Getting her right hand up to grip the strut made it hurt even worse.
Still, she did it.
“Coop, look up!” Jamesy was shouting, his voice dim, tinny, and distant in her ears.
She looked up, and he was dangling precariously, straddling the strut, one hand trying to anchor his body on a strut support, the other trying to take her hand.
Her shoulder felt dislocated, and she was blinded by pain.
Furthermore, the chopper was descending like a dropped rock, the rotor smoking like a volcano in hell. She saw no point in torturing her shoulder further if the chopper was about to crash.
Still, she couldn’t disappoint her friend.
Clinging to the strut with her pain-racked elbow, she raised her right hand.
Jamesy had just grabbed the hand’s lower half, when the elbow gave way.
She was dangling from one-half of a hand, the white-water rapids almost two hundred feet below her.
Then she felt the glove slip.
An quarter inch at a time.
Then there were no inches left.
She was falling, falling, falling—strangely peaceful, at one with her flight through the ether and the astral, through time and space.
Time enough to—
The codex! she realized with sickening dread. The crash will destroy it.
At the very last second, she remembered to pull up her legs and grip them under the knees with both hands.
She hit the rapids on her butt like an asteroid from outer space.
PART VII
35
War was on the tongue and minds of Lord Janaab’s servants and workers during breakfast, and the talk followed me as I left for my duties along with others whose tasks took them outside the palace complex.
One thing had not changed from my days as a stoneworker—the workday still began when the Sun God left his cave on the other side of the eastern waters and started his journey across the sky to enter the cave from the western side.
All the lords and merchants had to send warriors to participate in the war, and Lord Janaab had sent half his household guard. Six Sky was angry that he had not been sent to command the great lord’s contingent.
“It’s a Flower War with Cobá,” Six Sky confirmed the night before after the king’s army had left the city under the command of the War Lord. “Great honor is bestowed upon warriors who take captives and bring them back for sacrifice.”
Six Sky had captured an enemy warrior three years earlier. He pounded his chest with pride. “I was given his heart to eat after his blood was dedicated to the gods.”
Being young and strong, ordinarily I would have been sent as part of the lord’s contingent, but he held me back, telling me that my work was more important. And I knew why Six Sky had not been sent to join the army the War Lord marched out of the city with great pomp: Lord Janaab wanted him to stay and spy on me.
Almost a year ago, I had begun my task of walking the streets of the city and surveying the written tributes to the gods on the walls and monuments. The rule I had discovered in the beginning remained true—none of the inscriptions that dated back to the time of Jeweled Skull or beyond was inaccurate. All the mistakes were made when the great storyteller left to hide in a small village of stoneworkers.
Of my mentor, whom I still thought of as Ajul, I had heard no further word about and nothing in the inscriptions that illuminated the mystery of the Dark Rift, to which Lord Janaab had alluded.
Nor had anyone invited me again to partake in the pleasures of the Temple of Love. Eyo! I lusted for another time with Sparrow and the other nymphs.
When the High Priestess treated me like a noble, she spoiled me for life, I now feared.
No, I was not just jaded and pampered, but I had suffered a rude awakening as well. Having won Lord Janaab’s confidence by killing a jaguar that would have eaten him, withstanding his torture and having suffered in silence Flint Shield’s humiliation—when I felt I could have bested him man to man—nobility had lost its awe for me.
I no longer saw nobles as either invincible or all-knowing. Even the king had made a mistake, because I have no doubt that Ajul was right—the will of the gods cannot be broken by destroying a book.
The turn my mental attitude had taken over the months left me contemptuous of those better than me . . . and hungry for a woman who could offer her body only to those above me.
There was no solution to my predicament. In the One-World, there were nobles and commoners. If I gave the slightest hint to Lord Janaab that—like starving peasants, who storm the palaces of their fat masters for food to feed their children—I had fallen from grace with my lowly status in life, he would paint me red without question.
36
I left the palace before first light, because I wanted to cross the city and check inscriptions before the Sun God brought forth the heat of day.
My task took me farther away from the ceremonial center each day, despite the fact that I had not checked all the inscriptions in the ceremonial center. I enjoyed venturing beyond the walls of the most privileged and out onto the streets, to the squares and marketplaces where people of all walks of life congregated.
I especially sought out travelers from beyond the domains of Mayapán. Merchants and vagabond storytellers from the distant cities of my people, chopped out of the jungles far to the south and those from the north—Aztecs, Mixtec, and other nations—congregated there.
The language of the Aztecs was Nahuatl. Ajul had taught me the tongue, so I could learn the tales of heroes and gods from the north. So many of them had a relationship to our own stories.
Mingling with the Aztecs in the marketplace, I sharpened my language skills. More than their language, however, I enjoyed hearing about their land. The Aztecs had a pride and arrogance that I had not seen from my own people.
From conversations I’d overheard between Lord Janaab and other Mayapán lords, I knew that the Aztecs were both admired and feared, even though our nobles also viewed them contemptuously. They considered their culture inferior to ours.
