The gathering began to dissolve shortly after, as usual, since Harkin and De Russy always retired early and the hard-pressed junior officers—no new ones had yet been selected—had to see to the needs of the men. Eventually, also as usual, only Lewis, Captain Anson, Varaa and Ixtla, Dr. Newlin, Alferez Lara, and Samantha and Leonor remained. Whether she knew it or not, everyone there had either guessed or learned Leonor’s secret. Samantha and Varaa had never been in doubt from the moment they saw her, and Lara had his suspicions confirmed when her own father called her “girl” in the battle. Newlin was a doctor, and Ixtla was accustomed to female warriors among the Ocelomeh. He and Varaa might wonder why it was a secret, but decided it wasn’t their place to ask. And without discussing it among themselves, all at least suspected the others already knew. Still, it was never spoken of, each believing Leonor had earned sufficient respect and appreciation in the fight to keep her secret if she wished. Samantha, on the other hand, never brought Angelique to these meetings. Lewis suspected she didn’t think her fragile friend was ready to hear the bigger secret yet.
Now Samantha broke the silence with a sigh and looked at Varaa. “Grotesque as your description of the Doms has struck me, I confess Reverend Harkin’s growing flexibility has lifted a weight from my heart,” she proclaimed. “I’m terrified of the Doms, but they don’t yet seem real.” She turned her gaze to Lewis. “The damaging confusion I feared might erupt after a break between Reverend Harkin and Father Orno concerned me more.”
“The good reverend has risen higher to the challenge than I expected,” Newlin agreed. “As must we all,” he added with a glance at Leonor, still sitting as far from Alferez Lara as she could. The young Mexican officer was obviously aware of her reserve but never remarked on it. Lewis thought he’d guessed its source. On the other hand, he was relieved that Leonor’s father—the most implacable hunter of Mexican soldiers Lewis had ever known—was at least professionally courteous to the young man who’d voluntarily placed himself and his troopers under the Ranger’s command.
“Coffee, anybody?” grumbled the always-ill-tempered Private Willis, approaching with a blackened copper pot. “Won’t be hardly fit to drink tomorrow, even heated. Shame to waste it, what with us prob’ly never gettin’ any more,” he whined. Days before, Willis overheard enough of one of their discussions to be conscripted into the “inner circle” and threatened with a return to the ranks if he spilled more information than allowed. Not only had he readily agreed, he’d actually become a more conscientious orderly. He remained abrasive and disagreeable, but must’ve realized he did have it easy compared to those who had to fight monsters, whatever the “Doms” were, and any other manner of thing.
Lewis, Newlin, and Varaa held out their cups.
“There’s no ‘coffee’ here,” Varaa said sadly, “but there are other stimulating beverages I think you’ll like.” She peered at Samantha. “The Doms are quite real, I assure you, and I fear it’s inevitable they’ll come.” She blinked for emphasis. “We should have time to prepare, however. They have many soldiers, but they’re widely scattered. There are also rumors many are preparing to embark on an expedition to the northwest.” She paused. “Other humans who came to this world about a century ago have made an empire of islands across the great sea to the west. I’ll tell you more of them sometime. But they’ve traded with the Doms, mostly for female slaves, I understand, which doesn’t recommend them to me as potential allies. Neither likes the other, and the intensity of their rivalry gives me the sense it has a hereditary, even prehistoric foundation, but the great sea has always kept them from coming to meaningful blows.” She snorted. “Now those other people, ‘Imperials,’ have established colonies on this continent, in the far northwest. Again, rumor has it that though the Doms have no more use for that vast territory now than they do the Yucatán, they mean to push them out.”
She blinked reflectively. “So, as I said, we may have time to prepare before the Doms come for us in earnest.” She flicked her tail and warned, “That doesn’t mean we won’t be opposed reflexively from the start. Even before news of the battle reaches their leaders, there’ll be obstruction, spying, political disruption, even assassinations. They have people in our cities who’ll do what they know their leaders would want.”
“Blood Priests from Puebla Arboras?” Anson growled.
“At least in the background,” Varaa confirmed, looking at Lewis. “They’ll want to study you and make their reports, perhaps even try to sway you to join them. They’ve done it before,” she added bitterly.
