Casca 10: The Conquistador (10 page)

Casca accepted that. He understood the man's fear for his life. He knew that even though he didn't give aid to Casca, he still might be killed for not doing something to prevent his following after them. But that was his problem. Casca had more important things to consider than the lives of one or two or even a hundred men. It had long since been proved that human life was a very cheap commodity where the future of nations was concerned, and the individual became immediately expendable to the so-called greater good.

Lowering his sword point, he motioned for Xocomilco to rise and said, "I agree. You may go on ahead of me, and I shall follow. But know this. At the first sign of treachery, I shall come for you and kill you in a manner that will give your children nightmares for the rest of their lives."

The Aztecs left, the campfire, taking the body of Maxtcli with them. They returned to their beds shaken at what they had seen this night. If the scar-faced man was representative of what all the Spaniards were like, they were truly a most fearsome people and not completely human.

In the morning, the ambassadors and their escort took to the trail again. Casca was ready. He put his armor in his pack and followed after them. He could have reached Tenochtitlan on his own, but it was best this way. If he hadn't agreed with the Aztec ambassadors, he would have had to fight every step of the way. Now, if he was lucky, he would not have to exert himself much more and still would reach his objective.

He trailed after them as they passed through the heavy, tropical forests and began the slow climb to the mountains, where the air grew thin and the lungs labored. He began to see landmarks that were familiar as they neared the passes that led to the high desert. He knew that across them lay the great lakes where the city of Tenochtitlan awaited his arrival in the valley of Mexico.

If he wanted food, he took it from the cooking pots of the villages they passed through, not caring whether it was dog meat or even the large lizards the Indians were so fond of. There were no protests, only looks of wonder at his paleness. If he touched an object, it was carefully wrapped and given to a priest, for it was well known that magic could be made through the use of objects that had been touched or drunk from by a god.

In each of the villages, the story of his contest with Maxtcli was repeated with wonder. In the telling the story grew greater, for Maxtcli had been a great and famous warrior.

Casca was left alone. If he came near a child, the mother or father would scoop it up out of his path and cover its eyes so that it would not have its soul stolen by the gods, for that is what the people of the tribes were beginning to call all the Spaniards. The story told of the scarred one proved that at the very least they had powers beyond those of mere mortals.

Casca had learned to use his wounds to his advantage. The sight of those scars on his body brought instant fear to the Indians. Wounds were something they understood, and those on the body of the god ensured that he would not be bothered by any on his journey. When he began the trek across the desert, he could see a smoking mountain in the distance and knew that he was nearing the end of his journey.

The mountain had been sacred long before the Aztecs had settled in the green valley of the lakes. It was called Popocatepetl, the smoking mountain, and not far away, was its sister mountain, Ixtaccihuatl, or the white woman, named for the pale ash and snow that rested on its crater's rim. These ancient volcanoes had witnessed the rise and fall of many peoples including those Casca, as the Quetza, had ruled over – the Teotec, who now were only distant memories in the minds of the Aztecs as the builders of the city of the gods, Teotihuacan.

He passed through many small towns with populations numbering only a thousand and several large cities, the most important of which was Cholula, a holy center where the principal god to whom they made sacrifice was the Quetza.

On the borders of the valley of Mexico were other cities with populations of over fifty thousand: The people here did not have the look of the Aztec about them. Subject or vassal, in the faces of most he saw no love for the brilliantly clad warriors who treated them with contempt and disdain.

The capital city of the Aztecs could be reached only after crossing the deserts and then descending into the broad valley. As they came closer, they had to pass large fields of the spiny maguey plant, hills spotted with hundreds of the tall white flowering yucca, and a few patches set aside for maize. Once inside the valley, every bit of arable land was used for cultivation of foodstuffs, mostly maize, the staple of the Aztec diet.

When they left the desert and passed close to the towns built around five lakes, hundreds gathered to watch them, gawking in wonder at the strangers. All the cities were well built, clean, and orderly. Temples and gardens were
everywhere, their walls covered with carvings and painted frescoes. The strange art of this land decorated nearly every flat space on both the insides and outsides of buildings and walls.

