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

and bigger, especially with the food that formed the basis of everything: corn. The royalties paid to the ruler were enough to feed his own family. If one paid attention to all the holidays and paid homage to the King in the prescribed manner, opportunity to participate in the military campaigns arose – which in the case of Chitam’s father didn’t mean much, since his activities were directed more inward than outward, a circumstance his son endeavored to end in time. Everyone in Mutal lived a good life, as a citizen of one of the most powerful cities of the corn people.

      Chitam stopped.

      Another passerby, a man of nobility, as one could see from his retinue, had a servant hand him a cup of quill, a coffee made from roasted corn. Although the Prince did not really want to eat, he felt the need for liquid as the pleasant scent of the freshly-heated drink reached his nose. It mingled with the freshly baked corn patty, which the servant unpacked. It was certainly the privilege of the Prince to demand his own share, but at the same time it was extremely rude, because as a member of the royal family he wasn’t a beggar. Chitam’s eyes narrowed. The man was somehow known to him, but he was turning his face away. Had not he even bumped with him last night? At some point they had been so many, because he had lost track of everything, and some details of that merriment he could remember only vaguely anyway.

      “Tell me, who is this gentleman?” Chitam quietly asked the servant closest to him. “I should know him … By Naal, I’m getting old.”

      His servant bowed and made a negative gesture. “It’s hot, sir. The sun obscures our thoughts. The young master there is Tek’inich, the son of the high priest of the Naal.”

      Chitam’s memory cleared. Tek’inich was an important man. He would become high priest before Chitam became king, and that was a significant detail, for it was Tek’inich who would direct and bless the Prince’s coronation ceremony.

      He definitely had too much chi last night.

      Tek’inich looked up, recognized Chitam and smiled at him. He beckoned to him, exactly what the Prince had hoped for.

      Moments later, he drank a particularly hot quill, and he felt the warmth and strong taste spread through him, helping clear his head. He even laughed at a remarkably bad joke on Tek’inich’s part. He almost even accepted the offer to try one of the corn patties.

      But he didn’t want to get cocky.

      Chitam knew that it would be late again tonight.

      They talked for a while. Tek’inich was not a man of special ambition, but he was considered wise and sensible. He would be a support to Chitam, someone whose help the young king might one day depend on. He was not a particularly likable man and was not one of Chitam’s close friends, but the noble lady Tzutz pointed out to her husband every week that it would be helpful to have a nice word with him, to be friendly and polite, because you never know.

      Tzutz knew a lot about all these things. She also knew Tek’inich’s wife and maintained a friendly relationship with her.

      That should, Chitam thought, really suffice.

      When he said goodbye to the man to finally rush to his father’s palace, he felt better. He developed something like optimism. Energy returned to his body.

      Maybe, he thought, it would be a good day after all.

6

      The dinner proved to be a test of his abilities.

      Of course, this was not due to the food offered. The cooks had done their best under the supervision of Lady Tzutz. All the dishes one could imagine, made from corn, beans, pumpkin and cassava. There were three freshly roasted peccaries whose best pieces were, of course, presented to the guests and the host, the Prince. Chitam’s appetite had returned, but he didn’t tend to be a glutton while eating, unlike with drinking chi. His guest was less restrained and preferred to eat all the best pieces, as if it were a great shame to just eat enough and then leave the other, less worthy diners some of the specialties. Of course, there were additional guests: Some nobles who, for whatever reason, were friends with the village brush or wanted to make friends, and Tzutz had certainly selected and invited them with care and diligence. The underlying logic was female in Chitam’s view, and therefore it was quite pointless to try to understand it for fundamental considerations.

      The evening was absolutely predictable. The guests were of submissive politeness, but it was not by chance that the village chieftain, as Chitam still quietly called him, never missed an opportunity to spread anecdotes from the oh so glorious and, of course, endlessly long family history of his. The fact that he – very submissive and respectful – looked at Chitam and always touted a toast, didn’t make things better. The message arrived and wasn’t hidden from the other guests of the family. Everyone looked at Chitam, asking themselves how he’d deal with this subtle and permanent provocation. Did he stay at formal courtesy? Would he have his head cut off?

      Chitam chose the former. These were the moments when he was more a Prince than an upset son, and he had a role to play. He pretended to listen attentively to his guest’s monologue and made sure his wife couldn’t complain about his manners. But what he had known to prevent was that the guest was served cocoa. This drink of the gods was reserved for the highest and most important occasions, the really important, the most respected and revered guests.

      So there was none tonight.

      Chitam was reasonably sure that this message had also come home with everyone present.

      When they retired, it was already very late. Even with the exertions of the night before, Chitam felt righteously tired and was glad to be able to rest. He was now very sleepy and even ignored the nightly assessment of his lady, who couldn’t fail to list to her weary husband the things that went well, and to criticize those who hadn’t developed as expected. Already half-asleep, Chitam thought that Tzutz would be a good general, if he was to encounter a bad fate as king and his wife would take over Yax Mutal. At least, she had the necessary eye for detail.

      In Naal’s name, that she had.

      Thankfully, the Prince slumbered, and with the firm intention of not getting up before noon the next day.

      The night tormented him with wild dreams whose meaning he couldn’t interpret. They were threatening images that scared him, and he wanted to wake up several times, but he didn’t succeed. It was as if the gods sent signs to him to arm himself. Chitam didn’t want to arm himself, he wanted to sleep in peace. But the dreamy images were stubborn, even when he finally awoke in between and stared into the darkness. Sleep always caught up with him quickly, almost too fast, but he immediately brought back the clear, frightening and haunting visions that filled him with greater unrest than usual.

      He obviously had eaten too much. Peanut filled meat aroused this, especially if you took too much of it. His mother had already told him that. Would he listen more to his mother? But she had been dead for a year. Did she perhaps send him those dreams? Then he knew why he had always found the advice of the old woman annoying.

      He found sleep again, restless though, filled with somber images, but nevertheless sleep.

      When he was suddenly startled and sat upright in his bed, he was confused for a moment. Did his dream wake him up? He looked around, it was obviously early in the morning. Chitam was wide awake, and at an unusual time for him.

      He listened for a moment. Silence. Touched his forehead. Fully a wake, no doubt. He wouldn’t find back to sleep, no matter how hard he tried. He didn’t want, anyway. He didn’t look for further dreams, and he tried everything to forget the disturbing images quickly. Tzutz was still asleep, judging from her quiet face, she was not plagued by what had tormented her husband this night.

      He got up cautiously, careful not to wake his wife, and left.

      For a few minutes he paused in front of his father’s palace, holding a stuffed cornbread in his hand, which he chewed slowly, breathing in the fresh morning air that mixed the city’s scents with the pleasantly musty smell of the nearby jungle. He really enjoyed this special time at the dawn of a day, he thought. Most of the