The Emperor's Men 8

by Dirk van den Boom

  They stopped at the top of the platform. Inocoyotl looked down at the square. He touched the black metal with one hand, it was warm, like a living animal. His eyes fell on the huge, iron atlatl, which had caused so much destruction, and here, in the immediate vicinity of the apparition, he began to believe the stories. This was out of this world, and so the question remained, where did it actually come from?

  Certainly not from the gods. With every minute he talked to Sawada, his conviction solidified that he was not dealing with heavenly messengers here but with ordinary mortals, of mysterious origins, but otherwise no flesh and blood like himself.

  So it was certainly not wrong to speak to him directly without being in danger of being instantly struck by lightning.

  “Master Sawada,” he said after a pause. “You are not really messengers of the gods, is that correct?”

  Sawada looked at him and it seemed as if he wanted to smile, an emotion that he suppressed at the last moment. Then he nodded. “Our friends in Mutal get along well with this idea. Whether everyone believes in it or whether it is just a simple explanation of a much more difficult reality to describe – I will leave that open.”

  “Itzunami believes it?”

  “He believes what suits him.”

  “What benefits him.”

  “It’s about the same thing, I think.”

  Inocoyotl was now the one who smiled without wanting to hide it. Whether sent by gods or not, the man was to his taste. In any case, he did not look threatening, although the envoy knew that such an impression could easily be deceived.

  “So no messengers of gods?”

  Sawada gestured with his shoulders.

  “Ultimately, a strange fate brought us here. If one assumes that such incidents were predetermined by heavenly powers, as a test or purely by divine arbitrariness, we are in a way sent, but without a message, without a mission and, I honestly say, without supernatural powers.” He slapped the metal body of the boat with the palm of his hand. “This is a fish without water. We built it, with our hands, with tools that we left behind in our homeland. It is a craft superior to everything the Maya and, at the risk of insulting you, everything your people know.”

  “You are not insulting me,” said Inocoyotl. “But don’t say it too loud when my king is around.”

  “I’ll remind myself.”

  “So tell me the truth, and I don’t want to hold it against you: Where are you from – and how did your fish fall out of the water onto the roof of a temple?”

  Sawada told him in clear words, and Inocoyotl was amazed at the level of ignorance the “messengers of the gods” showed about the circumstances of their arrival. They came from a distant time, and it was unclear to them how they had made the trip. They were victims of the circumstances, toys played by an inscrutable fate, and as far as the gods were concerned, they had not yet taken pity on explaining the background – or even the rules of the game – to mortals.

  Inocoyotl had no reason to doubt Sawada’s account and felt his mistrust of the official interpretation of what had happened confirmed. That didn’t make things easier, of course. If the newcomers were normal people, only blessed with exceptional knowledge and sophisticated weapons, it was dangerous, because they did not follow divine advice but made their own plans. Inocoyotl was old and smart enough to know what that was going to mean. Sawada was very careful about the intentions and plans of the messengers of the gods and repeatedly referred to their leader, the man named Inugami.

  For some reason, Inocoyotl worried even more.

  Then he entered the inside of the vehicle and found it to be tight and oppressive. The strange smell was irritating, and although Sawada explained many things to him, the meaning of it all eluded him. He admitted that he was happy to be back outside after a short stay. To actually accomplish a long journey in such a thing, he imagined as laborious and dangerous.

  When they had brought their conversation to an end, the envoy was at least able to state that Master Sawada was a sensible and intelligent man who himself had no ambition to unsettle the world and to question the order that had been established for centuries.

  Even if their meeting inside the boat would had not reached a natural end, they could not have continued, because the column moving toward the central square was now clearly recognizable as the King’s retinue, and from a distance Inocoyotl could make out his precious feather headdress. He looked sideways in surprise when Sawada suddenly held a black thing in his hand and handed it to him. It had two holes for the man to look through, and it took a short briefing before the envoy was intrigued to realize that he was holding something that brought distant things close to his eye. He quickly learned to fix the sight so that it became clear, and suddenly King Chitam’s face jumped at him, and its details were clearly visible.

  Inocoyotl involuntarily flinched. It was unexpected and the most magical thing he had met here.

  Truly they were not holy messengers, but the things they had were strange qualities.

  Inocoyotl was eager not to detach himself from the object, and when he finally lowered it, he felt loss and disappointment. His desire to have something like that was piqued.

  But then he remembered the expression he had seen on the young king’s face, and all other thoughts and desires were gone.

  What he saw there was disturbing. There was a storm of emotion in the man that could break out at any time, and it was not clear who would be the victim of this eruption.

  He was certain that the coming days would bring a lot of variety. And this change might prove dangerous, at least very tiring.

  Inocoyotl decided to stay as far in the background as possible. If he had learned one from his own king, it was wise reluctance to encounter royal mood swings.

  Because these could be quite fatal to the environment.

