Casca 10: The Conquistador (12 page)

He stroked his beard as he looked over his soldiers, watching their eyes and body movements. He just waited, watching, saying nothing until they started shuffling their feet in embarrassment. Then he began, his voice strong and confident:

"Gentlemen and friends, I chose you as my companions and you chose me as your captain for the service of God and the increase of His holy faith and also for the service of our king and even for our own profit. I, as you have observed, have not failed or offended you; nor indeed have you done so to me up to this point. Now, however, I sense a weakening among some of you and a little taste to finish the war we have on our hands, a war which, with the help of God, we have now concluded. At least we now know how little harm it can do us. We have partly seen the good we shall gain from it, although what you shall see henceforth will be greater beyond comparison, so much so that it passes my thought and words. Fear not, my companions, to come with me, for never yet have Spaniards been afraid in these new lands which by their courage, strength, and cunning they have conquered and discovered; nor do I entertain such a thought of you. God forbid that I should think or that anyone should believe that my Spaniards would be afraid or disobedient to their captain! One must never turn
one's back on the enemy, lest it appear to be a retreat. There is no retreat or, to put it more mildly, no withdrawal which does not bring grief to those who make it, for they shall know shame, hunger, loss of friends and their wealth and arms, and lastly death, which is not the worst of them, for infamy endures forever."

He paused to watch the effect of his words. Satisfied that he had them where he wanted them, he pressed on:

"If we abandon this country, this war, this adventure that we have undertaken, and turn back, then shall we not lose our honor? Did you think that in another place you would find easier wealth and fewer enemies?

"Never since we came to this land have we, thank God, lacked for food and friends, gold and honor. You can see how these people hold you to be more than mortal men, almost gods. With all their numbers and arms, they have not succeeded in slaying a single one of you. Now listen to me. We have no way back. Ahead of us is Mexico, where Moctezuma resides among riches impossible to calculate. Persevere and we shall have it all: serfs and vassals to do our bidding, gold, silver, precious gems, pearls, and above all, the honor due us from the rest of the world as Spaniards. The greater the king, the greater the enemy, the greater the land, so much greater shall be our glory.

"So then have no fear, and never doubt our final victory, for most of the distance is behind you. You have vanquished the Tlaxcalans, who numbered over a hundred thousand warriors and are said to be as fierce as the Aztecs. With the help of God we shall finish off the few who still oppose us and march on to the final glory for our god, our king, and Spain!"

The conquistadors roared their approval until their faces turned red and sweaty under their steel helmets. Now if one wished to speak of turning back, he could do it only at the risk of his life. Cortes had turned their fears into courage and lust for the wealth of Mexico, and they would not be denied.
They were ready to move on ever closer to the heartland of the greatest of the Indian kingdoms and the most elusive treasure of all – Moctezuma!

Among those who cheered the loudest was Juan de Castro. He had the beginnings of a full dark beard and had put on weight since Casca had walked off. The life of a conquistador suited him, and he had gained the respect of his peers for courage and swordplay. He now belonged with the elite caballeros
who had horses. As he was known to have been the missing man's sword-mate, there were no objections when he was given his horse. Juan no longer believed that his absent compadre would return. He had paid the priests to say a mass for him and had lit candles in his name.

Moctezuma tried to hide the truth of their coming, but at last he knew that he could not resist his fate any further, especially when his chamberlain told him, "My king, they are coming. They have defeated the Tlaxcalans without the loss of a man and have made them their servants, adding the forces of the Tlaxcalan to their own. They have only yesterday destroyed Cholula, putting its people to the sword when they resisted them."

Moctezuma nearly wept as his chamberlain continued his tale of woe. "Oh, my king, they are the most terrible beings, with their strange weapons of thunder and fire and their small bows that can send an arrow completely through the body of a strong man and have enough power to kill another behind him. My lord, they must be gods.

"The Cholutecas resisted them, as they have long been enemies of the Tlaxcalans. They put their faith in the god Quetzalcoatl. They made magic and cast spells and sent warnings to these ‘gods’ to pass them by, for they were not as weak as the sodomite Tlaxcalans, who are now no more than women for the use of the ‘gods.’ "

His chamberlain shivered with the impact of his own words. "They were very brave, my king, to resist with such courage those from the sea. They told the strangers that they were protected by the great god Queztalcoatl. The priests promised the ‘gods’ that if they came to Cholula, they would be destroyed by bolts of fire from the heavens and the Pyramid of the God would open up to pour forth rivers of water to drown them as though they were rats in a jar.

"To protect themselves from drowning, priests scraped away the surface layer of the pyramid to let loose the waters. Then they made great magic by making a mortar by mixing the blood from children of two or three years of age with lime. With this they would be able to plug up the holes from which the floods of the god would come.

"In their pride and confidence, they met the envoy who served the ‘gods’, a chief of the Tlaxcalans named Patlhuatzin. Their answer to his pleas for peace and welcome for the ‘gods’ was to flay the skin from his face and arms. His hands they cut so that they dangled by strips of skin from his wrists, and they sent him back as their response."

