by A. T. Grant
Orders were barked. The army assembled into ranks and clans and began to move forward. Mulac could feel himself being carried along, as though on a raft in a stream. Warriors constantly drew close and reached up to touch him, convinced of his magical powers. As they swept through the gates of the city, women and children hung from the battlements, cheering and throwing flowers.
Why couldn’t the fools hear him? He was shouting at the top of his voice, but nobody reacted in the camp below. Most were still sitting around fires, cooking breakfast, or lazing in one of the waggons. Guards leaned upon their weapons, or sat on rocks, smoking. Within ten minutes the Mayans would be upon them. Jeronimo was about to call again when his captain drew his sword. Wiping it once upon his britches, he held it high to catch the sun. Almost immediately the reflection brought a guard to his feet. He wheeled around as soon as he saw the runners and alerted the rest of the camp. As Jeronimo burst upon them, men were already throwing saddles upon horses or priming their guns.
The ground was not ideal. The camp clustered within a scattering of small trees and could easily be outflanked along the ridge they had just descended. Jeronimo knew, however, that there was no time to regroup. “Cavalry mount,” he screamed. Only two or three were ready to ride. There was a clatter of breast plates, helmets and swords. Horses began to panic, bucking and kicking and refusing the saddle. He flung himself upon the bridle of the nearest horse, whilst his captain struggled with the straps. “You go,” he commanded. “As soon as you have ten men, I want you to charge. You must meet their warriors as far from our camp as possible. Hold them for as long as you can, then retreat if you have to. Hopefully, our horses will be enough to make them panic.”
The captain swung up onto his mount and saluted. Then he tugged heavily at the reins and turned his attention to the others.
Jeronimo wanted all four carts in a line to make a defensive wall, but it was too late to bring the heavy horses to the shafts. They would have to move the waggons by hand, but where were his native troops? A cluster of nearly fifty men stood some distance to the rear, most of them traditional enemies of the Maya, from northern border tribes. They clutched nervously at bows and knives, but looked more likely to run than to come to his assistance. Jeronimo sensed his own panic was as nothing compared to that of those who were seeing their new gods in disarray. Where was his interpreter? Jeronimo leapt upon the nearest cart and turned towards the crowd. This has to be good, he thought.
“For God, gold and glory,” he thundered, well aware that none bar his companions had a clue what he was saying, but he gained everyone’s attention. I’ll show them something they’ll understand, he thought, remembering tales of gruesome ritual. He held both his sword and his other arm aloft then slowly, deliberately, drew the blade across the white of his skin. Blood spilled profusely down into his armpit. He felt faint, but knew he must stay erect. He grabbed a helmet and began to collect the stream, at the same time barking to the sick, still lying in the waggons, to prepare to defend themselves.
The interpreter appeared from the midst of his fellows. As he strode forward, other natives followed. Jeronimo drew fingers dipped in blood across his own cheeks then passed his interpreter the blood-spattered vessel. The interpreter copied him faithfully then others too, the helmet snatched by one conscript after the other. Quickly Jeronimo outlined his plan: waggons in a line, archers behind, muskets and sling-shots inside, along with the wounded; everyone else to the fore, with the remaining cavalry. Suddenly the field was a sea of purposeful activity. Jeronimo stooped briefly to bind his wound. The sick conquistador beside him offered up a soldier’s prayer. Jeronimo made the sign of the cross. As his equerry tugged at the reins, he leapt for the saddle of his horse. It broke free and swung in a tight circle, Jeronimo struggling upright, aware that blood had started to flow again. Without spurs, he had to dig deep into the horse’s flanks to gain control. Next moment he was flying forward across the uneven ground, towards his foe.
