with great zeal and in which he was better than the Japanese in the Mayan idiom, which was still causing him considerable problems.
They rose and went back to the waiting army. An officer of the warrior-slaves saluted and reported in front of him like a Japanese soldier, and Inugami was glad that the familiar gesture had become such a flair for the men. There was nothing like a proper drill, he thought.
Nothing had happened. No contact. No attacks. Was that a good or a bad sign?
Inugami decided to find out. “We start marching. The arranged formation.”
Orders were issued. Activity broke out. Inugami watched as Chitam gave instructions. He allowed himself a smile. Soon the King of Mutal wouldn’t bother him anymore. Soon this problem would be a thing of the past. And the King would take care of it himself. He just didn’t know it yet.
Inugami took his position in the formation.
Nobody could accuse him of cowardice. He may have other uncharacteristic traits, in many ways he was too arrogant, too harsh, inconsiderate, no doubt a racist, convinced of his holy mission, perhaps a little megalomaniac.
But he was not cowardly.
He checked his pistol and found everything in perfect order. He saw the onager they had carried on the cart into position. For them, there were good positions from which they could target the city. Militarily irrelevant, psychologically important.
The Japanese man stood at the head of his warrior-slaves, surrounded by their officers, and thus a target for a daring, rapid attack that could lead to the death of the messenger with luck.
Inugami also took that risk. If he wasn’t ready to endanger his imperial dreams, he was not worth those dreams. He would prove himself worthy of destiny, and destiny was worthy only of those who could justifiably claim the triumph on the front line. Inugami was aware that he needed to be a role model in these matters. He needed loyalty, and he instilled it by living up to what he asked of his subordinates.
An important step. A central task.
“Forward! As ordered!” The Japanese bellowed, and a polyphonic answer, that had to be audible in Saclemacal, was the answer. No reason for secrecy.
They should hear it.
Inugami took the first step to fulfill his destiny.
35
Ixchel watched her mother and learned that she was sad and worried. She didn’t always know her mother to be cheerful and boisterous, especially since she had become Queen of Mutal, but Tzutz was not a woman who was constantly downcast by fears. Ixchel, the eldest daughter of the royal couple at the age of thirteen, had also learned this from Tzutz, and that was fine. The nightly arson attack on the palace had frightened her greatly, but the courageous intervention of Balkun had saved not only her younger sister Nicte’s life but also her own, since she had been warned in time and escaped the inferno unscathed.
Now they left.
Their stay on the outskirts of Mutal had not lasted long. Tzutz had been seized by a great deal of restlessness, transmitted to her companions and her two daughters. They had barely unpacked the numerous things they had taken along on their way through the city. Tzutz had immediately brought the onward journey across the narrower city limits in a neighboring village into conversation, as if she wanted to put a long distance between themselves and … yes, probably the messenger as soon as possible.
Ixchel tried to understand her mother. The arrival of the messengers had been a fascinating and frightening event, there was not the slightest doubt about that. But it was also exciting, with the promise of something new, a change that envisioned great things.
Ixchel had never talked to one of the messengers, only occasionally watched them, and had come to the conclusion that the threat her mother had perceived had escaped her observation. But as things had got worse and worse after the palace’s fire, the smart thirteen-year-old had begun to draw certain conclusions she had never shared with anyone. The central conclusion was the assumption that the messengers had something to do with the fire. That would most likely explain her mother’s behavior. So that was the basis of their thinking.
But why should the messengers do such a thing?
Ixchel couldn’t talk to her mother about it because she was constantly busy with all sorts of things, as if her attention alone would ensure that everything was in order. Her friends, mostly daughters of other high nobles, stayed behind in Mutal. Her younger sister understood these things even less than she did. Then there were still servants – who didn’t take part in this kind of conversation – and the numerous guards, fierce-looking warriors, who felt the same discomfort that was affecting their mother – probably a major reason why they had been selected for their watch.
Ixchel felt left alone. Sure, she was cared for and served, and everything … but that was about it. After all, she had resumed the lessons her father had once forbidden, now tolerated, almost encouraged by Tzutz, who suddenly enjoyed watching her daughter learn something normally reserved for men: dealing with the atlatl. Her teacher, both then and now, was Aktul, one of the king’s bodyguards, a man of advanced age and slow-limbed, who was still in their service only because both Chitam’s father and Chitam himself were connected in friendship and gratitude to the old man. But as old as the bones of Aktul were, once he held the spear-thrower in his hands it seemed to enliven him, and he was still difficult to beat in marksmanship.
There was a worse pastime than practicing with the old man. She was pleased with his praise and steadily improving targeting skills, the strength of her arms, and the force with which she sank the ejected spear into the designated targets. She liked to feel the power of her body, the soreness the next day, and the amazement in the maidservant’s eyes, when she ate with a craving that could be traced back to the physical effort.