At this news Moctezuma could not restrain a moan of fear. Envoys and messengers had always had privileged status and were not to be hurt or killed.

Dropping to his knees, with his hands covering his eyes, his chamberlain finished the tale of Cholula. "When this was done, the ‘gods’ and their traitor allies came forth to do battle. Their weapons of white iron cut through those of Cholula as if they were made of green reeds. Their fierce dogs savaged all they could reach, and their weapons shot fire and thunder into the houses of the gods, killing many. When the priests attempted to let loose the flood of the god, it did not come. Nor was there fire from heaven to strike down the pale ones. The god Quetza had turned his face from them, and in their despair, hundreds committed suicide by throwing themselves
head first from the top of the temples to the stones, smashing their brains out. Great was the slaughter of the Cholutecas, and their city was put to the torch and plundered. Cholula is no more, my king!"

Tears ran down the face of Moctezuma. Had the god turned his face because they had broken the old laws of the people of Teotihuacan and made human sacrifice? Were the pale ones the manifestations of the god or just his servants? And what of the scar-faced one who waited in the City of the Gods to see him? He was not as other men.

At last Moctezuma could not put it off any longer. He told his chamberlain to rise. "Go to Teotihuacan and say to the pale one there that I wish to see him. Take him gifts of gold and silver, for pale ones love these things greatly, and ask him to come to me with all haste, for we have much to speak of."

The chamberlain bowed his way back out to do his master's bidding, though he did not like it. His king was on the ragged edge of panic.

Casca was brought to the Aztec king in his private chambers. His retainers and servants were dismissed, leaving the two men facing each other. Moctezuma was wondering what he was going to say to the scar-faced man. The ice was broken by Casca when he spoke to him in the Nahual tongue:

"Tectli, I have returned, true to my words spoken those centuries ago when I ruled as lord of Teotihuacan." Casca moved closer to the king. "Is not my mask still in its resting place in the hall at the base of the temple of the serpent? Have you looked upon its face? If so, then look at mine!"

Moctezuma covered his eyes, remembering the night on the pyramid and the vision in the storm. "No," he cried. "You cannot be he whose coming was foretold." He forced himself to look at the stranger's face, examining it inch by inch. There was a resemblance. He still tried to fight the proof of his senses and forced out the words, "I must have more than a memory and a dream." Moctezuma cried out for the priest Ceypal to be brought to him. As they waited, Casca could see the fear that was eating the heart of the king.

He didn't want to believe the legend, but too many things were pointing to its reality – though not in the manner in which he had thought it would come true. But who could say what guise the gods would take in their schemes? They were not bound by the rules of mortal men.

A thin voice begging permission to enter into the presence of the king came to them through the closed door. Moctezuma spoke as firmly as he could, granting the request. Ceypal entered, his body painted black, his hair bedraggled, his garb stained with the clotted blood of a recent sacrifice. His face was freshly painted with circles of red and white around the eyes, and a black band ran from the mouth to each ear.

It offended Casca that this one could rip out the living heart of a man, woman, or child and think it a good and holy thing to do. Looking at him made the blood in his temples pound a bit harder.

The priest looked at Casca with ill-concealed hatred and loathing. Moctezuma ordered Ceypal, "Go now to the hall of the masks and bring with all haste the sacred mask of the Quetza." Ceypal bowed his way out of the royal presence, but not before grinning at Casca as if to say, "Soon I will have your body bent over the altar block and your heart in my hand."

Moctezuma tried to be as controlled and polite as possible, offering his guest food and drink, both of which were refused. He noticed for the first time that his guest wore no jewels or gold, no robe of
many feathers, only his plain armor of white iron and his sword. Had his orders been disobeyed and the scar-faced one not been sent the presents as he had commanded?

"Were you not given gifts by my command?" he asked.

Casca nodded his head. "Yes, they brought me many things of great beauty and value, but I have no need for them. I have not come here for gold or silver. I have come for something far more important than that."

Moctezuma wondered what it was that could be more important than that which the rest of his kind seemed to hunger after with such a passion.

Casca found a place by the window where the breeze was cool; he could see the lake on which the city was built. Temple fires were burning like many scattered beacons, the lights blazing across the lake from the cities of Texcoco and Huexotla. He knew that those lights meant that offerings were being made and blood was being spilled even as he and the king waited. Keeping his back to the king, he spoke, his voice very soft, in a tone one would sometimes use when chiding a disobedient but well-loved child.

"Why did you not obey my laws? The smell of death hangs over the land like a cloud of blood."

Moctezuma said nothing, but he suddenly remembered the death of Cholula, who had sacrificed in the name of the Serpent. The manner of the man's speaking bothered him more than anything else. The scarred one spoke as one who was recalling things long past.