He passed several cities on the edge of one lake, Tlapan, Tizapan, and Coyohuacan, before they reached Chapultepec, where a broad causeway led to the island city of Tenochtitlan. The escort of Coyote warriors was relieved at the gates of the city by the Eagle Knights of the palace guard. They took over the responsibility for guiding the ambassadors to the palace of Moctezuma.

Casca had his way blocked by fifty fully armed warriors who made their bows, lances, and hand weapons obvious. He got the message that he was not to follow after the nephews of Moctezuma.

Fast runners had gone ahead of the party, and Moctezuma had known of the coming of the stranger for some days before his arrival. He still had no wish to see the man face to face but ordered that he be treated as a guest and shown all
courtesy. The only thing to be denied him was access to the king's presence. He would have to wait until he was sent for. Other than that, he could have complete freedom of the other cities but could not enter the walls of Tenochtitlan.

Casca was given reluctant greetings by a priest, a nasty looking bastard whose long, greasy hair hung nearly to his waist and smelled of blood. The priest indicated that Casca was to leave the causeway and follow him. He led him to a house in Chapultepec and he made it clear that Casca was to live there. It was much like those of the other cities, with a low roof, small windows, and walls painted with bright frescoes depicting Aztec life and their gods. Guards were stationed at every exit including the windows.

The priest's manner made it obvious that he did not like having any intercourse with the stranger. Using as few words as possible, he made it clear that Casca could go where he wished as long as he stayed away from Moctezuma and his city. The guards were there to make certain he was not bothered and to ensure his own protection and security until Moctezuma decided what he wished to do about him.

Personally, the priest hoped that the scarred one would be given to him as an offering to Huitzilopochtli or even for the mother of the gods, Coatlicue, who, wearing her crown of snake heads and necklace of hearts and chopped-off
hands, waited in her temple by the Place of Reeds. Sometimes the priest felt that she was not given her fair share of the blood offerings.

Casca entered the low rooms of his new abode without comment. He was not ready to push the issue of seeing Moctezuma to the breaking point yet. He had done well to get this far. Now he would take the time to learn of the Aztecs and their people. He would see what they were really like and what their future might be. Once this was done, he would see Moctezuma. Of that he had no doubt.
When he was ready, the king of the Aztecs would grant him an audience. That was not conjecture; it was destiny.

For now he was content to wander the valley of Mexico, walk in the markets, watch the people, and learn. They had much that was good about them but had more that was not. If a man admired the Spartans, he would love the Aztecs. From birth, they had a rigid system that allowed no deviation. Even the number of corn cakes that one could eat each day was controlled. Maize was the property of the state. Beans and other vegetables or even meat could be owned or bartered for, but maize was the staple, and the staple was controlled.

Children of the Aztecs who became farmers or craftsmen were first trained as priests or warriors. Here even the priests went into battle for the glory of the gods. Many of them achieved great fame for their prowess and courage. Children of the Aztecs were punished by regulated methods dependent on their age. A disobedient child of nine could be punished by being beaten with a rod or else be tied hand and foot and have his body and limbs pricked with the sharp points of the maguey. Girls were treated slightly better. As the children grew older, the punishments grew more harsh.

The Aztecs were extremely moral, demanding a high standard of conduct from everyone. Thievery and drunkenness could be punished by death, as could adultery on the part of a woman. A married man could have relations with a woman only if she was not married. Once wed, fidelity was demanded of the women and was enforced strictly. Only after they reached the age of seventy were they permitted to drink to excess, which most of them did. Because of their age, their actions were forgiven them; the elderly were honored and respected.

Throughout their lives, religious doctrine was rigidly enforced with an intolerance that Torquemada would have envied. To Casca's mind, the Aztecs were nearly Catholic in their attitudes toward heretics and blasphemers.

He went out to visit other cities. Leaving behind his Spanish dress, he wore the loose mantle of the Indians as well as their loincloth. He covered his head with a small cloth cap of cotton. If he wasn't looked at too closely, he was ignored, at least until his escort of Eagle Knights was noted. Everywhere he went, they accompanied him. All that he did, said, touched, smelled, or looked at was noted and reported back to Moctezuma.

