Thorns of Glory, page 41
I maintained my footing and ducked low. One Eagle Knight landed on top of me and flipped over my back. Many Lamanites and Lightning Warriors were resorting to shorter blades. Forget about duels; that phase of the battle was over, at least in this vicinity. Soldiers were so tightly packed that fighting with long weapons wasn’t practical. We were being executed like swine. I fell onto my side, my vision obstructed by hundreds of moving legs.
Multiple Nephite voices cried, “We surrender! We surrender!” but Lamanite officers quickly retorted, “No surrender! No prisoners!”
I took to counting my own breaths. I was sure my lungs had very few left to draw. I was about to die. The battle had become a slaughter. I’d participated in slaughters before, but only as the butcher, never as the quarry. How many Jews had I hacked to death in similar circumstances as they cowered on the ground?
Poetic justice . . . It was a term I’d once heard Meagan pronounce. I supposed it was what I deserved, the death I was due.
In the whirlwind of my thoughts, I mourned my failure to save Moroni. Hadn’t I come here bidden by a sacred prompting? Oh well. This thought was not prominent. Instead, I pondered Meagan’s face. Admittedly, the face I saw was hers prior to her disfigurement. In my mind flashed the instant I’d first set eyes on her in Galilee, as I sat atop my mount. She was a ragged sight that day, and yet . . . even then I’m convinced I saw something more. I recalled the moment I’d asked her to marry me, showering her with the nonsensical gifts of a traditional Roman betrothal. She’d accepted each item like a precious jewel. Her heart and mine sang in sweet harmony. The dominant image in my memory was her smile, the corners of her lips, drawing me to her like a magnet.
Were these things worthy of a man’s last thoughts? I obviously felt so. I tried to imagine how she would react to the news of my death. Would she ever hear of it? How would she find out? Who would identify my corpse among ten or twenty thousand other moldering bodies on this ridge? Dying men were collapsing on top of me. One soldier, as he fell, flung his left arm over my head, where it quivered in death throes. My grave would not be an ornamental pyre. Nor a covering of soil. I’d be buried beneath a tangle of Nephite torsos and limbs.
Then again, who was to say Meagan would survive this day? Who could say whether she was alive right now? Perhaps in mere moments we would reunite, hand in hand, in the bosom of Paradise. This thought simmered warmly in my breast and evoked a calmness amidst inexorable pain and death.
A living soul jerked at my arm, hoisting me from the accumulating pile of corpses. My mind didn’t have to settle into the serenity of certain death after all. My instant reaction was to slash at the person who’d disturbed the serenity I’d internalized about my fate. I severed the hand that had seized me from the rest of his arm. The Lamanite wailed in agony and wrenched away. The grubby fingers of two, perhaps three, additional warriors laid hold of me, standing me upright. I twisted hard, slashing recklessly at any Knotty in range, swiping my gladius across shoulders, arms, and abdomens. Men backed away as my feet turned in a lethal circle. I was several yards below the summit on the eastern side of the ridge, but the ground was reasonably level. The Lamanites had gathered around me like slavering wolves lusting for vengeance, yet no one who held a blade dared to lunge. I heard the creak of numerous bowstrings being drawn, and I saw teeth-gnashing determination in the faces of at least a dozen archers. Not all would miss. I might leap to one side and cause some archers to slay comrades directly across from them, but only a superhuman—an Achilles—could have evaded them all.
“Do not fire!” someone shouted. “Do not kill this man!”
Who’d bellowed this command? The voice was familiar, but it was not Lamanai’s, not that of the heir of Jaguar Paw. I searched the faces and found a Lamanite officer stepping quickly forward. The crowd was riotous, some howling in fury, all cursing feverishly as revenge was unjustly denied. I felt sure at least one bowstring would snap—fingers too twitchy to prevent it. Eyes were so enflamed I should have combusted on the spot, but the officer’s command was obeyed, albeit bitterly.
