Thorns of Glory, page 44
I hurled insults until the last possible second. “You worthless, moribund, Water-Lily-livered wretch! You craven grubworm. You won’t fight me because, like your fathers, your blood runs yellow, not red. Putrid yellow slime as from a baby’s—”
As Lamanai snarled a word of approval, the cords on my wrists were severed. Lamayan soldiers, as well as the Nephite prisoners, backed away as if I had the plague. Only Moroni remained at my left, and the former Hummingbird Captain, First Deer, six paces in front of me, poised to rush at my vitals with his obsidian sword.
“My gladius!” I hollered. “I demand the return of my Roman gladius. The blade of my countrymen! Who has it? Hand it over!”
I searched faces to find the man who’d stolen my sword atop the ridge, keeping one eye on First Deer. I was sure I’d spotted the thief, but he was not stepping forward.
“Apollus,” said Moroni, his tone gentle, almost pitying.
“Back away,” I told him sternly. Then to Lamanai, “You promised me a weapon!” I directed my anger at the thief. “Give me back my gladius, you cur!”
He didn’t move. Just gaped defiantly. No one was responding. No one offered me anything to defend myself.
First Deer flicked his wrist. Something landed in the grass at my feet. It was a knife of sorts, shorter than my forearm. Not obsidian. Not even flint. Limestone? I wasn’t sure. Its tip was reasonably sharp, but it had no blade. It was little better than an eating utensil.
“What in Jupiter’s name is this?” I asked First Deer. “Your grandmother’s toothpick?”
He reassumed his battle stance, ready to charge. “Arm yourself, Roman demon!”
Grudgingly, I acquiesced and scooped up the knife. First Deer shrieked and lunged.
The next events occurred rapidly, a blur of instinct and experience. The moral of the tale is that combat is not theatre. It is not a performance. It’s about blood. Mistaking that, even for an instant, is usually fatal.
In the arena, gladiators frequently adorned themselves in flamboyant costumes and brandished impractical weapons. Bouts were fought with the strict injunction that the first four or five passes were for the indulgence of the spectators. Weapons would clash and echo, but no blood would be spilled. Not yet. Patrons typically spent small fortunes for seats in the lower galleries. Even commoners, who attended freely as the Emperor’s guests and stood in the uppermost galleries, spent exorbitantly for food, drink, and other services. If a highly publicized contest was over in thirty seconds, attendants often cried foul, feeling swindled, their ire not infrequently inciting riots.
First Deer’s mistake—his critical error—was to parade himself before me moments earlier. Lamanai’s comment that the former Hummingbird Captain had been commandeered from the ranks of the Earth-Stone tribe was a sort of confession. I ignored his grunts and snarls—his histrionics—and deduced that Lamanai’s latest bodyguard was uncharacteristically uncomfortable in his new uniform. More importantly, his weapon was not his usual weapon; at least, it was not the obsidian blade he’d likely fought with for years. Like all the swords of Lamanai’s attendants, it was overly large and decorative: jewels, jade, golden skulls, scorpions, and other Water-Lily emblems.
It wasn’t that this warrior with the spotted nose and ripped physique couldn’t handle the extra weight. It was that the implement wasn’t familiar. It was not yet a natural extension of his appendage. This meant I had to respond to his attack in a manner unpredictable, unexpected.
I started running backward on the balls of my feet.
It hardly mattered if First Deer interpreted my behavior to be some unconventional strategy or ordinary cowardice. I hoped he’d focus his faculties on the original distance between us, not upon the new distance I was creating. Few things looked more awkward, more ridiculous, than a man running backward. It required two or three steps for me to gain the requisite speed. A pursuer instinctively expected the pursuant to turn and flee the combat area, straight into the mass of bystanders. This, however, would be a gesture of futility. With so many Lamanites encompassing us, it’s not as if there was any hope of escape. My object was to put him off-balance, mentally and physically.
Moreover, this was about timing. If I took too many backward steps, First Deer would adjust his stance. Had our roles been reversed, I’d have stopped, adjusted, and enjoyed a laugh, much the way many spectators were doing now. Instead, I was the one who suddenly halted.