Mulac turned painfully. Behind him several other nobles were being borne on litters, each carrying a totem to lead the war cries. The party swung to the left, still tight to the city walls and increasingly channelled towards a wooden bridge traversing a marshy stream. Shoulder to shoulder and looking vaguely ridiculous, the warriors shuffled over the span, which creaked alarmingly at the sudden excess weight. Mulac reflected that if any enemy were to attack them here, there would be little they could do to defend themselves. Fortunately, the ground beyond the bridge was open grazing land. The troops spread out across it as family units, each determined to out-do the others in showmanship and bravado. Now they had the opposite problem: there was too much space between each group. This time it was serious, as thundering hounds of hell had rounded the distant ridge and were sweeping across the plain. Everybody stopped. There was nervous shuffling at the front, in a half-hearted attempt to close each breach. Nobles screamed contradictory instructions. Warriors looked from the attackers to their masters, then to Mulac, and back again. Using every ounce of the strength he could muster, Mulac forced himself to stand and bellow, “Charge.”
Sufficient troops heard the call for momentum to be regained. The bravest sprinted ahead, spears and slings trailing behind ready to be unleashed, but it was still clear many would be trampled in the stampede. The speed of the animals descending upon them was like nothing Mulac had witnessed before; their legs barely troubled the earth. The lead rider drew his silver blade and prepared to strike, but next moment he was grasping wildly at the neck of his beast as his seat slipped from under him. With a clatter of metal on stone he was gone, spinning wildly across the ground, teeth and armour scattering in all directions. His horse veered away from the line of warriors, reared upon its hind legs and bolted. It was scared. The shock of it went through the crowd at the same moment as the shock of the other animals smashing through the front line. Almost without resistance, the creatures dove into the heart of the army. Warriors were mown down, others cleaved by devilish blades, but their spell had already been broken. As soon as momentum was lost, the crowd surged around, stabbing and clubbing and unleashing spears and arrows at close quarters. Back legs buckled, arteries burst and the screams of the animals only added to the crowding frenzy. One soldier was pulled down by a leg and clubbed until his brains oozed from his helmet. Another took a spear point to the groin and screamed a cold scream, louder even than that of his steed. Only two were able to extract themselves from the melee, one speeding away, the other endeavouring to follow, though his horse was fatally wounded. It slowed, teetered then fell heavily to one side, trapping its rider. Warriors were instantly upon them both, but these were now trophies, so the victors raised their weapons only to celebrate.
A gruff and stocky noble descended from his litter, swapping his totem for a heavy, embossed, wooden club. Slowly he walked around the head of the beast, crouching to feel the distended veins in its neck and the hot, panicked breathing from its snout. He stood again and placed a foot on the horse’s head. Carefully he took aim. His club swung high then smashed down between an ear and the white of its eye. The carcass began to twitch, but lay still once the club was swung again.
The horseman looked on in terror and tried to extract his legs, but froze as the bloodied club was rested upon his metallic chest. Two warriors pulled him out; forcing him upright, even though he was too broken to stand. Mulac had drawn alongside and was presented with the Conquistador’s helmet. He removed his plumes and forced it down. The alien sensation of cold steel mixed with the pounding of his wound, but he smiled as the throng chanted his name again. The man was stripped of breast-plate, tunic, vest and breaches. The unnatural whiteness of his skin conveyed only weakness, and the scars past conflict and disease. Warriors took it in turns to poke at his flesh, at first timidly, but then with increasing violence. The rotund noble held up his hand. This curiosity of war would be paraded through the streets and only the priests could determine his ultimate fa
te.
Should they pursue their foe? An argument exploded from litter to litter over the heads of the army. The young and the brave edged forward, as those who thought the city safe turned their attention to the dead and the wounded. After one last, loud appeal faces instinctively returned to Mulac. Silently he removed the head piece of his enemy, and placed it upon his lap. The decision was made.
White froth dripped from the mouth and the sides of the captain’s exhausted mount. Jeronimo scanned the low skyline beyond him, but nothing else moved. Nothing also needed to be said, though his second-in-command struggled through exhaustion to speak. Jeronimo raised his hand and turned his own horse back towards camp. There would be no more fighting this day. They would pack and return to the north, taking with them the news that the peoples of this new world were no longer afraid. One day, he knew, they would be driven to return by the same thirst for power that had already carried them across an ocean. Then it would be at the head of a mighty army but, for now, the Maya could have their petty victory.