The officer—the owner of the bellowing voice—was a man I’d once fought beside as a friend. He’d saved my life the same day he’d aided in the rescue of Moroni from the prisons of Tikal, and then he’d turned his back on us after learning that Prince Eagle-Sky-Jaguar no longer supported the Nephite cause. On the very day Micah had died and Meagan was disfigured by the Gadianton Ghosts, he’d made it known that his first and only loyalty was to his tribe—the people of the Water-Lilies. All other loyalties weren’t worth a spit in the Sahara. Perhaps I should have been grateful that after confronting us in the wilderness, he and his warriors from Seibalche had allowed us to depart in relative peace and continue our journey to Cumorah. I’d felt sure if we’d delayed even one more hour, his army would have slain Moroni and the rest of us weeks ago instead, or so it appeared, of today.
I continued panting and holding my sword aloft like a cornered animal. Calmly, Antionum halted before me.
“Drop your weapon, Apollus,” he instructed, his tone almost polite.
I glowered a few seconds longer, then replied, “Drop yours, Antionum.”
He heaved a sigh, raised his voice, and announced to the gathering. “Anyone who kills this man will die! He is not a Nephite! He is . . .” Antionum looked me in the eye. “. . . a man far from his home.”
“My home,” I responded, “is not your concern. My home is with the people of God.”
Antionum raised an eyebrow and swept his upturned hand outward to indicate the ridge and hillside with its thousands of Nephite corpses and hundreds of floundering, moaning bodies, whom the Lamanites were only too happy to put out of their misery, one by one, with the tips of their swords.
Indeed, it seemed that to the south, virtually all fighting had come to a standstill. Only to the north did any significant skirmishes still persist. Fresh soldiers of the Lamanites and Teotihuacán continued to overflow the summit.
“Your ‘home,’ then,” Antionum continued, “has become a boneyard for vultures and crows. Abandon your weapon, Apollus Brutus Severillus. I saved your life once. Do you remember?”
I remembered, but I did not satisfy him by giving an answer.
“It was from the jaws of a crocodile,” he said. “As the patron of your fate, I am not inclined to change that fate.”
“He is a murderer!” yelled the Lamanite soldier who’d lost his hand to my gladius.
“He is a noble warrior!” Antionum shouted back.
I scanned the dead and said quietly, “Who among these warriors is not noble?”
My comment didn’t rattle Antionum in the least. “I agree. They are all noble. Unfortunately, they are the enemies of my fathers and of my fathers’ fathers. Today they will meet the gods of earth, sky, and underworld. They will be our enemies no more.”
I had no response. Most of the encircling soldiers still yearned for blood, though no one, for now, seemed inclined to disobey their commander. These men were not exclusively the young recruits Antionum had brought from the environs of Tikal. My former comrade from the tiny village of Seibalche had been promoted to considerable rank, undoubtedly by his childhood friend Lamanai.
“I cannot make any promises,” said Antionum, “but if you lay down your sword, I will place you among the other prisoners. I will do everything in my power to ensure you return to your original home. Your real home.”
Other prisoners? This was a surprise. I’d clearly heard the Knotty officers command their men to take no prisoners. What prisoners was he—?
Without another thought, I released my gladius and let it clatter to the stones. There was a pause. The Lamanites seemed bewildered by my change of heart. Obviously, they’d hoped I would make a different choice.
“Bind him,” said Antionum.
The soldiers pounced. Many hands seized me roughly. My arms were tightly bound behind my back. A green recruit was the first to lay claim to my steel sword. His claim was immediately challenged by a surly Teotihuacáno who made it plain that he would slit the young soldier’s throat if he refused to hand it over.
Over a hundred men, including Antionum, joined the escort that would guide me to the place where additional prisoners were kept. Whose lives, I continued to ponder, would the Lamanites be inclined to preserve? I was certain of just one. It was the only thing that made sense, the only answer that explained everything that had happened since I’d left the company of Meagan, Mary, Garth, and Rebecca.
I was about to be reunited with the son of Mormon.