I let the crude knife slip from my palm. This next maneuver required both hands. A modest widening of First Deer’s eyes confirmed that he was, indeed, off-balance. Not enough to topple but enough that as I lurched forward, I managed to avoid his sword’s obsidian teeth. First Deer found my shoulder flush against his chest as my fingers seized his right hand that gripped the hilt of his sword. Violently, I twisted counter-clockwise. The feint—Greco-Roman in origin—was meant to disarm. It worked only if a weapon’s cross-guard was wide enough to serve as a break, preventing my fingers from being sliced off as they slipped down the blade. A common soldier’s macuahuitl had no cross guard, but these more “imperial” weapons of Lamanai’s retinue, with their bulkier surface area (to accommodate the fancier carvings and artistry), were ideal for this tactic. I thrust my shoulder upward into First Deer’s chin, then dropped to one knee, flopping him onto his back, producing a lung-crunching grunt. First Deer’s imperial sword was effectively mine, stripped from his grip.
It happened just that quickly.
Purely out of pride, First Deer’s initial impulse was to keep fighting. He rethought this impulse when he tried to rise, but this only drove the tip of the obsidian sword closer, threatening to pierce his trachea. He froze, eyes glaring up at me with contempt and humiliation. And something else. Something I didn’t expect. Was it . . . respect?
My audience of thousands wore their jaws as aprons. Who’d have thought so many passion-filled men could maintain such stillness and silence?
Did I say earlier that combat wasn’t about theatrics? Perhaps I misspoke, because I could not resist shouting, “If any of you kept your stubs, you might consider asking the proprietors for a refund!”
The son of Mormon was as awestruck as the rest. It may have been my imagination, but I swore I caught a glint of admiration. Or just relief. I think Moroni was particularly pleased that I had somehow pulled this off without slaying anyone, contrary to the example of Lord Sky.
The mutterings of the Lamanite soldiers rose in volume like a hive of bees as one steps nearer.
“His powers are real,” I heard a Nephite prisoner remark. “He is a demon!”
“He is a warrior,” Moroni retorted, “and a Priesthood bearer.”
My heart could not help but swell. This statement of praise . . . from a prophet of God . . . It settled upon me like a kind of emancipation.
Such emotions were always dangerous at moments like this, so I doused them.
Slowly, cautiously, First Deer crab-crawled out from under the obsidian tip. I stabbed at him once threateningly. He paused, studied me, judged me. Sighing, I let the blade drop to my side. First Deer gaped a few seconds more, his contempt seeming to melt away. When he decided he had achieved a suitable distance, he scrambled to his feet, keeping me in his sights. His expression mirrored many others’ in the crowd.
“I spoke the truth,” Antionum declared abruptly. Then more loudly: “I spoke the truth! Only Men-Chan-Balaam has the power to crush the foreigner! Lord Sky must personally vanquish the Roman!”
“Vanquish him!” demanded the chieftain of the Cloud-Mountains.
“Vanquish!” insisted the prince from the Weeping-Forests.
The uproar redoubled, especially among warriors who were not of the Water-Lilies or the environs of Tikal. They wanted action. They wanted justice. They wanted my head on a pike. Mostly, they wanted their earthbound god Lamanai to finally, unequivocally, demonstrate the superiority of his lineage and power.
I clenched my teeth and glared into the soul of Eagle-Sky-Jaguar, my fingers tightly clenching the sword. With my free hand, I curled a single finger, summoning him toward me.
Lord Sky blurted out, “Apollus the Roman will be vanquished!”
A smattering of cheers went up. Others watched their would-be Kalomté with skepticism. Still others glanced from Lamanai to their comrades in confusion. A few simply wore masks of curiosity.
“He will be vanquished!” Lamanai repeated. “As will the son of Mormon and every other cockroach of the Nephite tribe! But not here. At a more appropriate and sacred place. A place more fitting to the preeminence of the sun god, Itzamna, and the esteem of Yax-Chaac-Xoc.”
“What esteem?” asked a voice. I didn’t see who said it, but it hardly mattered. The sentiment of chagrin was thickening in the air.
“Bind him!” Lamanai commanded.
There was hesitation.
“Bind him!” he cried more urgently, specifically to his bodyguard and other officers of the Water-Lily tribe.