Inferior to ours? That was true, if the lords were considering the accomplishments of our ancestors, who built magnificent cities like Uxmal and Palenque. But those great cities were past their prime, having been ruled for hundreds of years not by builder-kings who expanded their territories by conquest and brought home the treasures to increase their cities’ magnificence.
Instead of constructing bigger and grander temples and palaces, the kings in the Land of the Maya restricted themselves today with the twenty-year katun renewal projects: putting a shine on the greatness of the past rather than outdoing what our ancestors had done.
Our civilizational decay was evident in the legends of our peoples. The tales of mighty kings ended several hundred years ago after the god-king Quetzalcoatl came from Tula and rebuilt Chichén Itzá into the finest city in the region. After the time of the Feathered Serpent, a powerful king united Mayapán, Uxmal, and Chichén Itzá into a league.
From that time until today, few tales of heroes and kings worthy of being were placed on public display. The Aztecs followed a similar pattern—except they had not been a great and powerful nation for more than one or two hundred years.
That our warriors and leaders no longer inspired great tales of valor explained in part why the gods didn’t favor us with the rain that we needed to grow our crops.
Because of the attention, which the talon strung around my neck and my scarred face drew, I had begun hiding the claw necklace under my clothes and covering the marks with paint. That way I could do my work without constantly getting curious glances, and I could talk to people in the marketplace and streets without the same reaction.
Several times I had stood anonymously in a crowd and heard storytellers relating tales of my fight with the white jaguar, my magical powers growing with each telling.
Yesterday I had been stunned to find the story painted upon the wall of a small temple outside the ceremonial cen
ter. I didn’t bother marking the inscription as inaccurate, even though it related that I had leaped onto the jaguar’s back from the wings of an eagle.
Who was I to doubt my greatness? Eyo! How many heroic acts of lore grew with the telling?
Besides feeding my ego, mythologizing my deed served another purpose: Nobles jealous of the public recognition I received might hesitate to harm me because the people would be angered.
Eyo! That train of thought was wrong. The greater my legend grew, rather than just earning awe and respect, that legend would make me a target for nobles like Flint Shield. He could well enhance his own reputation by cutting off my head and hanging it on a city gate.
The High Priestess said Flint Shield wanted to be War Lord when his father was too old to command the army. Reason enough to kill a simple young stoneworker who lacked rank or privilege.
What did Flint Shield say about kicking me to death? He would do it . . . because he could?
37
It wasn’t full sunrise, and the large gate leading out of the ceremonial center would remain closed until dawn. Still, I could get the guards to let me pass through a half door, which was barely large enough for an individual to enter and exit but too small for armies to utilize en masse.
Deep in thought, I had almost reached the entrance when it hit me—the gate was open. Nor were any guards present on the walkway above.
Normally guards were on that walk, spaced easily within shouting distance, day and night.
A guard was lying on the ground near the gate, his spear beside him, an arrow in his chest. And another one had fallen not far away. I couldn’t see the arrow, but it was obvious that he would have one, too.
And then I saw them coming—a host of warriors coming up the street, running straight for the open gate.
The ceremonial center was under surprise attack.
“Invaders, invaders, the gate is open!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.
A large upright drum, which stood near the gate, was used to welcome ambassadors and other dignitaries from other kingdoms. I ran for it and grabbed a wooden club. Hammering it several times, I repeated my yell.
I saw ceremonial center guards coming from both directions on the wall and more running from nearby barracks, but none would get to the gate in time to close it before the invaders reached it.
The city drums briefly boomed three times a day, signaling the beginning of work, lunch break, and the end of the workday, but when the beat was steady and protracted, it indicated an invasion alarm.
The drums would then bring all the king’s soldiers out of their barracks, but if the enemy’s plan was to take the ceremonial center—without securing the city—they had only one purpose in mind: to kill the king.
As soon as the drums started, war cries—designed to terrify us—exploded.
Eyo! Why were we being invaded? The war was with Cobá, and it was a Flower War, the clash of two armies on a battlefield that would last only hours and the “victor” was simply the one that took the most prisoners. Slaying enemy soldiers wasn’t the purpose—the staged war was fought solely to get prisoners for sacrifice. No cities were invaded; it was done at a rural location agreed upon beforehand.
I got to the gate and began to close it. It was meant to be moved shut by three men, but I was able to start it closing. I pushed it not just with the strength I had developed pushing great blocks of stone, but also with power ignited by panic, the same source of strength that allowed me to break the neck of a great jungle beast.
City guards came off the wall and down the steps as I pushed, but it was too late to keep out the invaders who were closest to the gate. Three of them came through at a run. I crouched down next to the door as the warriors engaged guards in combat. The bulk of the invading horde was still running for the gates.
A city guard with a spear attacked an enemy warrior who was finishing off another guard that was on the ground. The enemy warrior, who wore the quetzal feathers of a nobleman, turned and lashed out with his obsidian sword, catching the man charging with a club across the chest.