* * *
I was forced to descend the full length of Cumorah’s western slope with my hands bound behind my back. Lamanite hyenas yakked, heckled, and yakked the entire distance. They chanted, they sang, they praised their foul gods, all the while pumping fists and weapons into the air. I carefully stepped over the bodies of the dead, far more Lamanites than Nephites, though it hardly mattered. The armies of the Lamayans and Teotihuacán were in high spirits, intoxicated with the prospect of victory, even as large pockets of resistance held out and many battles around Cumorah continued to rage.
The single glimpse I had of the settlement of Zenephi wrenched at my heart. The campaign against the Nephite populace—its women, its children—appeared to have reached an apex. Every tent and shelter in my eyeline had been set ablaze, producing more smoke than the tar-filled ditch. Or rather, more smoke than such ditches had produced earlier in the day. Much of the bitumen had since burned off. Scores of Lamanites were riotously tearing down the fortification walls that once protected the settlement, determined to prove they could destroy in minutes what the people of Mormon had labored for years to construct. I presumed they’d soon abandon this project. Fully demolishing those fortifications would take weeks, even if every Lamanite and Teotihuacáno took part. For now, it was just a way to burn off any steam boiling in their blood, energy that would have otherwise been exhausted slaughtering and abusing Nephites, living or dead.
Mormon’s Jaguar Knights and Moroni’s Eagle Knights had also been slaughtered. As to the whereabouts of either commander, I could not say. Unless it was the very location where Antionum’s soldiers were taking me.
The grade was steep with many obstacles as I worked my way down the slope. If my captors judged my progress too slow, I was shoved aggressively from behind. I considered it another kind of miracle that I fell only twice, both times stopped from tumbling to the base of the hill by a corpse. The laughter of the Lamanites was raucous.
I wasn’t the only prisoner being escorted down the slope with bound hands. I watched one Eagle Knight tumble end over end until he cracked his skull against a boulder. To our enemies, it was of minor concern whether or not we survived this journey to the place of prisoners.
The stench of death was growing pungent. Bodies were beginning to bloat in the afternoon sun. Carrion birds were circling by the thousands, many of them already bold enough to land. Why was it that the first thing vultures went for was eyes? In less than a day, perhaps in mere hours, the Lamanites themselves would not be able to tolerate this environment.
The slope leveled out, and I walked onto the plains. We were near our destination. The mood of my escort mellowed. Voices chanted a somber death song I’d already heard several times, most recently in the camp of Antionum, a few days’ march from Cumorah. It was a eulogy directed not at the corpses of Nephites but at their own brave dead, soliciting the favor of numerous gods, including Itzamna, Kisin, and nine other deities who would presumably guide Lamanite souls through the hazardous obstacle courses of the underworld to obtain a rich reward reserved for soldiers who had sacrificed their lives for their tribe.
A minute later I arrived at a ragged assemblage of Nephites—about 150—all with arms bound behind their backs. They looked battered, bruised, and crestfallen. Some wore the tattered uniforms of Jaguar and Eagle officers. Others wore the garb of everyday soldiers. Many of these men were of significant size and stature. Some prisoners were injured, faces and bodies slashed. Most wounds were superficial, but some were quite serious. Those with the most severe injuries seemed to be officers. The condition of their uniforms sometimes made their rank difficult to distinguish. I recognized Koriff, Moroni’s second-in-command.
It seemed to me that this was a curious menagerie of men. What was the purpose of this gathering, I wondered, especially as I remembered the loud declarations from Lamanite officers not to take prisoners? I supposed 150 Nephite survivors wasn’t a notable number. I’d seen thousands of Knights standing ready to surrender. I’d marveled at their impotence and cravenness the instant they’d found themselves directly confronted by the enemy. These so-called “elite” warriors had looked relieved the end had finally come. I interpreted this as abject shame. What fighter would not feel humiliated to still be breathing when so many of his comrades lay dead? Yet . . . after scanning their lightless eyes, I began to question my interpretation.