“That’ll never happen,” Anson said definitively.
“You say that now,” Varaa murmured, “but you haven’t seen . . .” She shook her head. “Joining them will save nothing. They’d wring you dry of information—then blood—and discard your dead husk. It’s what they do.”
Lewis pursed his lips. “Will these ‘Blood Priests’ be with Don Discipo at Uxmal?”
“They’re not supposed to be,” Varaa told him. “Alcalde Periz and most of the people in the city hate them as much as I and my Ocelomeh.” She blinked thoughtfully. “With Periz away, however, they may have come to join Discipo. I fear he’s only their puppet.”
“How much sway do they have over other alcaldes?” Dr. Newlin asked.
Varaa bowed her head at him and gazed around at the others. “A most pertinent question indeed—and I can’t answer it. Nor can Alcalde Periz. That’s why he left—to get a feel for things. We must accept the fact that our victory over the Holcanos and Grik will cause great excitement, even joy, but there’ll also be fear. Don Discipo and the Blood Priests will try to exploit it.” She looked back at Lewis. “Whether our union can be built or not depends a great deal on what Alcalde Periz discovers when he gets home, how well he convinces the other alcaldes, and honestly, how impressive your soldiers look when we reach Uxmal.” She broke the gloom she saw deepening around her with a sudden snort of humor. “Fear not. All your men have to do is march as smartly as I’ve seen them drill—and sing, of course.” She laughed. “By all means, have them sing!”
CHAPTER 16
Two days later, under a cloudy, breezy, late-morning sky, the Detached Expeditionary Force finally emerged from the forest into a broad coastal vale surrounded by low, rolling, tree-cluttered hills. The gentle slopes and plain down by the last river they’d have to cross (the very first real one) were intensively irrigated and cultivated into a checkerboard of multicolored crops, mostly green, amber, and yellow, with something almost the red-purple of sorghum here and there. Outlying dwellings, interspersed among the fields, were generally modest in size but built of stone and covered with thatched roofs. Farmers and laborers wore the same rough—if still somewhat colorful—homespun smocks as the Uxmalos who’d joined the Americans at the beach, along with supple moccasin boots laced up to their knees and wide-brimmed straw hats differing only in age and condition. And many used the same massive armabueys as draft animals, though there were also perfectly ordinary oxen and burrows. All seemed to stop what they were doing to stare as the Ocelomeh first appeared.
The locals must’ve thought it strange to see Jaguar Warriors marching in column four abreast, and even in step to a degree, instead of just sauntering out of the woods in a pack as they usually did. Especially since they were accompanied by the rattle of unfamiliar-sounding drums and something like flutes in the dense trees behind. Then, to their astonishment—and possibly fear—a dozen dark- and light-blue-clad horsemen appeared on the track in a perfect column of twos, beneath a pair of festive-looking, odd-shaped flags held sharply aloft by a pair of riders. One was smaller, red above white, resembling two pointed pennants attached where they touched. Some who could read (a few Uxmalos could) recognized the numbers and letters painted on the fabric. The other flag was larger and a comparative riot of color, its red and white stripes and blue field full of white stars edged all around in gold.
More flags preceded a ti
ghtly packed procession of foot soldiers: hundreds of men dressed all alike in sky-blue uniforms, dark blue hats, and white cross belts. Some wore different-colored trim, but all carried muskets on their shoulders, many with wicked lance-point things on the ends of their barrels. This column was broken at intervals by teams of horses carrying men and pulling strangely shaped vehicles with more men on top. And behind each of these trailed a monstrous great gun—something Uxmalos also recognized and feared.
Most of these first spectators were essentially peasants. Everyone had heard of the strange people coming, who’d joined their Ocelomeh friends to defeat the Holcanos and Grik, but no one really expected this. There were hundreds of them and many great guns, all moving relentlessly forward like a gigantic centipede. The more learned might imagine a Dom army moving something like this, but they’d never seen that either, so they had no basis for comparison. The sight was thrilling, chilling, fascinating, and horrifying all at once. And the noise! Drums thundered all along the line, as did the strange, high-pitched instruments, but the men were loudly singing as well, roaring alien words to an equally unfamiliar—if not unpleasant—melody. It was the strangest thing most of the increasingly stunned spectators ever saw.