As her mother allowed her to do this, she must have had the greatest fears for her daughter’s safety. That was Ixchel’s conclusion, and it scared her. But Tzut
z didn’t talk about it, just drove the workers, and when they were ready to leave one morning, there was a mixture of relief and constant worry in their mother’s face, and Ixchel grabbed the spear-thrower and a few projectiles in her private luggage, which she refused to be taken by anyone.
The porters set off. Tzutz and her daughters were carried in litters. The road was clear and led past fields passing a small piece of forest to the east. Everyone expected no more than a two days’ journey, and Ixchel was eager to get out of the swinging litter and use her own legs as quickly as possible, even if it was considered unseemly at the moment.
But the atlatl, she kept close.
Adults were, Ixchel knew that for a long time, rarely consistent.
They had traversed the outer fields around Mutal at noon, and although Ixchel was not feeling well in the litter, she had become a bit sleepy. Under the small canopy, it was stiflingly hot; its only real advantage was that it protected from somewhat annoying insects. But she would have given a lot now …
She began to doze, her mind wandering around. She didn’t sleep, but she was no longer awake. Soon she could no longer distinguish between real perception and dream. The sounds of the environment faded into the background. The swaying of the litter seemed almost pleasant. She curled up and gave herself up to the feeling. Sleep was much better than endless hours …
Then her head went up.
Someone screamed.
It was not an oppressed cry, like when a sharp stone entered your the sandal or an unfortunate tripping, it was the scream of a man who was just realizing that he was dying.
Ixchel knew this sound.
Fighting!
The litter jerked, Tzutz held her daughters, slid sideways, then slumped to the floor, crying, and then someone tore off the cloths.
It was Aktul.
He was bleeding. Ixchel stared at the red liquid as if she didn’t want to realize what she saw there.
“Run!” he shouted. “Get away from here. A betrayal, mistress!”
Fighting indeed.
Screams. Weapons. Death.
The impressions pounded in on the girl, and only slowly did reality enter her consciousness, trigger fear, make her body tremble.
Ixchel looked with wide eyes as one of the men was impaled by her bodyguard; the spearhead came out of his body at the back, with such force the attacker had driven the weapon into him. A gurgle was all that was audible from the victim, and when the attacker let go of the useless weapon, he sank to the ground. He looked around as he fell, staring straight into Ixchel’s eyes, with pain, despair, and a plea for forgiveness.
“Down there!” Aktul shouted, pointing to the edge of the woods. Enemies came rushing, all with covered faces, hoods hiding their identity. Aktul’s spear described a wide arc, guided by a practiced hand, old, but with all the strength yet to be mobilized. The sharp obsidian blade went through the throat of a man. Blood spattered, the victim pressed his hands at his open neck, staggered backwards, his scream drowned in the liquid spewing out. Someone screamed, loud, sounding alarmed.
Ixchel looked around, expecting that it had been Nicte, and then realized that her own mouth was open and she had uttered the cry.
Her mother took her hand, pulling the smaller sister with her, stumbling in the direction that had been directed by Aktul. The old man showed great energy in the face of danger, and the attackers paid tribute to him by pressing on with vigor.
Ixchel was pulled into the undergrowth.
As if suddenly grown from the ground, a man appeared in front of her. He stood ten feet away in the woods, like a ghost appearing out of nowhere. She opened her eyes wide, and there was another cry, this time from her mother’s mouth, pushing her children behind her. The man was not a Mayan warrior but one of the two bodyguards of the prince of the messengers, one of whom who never left the side of the strange boy.
Her mother was right, it shot through Ixchel’s mind. She was right in everything!
The man didn’t say a word, his face a motionless mask. He raised a thing, one of the thunderous metal pipes, and without hesitation he squeezed it.
Ixchel heard the bang and saw the fire from the mouth of the pipe.
Then nothing happened. She was unhurt.
“Mother?”
Tzutz stood and looked down at herself. Her dress was of a radiant, damp red that her daughters had never seen before. She groaned, only very softly and very briefly. She looked at Ixchel, and her eyes were filled with fear for the well-being of her daughters. Her pupils veiled, and all her strength left her. Then she collapsed, silent forever.
Ixchel took a step back, looked at her mother’s body, understanding what she saw there. Her little sister cried and came toward her, but Ixchel could only grab her and clasp her tightly. There was no grief in her, no horror, though both would surely come later. There was a strange feeling in her that she had rarely felt in her life and whose power filled her to the last fiber of her slender body. She watched herself extracting the atlatl, then pushing Nicte away, ignoring the sister’s questioning, tearful face, exploiting the apparent indecision of the assassin, who looked at the girls as if he didn’t know what to do with them.