The cities of the Aztecs were built around five connecting lakes. To the north was Xaltocan and Zumpango, to the south Xochimilco and Chalco, and between them the most sacred of all, where Tenochtitlan rested on its island, was Lake Texcoco. All of these were connected by canals and drawbridges. On the lakes were man-made floating islands of reeds tied together and covered with soil. They appeared as floating gardens whose plants' roots reached the reeds to feed directly on the waters of the lakes.

The other Aztecs seen outside the valley were for the most part military families who had been sent into subject lands to strengthen the Aztec rule and provide warriors if trouble threatened. But the valley was the heart of the Mexicas, the place where its life source came from. This would have to be destroyed if the Aztecs were to be conquered.

As Casca went from one place to another, content for a time to wait, another felt that time was running out for him. Moctezuma was confused and worried. In the last few days he had received more reports about the Spanish and their actions. He had the feeling that fate was taking sides against him, forcing him into patterns over which he had no control.

And what was he to do about this scar-faced one who had followed his nephews back to his city? He had punished his nephews by exiling them from the city. But now there were these constant wanderings of the stranger. His men had reported back to him how Casca was looking everywhere, going to temples and markets, watching the people as they went about their everyday life. This was troubling the king. He had just been told that the stranger was leaving Texcoco, where he had been for the last two days, and heading out into the countryside, taking the old road that led to Teotihuacan. Why did he wish to go there? The city was visited only by some priests who went to inspect the shrine of the Quetzalcoatl, making an occasional sacrifice in his name to honor the spirits of the original builders.

The way to Teotihuacan was filled with memories that surged back to the front of Casca's mind after centuries of being buried. When they returned, it was as if they had happened only yesterday. The faces of those he had known, loved, and killed walked with him. Teypeytal, monstrous king of the Olmecs who resembled one of the ugly idols they worshiped, had died at his hand near this spot. As he entered the lane leading to the temple of the sun, he looked up at the pyramid where he had lain under the knife of the old priest Tezmec.

The old priest had been a good man, kind to children, gentle and greatly loved by his people. He'd had no desire for wealth or power, only to serve his gods and city to the best of his ability. He was a kind, caring old man who believed that what he did in the name of the gods was holy and right. When Casca put a stop to the offering up hearts of humans to the gods, Tezmec had offered himself up to his gods, sacrificing himself on the same altar on which he had sacrificed others.

The sun was setting as he reached the house where he had lived with Metah. He had loved her, and because of his love, he had tried to give her life beyond that of mortals; in trying, he had given her a horrible death. There were others, good and evil, whom he could see as if in a fog.

All that night, until just before dawn, he wandered the dead city, wondering what had happened to those he had left behind. His guards wearily kept him in sight, though they did give him some breathing space. They could feel that he was not trying to get away from them. Something important to him was taking place in this city of memories.

The captain of his guard was used to his charge acting in a strange manner and doing things that he should have had no knowledge of. It didn't bother him too much that Casca seemed to know his way around the city, making turns and entering deserted structures, never taking a path that didn't lead to where it seemed he wanted to go. But when Casca went to the place of the masks and found that the doors were intact and sealed, he turned to the guard and asked, "Are they still here?
The masks?"

The guard felt a sudden chill and a desire to empty his bladder.

For his charge to know of the existence of the masks of the kings of Teotihuacan was one thing, but to know where they were kept in a city that he couldn't have been in before was something else.

Casca stayed in the city for three days, not speaking any more to the guards who never answered his questions. He knew the answer to his last one anyway; just from the shocked expression on the warrior's dark, painted face. From that moment on he gave no further indication that he even knew of his guards' presence. They didn't matter for they belonged to a living world and the one he was walking in was for the dead, the long dead, as he should have been centuries before.

When he went unerring to the room beneath the temple of the sun where the masks had been kept when first he walked these streets, the captain of his guard thought for a fleeting moment about trying to stop him. But Casca's face and the warning he'd had from Tenochtitlan not to interfere with him were incentives enough to leave the man alone. But he wasn't alone, others walked with him as he neared the dank musty confines below the ancient temple which was not as old as he. He groped his way blindly through a couple of turns along blackened corridors until the faint glow of an oil lamp beckoned him on as if he were a moth.