Casca moved away from the window, turning to face the king. His skin reddened from the glow of the torches in their brackets. He nearly whispered as he spoke. "The old ones of the City of the Gods told your father's father of me, didn't they? They told you also of my law that no more human blood was to be spilled upon the altars of this land or disaster would surely follow. Death would walk your streets, and your nation would be cast down." Casca covered his eyes as if the visions he was seeing in his mind were too painful. "You should have listened, for now it is too late. If I had seen that you had obeyed my laws, then I would have stopped those who are even now bringing to you the death of your nation."

Moctezuma couldn't know that by his words, Casca had meant that if the people of Mexico had been better than the Catholic invaders, he would have killed Cortes, without whose leadership the rest would have fled this land and returned to the safety of Cuba. At least they would have fled for a time, but in that time he could have shown the Aztecs how to use their great wealth to deal with the Spaniards, how to play one side against the other and make the best use of their gold to buy the services of those in Europe who could have kept their nation free. It was too late now. What Casca had witnessed on his way to Tenochtitlan and what he had seen in the months since his arrival had made his choice for him.

As bad as the conquistadors were, the Aztecs were worse in the long run. A minimum of twenty thousand
a year were taken to the altars. It was too much for him to defend, and the other nations – the Chichimecs and Culhuans, Zapotecas and Tlaxcalans, these and others he had not yet heard of – all sent their offerings to the gods. It had to stop. The best thing he could do was make the death song of the Aztecs as short as possible by convincing Moctezuma that there was no way to resist that which was coming.

Moctezuma could find no words; he sat on a cushion of soft leather and waited. His guest returned to his place by the window and watched him. Casca looked at the face of Moctezuma, a gentle, intelligent face, dark and handsome. He was a well-built man with no trace of overt cruelty about him. What Moctezuma did, he did from a sense of duty and devotion. He was not a cruel man by nature, no more than were the priests of the Inquisition. What they did also was out of faith.

The two waited, each busy with his own thoughts. It would be nearly dawn before Ceypal could make it back from Teotihuacan with the mask of the Quetzalcoatl. For both of them the hours were unnaturally long.

The first streaks of the sun had glanced over the waters of Texcoco when Ceypal returned to the palace, carrying a chest of dark wood wrapped with red cloth. This he gave over to his king. Moctezuma carefully and with trembling hands
unwrapped the cloth, pausing before he opened the chest. Casca could see the large vein in the king's neck throbbing. Slowly, Moctezuma removed the mask from the chest. He set it on a table of carved dark wood and leather. Taking an oil lamp, he held the flame close to the mask. Ceypal stood back in contempt, hatred written all over his face. He was barely able to control an outburst, demanding that his king give the stranger to him and stop this charade.

Casca moved to the table. Taking the mask from the hands of the king, he held it up by his face so that both he and the mask were staring at Moctezuma. The king nearly broke. They were the same – the same blue-gray eyes and the scar. Everything was the same! The god or his manifestation was standing before him.

The priest Ceypal could see his lord falling apart and could not restrain himself any longer. "My lord king, it is a trick of some kind. True, there is a resemblance between this man and the mask, but that is all there is. He is a mortal man the same as you and I. If he is cut, will he not bleed? If his heart is torn from his body, will he not die?"

Casca grinned, his teeth reflecting the light of the lamp. He set the jade mask back on the table and answered the priest's questions.

"No!" He smiled. "I will not!" Baring one thickly muscled arm, he reached over to Ceypal, taking the ceremonial dagger from him before the priest could protest. Holding the translucent, serrated blade in his hand, he repeated the priest's questions. "You said, “If he is cut, will he not bleed?" Casca drew the blade along the inside of his arm, laying the meat open until blood ran freely. Ceypal gloated at the sight of blood on the stranger's arm.

"See," he cried. "He bleeds!" Moctezuma moved closer to examine the wound. As he did, Casca wiped the blood from his arm, exposing the cut. Moctezuma flinched. As he watched with unbelieving eyes, the wound healed itself. The edges closed together, and the bleeding stopped.

Casca continued, his voice hollow as death. "You said, priest, 'If his heart is torn from his body, will he not die?' To that the answer is also no!" He removed his breastplate and tunic, exposing his chest and arms to the lamp. The crisscrossing of scars and wounds was astonishing. Casca took the lamp, holding it close to his body. The deep scar in the center of his chest removed the last doubt from the mind of Moctezuma, for in his vision by the pyramid, he had seen that wound made and healed as the god reclaimed his beating heart from the hands of the priest who had cut it from him. He was the god returned.

Ceypal still tried to interrupt them with his protests. Casca was a bit tired of his interference. Placing the lamp on the table to rest beside his mask, he reached over with his right hand, grabbing Ceypal by the neck. He raised the priest off the floor until his feet no longer touched. Casca's face contorted with the effort as he concentrated on sending all his strength into his arm and fingers. Ceypal's face bulged under the pressure, swelling out. If it hadn't been painted already, it would have turned completely black as the thick fingers crushed into his flesh, cracking the vertebrae in the neck, crumbling his esophagus till not even Ceypal's death rattle could escape, much less the blood that was draining back down into his lungs. Casca gave the priest one last great shake, as a dog would a rat, and tossed the carcass to the floor.