  12

  K’uk’ Bahlam, King of B’aakal, was known as a patient man, almost kind, although this impression could not deceive any of his enemies. He was ready for any cruelty necessary to secure his city and his rule, but that was the important limitation: the necessity had to be quite evident. If it failed that test, he would not shed blood and was ready to be generous and kind. He had known the old Agun for a long time, because it was well known that he spied for Mutal, and K’uk’ Bahlam occasionally fed the man with information that he knew would end up on his rival’s lap. That Agun, on the other hand, encouraged by some precious gifts and a friendly invitation to the palace, was quite willing to trace the events of his occasional trips to Mutal – quite in detail and literally, which led to Bahlam having possession of a very decent city map – helped to continue the tolerant attitude toward the spy. Agun’s death would have been of no use to anyone and cause a lot of damage, so K’uk’ Bahlam had only been pleased when the old man came to him and asked for an audience.

  His joy turned into a mixture of amazement, horror, and perplexity when Agun showed up with someone else and after he found out who it was.

  Following the minute-long description of the spy, supplemented by occasional statements by a very respectful old warrior who had put his gnarled hands on the shoulders of the taller of the two girls, the King of B’aakal was silent at first, because he had to digest what the gods had presented him with unexpectedly. The old warrior was respectful, but his demeanor showed that he was ready at any time to stand between any danger and the two girls – Mutalese princesses, by the gods! Bahlam did not want to test his heroism. Such an attack belonged into the “not necessary” category, and so he tended to be generous.

  “Bring benches. Bring food and drink. Prepares fresh clothes. Prepare a bath.”

  The orders came suddenly and quickly, and their tone left no room for hesitation. Servants hurried away to do their master’s bidding as fast as possible. While the bath and clothing were being prepared in the neighboring rooms, benches and small tables were set up in th
e presence of the king, and as soon as possible they were filled with food, straight from the royal pantry and thus nothing that Bahlam – abundantly – didn’t himself ingest. It was only fair for princesses, and both looked hungry.

  Bahlam didn’t think it was a good idea to be hungry. It made aggressive and led to hasty action. He did everything he could to avoid this emotional embarrassment and took the opportunity to have a second breakfast.

  He nodded to the visitors. Of course, Agun felt included in the invitation and served himself vigorously, even though he had only just had breakfast himself. Bahlam tolerated it with a smile. Agun had just proven useful and someone who was able to make the right decision. He wanted to reward him with a full belly.

  Bahlam watched the visitors eat, hesitantly at first, then encouraged by his approving nod, and wherever a plate emptied, it was refilled by servants, and where cups were running low, someone was ready, calabash in hand. Bahlam showed no sign of impatience, closed his eyes, took a little something himself, all to convey the message that there was no need for haste and that he had something very important to contemplate anyway. This was quite true, because the question of what it meant for him and his allies to have two Mutalese princesses in custody was of considerable importance and needed careful consideration.

  Bahlam came up with the best ideas when he chewed.

  “Ixchel is your name,” he said to the older of the two girls. She might still be young, but whether it was the signs of stress of her escape or of an emerging toughness of a future ruler, she did not make the impression that she wanted to have her toys back. Bahlam did notice that she carried an atlatl, and the way it was held indicated that she could handle it. He hadn’t humiliated his visitors by taking everything from them, and the room was filled with his warriors, who kept a close eye on everything. Ixchel looked determined.

  Only determined to do what?

  “I am Ixchel, daughter of Tzutz and Chitam, the royal couple of Mutal,” she said firmly, but not without respect. It was not surprising that she named her mother first. Her violent death still had to be very fresh in the daughter’s memory.

  “I want to tell you that your mother’s death makes me very sad,” Bahlam said now. “She was known as a wise woman, and everyone expected her to be an excellent advisor to her husband. Her demise is a loss for Mutal, a loss for all of us. Even as my enemy, I would have paid her that respect at any time.”

  Ixchel bowed her head. Her little sister, reminded of the mother by these words, hid her face in the robe of the old warrior, who put a protective hand on her head.

  “Thank you, noble Bahlam. I know that Mutal and B’aakal have not always agreed on everything in the past. In fact, my grandfather said that war between our cities was inevitable. Nevertheless, I am here as a supplicant and beg you to listen to me.”

  That was well said, as the king thought, and he noticed the pride in the eyes of the old warrior, who ate but did not lose his watchfulness for a second.

  “You don’t have to plead, Princess,” Bahlam said, raising a hand. He almost felt a fatherly affection for the brave girl. He was the father of seven children, not all of them well-behaved, but none of his daughters showed such self-confidence, which had less to do with rank and position but more with real conviction and determination, which he still wasn’t able to classify properly. “Speak to me, what is your request!”

  “A stay and safety for me and mine.”

  Bahlam nodded. “It’s risky. Mutal could assume that my hand had been visible in these events.”

  Ixchel seemed to have expected this answer, for she accepted it with a slight bow that was not lacking in grace. Then she turned to her only servant. “Aktul!”

  The old warrior stepped forward. In his hands he carried an elongated object wrapped in large sheets. Bahlam had thought it was an atlatl, along with a few shells, worthy of a powerful fighter. But when the old man unrolled the leaves, a strange something appeared beneath it, made of a dark fabric, with wood at one end and the appearance of a threat.