This was a sacred place with no need for permanent guards, only the priests who came periodically to service the lamps and make sacrifice to the masks had courage enough to enter these rooms unbidden. At the far end of the hall next to the last mask, he saw that which he sought.
His mask of blue-green jade, carved by Pletuc, master cutter of the Teotec. His own face stared back at him from a row of ancient god-kings. The last mask was a face which looked vaguely familiar, then he recognized the features. It was that of Cuz-Mecli, the boy who had grown into a king. Now he was dust as were all the others of the thousands who had walked these dead streets. There had been much blood spilled on the altar stones before he came to rule, but not nearly as much as was wantonly spilled by the Aztecs. He left the chamber to regain the darkened boulevards of the city, leaving his other self behind, curiosity satisfied. The images of men and women going to their deaths those centuries past went with him. But there was no comparison between those who had died then, to even the twenty-five thousand who had gone under the sacrificial dagger to celebrate Moctezuma's ascendance to the throne of the Mexicas. He was, for the first time in longer than he could recall, truly shocked. Twenty-five thousand bleeding, burning hearts were offered up, and then the bodies were fed to the people.

As he walked through the cities of the lakes, the signs of sacrifice and the Aztecs' fascination with death were demonstrated everywhere. From the painted murals on the houses, the gods leered with horrible countenances as they claimed their victims. Many of their idols were made of clay and blood, and all needed blood to feed on. The Aztecs, as noble as they were in some respects, were a nation washed in the blood of others.

They would have to be stopped. He didn't know if what replaced them would be any better, but it could hardly be worse. Tens of thousands would have to die before that could take place, but then, tens of thousands were dying every year on the altars. Their lives were weights balancing against each other. Thousands now or thousands later?

If he was going to make the dying easier and quicker, he would have to see Moctezuma.
There was the key to the power of the Aztecs. From the manner in which the Indians had greeted them and from the words he had overheard, he knew that in their minds there was a question and a great fear as to what the Spaniards were. Many believed that they were the gods returning from the sea to reclaim their lands, as had been foretold.

That was the key – to use the fear of their own gods as the tool to bring them down. But it was not yet time. Casca knew that Cortes had to consolidate his strength and make alliances among the nations that were hostile to or envious of the Aztecs. With his tiny force of six hundred men, there was no way that he could conquer the Aztecs, unless they had the help of the other tribes. This, together with the Aztecs' fears and superstitions, would be their main weapon. Then perhaps the Spanish could win and do it within a few months.

He had to wait. If Cortes moved and gained strength, Moctezuma would call Casca to him. It would be best now to let the king of the Aztecs ask him to come. When that happened, the time would be right for him to proclaim himself as the god returned, and then prove it. Until then, he would stay here, clean out some rooms, and move in. This would be his home as it had been before. Moctezuma would call him one day. It might be months before he did, but he would call him. It was his destiny.

Casca's guards were not thrilled with his taking up residence in the city of the gods, for this was not a place for men to live. Only the priests came here now or the coyotes that made dens for their pups under the blocks of the temple of the moon. Sometimes the cough of a hunting jaguar could be heard as it prowled the outskirts of the city in search of prey, but they seldom entered the city to where the walls of the temples loomed. The place still smelled of man and death. The cats preferred the cleaner hunting grounds of the jungles or deserts.

The daily reports of the activities of the scar-faced one were still made. The news of his new residence gave Moctezuma several nightmares in which the gods rejected his offer of self-sacrifice, thus condemning him and casting him out of their favor. And it was always the Feathered Serpent on his throne who sat in judgment of him, gray-blue eyes blazing behind a death mask of jade.

The winter storms came to the deserts. Dark clouds moved inland, boiling in from the seas and forests to feed the desert and make it bloom. Still Casca never left the city, save to walk a bit in the fields.

He waited patiently as only one such as he could. Time, he had been told, was a great circle, a wheel that constantly turned on itself. He merely had to wait for the wheels of eternity to turn long enough. Here, in this timeless place, he almost felt at peace as he moved silently among the ancient structures that were nearly as old as he.

When he tried to speak with his guards, they would answer only in the shortest of sentences. They did not like this man or god; he was not of their world. They brought him food and supplies. Once, at the king's command, they even brought him a selection of beautiful young girls to pick from. He could have had one or all of them, but he just smiled sadly and sent them away. It was to their great relief, for they feared him more than the warriors did.

