I leaped out so quickly that even I was surprised. I hit him with my body and he went down like a structure of straw. Even as my left hand was searching for his mouth to keep him from crying out, my right hand was bringing Hugo around in a wide arc. Both hands did their work simultaneously.
There was no cry. Only a soft grunt signalled the death of the monk. The stiletto made a wide, gaping gash of his throat, and warm blood spilled over my own chest. I lay on the ground on top of the monk, my left hand still on his mouth to make certain no final death cry would escape. He was soft as wet clay, and I knew he was dead. It was then that the compassion bubbled over and I wished him back to life.
It took only a few minutes to drag the monk into the jungle and strip him of his robe and hood. I barely noticed his shaved head, but was struck by the rough, unbleached shorts he wore under his religious attire. Those must smart on hot days, I thought. He also wore crude leather sandals and had a crude wooden cross on a cheap chain around his neck. I left the shorts and the cross on his body, and slipped into his robe and sandals. I raised the cowl until it virtually obstructed my vision, but hid my face.
I gathered up the fallen sticks of firewood and began looking for more, taking my sweet old time about it. Fortunately, I had watched the monk long enough to know that he had a specific fire to tend. I looked over, saw that the fire was burning low, and started off to put the firewood on it. Just beyond the campfire was Intenday's huge tent. I gave it a covert inspection as I stepped up and carefully put the firewood on the fire. There was a soft light in there, as though the holy man were awakening to start the day's journey.
"More quickly, Nuyan," a voice from my left called out softly. "We must build the fires for the breakfast. Move more quickly, if that is possible, you slow mule, you."
I turned slowly, but not all the way, to see who was speaking. Another monk, short and squat, was piling a huge load of wood on the next fire. I could see part of his chubby face and he was smiling.
"That's right, Nuyan," the monk said, laughter in his voice, "keep going at your own pace and the Iman will have a cold breakfast. And you, my slow-paced friend, will find yourself scrubbing the kitchens at home for a month. Try to make haste, won't you?"
I said nothing. Supposing the monk Nuyan was a mute? Supposing he had a lisp or a nasal twang or a different Spanish accent. Silence and slowness were my best friends now. I moved away from the fire and went seriously about the business of gathering firewood. It wouldn't do me any good to draw attention to Nuyan by having the Iman eat a cold breakfast.
Things went well after that. I got the fire going furiously, though I was worried about that breakfast bit. Did Nuyan have to fix the religious leader's breakfast? If so, I would have to get too close to the man and he'd certainly notice that I wasn't the real Nuyan.
However, by the time I'd brought back my third load of firewood, the servants were already out preparing breakfast in great black pots. Along the road, other monks were readying the carts and oxen, getting them hitched for the short run to the base camp. Tents around the Iman's big tent were being struck and folded.
"Come, Nuyan," the chubby monk said from behind me. "We get to sleep while the Iman eats. Come, you slowpoke."
I turned, slowly of course, and saw the chubby monk joining the other fire tending monks near the base of a huge palm tree. The monks were stretching out on the ground and curling up inside their robes. I circled around to avoid the chubby man who was so talkative to Nuyan, picked out a spot and pretended to sleep.
But sleep wasn't a part of my program just then. I'd had precious little of it and wanted to drop off into dreamland, but I kept my eyes on the monks to see if I could spot weapons among them. I didn't. I did see Intenday, though, when he came out to warm his hands before the fire.
He was a small, wiry, insignificant-looking man in a bright red robe and hood to match. He pushed back the hood and I saw a brown bald head and an enormous nose. But his eyes were so large and glistening that the corpse-like ugliness of the man was soon forgotten. There was no benevolence in that man and I wondered about the people of Apalca and why they would choose a holy man who obviously was so full of greed and evil; and completely devoid of compassion. At least in those great, penetrating, conniving eyes.
A half hour later, the camp was struck, the Iman had his breakfast tucked away in his stomach and the call went out to the oxen. The carts began to roll.
"Come on, slugabed Nuyan," the chubby monk called across to me. "Rustle your bones. Time to go."
I got up and followed the others. Leading the caravan were the oxcarts. Following them was the ornate wagon carrying Intenday and his lieutenants. Other monks strung out in a double line on the narrow road. The firewatching monks were last, straggling along single file. That was fine with me. I held back, waiting for the fat monk to fall in line, then brought up the rear.
It was, I learned, the customary position for Nuyan. He always brought up the rear. The monk directly in front of me turned occasionally to smile, as though he were giving encouragement to a dimwitted child. I bent my head and tried to pull it deeper into the hood.
The sun was up full when we reached the base camp. Ahead, I could see a group of Marine guards letting the oxcarts go past. Then, a group of officers came out of the main building to greet Intenday's carriage.
Leading the officers was my old nemesis: Col. Ramon Vasco. I checked my weapons under the robe. In spite of my heavy sweating, everything was in place. But I still felt a tremor of fear and excitement through my body. What if the man recognized me? No, he was paying no attention to the humble monks. All his attentions were centered on the holy man in the carriage.
As I waited at the end of the line for the officers and the religious leaders to observe the customary amenities, the chubby monk came back to stand alongside me. I sucked in my breath, and my head, and pretended to be watching something back down the road.
"You're quieter than usual, Nuyan," the gabby one said. "Did you lose your tongue during the long night tending the fires?"
I shook my head no, hoping that was another of Nuyan's habits. It apparently was. The fat monk went on jabbering about how sleepy he was, how slow I was, how hot the sun was, how high the mountain was, how glad he'd be when we reached the top and had decent food. He talked enough for eight monks and I was happy to let him ramble. Suddenly, I could feel him staring at me.
"Something is wrong, Nuyan," he said, stepping closer. "Come, turn and look at me. Tell me what's wrong."
Away from him, I twitched the muscles of my left forearm and popped Hugo into my hand. If this man discovered I wasn't Nuyan, I would have to kill him before he set up the alarm. With luck, I could be a hundred yards into the jungle before the others figured out what the hell had happened.
In that moment, as I felt the monk tugging at the sleeve of the robe and my hand was tightening on the stiletto's hilt, the Iman's wagon began to roll forward and the extenders let out a loud "Yo-ho, yo-ho."
"Come on, slowpoke," the fat monk said, tugging harder. "Try to keep up. The trail gets rough now."
Old chubby took his usual place near the head of the line of firetenders. I realized then that even these lowly monks had a pecking order and a kind of protocol of position. My position was last in line. Somehow, I wasn't offended or humbled by that.
After an hour, the oxcarts and the leader's carriage had to be left behind. Monks carried the I man on a chair attached to long poles until the trail got so steep that the wiry man had to actually walk. Even so, two of his lieutenants were right beside him, gripping his skinny arms and helping him up the narrow trail.
We reached the first gap in the trail about ten o'clock. The sun was hot above us and not even the stiff breeze from the ocean helped to dissipate the heat. Sweat was showing through the robes of the monks ahead of me, and through the uniforms of the Cuban Marine guards who manned the station ahead.