Thorns of Glory, page 43
Moroni started to object. “Apollus—”
“You are not a Nephite,” declared Lord Sky. “The blood of this tribe does not run in your veins. Your sacrifice would mean nothing, represent nothing. This offer is only for the warriors of Mormon and Mormon’s heir.” His volume increased to be heard above the chanting. “Who will fight for the religion of Moroni?” As a few prisoners shuffled, Lamanai motioned to a member of his retinue. “Here is Kej-B’ah-Te’!”
The name meant Primal Deer. Or Deer-Who-Is-First. He was a fierce-looking young man with a tattoo-blackened nose, like . . . well, like a deer. It would have been a painful tattoo to receive.
“First Deer was a Hummingbird Captain of the Earth-Stone,” Lamanai continued. “He is now, with the blessing of Chief Zo’akban, a member of my personal bodyguard.”
First Deer strutted before the gathering of prisoners, snarling for dramatic effect. He emitted a sound, half puma and half . . . garden snake.
“Choose him or choose another member of my retinue,” Lamanai invited. “Whomever you think is weary or weak. Every one of them radiates the powers of Yax-Chaac-Xoc. Slay any member of my retinue and Moroni will live. Your Priesthood will live. The Nephite legacy will not be extinguished. Come! Step forward! In the name of the son of Mormon, step forward!”
Lamanai’s bodyguard consisted of about two dozen warriors. There were a few I might have identified as less skilled than others, but overall it was an intimating cadre. They eagerly gripped their obsidian weapons, awaiting a volunteer. Any volunteer. Except, apparently, me.
There were at least a dozen Eagle and Jaguar prisoners who would have made worthy opponents for members of Lord Sky’s retinue, yet most of them stared down at the dirt. What was this nonsense? Was no one willing to fight?
Lamanai’s motives were becoming clear. This spectacle wasn’t just about Moroni’s life or death. It was about honor itself. Nephite heritage and dignity. Particularly, it was about the future of Eagle-Sky-Jaguar: his authority over not only the soldiers of his tribe but all Lamayans. Hundreds of Earth-Stone warriors were peppered among the gathering. I also recognized fighters from the Cloud-Mountains, far to the south. I recalled from Shim that the Earth-Stone chieftain was called Sa’abkhan, not Zo’akban. Harry had never recounted his experience of being imprisoned in the Lamanite camp. I now suspected it had to do with Sa’abkhan’s death and the ascension of this other man, most likely one of Sa’abkhan’s relatives. A brother? In theory, Zo’akban was equal in authority with Lord Sky, yet nothing in the body language of this chieftain seemed to object to Lamanai’s presumption of eminence.
Lamanites from every tribe were openly cheering Lamanai. It may have been the first time in decades that any Lamayan had emerged with some semblance of the charisma necessary to unite the fragmented tribes. Whatever happened next, it had the potential of defining Lamanai as a kind of messiah—a “chosen one”—who might finally liberate the Lamanites from the yoke of Teotihuacán. It was a blatant act of defiance for Lamanai to suggest that any Nephite might survive this day, least of all the son of the Nephite’s supreme commander.
I didn’t believe a word of it. It was an act. Something was afoot. I speculated Lamanai’s intent was twofold: to demolish any semblance of pride in these prisoners’ spines and to prove to his people that his power as a living deity trounced whatever power had ever been ascribed to Moroni or his Priesthood. Still, I was skeptical that Lord Sky would risk the life of any Lamayan soldier in a fair contest.
“Why not you?” I shouted.
“Shut your mouth, Roman,” said Lamanai, his voice lower in volume than my own.
I cried even louder. “Why not you, Lamanai?!”
Our exchange finally started garnering attention. Thousands of voices grew quiet and listened.
Lamanai was livid. “How dare you use my former name! The secret and sacred name of my caretaker, Hapai-Zin—”
I persisted. “Why not you, Men-Chan-Balaam? Why cower behind the men in your retinue? Why not face the challenger yourself?”
The audience started to murmur.
Lamanai looked agitated. He sneered, “I would fight any human being who challenged me. Even you, Apollus Brutus Severillus, if it served my destiny and heritage. You are not worthy of the blood of my fathers. If you were worthy, I would make you suffer the most excruciating death—far worse than what you will already suffer before the setting of the sun.”