A low murmur had spread through the camp as the two Spanish riders trotted into view. Native troops began to slip away into the undergrowth. Within a day the remaining conquistadors would be alone. Within two, they would be dead.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Lake
“Careful, children!” Laura baulked at her own teacherly tone. Then she looked in frustration at Marcus, who seemed blithely unaware of the dangers posed by the rickety old watch-tower before them.
The boardwalk had proved less of a relaxing meander than anticipated, with both Ethan and Jackie breaking suddenly through the rotten slats. Jackie had a nasty gash beneath the thick bandage on her left leg and, possibly, a few remaining splinters. She was walking with a heavy limp and Darryl’s assistance, but was cheerfully determined to continue. Ethan, fortunately, had nothing worse than a wet boot. Only Marcus had really been affected. Once again, things had gone wrong early. Once again, people would be wondering why he hadn’t anticipated the problem. He in turn was worrying why Steven, usually so punctilious over safety, seemed not to have recced this route. Both of these concerns merged into an increasing sense of trepidation. That was why the children were halfway up the tower before he noticed.
Hannah peered over the stair rail, spat lustily then disappeared with an evil grin. John Tanner poked dubiously at the bottom step with a walking stick.
“I think we should limit the tower to four people at a time.” Marcus belatedly attempted to regain control and started to bound skywards. “Cesar, perhaps you should follow?”
The two reached the platform only seconds after the children. All seemed in order: the steps, floors and barriers were strong. “I can see the sea, I can see the sea,” Lloyd chanted, with childish glee. Whilst Marcus waved the others up, Cesar gently corrected Lloyd.
“It’s not the sea, just a very large lake. Tomorrow we will be crossing it in our canoes. Beyond it there is a swamp, then a lagoon and then the sea. You will experience all these places on our journey.”
Hannah had spotted movement in the trees. She was pointing vigorously and appealing for attention.
“Spider monkeys,” informed Cesar, with an air of surprise. “You are lucky to see them. Look, there, can you see the mother with the baby on its belly?”
The troop leapt in and out of cover as it traversed the canopy and headed deeper into the rainforest. A juvenile male, the last to pass by, stopped briefly on a branch, scratching its stomach. Felicity flapped around the tower with her rucksack in hand, searching for Ethan’s camera. Laura was last to ascend and glad to see at least one animal. It was looking back down into the forest. Laura followed its gaze and was sure she glimpsed something tall and very possibly human, heading away from them. She shook her head in self-disgust: the jungle was making her paranoid.
Cesar was warming to the role of dutiful guide. “The lake you can see is fed by underground streams. The water is clear and the lake deep, so it looks dark blue. It hasn’t changed since Mayan times, when it was the port for the Kingdom of Coba, but the jungle is different. It only grows here now as this land is protected. In the past it was farmland. You can still see the field boundaries and walls beneath the trees. Our path follows the old harbour road from the city.”
Once again, David was fascinated by the butterflies, here a profusion of colours and iridescence, spread, like confetti in the breeze, across a green wall of leaves. “Why so many, do you think?” he asked Cesar.
“The trees are happy: butterflies are a gift from the forest. If the weather is bad then the colour disappears. You tourists are like the butterflies. Each year you come, always colourful, always different, but sometimes many and sometimes only few.”
David indicated an insect with striking parallel bands of colour. “If I was a butterfly, I’d be that one.”
“Good choice, that’s a Bluewing. The orange one is a Silverspot.”
“And this is a Hotshot.” Hannah cast a handful of peanuts into the canopy, spattering the leaves and sending butterflies into a multi-coloured confusion of wings. “Wow!” She delved deeper into her packet to ensure a larger handful for her next salvo.
“Oi!” It was Jackie, sitting nursing her leg below, who had just been bombed. “I thought those cheeky monkeys had moved on?”
“No, still here.” Hannah grinned broadly from the platform, but decided against another launch. Surreptitiously, she emptied her handful into David’s open bag.
“Come on, this jungle’s cool. Let’s see what else there is.” Lloyd was already bounding down the steps.
Marcus caught Laura’s eye, grinned sheepishly then shrugged for no discernible reason. The party began to drift back to earth. Sharon Tanner and David remained behind, attempting to get close-up shots as the insects resettled. Laura waited patiently.