Lewis Cayce, riding at the head of the dragoons with De Russy, Anson, Reverend Harkin, and Mistress Samantha, was equally mesmerized by the city of Uxmal lying just across a long stone bridge, spanning what could clearly become a mighty river when it ran. Probably only knee-deep and a few dozen yards across at present, the Cipactli River’s eroded banks extended a great distance to either side of the lazy, silty stream. And almost reaching the base of high stone walls like some massive moat, it described an arc around the city to drain in a well-sheltered bay full of fishing boats. The gray, white-capping sea could just be glimpsed in the distance beyond a pair of breaking shoals. Lewis was surprised not to find Tiger already anchored in the bay, but the thought was pushed aside as the city reabsorbed his attention.
“My word!” cried Reverend Harkin over the music. “How much like the real Uxmal it appears!” The others looked at him questioningly. “I mean the one . . . where we came from, of course,” he clarified. “I’ve never been there myself, but a New York traveler and explorer named Stephens, serving as ‘special ambassador’ to this . . .” He shook his head in frustration. “That region a few years back, rather rediscovered an ancient city. He and an English artist named Catherwood documented the ruins in a pair of popular books.” He nodded ahead. “Those structures, minus the high wall, of course, remind me of Catherwood’s lithographs.” He squinted. “Though these don’t seem as ornate, or festooned with dire pagan images.”
The wall was eighteen to twenty feet high and, except for some geometric sculpture around a massive gate beyond the bridge, wore no adornments at all. It was a simple, straightforward, pragmatic defense against the monsters roaming this world. Still descending into the river valley, they could see buildings beyond it, and they were quite impressive indeed. There were a lot of dwellings and many people in Uxmal, and the principal building materials were stone for walls and thatch for roofs throughout, but larger buildings of various shapes looked almost classical: long, high rectangular structures with flat roofs built of skillfully shaped stone. Others were bigger up high than down low, which looked odd, but one in particular resembled a small, round-edged Egyptian pyramid with steps up one side and a small house on top. “That looks like Stephens’s ‘Governor’s Palace,’ ” Harkin said with growing enthusiasm as he pointed, “and that one resembles what he described as ‘The Nunnery,’ though I can’t imagine why. And that, of course, appears to be a version of his ‘Pyramid of the Dwarf Magician.’ ” He frowned. “That sounds very strange. Perhaps I misremember. In any event, except for ‘The Nunnery’ they’re all smaller than Catherwood rendered them and somewhat mixed about.” His customary gloomy expression returned. “I’m driven to speculate that whoever originally built this place, however long ago, must’ve come here the same way we did and rebuilt what they remembered.”
“Have you considered it might’ve been the other way around, Reverend Harkin?” Samantha asked innocently.
Harkin glowered at her. “Indeed I have, Mistress. I find myself considering a great many unexpected things.” He paused. “Perhaps Father Orno may enlighten us.” He looked around. “Where is the little fellow?”
Captain Anson snorted. “First time you’ve let him out of your sight in days and you’ve lost him.”
“He went ahead into the city with Varaa-Choon,” said Lewis. “Consul Koaar-Taak is leading the Ocelomeh. They’re mostly his, remember.”
They all grew silent for a while, enjoying the pageantry of their “triumphant” arrival. Lewis had taken Varaa’s advice to heart, determined to make an impression, and they’d camped early the day before in a broad, pleasant, parklike clearing with rising, rippling terrain someone had dubbed the “washboard glade” less than seven miles from the city so the troops could prepare themselves and their equipment. Varaa said there was only one other good place to camp before they reached Uxmal, and if they went that far, they might as well go all the way. But the soldiers needed to clean themselves and their weapons, brush wool uniforms and polish brass buttons, belt and cartridge box plates. Steel musket barrels and bayonets were brightened, and the bronze gunmetal cannon tubes were rubbed with fine sand to remove battle tarnish and buffed to a glittering, red-gold sheen. Dragoons, artillerymen, and mounted riflemen brushed the overworked horses late into the night and fed them much of their hoarded grain. The Uxmalos with them, and even some Ocelomeh at Ixtla’s direction, got into the spirit as well, cleaning carts full of salvage and even fetching water from a swampy pond to bathe the filth off their uncaring armabueys.