Some recognized the urgency of acting quickly, of somehow preserving the dignity of their chieftain. After all, this action also secured their own futures. Six men surrounded me within seconds; a hundred more in less than a minute. As the circle tightened, I raised my blade and adopted a lethal stance. My heart pumped wildly. The time for restraint and compassion had passed. The smell of blood was in my nostrils. I wanted to taste it. I yearned to slake my thirst with it.
Somehow, in the face of this tightening noose and unfolding pandemonium, I caught the eye of the prophet. Moroni shook his head. What? I did a double take to confirm what I’d seen. I grimaced in disbelief. Are you serious?
Stand down? Was that Moroni’s subtle message? Was he actually advising me not to resist? I shuddered with fury. How could I fulfill that request? I wasn’t sure I could. The switch was thrown. There was no turning back. Didn’t the prophet realize this was exactly how I wanted to die? Not as a human sacrifice. As a warrior! As a Roman!
He shook his head again, less subtly.
My prior thought was already ringing discordantly in my brain. As a Roman. As what? What did that mean? No matter. I was acting as the machine now—the thing I’d been trained to be all of my life.
But I wasn’t a machine. Or at least . . . I wasn’t that machine. I was something else. Something more.
A warm . . . thing . . . seemed to blow through me at that instant. A wind. A breeze. That’s accurate enough. The important thing was that this warmth confirmed the wisdom of Moroni’s advice.
I dropped the weapon.
“Seize him! Bind him!” Lamanai yelled frantically.
I was quickly overwhelmed by soldiers. They yanked my arms behind my back. A cord was tightened. Still, their treatment was not as harsh as I might have expected. No spittle hit my face. No one shouted, “Demon!” or insulted the virtue of my mother. Though forceful, the soldiers completed the task with uncharacteristic professionalism.
Someone fought to reach me, brutally pushing aside everyone in his path. It was Lord Sky himself, his face contorted with the bitterest enmity I’d ever seen on him. It veritably heaved on his countenance. He trembled with it. Perspired with it.
However, the sweet warm “wind” still whirled inside me. Instead of the angry mask he tried to display, what I saw—what penetrated my spirit—was the face of an innocent teenager. I remembered the young man who’d first greeted us that fateful day at the edge of a cenote in the jungles near Seibalche. Such a different face. Such a different man. Uncorrupted by delusions of grandeur and vainglorious visions of deification. I pitied the face he projected now, so far removed from the man I once considered my friend. He’d set his heart upon becoming the most powerful Lamanite Kalomté in generations. In a few short minutes, I’d done much to obliterate that dream, though I could feel his mind lurching, clawing, trying to devise a way to restore it. This did not mollify the pity and guilt that coursed through my veins.
“You wretched, Nephite-loving dog,” he seethed.
“I am sorry,” I said sincerely.
This threw him for a loop, especially after all the vitriol I’d hurled at him just moments earlier. He pulled in his chin. “Sorry for what, Apollus Brutus Severillus?”
“Sorry that I ever enlisted you to come with me to Tikal. Sorry that I played any role whatsoever in removing you from the protection and anonymity given to you by your benefactor, Hapai-Zin. Some men are fit to lead kingdoms and carry the mantle of leadership. Many—far too many—are only corrupted, their souls blackened by such prospects. You should have remained Lamanai. You should never have become Eagle-Sky-Jaguar. For that, I am truly sorry.”
He drank this in, perplexed. Finally, he scoffed. He scoffed several times. “Apollus, Apollus. As always, you think far too much of yourself. This was always your private weakness. If you did anything, it was to serve as a tool of the gods—my gods. You could not have stopped me from fulfilling my destiny. Even now, you think you can single-handedly thwart the heritage of my fathers? You think you can change the destiny of the ancient bloodline of Yax-Chaac-Xoc?”
“No,” I said. “Single-handedly, I can do nothing. But with the power of the Nephite God—the one true God of light, water, wind, sky, and every other worldly element—I can, as you have seen, do anything.”
He raised a finger to my face, so close I could have bitten it off. “You are about to die, Apollus the Roman. Your antics have demonstrated that it is more appropriate to kill you when the chieftains of all the Lamanite tribes are present.” He started to turn.
“And will you slay me yourself?” I inquired.
He paused. He turned back.
