It wasn’t that easy. Bos had knocked the stuffing out of them, and they were slow to recover. Even when they were allowed to make their shots unchallenged, they couldn’t score. The crowd, realizing the game had gone sour, started to hurl abuse at both sides. It seemed an age before the Aztecs finally got a ring, and after they had scored their second, time crawled again. Simon began deliberately offering them chances. It made the spectators still more furious, but he didn’t care. When their opponents got their third ring, he waved his racket joyfully over his head. One more and they were safe, but even if the game ended right now there would be a play-off, and Bos and Lundiga could scarcely go crazy twice.
The ball came to him, and in high spirits he slammed it, aimlessly but well away from the ring. It hit a projecting piece of wood at the edge of the judges’ box, came off at a crazy angle, and spun lazily through the air. In horror Simon shouted “No!” but that did nothing to stop it. Cleanly, not touching the sides, the ball dropped through the ring, and a moment later the judge dropped his scarf.
• • •
In the final, as they had expected would happen, they met the other team with rackets, who quickly proved even better on court than they had looked from the benches. They got a ring in the first minute, and soon after came close to getting a second. The crowd, soured by the way the Romans had played in the semifinal, were backing them strongly. Simon’s legs were swept from under him while he was making a shot, and their howl of glee had a chilling sound. He was dazed by the fall, but images of priests wielding knives quickly brought him to his feet. He saw an Aztec shot bounce off the underside of the ring, and Lundiga collected the ball. She was not in a good position herself but got it across to Bos, and he slammed it home.
That slightly calmed his fears, but the respite did not last long: within five minutes, the Aztecs had scored their second. The game had become fast and furious, and the crowd’s excitement was mounting. Trying to lose had been difficult, but needing to win as the alternative to a painful death was agony: the more effort he put in, the more ineffectual he felt.
Against the run of play, Lundiga tied the score, only to have the opposing captain pick up the ball from the service, sidewall it and run expertly into place to put his side ahead for the third time. The Aztecs continued to put pressure on, getting in at least three shots to one of theirs, and it was totally against expectation that a clever bit of combination play between Bos and Lundiga resulted in her tying the score for the third time.
A long period followed in which neither side scored. The more elusive the ring proved, the rougher the going got. It began to look as though this game really might be heading for a play-off, and Simon felt in no shape to face it. He was smashed to the ground for the twentieth time—or was it the hundredth?—and lay there, telling himself that getting back on his feet was not as impossible as it seemed. The screech of the spectators was a howl for blood. Painfully, he pulled himself up against a wall, and as he did saw Brad sandwiched by two of the Aztecs. He slumped, unconscious, and didn’t look like rising again.
Simon himself could barely hobble. The Aztecs were getting in unchallenged shots, two of which hit the edge of the ring. Then Bos charged one of them as he was shooting, and as the ball went clear, Lundiga raced for it and hit it a swipe on the run. It struck the inside of the ring, and angled through.
Unexpected though it was, that had to be a winning shot. Up in their box, one of the judges was peering at the twine: the slow fuse must be approaching the end knot. Any instant the scarf must drop.
But it didn’t, and the Aztecs swung back into attack. Brad lay where he had dropped, motionless. Lundiga and Bos were the only effective players left on their side, and they could not possibly cover all four Aztecs. Simon stared helplessly as one of them collared the ball and lobbed it gently to another standing unguarded and perfectly placed to shoot.
The Aztec had all the time in the world to take aim, and as he hit the ball Simon could tell it was dead on target. Then, it seemed out of nowhere, Lundiga catapulted herself up and sideways in a gigantic leap. With her arm fully stretched the tip of her racket made only glancing contact with the ball, but it was enough to deflect it from centre to edge. As it bounced back into the court, the scarf dropped.
• • •
While the defeated players trudged like zombies from the court, the crowd stamped and cheered, and those in the lower rows signalled approbation with a shower of largesse: Simon was hit quite painfully below the right eye by a jewelled brooch. The floor of the court turned silvery with, he was pleased to see, a nice sprinkling of feathery gold.
