The Emperor's Men 7: Rising Sun. Dirk van den Boom

talking excitedly. Chitam hoped that everyone would remain calm.

      His hope was immediately disappointed.

      He spun around, as he heard the angry scream, and at that moment he recognized the voice. It was one of the men of his father’s bodyguard, a head taller than the average man, a mountain of a warrior and well-versed in all weapons, not particularly intelligent, hot-blooded, easy to provoke, the ideal man in a battle.

      But of little use outside any fight.

      A master of the atlatl. Unmatched in range and force.

      Before anyone could stop the man, he had stepped forward, the spear-thrower in one hand, one of his javelins ready, and stretching out with his muscular limb.

      “Stop!” Chitam shouted, but it was already too late. The spear rose, in perfect trajectory, and slammed with a satisfyingly loud noise against the balustrade behind which the messengers of the gods stood, seemingly unmoved, with their eyes wide open, as if they could hardly believe this crime.

      The reaction came immediately. One of the messenger of the gods raised his own weapon, not unlike an atlatl, but instead of throwing it, he just aimed it at the warrior who was already preparing his second javelin, and then a bang sounded.

      Chitam saw nothing. No visible projectile was discernible.

      But the body of the warrior collapsed, and the spear sling slipped out of his powerless hand. There was blood on his chest, a wound struck by an invisible weapon, a truly divine demonstration of power.

      For a moment, Chitam stared blankly at the warrior, motionless, clearly dead on the ground. Blood everywhere. No blade. No spear. No arrow. Nothing. An invisible blow, fast, deadly, something that wouldn’t give you a chance to dodge, and probably no way to protect yourself from it.

      The priests dropped to their knees and praised Kinich Kakmó.

      Siyaj followed, raising his voice in fervor. He was scared.

      Chitam, his son, did the same.

      All the men, every inhabitant of Yax Mutal in sight, fell to their knees, all raising their arms. The warriors threw down their weapons and presented their breasts to the messenger of the gods, ready to make the sacrifice necessary to calm their fury.

      They all sang the praises of the Lord of Drought and Heat, the conqueror of the Xibalba Houses, hoping that it was not yet too late.

      The gods were quite moody, the Maya knew.

      Chitam closed his eyes and sang. He waited and hoped. When, after a few moments, he dared to look again, the messengers of the gods were still visible, as they gesticulated and talked. Chitam watched the conversation, and it didn’t feel like it …

      The ambassadors had come to a conclusion.

      The men with the god-atlatls left the tower.

      They climbed down to them.

      And then other men followed, without visible weapons, and marched cautiously along the vessel of the sun god. Farther ahead on the object was something, a kind of pump or scaffolding that did not serve a purpose recognizable to Chitam.

      More men came out of the tower. The scaffolding was turned. It was handled somehow. Something was carried from the inside of the god’s vessel. Chitam saw the visitors do unintelligible things.

      Then one of the men raised one arm. This gesture was familiar to the Maya. A commander thus warned the warriors in an attack before the imminent command of a storm against the ranks of the enemy was given.

      A fearful murmur went through the praying Maya.

      And rightly so.

      A heavy bang, deafening, echoed across the square. Chitam winced. The construction, the pump was a … a big, a very big atlatl! And when suddenly a great part was broken out of the neighboring temple, when stone and dust fountains splashed and crashed down on the praying Maya, the consequence of an invisible fist that had hit the steps of the building … at that moment, more than reverence and devotion filled the heart of the Prince. Now panic crept up his throat, and that wasn’t an emotion he’d often felt in his life.

      The same was true for the others. He heard how many interrupted their singing, stood up and ran as fast as their legs carried them. Their faith had left them or their willingness to give her life for the sun god, or they had just lost their nerves.

      The gods didn’t punish the cowards. They didn’t repeat their demonstration of power. They looked down on the remaining Maya, the brave, the faithful, the most stupid perhaps.

      Chitam, on the other hand, looked up. The men up there were waiting. He couldn’t interpret their behavior any different. They hoped for a reaction. They had given their lesson. Were the citizens of Yax Mutal able to understand the language of the gods? Would they …?

      Chitam felt his father rise, felt his hand on his shoulder.

      “It’s up to us, son.”

      In that sentence was all the truth that Chitam always wanted to avoid. Therein lay the downside of life in luxury and prestige. Therein lay the duty of the King and his Prince. Where others ran and prayed, they had to get up and take the next step.

      Chitam didn’t hesitate. He had always known it since his birth. And mastering this challenge on the side of his father, was despite his fear also his birthright as well as an obligation to his family. He couldn’t turn away.

      Chitam pointed to one side of the half-ruined tomb. “Father, there we can climb and meet the messenger of the gods.”

      The King nodded. He turned to the two priests. “You are with us.”

      There was fear in the eyes of the men but then pride. Who else was fit for this difficult task, if not them? Now it was time to prove that the Sun God looked with favor on the inhabitants of Yax Mutal, and if not, to find out how to restore this favor.

      “Then we go.”

      The King said so, the Prince followed him closely, the two priests kept their distance, out of respect for their overlord as well as out of fear. Chitam sensed that this small distance would make no difference if the messengers of the gods chose to direct their invisible atlatls toward them. The realization that they were completely at the mercy of the men up there was almost liberating.

      So they set off to learn the true will of the sun god.

9

      Inugami waved to the two bodyguards. “Keep an eye on those four, but do not fire. We should have impressed them sufficiently.”

      Aritomo could only agree. The shots of the gun on the neighboring pyramid had their effect on the assembled onlookers. Many of the savages had run off after praying first. He wasn’t sure if this demonstration was really necessary, but he was grateful for the clear language of the weapon. The single fighter’s attack with the strange but effective spear-thrower had reminded him that if these men down there were able to overcome their awe or fear and launch an organized and massive assault on the boat, sooner or later the Japanese would have no chance of survival. Inugami’s strategy of powerfully intimidating, then hopefully negotiating from a position of strength, wasn’t that stupid.

      If the Captain was smart enough not to overdo it.

      “When I look at those four, I see jewelry and well done clothes, so I think we have to deal with high-ranking personalities,” Sawada said, who had joined them on the bridge. “Maybe we are even dealing with a king or a high priest among them.”

      “Those two men out front gave orders earlier,” Aritomo said. “They seem to be in command indeed.”

      “Not for long anymore,” Inugami mumbled.

      Something in Inugami’s attitude had changed. He looked down at the city – no longer surprised or cautious but like a predator, seeing a willing prey, something to catch and use, to train, if he wanted to. He had his hands