A whirring sound, then the man woke up and moved quickly.
Not quick enough.
The spear-thrower released its projectile and scraped deeply through the skin on the shoulder of the messenger, who screamed, backed away, stumbled backward, and fell to the ground into the undergrowth. His weapon escaped him, and with a quick, flowing movement Ixchel picked it up.
It was warm.
A noise made her whirl around. It wasn’t her sister, who had sunk to the ground, sobbing beside her mother’s lifeless body, but Aktul, covered in blood, though in possession of all his limbs, looking with deep pain in his eyes at the Queen’s corpse. Then he saw the two children alive and replaced the pain with sudden, wild determination.
“We must go!” he said softly, insistently, through the tears and cold rage with the strength of his voice.
“Where to, Aktul?” Ixchel asked, still clinging to the strange weapon.
“Just away. First of all, just away, before they find us. Whoever wishes your mother to die will not shy away from you and Nicte.”
Ixchel wasn’t so sure if that was true. The messenger had hesitated too long for that. His reaction had come only after she reached for the weapon. Maybe the assignment had been different. Perhaps …
“Away,” she said, nodding, grabbing her sister’s arm, who let itself be pulled. “Get away from here.”
Aktul pointed into the forest, deeper into the undergrowth, and Ixchel merely nodded. The old man raised his obsidian blade and marched off.
The two girls followed him, softly, but now and then a wail arose the younger daughter and Ixchel clutched her arm tightly, transmitting her strength and determination, enough for two, enough for her dead mother and her ignorant father, who would no doubt return from Saclemacal to meet his ruin and Ixchel, of which she was suddenly very sure, would never see him again in her life.
They ran.
They just ran.
Aktul pointed the way, but Ixchel knew that there could be only one direction at this time: deeper and deeper into the forest, farther into the woods, away from the road and the assassins still fighting the surviving bodyguards.
But the sounds became quieter, and Aktul slowed down. He made gestures, and Ixchel understood. The old man grabbed her sister and picked her up, the girl let it happen. He knew Aktul, he was an uncle, a familiar face and no danger.
“Quiet now,” the warrior whispered. “We’re sneaking, we’re not leaving a trail, we’re not scaring any more animals. We walk through the forest like shadows. Shadows are still, quieter than the whispering wind. Can you be like the shadows?”
The girl in his arms nodded and rested his head on his shoulder, closed her eyes, remained motionless, a
nd Aktul stroked his hair.
He looked at Ixchel. She had been in the woods many times, too often, as Tzutz complained, and too often without proper escort or with children of commoners who were no adequate companionship for her. She had injured herself, met animals, had fallen and stumbled, but with each visit a little less.
“Like a shadow,” she whispered.
Aktul grinned encouragingly, turned around, lifted his foot, searched for the right step, strode forward. Slowly, quietly. No branch was moved. No bird fluttered. Ixchel slid across the floor behind him, her steps even lighter, her slender body hovering over the fouling, her eyes constantly searching for something that might accidentally make a noise and therefore be avoided.
They disappeared in the forest, leaving behind death and betrayal.
Ixchel knew that one day she would return here. This was the road to Mutal, her home, and there now ruled those who sought to destroy her family, who had murdered her mother and betrayed her father.
Oh yes, she would come back here, someday.
Like a shadow.
Epilogue
Marcus Vicinius Langenhagen took a deep breath and inhaled the fresh sea air. He stood at the far end of the pier, which stretched a good two hundred meters into the Atlantic Ocean, and when he directed his gaze in a certain angle, he could almost forget the existence of the expedition vessels that were being equipped behind him as they disappeared out of his sight. Of course, this was just an illusion that lasted for a moment. The sounds of the hustle and bustle were barely fading. The supplies were brought aboard the steamboats, food, hard coal, water, medicines, other essential items. In three days the preparations should finally be completed, then the Emperor intended personally come to Burdigala and attend the farewell ceremony. Langenhagen didn’t know if he should be pleased about this prospect. On the one hand, this date would mean the longed-for end of the lengthy preparation period, on the other hand everyone was aware that Emperor Haraldus, son of Thomasius, and with all his privileges in now a quite advanced age, was a thoroughly angry man and had not been particularly enthusiastic to give the post of expedition’s commander to Langenhagen. Admiral Marcellus had finally convinced Haraldus with his arguments, but only with great difficulty. This put considerable pressure on Langenhagen: first of all the Admiral’s expectations that his appointment, which had cost him political capital, was not a wrong decision; then that of the Emperor, who had had to get through and had to prove to the young officer, grandson of one of the legendary time-travelers, that he was not a creature of political intrigues and cliques but simply an excellent naval officer and cartographer, one who knew exactly what he had to do.
The Emperor's Men 7: Rising Sun Page 28