This did not by any means represent the whole of their winnings: a special prize of gold chains was awarded by the priesthood. The Chief Priest came on court for the presentation, attended by a gaggle of junior priests and a military escort. The lesser priests wore headdresses a couple of feet high, but his was twice that, a delicately balanced superstructure in which vermilion feathers sprouted from chunks of jade. His face was old and thin, his eyes weak and blinking. Wisps of white hair were visible through the red and green.
They had managed to revive Brad partially, but he was still in a daze. He wobbled as a chain was hung round his neck, and Simon put a hand on his arm to steady him. He realized that the unsteadiness was not entirely caused by exhaustion when a similar chain was dropped onto him; he looked at the soft yellow gleam on his chest and felt the massiveness of it weighing him down.
The procession passed to Bos, and finally to Lundiga. The Chief Priest had jabbered in Aztec at all of them, congratulations, presumably, or some kind of blessing, and hadn’t seemed to bother about the lack of response. But his voice now took on a sharper, commanding note, and Simon was surprised to hear Lundiga say, in Latin: “It is not proper.”
He came out of a gold-tinged reverie and looked at her. The Chief Priest’s finger was pointing at her fur hat, and his tone of voice conveyed the message. He wanted the hat removed, and Lundiga was refusing.
The small weak eyes beneath the headdress stared into her face, and her blue eyes stared right back. The Chief Priest stepped back a pace, as though giving way. But then his brittle voice rapped out, and the captain of the guard jumped forward. Before Lundiga could realize what was happening, he had pulled the hat off her head.
There was a cry of wonder from the crowd, and gasps from those nearby. Lundiga’s hair fell loose in a bright yellow cloud. Even with her figure shapeless under the playing jacket, no one could be in doubt of her being a girl.
For moments the Chief Priest went on staring; then he spoke again. His words were meaningless to Simon, but Brad shouted “No!” Soldiers moved to isolate Lundiga; she protested loudly, but they seized her arms. Bos, with a bull-like roar, threw himself at them, and Brad and Simon followed suit.
Simon’s awareness of the futility of this was short-lived. Almost at once something smacked him on the back of the head, and he went out.
7
SIMON FIRST REALIZED THAT THE face looking solicitously down into his was that of a pretty girl; second that he was lying on soft cushions. He had a moment of wondering if he were dead, and the Moslems had been right about the afterlife: instead of golden harps on clouds, timeless houris serving lemonade from a cup that never emptied. On the other hand his head was aching savagely, which didn’t square with Paradise. He pulled himself up on an elbow, wincing, and saw Bos and Brad on couches similar to his own.
Bos said: “Are you well, Simonus?”
He closed his eyes and opened them again. “That’s more than I’d like to say. Where are we?” Something of the events prior to his being knocked out came back, and he sat up properly. “Where’s Lundiga?”
Bos gloomily shook his head. “We do not know.”
Simon tried to think. “We attacked the guards. Why didn’t they kill us? Why aren’t we in a cell, at least?”
The couches were made of elaborate inlaid woods, the floor was covered with colourful rugs, and there were e
mbroidered hangings on the walls with quite a bit of gold thread in the embroidery. In niches on the walls were jade carvings, some of them fairly large. Three girls were in attendance. The one who had wakened him proffered a cup—polished wood with a silver rim. He was thirsty and drank; it wasn’t lemonade but a very pleasant fruit drink.
Brad said: “What do you mean, a cell? We’re the champs, kings of the heap.” His voice was flat. “We’re booked in at the Palzibil Hilton, on an unlimited expense account.”
Simon said: “I don’t get it. What about Lundiga?”
“The winners of the games can get away with just about everything, I guess, including assaulting the military. Soldiers aren’t sacred, you see, even when they’re attending the Chief Priest. If one of us had laid a finger on him, it would have been different. Very different, I should think.”