The Mayapán guard staggered back, dropping the spear as he fell.
I launched myself at the nobleman, sending the club flying at him as I did.
He raised his shield, blocking the club, but I’d thrown him off balance.
Without breaking my stride, I grabbed the spear from the fallen guard off the ground. As the enemy warrior raised his sword to lash out at me, I swung the spear at him like a club, hitting his sword, blocking him from swinging it at me. Stepping in with the spear in my two hands spaced apart, I bashed the warrior with one end of it, again using the spear as a club.
The blow caught the man on the forehead and sent him reeling.
Before he could recover, I kicked his knee, and he went down. Grabbing his sword arm by the wrist, I twisted the blade from his grip.
He snarled up at me, blood running down his forehead and over his eyes.
I kneed him in the face and heard his nose cartilage pop.
One of the invaders inside was pulling the brace back, and the horde was about to breach the gate.
I raced for the gate.
For a blurry moment I saw nothing but the blood I drew with the nobleman’s fine sword, as we drove back the invaders, falling backwards on each other as the jaguar-killer in me swung the obsidian-bladed weapon with frenzied bloodlust, angry and panicking.
Six Sky was suddenly beside me.
“The gate,” I said.
Now more of our own guards from the palaces in the ceremonial center joined us, driving the attacking warriors back until the gate could be closed.
“They’re finished,” Six Sky told me, both of us breathless.
“For how long?” I gasped. “They’ve breached the city walls.”
“No, it was a sneak attack. I saw them from the walls, not an army, perhaps no more than a couple hundred warriors. Guards from throughout the city will fall upon them as they try to get out.”
After the gate was closed, a group of twenty warriors wearing the uniforms of the royal guard joined those of us at the gate. A muscular man about my own age—who strutted up wearing the quetzal feathers of a nobleman as if he had just saved the king and city, and was about to be named War Lord—led them.
I had an impulse to ask Flint Shield why he hadn’t “strutted” up to us moments earlier when there was fighting to be done.
I heard movement behind me and turned as the warrior whose nose I had broken was rising with a dagger in hand.
Still filled with the excitement of the battle, I swung the sword, catching him on the side of his neck, lopping off his head.
“Fool!”
The insult came from Flint Shield.
“You never give a prisoner a killing blow. Now you have no enemy to sacrifice, no heart to devour. The king will have your ears for your stupidity.”
“My lord,” Six Sky said, “Pakal Jaguar saved the battle. He fought alone here at the gate until—”
“Silence. You,” he said to Six Sky, “join the others on the wall. They may try to come over it.”
Flint Shield went over to the head and nudged it with his foot to make it roll over so he could see the face.
“The king’s brother. The king will not be happy that a commoner killed his brother. He will have you painted red for it. You should have left the killing for a nobleman.”
“There were none present. They were hiding with the women.”
Six Sky was walking away when I made the statement, and I heard him gasp aloud.
Flint Shield stared at me, taken aback. He looked as if I had slapped him in the face, which I had—at least, with words.
“Take him!” he shouted to his guards.
“Stop!” The command came from Lord Janaab. “What are you doing?” he demanded of Flint Shield.
“This man killed the king’s brother and insulted me. He will be sacrificed for his sins.”
“He will not be sacrificed.
”
“The king—”
“I was with the king and watched the fight with him from his balcony. He knew his brother was going to attempt to kill him—it was just a matter of when. You are a hero, Pakal B’alam, once again you killed a jaguar.” Lord Janaab indicated the head: “Prince Jaguar Paw.”
“He insulted me,” Flint Shield said.
Lord Janaab stepped up to me. “Give me the sword.”
I gave him the sword. He stared at it for a moment, twisting it to see the double edge. I wondered if he was going to use it on me.
“Take him back to my palace,” Lord Janaab told Six Sky. He turned to Flint Shield. “I will question him and decide his punishment.”
Flint Shield said nothing, but I could see from the look on his face that the matter was not settled.
38
An hour later I was called to Lord Janaab’s reception room.
“The attempt to kill the king has completely failed,” he said. “All the participants are either dead or captured.”
“Why did Prince Jaguar Paw try to usurp his brother’s throne? Over the discontent due to the lack of rain?”
“The failure of crops and hunger are an excuse for stealing the throne. The prince was motivated by a lust for power. That unhealthy desire cost him his life. Now his entire family, wives and children, will be sacrificed along with all his slaves and palace staff. Unfortunately, the king’s brother is not the only one who desires the throne.”
From what the High Priestess told me, the War Lord was somewhere on the list of potential usurpers.
Lord Janaab paused and gave me a look that told me he was not entirely happy with me.
“You were a fool twice. Once for killing the prisoner and secondly for insulting a nobleman. If the king had not seen your fight to get the gate closed, not even I could have saved you from Flint Shield’s wrath. Do you know who he is?”
The 2012 Codex Page 11