  Bahlam looked at it closely, and the looks of others in his court also focused on the thing that the old man now put at the king’s feet. Then he remembered the reports from Mutal, the descriptions of his spies, the findings of his investigation, and the reason why Teotihuacán’s envoy had gone there.

  He pressed his lips on each other, mulling, before he spoke. “This is a weapon of the messengers. You brought it with you from Mutal?”

  If Ixchel was astonished because the king knew what her souvenir was, she did not show it.

  “Never would one of the messengers have left this to me. You know what happened in Mutal?”

  Bahlam made a vague gesture. “One hears things.”

  “I’m sure you know more than just rumors.”

  “I heard about this weapon. It is said to be very lethal, more lethal than anything we have. Am I wrong?”

  “You are not mistaken.”

  “Where does it come from?”

  “Aktul stole it from one of the attackers who killed my mother.”

  There followed a period of silence in the audience room. Bahlam tried to understand the implications, but in that short time he only came to the conclusion that all of their difficulties had apparently only begun. Difficulties, however, that brought opportunities. He licked his lips. This was actually promising.

  “The messengers are interested in your mother’s death? Did she insult them, attack them, or only criticized them?”

  “Nothing of the sort!” The daughter’s answer sounded a little desperate as she didn’t understand why the mother had to die and also showed a bit of betrayed affection, as if the messengers at first left a different impression on her and had afterwards misused her naive trust. Bahlam understood that. First they saved the city, then they killed the queen of that same city. Where was the logic in this? But looking at this from a ruler’s perspective and not that of a god, this suddenly made sense. However, he still lacked some important information.

  What he knew, however, was enough to see that Mutal really became a problem and that the alliance he had established was forced to act, the sooner the better.

  He nodded to Ixchel. “I grant you shelter, you, your sister, and your warrior. I promise you protection and safety, and if I march against Mutal, you should find out why your mother died and who is responsible.”

  Ixchel smiled slightly, and it was not an expression of gratitude but again one of determination that radiated from her. “I do not want to claim too much of your grace than necessary, dear lord of B’aakal, but allow me to ask that you extend the favor by an important point.”

  Bahlam nodded. He was curious. “Speak, Princess Ixchel.”

  “If you march toward Mutal, I will march with you. I throw the atlatl like the best of your warriors. And once we have reached my home, I judge and condemn, not you.”

  Her voice had been sharp like carefully cut obsidian, and Bahlam was surprised to find that a cold shiver ran down his spine as her words reached his ears. It was more than determination, it was the strong, indelible desire for vengeance, bloody vengeance, and preferably from her own hand.

  Bahlam had to be careful.

  This girl was never to be allowed to take the throne of Mutal. She would probably be even more dangerous than these strange messengers of the gods.

  But he wanted to fulfill her that one wish beforehand. Because he liked it that way.

  He raised both hands.

  “So be it, Ixchel from Mutal,” he said. “You should march with us.”

  And it was as if the whole court had held their breath until that moment. The murmur and the meaningful looks that were suddenly noticeable spoke for it. Bahlam smiled. All of this would develop to its benefit.

  All that remained was to hope that Inocoyotl survived his mission. Whoever killed a queen would not shy away from an envo
y from Teotihuacán, the king was certain of that.

  13

  The march to Tayasal became a march of triumph. For Inugami, halfway through the well-developed connecting road between the two cities, it was clear that there would be no battle. The next messengers from Tayasal had met them the day after the death of the first, a group of frightened men who threw themselves on the ground in front of the vanguard of the warrior slaves and were immediately taken to the general and master of the holy messengers. They had brought a second letter from the new king of Tayasal, in which he promised to the Lord of Mutal unwavering loyalty and eternal tribute if he would only spare his family and refrain from attack. The subtle difference to the first message: He spoke of loyalty and submission, not just of tribute, which showed that the lord of that city had understood where the new wind was blowing from and what reaction could possibly save his neck. Inugami had done nothing to keep the events in Saclemacal secret. He hadn’t stopped anyone who was planning to leave the city after the battle. Many hurried messengers should have carried the news of the city’s fate to Tayasal and hopefully to Yaxchilan.

  The news of the death of Lady Tzutz had now officially spread among the army of Mutal. He himself had helped in that, careful to ensure that his interpretation of the events was immediately conveyed. It was Yaxchilan’s fault. At least among Mutal’s warriors, hatred of the enemy had grown immeasurably. The doggedness with which these men followed him on this campaign was evident. Inugami was very happy with himself.

  And now the second letter from Tayasal.

  It was a good start. Inugami did not reply. His inclination to respond to the new king’s requests was great, at least as far as sparing lives was concerned. There was no point wasting one’s own strength, and when the city was opened to him, everyone should be disciplined enough. Only one would have to vacate his place: the king himself, as Inugami knew no tolerance. He did not have to die – if he surrendered immediately, Inugami wanted to keep him in exile in Mutal, where he could continue to live –, but his throne belonged to an appointed governor who was no longer a divine king but simply an administrator.