Simon’s recollections were hazy. He remembered the weight of the gold chain . . . Lundiga saying “It is not proper” . . . her hair cascading . . .
“Just what did happen? The Chief Priest wanted Lundiga’s hat off. Was it because she’d disobeyed him that he told the guards to grab her?”
“No.”
Simon said: “Because he discovered she was a girl, then? There’s a rule against girls taking part in the games?”
“There may be; I don’t know. But it wasn’t that. It was her hair.”
“Her hair? I suppose it seemed a bit striking, since the Aztecs are all brunettes. But I don’t see . . .”
“Not just striking,” Brad said. “The word is unique. The only blonde they’ve ever seen. That made her something extremely special. Too special for ordinary mortals, according to the Chief Priest. He claimed her as a bride for the gods.”
“What does that mean?”
Brad was not looking at him but the ceiling. “Those young girls they sacrifice at the top of the pyramid—they’re called brides of the gods.”
If his mind hadn’t been so fuzzy, Simon thought, he would have known something like that was involved: there was nothing amiable about the Aztec religion. He felt a wave of revulsion and anger, and said: “We’ve got to do something.”
Brad looked at him. “What?”
He got rockily to his feet. “I don’t know. But something anyway—not just lie here, being waited on.”
“Look out the window.” Brad’s voice had a weary impatience. “This room is about forty feet above street level. There are four armed guards outside in the corridor, and another forty within call. If you want to fight your way out go ahead, and the best of British luck.”
Simon glanced at Bos, who shrugged helplessly. The gesture was a total confirmation of Brad’s words, especially since it was Lundiga who was at risk. He had not shared Brad’s and Simon’s reservations about her; to him she was simply a marvellous girl, a substitute for the daughter which a gladiator’s life had denied him.
Simon said: “They won’t have done anything to her yet?”
“No.”
“Can you be sure?”
Brad said: “I’ve picked up a few things from eavesdropping on the guards. They’re not keeping her in Palzibil, first of all. She’s being taken to the capital, Tenochtitlan, where the chief temple is. The only blonde in the Aztec empire is too important for a local show.”
Brad’s matter-of-factness annoyed Simon. He said: “So what happens now?”
“As far as we’re concerned, nothing much. The Chief Priest may have requisitioned Lundiga for the gods, but the rest of us are heroes. We won the ball game, didn’t we? We were taken into custody when we fought with the guards, but it’s no more than a kind of house arrest. They’ll let us loose in a few days, providing we give them no further trouble.”
“After which we can live a life of ease on what we picked up from the games?”
“That’s right.”
“Providing we give no trouble?”
Brad nodded.
“While Lundiga’s carted off to be sacrificed to their gods?”
Brad shrugged.
Simon turned angrily to Bos: “What do you think of that for an idea?”
Brad spoke: “The trouble with you is not simply being dumb, but assuming other people are. Ritual sacrifices take place at the major religious ceremonies. What I’ve also found out is that the next is fixed for the next full moon but one. Till then Lundiga’s safe, and that gives us time to do something about rescuing her. But before we can start making any sort of plan, we ourselves need to be free, which we probably will be in a matter of days, providing we’re good little boys meanwhile. Is anything getting through that thick skull of yours?”
Bos said: “Bradus is right, Simonus. There is an old Roman proverb: hasten slowly.”
Simon felt his head starting to ache again. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve heard it.”
• • •
On the fourth morning of their incarceration, the guard commander indicated that they should follow him. Outside, a palanquin capable of carrying four in comfort was waiting with its attendant bearers, six to each pole. It was lined with gaudy cloths and feathers and a lot of gold leaf. It was the governor’s private vehicle, in fact, and, supported on the shoulders of the trotting slaves, it conveyed them to the governor’s palace.
There they were made much of, and lavishly fed. They were also given bags of silver and gold: yet another bonus from their victory. The Aztecs’ passion for the games extended to heavy gambling on the outcome, and the champions picked up a percentage of the winning bets.