“Fight me alone, Men-Chan-Balaam!” snapped Moroni. “If you will spare the lives of these knights—of all these prisoners—and that of Apollus the Roman, I will slake your vanities. I will engage you in a duel to the death.”
Lamanai gaped at the prophet, then started to laugh. It was all a bit forced and phony. “Do not embarrass yourself, Moroni the Magician. Remember, I have seen you fight. Yes, you are a hardened veteran with many scalps on your belt. I would be tempted—indeed, I would be tempted—if you were not so old, slow, and broken.”
I raised an eyebrow. Harsh insult, but was it justified? Moroni was in his fifties. Perhaps late fifties. I suspected he was close to the age of Vespasian when he’d commanded our legions against Galilee. As a young recruit I’d once awakened from a dream wherein I faced Vespasian in a gladiatorial death match. Not sure what had provoked this dream. Who can interpret such things? I still can’t recall who won or how it ended. Yet I pondered: If challenged, would I have accepted such a contest? Heaven forbid! Not for all the gold in Iberia! Vespasian would have crushed me, solely by intimidation. Even as a recruit I’d known that any advantages I had in speed or strength would have been resoundingly vanquished by experience.
I was older now. I possessed strength, speed, and experience. So again I asked myself: In a matter of life or death, would I have faced the “Old Mule” in such a contest today? Yes, I admitted, I would have—no, not on a battlefield, legion versus legion, but in single combat. Without reservation.
Moroni’s physique reminded me of Vespasian’s. Mormon’s son had never faltered during our journey to Cumorah. It took all of our stamina to match his pace. Still, I’d noticed he favored his left knee, massaging it often. I’d noticed a stiffness in his right shoulder that may have been associated with a long scar, the corner of which was visible beneath his collar. This habit of observation was something I could not shake. It was irrepressible. I noted exploitable flaws even in my closest comrades. It was part of my nature, an instinct I felt sure would forever separate a soldier of my era from those of Meagan’s century.
Not every soldier possessed this instinct. Only those who’d lived to an age like that of Moroni. A soldier in his late fifties was ancient indeed. Despite Lamanai’s blathering about the powers of the Nephite God or the bloodlines of Yax-Chaac-Xoc, if Lord Sky were to slay Mormon’s son in a death match, many onlookers—perhaps most—would be unimpressed. I did not doubt that Moroni had a few lethal tricks up his sleeve, but what was electrifying about watching a youthful warrior, with all his natural agility, cut down an old man, even the heir of Mormon? To men like me, the very idea of such a contest was cringe-worthy.
The alternative was, for Lord Sky, too horrifying for words. What if Lamanai was slain by Moroni? What if Lord Sky received a modest flesh wound, anything that might have prevented him from walking away with his dignity intact? Lamanai’s purpose in formulating this challenge would be nullified. Moroni, I, and the other prisoners would still be slaughtered; victory over the Nephites would still be declared. But Men-Chan-Balaam’s vision of a united Lamayan kingdom, with himself holding the scepter, would shatter. Losing a single drop of blood in a contest with Moroni might cause him to forfeit his warriors’ respect. The heritage of Yax-Chaac-Xoc would be stained. Lamanai might retain sovereignty over his tribe, but that would be the extent of it. This was the moment—the very instant—that Lord Sky’s aspirations would come to fruition or crumble to dust.
Still, if Lamanai wouldn’t fight Moroni, why not just fight the first Nephite volunteer? Why offer up one of his bodyguards? Wouldn’t the slaying of a Nephite champion reinforce his godly image? Nah, I thought. This game was more calculated than I’d first suspected. My mind gyrated trying to figure out all of the moving parts.
The optimal outcome, of course, would be if no Nephite had the courage to step forward. Indeed, that appeared to be how it was playing out. To me, it was a shameful and appalling display. Lamanai had accurately predicted the mindset of these prisoners. He’d framed this as a death match that could potentially save the life of Moroni—an opportunity for someone to “prove” or “restore” or “dignify” Moroni’s Priesthood. Never once had Lord Sky hinted that a prisoner who volunteered might save his own skin. Presumably, if a Nephite warrior prevailed, he was destined to have his throat slashed anyway. Would any of these prisoners fight for Moroni knowing his own life would still be sacrificed? Clearly not. Would they have chosen to fight in the name of the Nephite religion or Priesthood? Ridiculous.