“Do you mind?” David held out his camera then posed self-consciously, peering towards the horizon, hands-on-hips. The image was so funny Laura had to fight her giggles to hold the lens steady. Like a great white hunter with one foot on a lion, she wanted to say, but didn’t. After a couple of snaps, she handed back the camera.
“Now, may I take one of you?” David looked suddenly serious and it was Laura’s turn to feel self-conscious. She flicked at her hair then stood straight, smoothing the sides of her jungle pants. David grinned broadly and Laura reciprocated. He was so pleased with the resulting image that he showed it to her on the screen. She was not disappointed. It was an image she had seen often, but only in dreams. Why had she doubted herself? She felt so happy she could have hugged David. Instead, she turned coquettishly and skipped back down the steps.
The track was now a narrow, semi-overgrown strip of mud and moss that could have been an animal trail. Few from the trickle of tourists who made it to the tower went any further. Damp, clinging vegetation mixed with the sweat of high humidity, and forced the group into single file. Bird and animal calls grew, and casual conversation lapsed. The world slipped towards darkness and people became aware of movement in the branches above. Bugs hovered close to exposed skin and shadows lingered over the undergrowth. Felicity screamed.
“Get it off me, get it off me!” She was holding out an arm, as though trying to pull it from her body.
Cesar drew a long knife from its sheath. Marcus started visibly. “Please do not move.” Cesar took a firm grip of Felicity’s wrist and gently brushed the blade across her skin. A thin line of blood descended from a puncture wound. Cesar proudly held up his machete to display the distended body of a leach. “Please don’t be alarmed. They are completely harmless. The recent rains have brought them out.”
Hannah and Lloyd crowded around and squealed in delight. Several others shuddered at the prospect of being bitten and peered suspiciously at the nearest greenery.
“There’s one on your boot.” Darryl began poking Jackie’s heel with a stick
. “Persistent little buggers, aren’t they?” he declared, lifting the stick to reveal the creature now looping steadily towards his hand.
The line began to move again, somewhat faster than before. The path made a gentle descent over round and slippery rocks to a tea-stained stream weaving in and out of dappled shade. Jackie sat on a boulder to adjust her boot and bandage. Most others followed suit, checking for leaches. David rambled aimlessly upwards, following the waters as they leapt towards him from pool to pool. The way quickly became indistinct. He looked up to assess the prospect for further progress and caught site of two dark figures crossing further upstream. He thought about calling, but was unsure of his footing. As he glanced down to regain his balance then up again, he realised they were gone. Turning to descend, he found Laura close behind him. “Did you see them?”
“See what?” Laura looked around her, quizzically.
“Two people crossing the stream.” David pointed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I think so. Why?”
“Because I’ve seen them too. I wonder if a couple of guides or porters are shadowing us to ensure we’re O.K?”
“Probably, but they didn’t look that much like guides, mused David.”
“I’ll tell Cesar and Marcus.”
“Do you remember the red car - I wonder if they’re anything to do with that? Maybe some other tourists don’t know the way to the lake, so they’re following us.”
Laura didn’t respond, but what David said made sense, and it was a comforting supposition. She began to rehearse what she would say to the others. She didn’t want to appear neurotic, or spooked by the jungle.
Cesar was relaying that it was only twenty minutes to the lakeshore. All seemed keen to press on, so Laura decided to await her moment. Despite herself, she couldn’t help peer suspiciously into the undergrowth, although the rhythm of the walk soon soothed her concerns. The land grew flatter, the trees more broadly spaced and the pathway progressively wider. The world became a drier, brighter, hotter place again, grasshoppers springing from the trail into the grassy undergrowth. The trees parted, revealing still waters beyond. The children began to run. Others lengthened their stride, keen to escape the furnace-like intensity of early afternoon. A small group held back to chaperone Jackie, who was still limping badly. An open, sandy foreshore was spattered with boats, tents and the charcoaled remains of old bonfires. A ramshackle wooden hut looked as though it might collapse under the weight of its thick grass roof. A flag flew from a leaning pole, stripped of colour by long exposure to the elements.