There were three lots of bags; no reference was made to a fourth, or to Lundiga. Presumably her share went to the priests. Simon had argued with Brad that they should make some complaint, or at least inquiry, about Lundiga—that not to do so might rouse suspicion. Brad had disagreed. The Aztecs would see nothing odd in their displaying indifference to her fate. Their own fear of the gods and the priesthood was such that they would be prepared to hand over their closest kin without protest at a priest’s behest. Nodding and smiling in response to the flattery of the Aztec nobles, Simon was forced to conclude Brad had been right. In the games Lundiga had been given the greatest applause, but as far as they were concerned now, she had never existed.
He had had no favourable view of the rich Aztecs, and he decided he liked them even less on close contact. He forced himself to endure the socializing, thankful that, as foreigners, they weren’t expected to do more than nod and smile, and was relieved when the governor’s withdrawal signalled the party’s end.
The good bit was that this marked the termination of their detention: the guard commander returned with them, but only to collect his troops. Watching the soldiers march away, Brad said: “Right. We can start making plans.”
“This place where they’ve taken Lundiga,” Simon asked, “—what did you say it was called?”
“Tenochtitlan.”
“And where is it?”
“After Cortés and his conquistadores destroyed it—in our world—Mexico City was built on the ruins.”
“So how far away?”
“Well, if I’m right in thinking Palzibil is located somewhere near Sumter, South Carolina, more than two thousand miles, as the llama trots.”
“More than two thousand miles! But that would take months. And the ceremony’s less than two months away.”
Brad was unperturbed. “These highways are pretty good. I think you could go as much as seventy miles a day, with fast llamas. Four or five weeks, even so. But there’s another way, apart from Incan roads, in which this Aztec empire is different from the one the Spaniards conquered. Those Aztecs weren’t seagoing—I don’t think they had anything bigger than inshore fishing skiffs. But I’ve learned from Strong Feather that these Aztecs have boats that cross the Gulf of Mexico. It’s a natural development with an empire that stretches both north and south of it. That will cut the distance by nearly a third, and the time by a lot more.”
“When do we start?”
“Easy. Remember that Roman proverb. We have thi
ngs to do first.”
“What things?” Simon asked.
“Finding out more details about the route, first off. And then getting hold of llamas—racing llamas if there are such things.”
“Won’t that seem a bit odd?”
“Why should it? We’re filthy rich, remember. It’s no different from a Wimbledon champion buying himself a Ferrari.”
• • •
Among other things, their new status in society entitled them to wear headdresses; in fact, representatives of the headdress makers’ guild insisted on providing them with exotic specimens of their art. Viewing himself in a polished bronze mirror, Bos protested that he would not wear anything so ludicrous.
“You have to, Bos,” Brad said. “All the big ball players do.”
“I look like a woman!”
“Not really.” He managed not to smile. “And remember, it’s in a good cause.”
They bought llamas at a farm west of the city which was said to have the best in the province: the Aztec breeder was proud to demonstrate the speed and general quality of his beasts. Since they were ignorant foreigners, he offered riding instruction, and was impressed by their quickness in learning, unaware of their previous horse-riding experience or, for that matter, of the existence of such a thing as a horse. The swaying camel-like motion was different, but they adapted to it.
The following afternoon, Brad said: “I reckon we’re ready to go. I’ve been picking Strong Feather’s brains again. There’s a port called Xicocoaz about four hundred miles south, from which ships cross to the western shore of the Gulf. I figure if we really push these llamas along, we can make it in five days. We should be able to keep comfortably ahead of anyone who decided to come after us, but having a head start would help. If we leave at dawn tomorrow . . .”
“What about the servants?” Simon asked.
The three girls had remained with them, and they had also acquired a household staff of another twenty or so.
“I thought of that. They’ll expect us, as foreigners, to have our own religion. We’ll tell them there’s a holy day coming up, and we have to spend twenty-four hours in solitary prayer. It’s a reason for sending them away this evening.”
New Found Land Page 9