Notably absent in the countenance of these prisoners was defiance. The Lamanite guards forced us to remain standing, even those prisoners with life-threatening wounds. Didn’t captured Nephites realize the Lamanites planned to kill us anyway? Not with honor, as on a battlefield, but as objects of ridicule in some sadistic spectacle? In a few minutes, I intended to seat myself on the ground, indifferent to the response. Whatever consequences I received now would be better than any I’d receive later. First, I walked about, studying faces.
And then, there he was. I might have spotted Moroni sooner if I’d limited my search to those prisoners still standing with their shoulders erect. The Eagle Commander was at the far right of the assemblage, hands bound like the rest, face blackened with soot and dirt. His headdress had been stripped away, as had every other emblem of rank, presumably because such things were valuable souvenirs, spoils of war. His gaze was fixed on the western ridge, and he did not notice me until I was practically upon him. Moroni turned abruptly, squinting to confirm my identity. I surely appeared as disheveled as everybody else.
He heaved a sigh of relief. “Praise God. I’m glad to see you, Apollus.”
“I tried to remain at your side. You slipped away.”
“Oh. I apologize for that. I’d hoped to shore up our left flank. That company, unfortunately, was the first to . . . to buckle. My Knights would not . . .”
I waited for him to finish. I believe he was about to say, “They wouldn’t follow me. They wouldn’t obey.”
“No matter,” he said. “A strategy to stop them, to win, to survive . . . may not have existed.”
I challenged this. “The ranks collapsed into bedlam. We might still be up there, defending that ridge, if the division had held firm.”
Moroni gaped at me, surprised by my frankness. He knew my assessment was correct. I glanced away deferentially. Even if I was right, the man most responsible for what had happened was the man standing before me.
He sent me a bent smile. “You perceive much, Apollus. I should have advised my father to let you command a division, like Gidgiddonihah.”
“I’m sorry. I did not mean—”
“Your appraisal is correct. As the Lamanites topped the ridge, my Knights . . . all companies . . . lost cohesion. Countless daily drills. Hours of training . . . yet, when it mattered . . .”
“Until a man experiences battle, no amount of training—”
Moroni shook his head. “My division and my father’s division were veterans. Some were men I’d fought beside for decades. A warrior does not forget how to fight. His muscles are bound by it, his mind branded with it.” He glanced away. “Or so I would have testified . . . until today.”
“Then . . . what happened?”
He became as crestfallen as the others and shrugged. “God knows.” He was not uttering a curse. Moroni was sincere. God knew. “The battle was lost before it began. Yes, we were outnumbered. But, throughout my life, we have always been outnumbered. Today three to one, maybe four to one. My father triumphed in many battles with similar odds. Today—that is, for the last few months, my Knights have become . . .” He shook his head again. “Increasingly rebellious. And increasingly terrified.”
His thoughts drifted; then his attention rushed back. “At the end, even my secondary officers—” He glanced at Koriff, who was almost close enough to overhear us. Nevertheless, he looked distant and despondent.
Moroni struggled to complete his thought. “In all of my days, Apollus—all my days of warfare, never . . .” He faced me again, muscles taut. “It was our battle to lose. If God had been with us, no earthly power could have overcome this army. If my people . . . had not . . .” His mind drifted off again, peering toward the ridge but not at the place where our division had been overrun. He studied the foothills farther south, where the Jaguar Division had fought. Where his father had fought.
I changed the subject. “Commander, why have they gathered us here?”
Moroni perked up. “What?”
“Why have we been spared? I count about a hundred and fifty Nephite warriors: high commanders, petty officers, green recruits. I find no commonality. No rhyme or reason—”
“Yes,” said Moroni. “I’ve noticed too, but . . .”
The prisoners stirred. An entourage of Lamanites was fast approaching from the north. At its center must have been someone important. I couldn’t see who it was, but I had a hunch, a secret hankering, that it might be the new king of the Water-Lilies.
“Silence!” growled the guards. “Prisoners will be silent!”
An odd injunction. Most prisoners around me, despite injuries and indignities, were perfectly stoic and taciturn. It was a show for the arriving dignitary.