I guess I had a different mindset about these things. If they were going to die anyway, why not die with dignity? Why not perish with a shred of self-respect? If not for their religion, why not for a thousand years of Nephite history and heritage? Why die for nothing?
Lamanai’s smug grin told me I’d underestimated the overall demoralized state of the Nephite army. Until today they’d maintained at least a gossamer facade of bravado. Even this had faded as Mormon’s booby-traps failed and the Lamanites breached Zenephi’s defenses. Every pretense of hope had crumbled to dust.
I challenged Lamanai’s terms and conditions. “Let any prisoner who agrees to fight retain his own life! If a volunteer can defeat your guardsman, let him depart with Commander Moroni!”
“Silence, Roman!” blustered Lord Sky. “You have no authority here! You do not represent the Nephite Priesthood! Interrupt again and I will sever your tongue and let you writhe—!”
“Yes, I do!” I shouted with all the volume in my lungs. “I do represent that authority and power! I hold the same Priesthood as Mormon. The same office as his son!”
Onlookers stirred and muttered. Those outside of the range of my voice were demanding to know what I’d said. Like ripples in a pond, my declaration spread outward like waves. I gaped at Lamanai, then at Moroni, then blankly at the space before me. What had I just said? I barely recalled. The words weren’t mine. I’d never thought such thoughts. I wouldn’t have contemplated such an idea. I considered apologizing to Moroni. Laying claim to his Priesthood and power? Contemptuous. Nonsensical. I was no prophet. I wasn’t even in the same league—
“What is this vile lie?” demanded Lamanai. He drew his jade dagger for the second time and faced Moroni. “I’ve listened for hours as you prattled on about your Nephite religion. If this outsider—this Roman—has spoken blasphemy against your God, say the word and I will spill his blood.”
Moroni studied my expression. Haltingly, he replied, “Apollus . . . speaks the truth.”
A few in the gathering gasped. Most fell silent.
Moroni continued, “Apollus does hold the Nephite Priesthood. He bears the Priesthood of Jesus Christ.”
“You are a witness!” I howled, pointing at Lamanai. “You were there the day I exercised this power—the power of the Nephites, the power of their God—in the village of Seibalche! You were there when I exercised this power to heal hundreds of Lamayans from your own tribe!”
“Apollus the Roman speaks the truth!”
My eyes searched for the person who spoke. Of course, I already knew. Antionum stepped into the open; he emerged from the masses almost directly in front of me. Moroni looked confused. I was not confused. Confidence simmered inside me.
Antionum continued. “I also witnessed the miracles of Apollus. With my own eyes I saw him, and another man named Ryan Champion, exercise the powers of the Nephite Priesthood.” He turned to Moroni. “As Lord Sky has declared, the son of Mormon is an old man. His muscles are dry and withered. His proposition to fight our great Kalomté is an outrage! An embarrassment!”
The crowd roared and pumped weapons in agreement.
The prophet lurched toward Antionum. “I would fight you, Antionum of Seibalche! You’re an ungrateful liar and backstabber! Loose these bonds, and I will fight anyone with the courage to face me!”
Warriors chuckled at the Eagle Division Commander. It was surreal. Moroni may not have been young, but his muscles were certainly not dry or withered. I’d never heard such spite from the lips of the son of Mormon, not in all of our months together. It was out of character, unnatural. Was it hyperbole? Was it part of an act? No matter. Everything seemed to be part of some celestial plan, unfolding like an imperial scroll.
“Fight the Roman from across the sea!” It was a new voice: that of the Earth-Stone chieftain, Zo’akban. “Slay this foreigner who claims to possess the powers of the Nephite religion, and I will pledge myself to Men-Chan-Balaam of the Water-Lilies. Silence him, and I will pledge the loyalty of my entire tribe to Lord Sky of Tikal!”
“As will I!”
This voice had shouted from a considerable distance. Yet another chieftain of the Lamaya worked his way toward us from the south, where other members of his tribe, adorned in their unique insignias and featherwork, were more densely positioned. The crowd parted as he and several of his ensigns took nearly a minute to reach us. The murmuring and muttering of the crowd intensified. He came to a halt well within hearing of Lamanai, Zo’akban, and the Nephite prisoners. I recognized him from the summit of Shim, but I’d forgotten his affiliation. I was apparently the only one, because he felt no need to introduce himself, presuming he was already well known to the gathering.