Lewis scratched his neck. Most of the men had even shaved or trimmed their hair, but not only had he been very busy, he didn’t trust Private Willis with a razor against his throat. His neck whiskers itched. His beard was going a little wild as well, and he needed to get it under control. He must set an example, after all. Anson’s beard remained perfectly groomed, as did Harkin’s and De Russy’s side whiskers. He’d have to inquire how they managed. But all the tiring activity that distracted him from his own appearance was paying off handsomely now. The little army marching down to Uxmal not only acted like the consolidated force it was growing into, it looked like a proper army as well—whether any of the locals had ever seen such a thing or not.
Townsfolk were gathering as the Ocelomeh neared the bridge. Many had probably been coming and going from the city on their daily affairs, but more were streaming out the great gate. The apparently well-to-do didn’t dress much different from anyone else they’d seen, though they wore a lot of gold and silver jewelry adorned with gems. And the quality of their clothing was much finer, of course. They still seemed to delight in color, and that was more varied among them as well.
Then, for the first time, the men saw Uxmalo women. Even dressed much like the men except for an absence of belts, smaller, triangular brimmed hats atop straight black hair, and more formfitting clothing on the younger ones, Lewis was taken aback by how heart-stoppingly beautiful many of them were. Even the older, broader women with silver-white hair were quite handsome. Their presence created a predictable sensation, making men forget the words to their song or fall out of step. The caustic and near-instantaneous verbal thrashing of NCOs quickly returned them to their duty.
All began to gather around the marching men and animals in evident delight, pacing them, yet somewhat to Lewis’s surprise, none tried to gaggle in amongst them. They appeared very pleased, but respectful—until they cried out jubilantly up ahead when Varaa-Choon and Father Orno galloped out the gate, quickly followed by Alcalde Periz, attended by more men on dark-striped horses. Most outdid Periz in their finery, wearing more riches by far, and several sat saddles so heavy with gold that their horses must’ve been hard-pressed. At least Periz—or Orno? Both?—is liked by
his people, Lewis thought.
The Ocelomeh ground to a stop and Lewis called his own column to halt. For the first time since they left the trees, his men were silent, and they heard the growing uproar around them and from the city ahead. Lewis turned in his saddle to see hardened soldiers stiffen with pride and grins appear on unexpected faces. One even flashed across Private Willis’s face before the scruffy little man caught him looking. He turned back at the sound of hoofbeats and saw Alcalde Periz’s party pull up in the gap between the Americans and Ocelomeh. Forewarned, Lewis and his officers saluted Periz. The man bowed deeply in his saddle in response. He was smiling hugely in genuine pleasure, but his dark eyes moved a little nervously, expressing a measure of warning.
“We were right,” Varaa said lightly, grinning, her own eyes cutting toward the man by Periz. “That’s Alcalde Don Discipo. And his damned Blood Priest is in the city. Periz was not amused. Still, I suppose you’d better salute him and those others as well. The next in line is Ortiz, from Pidra Blanca—up the coast. Past him is Truro, from Itzincab. They’re good fellows. More are coming, but this is all who’s here.” She nodded at Lewis’s growing frown. “Don’t worry. None of them speak English. Just salute them and we’ll move along.” Varaa straightened. “My Ocelomeh fought with you and had the honor of leading you here, but now the honor shifts to you—for a variety of reasons.” Only then did Lewis realize Varaa’s Jaguar Warriors were moving aside, making way for the Americans to pass. “The alcaldes and their deputies will join your procession through the city while my people go around.” Varaa grinned again. “They’ll guard your supplies—and our captives and the booty in the armabuey carts—where space has been provided for your camp on the east side of the city, astride the Pidra Blanca road. Perhaps you’d send a few men with Koaar to help him lay it all out. I know how you like things just so.”
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