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

natural phenomenon? I’ve never heard of it.”

      Sawada blinked. “Ships sometimes disappear under unclear circumstances, Lieutenant. We then assume storms or misfortune. But maybe … maybe something like this happens sometimes. It seems to have happened to us.”

      Inugami pressed his lips on each other. “How do we get back?”

      He had to ask that question, no matter how much it drove him home or not. As the boat didn’t even seem to be near the sea, it was almost rhetorical. Aritomo knew that he addressed this issue to the benefit of the crew. Nobody should think the commanding officer wouldn’t try everything. That would jeopardize the loyalty of his men.

      Sawada shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe never. You’ve already realized that, Lieutenant, right? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have wanted to take possession of this city for the Empire.”

      “Am I a king now?” the Prince asked. Everyone looked at Inugami for an answer, until it was Sawada talking to the boy.

      “If we do it right and make no stupid mistake, we may be able to achieve that goal.” Then he looked up and at Inugami. “We really need to discuss what we want to do next. We can’t hide in the boat forever. And we can not wait for too long. We have to keep initiative and momentum in our hands.”

      Sawada seemed to come to terms with Inugami’s plans. Aritomo didn’t mind. The primary responsibility of the teacher was the well-being of the Prince. He would do anything to ensure that.

      “That’s true,” Inugami said. “But first we inform the crew. By now everyone should be awake. If we don’t find inner strength, we can’t demonstrate it to the outside.”

      Aritomo wasn’t in any way opposed to Inugami’s words.

      But still.

      He didn’t feel easy with the turn of events. It was as if something had been set in motion whose consequences were barely foreseeable. They knew so little. How could one make grandiose plans?

      It was ironic when he thought of the submarine like a fish out of water. But this also referred to him as a person, and that was a most unpleasant situation.

10

      K’inich Tatb’u, whom everyone called the Jaguar Skull, looked with great satisfaction at his old enemy, the Lord of Bonampak. He was called Bird Jaguar, the once proud king of the neighboring town, situated farther to the south, where the rich forests of the lowlands gradually made way for fields on higher elevations, located on artificial terraces. Bird Jaguar was an honorable name, as Tatb’u had to admit, since his own ancestor, the third king of Yaxchilan, his great-great-grandfather, whose grandfather again had once again been the legendary Yoaat B’alam, the first king of Yaxchilan, had also carried it. A venerable rule by his family, uninterrupted for more than 70 years and, if it was for Tatb’u to decide, unbroken until the end of days.

      At least the Lord of Bonampak would no longer doubt his supremacy, never challenge him anymore and present no obstacle to the rule of his city. The fight had been short and fierce, but the troops that had been led into battle by Tatb’u had at once proved to be clearly superior. Gone were the days of infamy, the stelae on which Bird Jaguar had dared to call himself and his family the superior ones, the rulers of these lands, had been shattered to pieces. Tatb’u had personally lashed out to smash the family stele of those of Bonampak with his obsidian axe – and in front of the humiliated king.

      The captive now awaited death. Tatb’u had returned to his city with him and many other prisoners of war, loaded with rich prey, and had announced a great festival. Everyone was in high spirits and full of pride because of the tremendous triumph. Tatb’u had never felt so strong, and he radiated this power clearly.

      “I will pay homage to the beaten king who deserves his name. No one should say I insult my own glorious ancestor by treating an enemy who calls himself that same unworthily, no matter how much he mocked me,” he told the assembled notables and priests. “He and his ilk are to play against us in the ballgame. The gods may decide their fate. If they are victorious, their lives should be spared. If they lose, they are to sacrifice to Itzamnaaj, the god of our city, the Lord of Heaven. Prepare them. The beaten king is allowed to choose his own team from the prisoners. Thus speaks the gracious K’inich Tatb’u, whom everyone knows by the name Jaguar Skull.”

      He hadn’t missed the expression of hope in the eyes of his old enemy when he announced his decision. And that was a good thing. Anyone who has hope for survival struggles. Tatb’u was aware of the outcome of the game. His players, including his own son, were unbeatable. They had been informed early on of the intentions of the ruler and had prepared accordingly. And even if it unexpectedly came to a defeat, Tatb’u would not have lost his face. He would accept the ruling of the gods and condemn the king and other prisoners of war to slave labor. For Bonampak, nothing changed anyway. He had already established a trustworthy man there as the new regent, someone who wouldn’t make himself more than he was, and knew that paying tribute to his overlord once a year was an important duty that to neglect caused dire consequences.

      “Pakul!”

      The nobleman stepped to his King’s side and bowed.

      “Come with me.”

      The ruler and his subject left the large room that was commonly used as an audience hall. They withdrew to the King’s private chambers.

      Pakul was no stranger here and was politely welcomed by the servants. As a member of one of the city’s most important aristocratic families, he was also the organizer of the campaign against Bonampak and thus an architect of the magnificent success he had been given to the King. And much of it had been discussed here, in relative seclusion.

      “Sit down, my friend. Chi?” The King pointed to two ornate stools standing in a corner.

      “Gladly, my ruler.”

      Tatb’u beckoned to a waiting servant. Moments later, she brought two cups of fresh chi and the men paused to enjoy the stimulating drink.

      “The war against Bonampak went well, and I am grateful for it,” Tatb’u began. Pakul knew that these were not empty words. Despite all the phrases and praises, the King knew very well that he couldn’t have achieved anything without the loyalty of his men. “Do you have any wishes, my friend?”

      “No, lord. Allow me to continue serving you.”

      Tatb’u grinned. “Then we’re already on the subject of our conversation.”

      He fully appreciated the apparent modesty of his general. Pakul didn’t lack wealth; he lived in a house that was surpassed only by the King’s palace. There were other cravings that the man demanded, and they had much to do with killing the city’s enemies and feeding on their whining as they writhed on the ground before him.

      A useful pleasure, which the King gladly used for himself and whose satisfaction he gladly granted to his general.

      He leaned forward. “Pakul, listen to me. When I say that our campaign was successful, you, like me, know that this is an understatement. We surprised and overpowered the idiots. We caught Bird Jaguar, as he put his cock in a servant. We have barely lost any men, as the resistance of our enemies collapsed as fast as chi flows down our throats.”

      To affirm this, the King emptied his cup and then turned it in his hands, pondering.

      “We have time and men for a second campaign,” he said.

      “That’s right,” Pakul confirmed. He smiled eagerly. His life belonged to war. All the honors his king poured out over him meant little. He wanted to push his spear into the body of his enemies, and he wanted to plan campaigns that led to victories. There was nothing, no experience, that brought the same excitement as the ecstasy of a battle. He took every opportunity to take delight in it. “Who do we want to attack, Lord? There are a few smaller towns in the area that haven’t been remembered of us for a long time and might need some assurance that we are their overlords.”