The priest who first met him came to watch him from time to time. With each visit, he grew to hate the pale one more and more, although he could not say why.

During the storms of winter, Moctezuma could restrain his own curiosity no longer and visited the City of the Gods disguised as a member of his own bodyguard. He watched Casca's wanderings and took note of his silence. He was fascinated, drawn to yet
frightened of the man. Moctezuma had planned on returning to Tenochtitlan before dark, but he couldn't leave; he had to see more. He had to try to understand what this man was and what he wanted. Before the night was over, he would wish that he had returned rather than witness the events of that stormy night.

Casca, as had become his habit when nightfall came, went to the Pyramid of the Sun, climbed to the top, and rested on the altar, which was still dark from the blood of thousands of "messengers." Moctezuma stayed at the halfway-point, where he had a good view of both the top and the altar. He wrapped his cotton robe about his shoulder and waited, yet he did not know for what. But something was in the air, riding in on the storm clouds. Lightning crackled in the distance, coming close to Teotihuacan. The thunder rode the skies, rolling across the floor of the desert and turning it dark. Even under the light of the full moon, the shadows swirled and converged, growing stronger
and darker, broken only by the bolts of lightning and the cracks of thunder echoing through valleys and mountains. The chill grew greater, but he waited, as did the man on the altar.

Casca's mind leaped back, the smell of the storm and lightning returning him to that distant time when he had been prepared for the altar. He felt the stifling heat of the jade mask on his face, carved in his likeness by Pletuc, master carver of the Teotec.

Once more he walked the two miles to the Pyramid of the Quetza, the one the Aztecs called the temple of the sun. But then it had been the Quetza's. Two miles, every step accompanied by the beat of drums and the shrill trilling of flutes as he advanced. His scarred body was covered by a priceless robe of woven feathers that were green. On his head was a serpent headdress, the mouth open, the fangs ready. The eyes were made of red precious stones that gleamed malevolently. He took each step with the beat of his heart. The coca leaves he had eaten had begun to take effect as he moved into the heat waves rising over the floor of stones leading to the altar, shimmering and alive.

Tezmec, the high priest, had led the way past the streets lined with all the people of the valley, who had come to witness and participate in this most holy of events. A messenger was to be sent to the gods to take them their prayers and bring the life-giving rains and good fortune to the city and its subjects. Tens of thousands watched him as he passed.

Something was happening. Moctezuma shook his head and rubbed his eyes as he watched the man on the altar. He was moving, holding his arms and head in a strange manner. Moctezuma thought he was having a vision. For a moment he seemed to see the man in a serpent headdress and feathered ceremonial robe, the streets filled with images. It passed, and then it returned, this time in startling clarity. Moctezuma was witnessing something that had happened before and was occurring again, but only he and the stranger were there. Where did all the others come from? The old priest with his ceremonial dagger of obsidian, the thousands on the streets? And did he hear the faded beat of skin tambors, or was it the approaching storm clouds? He watched, unable to tear his eyes away. What he saw was not the man on the top of the pyramid. He saw another in the stranger's image who even now was laying his body down on the altar, exposing his chest for the fatal blow by the aged priest of the Serpent.

The storm clouds broke, thunder crashed, and the knife of the priest fell, striking into the chest of the messenger. Swiftly, with practiced hands, the priest removed the heart of the sacrifice and held it up for the thousands in the streets below to witness and honor. The storm erupted over the city and centered on the temple. Moctezuma whimpered as he saw what happened next. The sacrifice sat up at the altar, his chest a gaping, draining, ragged wound. The sacrifice reached out his hand, reclaiming his own beating heart from the hand of the priest, and then rose from the altar.

The wind screamed like a wounded woman, piercing the senses. Moctezuma fell to his knees as he saw the phosphorescent glow from the skies. Green and shining, it fell upon the altar and its victim as he stood, his still beating heart in his hand, glowing with the green fire of heaven. The messenger raised his voice over the storm. Moctezuma's mind nearly broke as he heard words that were last spoken over a thousand years before rip at his consciousness. The man-god cried out, "Look and see that which none has seen before!" The ghostly thousands and Moctezuma obeyed, and they watched as he took his own heart and returned it to his chest.