“I will likewise pledge the loyalty of the people of the Cloud-Mountains to the old bloodlines of Tikal.” The chief pointed at me. “This being—this stranger—with hair the color of a capuchin monkey, eyes like a turquoise enchanter, and skin the pall of death, is a physical abomination. If he wields the powers of the Nephite priesthood, it is because he is a spell-caster of Kisin. He must be destroyed!”
Hundreds of men snarled or spat in my general direction.
A final voice rang out. I hadn’t noticed its owner working his way toward us from the west with a small entourage.
“I am Prince K’aak’-Balaam of the Weeping-Forest. I cannot speak for my Kalomté, whose forces are fighting the Nephites east of here, but you know where he stands. The invaders of Teotihuacán can no longer be tolerated in our lands. If Lord Eagle-Sky-Jaguar will vow to stop licking the feet of Spearthrower Owl and his murdering lackey, Fireborn—”
Members of the Water-Lilies erupted in outrage at the Prince. It was obviously a sensitive point. Tribesmen of the Weeping-Forest had laid much blame for Teotihuacán’s subjugation squarely upon the Water-Lilies.
Lamanai raised his fist. “Let him finish! Let him finish!”
I looked around. Not a single Lightning Warrior was still in the vicinity. They’d discerned what was happening and skedaddled.
Prince Fire-Jaguar of the Weeping-Forest continued. “If Lord Sky will vow to end all allegiances with the northern invaders . . .” He paused and added carefully, “My uncle may be persuaded to unite with his brother Lamayans.”
Lamanai took a step forward, nearly interrupting the Prince. “By Itzamna and the gods of sun, water, earth, and sky I make this vow!”
More cheering. More chanting. More deranged revelry. I had to admit, it was quite the coup. I wasn’t exactly certain of the entire number of Lamayan factions in attendance, but it seemed clear that Lamanai had aroused the fealty of nearly everyone. The only thing that appeared to stand between Lord Sky and his ascension to the highest throne of the Lamanites . . . was me.
A vicious mantra began rising among the warriors: “Slay the demon! Slay the demon! Slay the demon!”
I set my sights on the king of Tikal. It took a moment, but as the volume of the mantra increased, our eyes finally locked. I could hardly believe the serendipity of what had occurred. All that had been foreseen by Rebecca, Meagan, Mary, and Garth . . . it was coming to pass. It was actually coming to pass.
“I will fight him!” rang out the voice of First Deer. “I will slay the demon of Kisin! Loose his hands! Sever his bonds! Give him a sword! And I will expose the power of the Nephite God for what it is and what it will never be!”
Hold on, I thought. This wasn’t quite the way I’d envisioned this. I’d thought it was clear: only a duel with Men-Chan-Balaam himself carried sufficient onus to convince them he was worthy to be their Kalomté.
“I must fight Lord Sky!” I howled above the fracas. “If he is your earthly god, let him prove it now!”
A lively debate stirred among the spectators.
“The Roman is right,” declared Antionum. “The personage of Eagle-Sky-Jaguar must vanquish the demon!”
Chief Zo’akban of the Earth-Stones nodded in agreement. Other leaders were less sure. Lamanai sensed the looming controversy and stepped in.
“The Roman is wrong!” he snarled at Antionum. “I have bestowed upon First Deer all the powers of my office. He may slay the white demon.”
“You are a coward, Lamanai!” I railed. “An encrusted, hollow chamber pot with the spine of a viper! There is more honor in a dung beetle than in your entire fetid bloodline. You are like your father: a weak, sniveling, cuttlefish. Jaguar Paw was too stupid to stop Fireborn from spilling his entrails.” I addressed the crowd. “Too incompetent to stop Fireborn from defiling your mothers, slashing their throats and the throats of all your children. If his whelp cannot destroy me, his accursed powers will destroy every Lamanite within the sound of my voice, in all the lands under the rising sun!” I faced my adversary. “Fight me, you worthless—!”
“What are you waiting for?” my adversary snapped at First Deer.
Well, at least I’d gotten under Lamanai’s skin. I’d gotten into the heads of many of them. I wagered that less than half would not feel fully satisfied unless Lord Sky himself silenced me.