“With incomparable relish.” Once more he turned away, announcing to his lackeys, “If the son of Mormon claims this foreigner holds the same authority as himself, there is no reason he should be spared. We will slay Moroni and the Nephite prisoners now! Then we’ll march north! This battle isn’t over! We will finish—!”
These were Men-Chan-Balaam’s last words. I might have acted as he stood facing me, but it was frankly easier to act while his back was turned. He’d left me no choice.
With my hands still bound, I leaped high in the air, practically tackling Lamanai as I wrapped my legs around his head. Then I snapped his neck.
Notes to Chapter 14:
In this novel, many Mayan language names and terms have been employed, even so far as to suggest that the Lamanite tribes referred to themselves universally as Lamayans. As I explained in the notes to Chapter 8 in Tennis Shoes Book 12: Seers and Sorcerers, this term, which implies a kind of phonetic transition between how this ancient tribe identified itself at different times, is purely a literary device and not based upon specific evidence. It is, however, representative of a general scholarly point of view.
Even if this phonetic device isn’t supported by research, there is plenty of evidence tying the civilization we today identify under the umbrella term Maya with the peoples the Lamanites became. Of course, the story is never quite so simple. Apostate Nephites, over the course of the thousand-year history of the Book of Mormon, might also be part of various Maya tribes, as well as surviving remnants of the Jaredites and Mulekites.
The word Maya or Mayan has its entomological roots in a Spanish word invented at the end of the sixteenth century. Its usage was to identify the indigenous peoples of the recently conquered Yucatán Peninsula. In particular, it references natives living in the vicinity of an archaeological site known to the conquistadors, and located today between the cities of Merida and Mani, called Mayapán. The term was initially associated with the peoples living in the vicinity of those ruins but quickly became a noun and adjective identifying dozens of tribes living in southern Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, and Honduras. In scholarly circles, it may soon fall out of favor, allowing more accurate designations to become prominent based upon a tribe’s individual affiliation, such as Yucatec, Lacandon, Tzeltal, Tojolabales, Ch’ol, Kekchi, Mopan, Achi, Akatek, Chuj, Ixil, Jakaltek, Kaqchikel, K’iche’, Poqomam, Q’anjob’al, Q’eqchi’, Mam, Poqomchi’, Tz’utujil, Uspantek, Ch’orti’, Itza, and others.
It’s probable that many of the indigenous peoples who occupy these lands today are merely descendants of those who occupied the same lands prior to the arrival of Lehi, Mulek, or even Jared. Nevertheless, an abundance of texts and articles have been written by Latter-day Saint scholars—often drawn from the research of non-Latter-day Saint scholars—addressing fascinating correlations between Maya lands, culture, and language and the text of the Book of Mormon.
Correlations between the Book of Mormon and the Maya have been proffered almost since the inception of the Restored Gospel. The first known statement connecting these concepts was published in 1833 in The Evening and the Morning Star, a periodical edited by W. W. Phelps. After reprinting a story about the discovery of ancient ruins in Central America, the editor noted, “It is good testimony in favor of the book of Mormon” (W. W. Phelps, “Discovery of Ancient Ruins in Central America,” The Evening and the Morning Star, 1:71 [February, ١٨٣٣]).
Most recorded sentiments about Book of Mormon geography in the 1830s associated the volume with the aboriginal peoples of North America, especially tribes that inhabited the western plains, or else the sweeping claim was suggested that the Book of Mormon recounted the history of all of the native inhabitants of North and South America, with the coast of Chili as Lehi’s designated landing site (see A. S., “The Golden Bible, or, Campbellism Improved,” Observer and Telegraph. Religious, Political, and Literary [Hudson, Ohio], 18 November 1830, 3).
As if to clarify an essential element of the debate, Joseph Smith, in July of 1840, offered up what reads as a doctrinal definition of the term Zion when he said, “the Land of Zion . . . consists of all N[orth] & S[outh] America . . . any place where the Saints gather is Zion which every righteous man will build up for a place of safety for his children . . . The redemption of Zion is the redemption of all N[orth] & S[outh] America” (Martha Jane Knowlton Coray, edited by Dean C. Jessee, “Joseph Smith’s July 19, 1840 Discourse,” Brigham Young University Studies [Spring ١٩٧٩], vol. ١٩ no. ٣, ٣٩٢).
