by Barry Sadler
"And, no, all the people do not look as I do. There are people of many colors – from almost gold to blackest black. There are even many who have the same ruddy complexion as your people.
"And, no, all are not gods – though many have thought that they were." Another quick flash went through Casca's mind, and Gaius Nero's face flickered before his brain.
But at that moment, looking at the young king's face flushed with excitement, out of the corner of his eye Casca caught Tezmec watching him thoughtfully. Uh-oh, he thought. Better play the game.
He let a slight tone of majesty begin to slip into his voice, as though he had something of importance to impart.
"As for the ship, it came from the great god Quetza, and it was he who guided me to this place. It was not until I learned the use of your tongue, though, that the meaning of my coming was made clear to me and the message the great god Quetza wished delivered made plain for me to speak.
"I am here to give your people a great message – as I have already told the priest Tezmec."
Tezmec raised his wrinkled hand to stop the conversation. He did not want the young king to be confused by Casca's contradictions of what he himself had taught the king.
"Enough talk, Tectli Quetza," he interrupted firmly. "It is time for the king to attend his other duties. We will meet again another time." It was so obvious that he was thinking that they would not meet again until the afterlife that Casca smiled broadly, irritating the old priest as he hustled the young king out of the presence of this stranger with the possibly dangerous words. Tezmec looked back over his shoulder and said testily, "The day comes soon. Prepare yourself and your thoughts. And remember ... behave with dignity."
Metah devoted the remaining weeks not only teaching Casca all she could of the Teotec culture, but also figuring out ways she could keep the other women away from him. He might be holy to them, but to her the time he had spent with her made him more of a man than a messenger of the gods.
Half a dozen times the maskmaker came for fittings, to check on small details. The mask assumed an eerie quality as the features of Casca's face in the jade became more pronounced. The maskmaker was an artist who would have stood up against the best of the Roman Empire and of the Greeks. The mask was astonishingly Casca, right down to the hairline scar leading from the corner of his eye down to his mouth. It was his face in jade – deep, green jade – jade of almost gemstone quality. Only the empty eyes of the mask seemed lacking in order to give it a life of its own. It was a magnificent creation. Pletuc the carver was evidently proud of his work, and justly so. He said to Casca:
"Tectli, when the day comes for the mask to hang in the hall, it will live. Already I have acquired the finest of turquoise. It is the same color as your eyes. It will match them perfectly. It is even now being prepared, and when the eyes of turquoise are set the mask will live. For all time, people will know of your coming, and of the honor you have done us."
Bowing his way out, the old carver left, leaving Casca to his thoughts.
Each day drew him nearer to the altar.
Metah helped him keep from dwelling on his fate, but, in spite of the growing feelings he was developing for her, each day did in its turn end and bring another – and another....
He could learn nothing of his men and the long-ships. Even when he bluntly enquired as to them and how they were faring, he was politely but firmly refused information. The fact that none of them showed up in the capital of the Teotecs made him believe that they might still be alive. But were they still waiting on the coast? Would they still be there when the coming grisly affair was finished? If he returned to the coast then, would they have waited for him? How long would they wait – that was the most important thing on his mind.
Except for one other.
In one week he would bare his chest on the altar.
When that time came, how could he keep from losing consciousness?
He must not pass out. The Jew's curse might keep him from dying in the case of wounds great enough to kill other men – but it did not protect him from pain. If the pain were great enough, he would pass out – and certainly the sacrifice pain would be that great. He usually passed out from great pain. How could he prevent it now?
Others went to the stone while he waited his turn.
He noticed something.
It might be a possibility.
Several of them had a glazed look to their eyes and moved with slow, deliberate steps, as though in a trance ... or drugged. One even stepped on a broken pot shard and laid his foot open to the bone and made no sign of having felt pain at all.
"Why?" Casca asked Metah.
She told him that sometimes the messengers were given a mixture of herbs and mushrooms. The mushrooms gave them visions, but the leaf called coca was used to stop pain. Coca was frequently used by others. It gave strength to the runners who carried the king's edicts from village to village. The runners chewed the bitter leaf to stop exhaustion.
That may be my answer, Casca decided. If the leaf stops pain; I may be able to retain consciousness during the sacrifice.
"Metah, can you get some of the leaves for me?"
She turned her dark brown eyes to him, a question in their depths. "I suppose so, my lord. How much do you need?"
"I don't know. How much do the runners take?"
"A small handful will last them for several days." "Then bring me five handfuls. I may have to do some testing."
Confused, she turned away. "As you wish, Tectli. The priests said you may have anything you wish."
"Good woman. Then get it for me now."
Metah left – with the left cheek of her firm ass smarting, but not all in pain, from the love tap Casca administered when she turned to leave....
The two dragon ships lay securely beached on the white sand, protected by a stockade that reached around them and down into the water. The barricade had been put in at low tide after the ships had been dragged up as far onto high ground as possible. Olaf Glamson had taken command of his remaining warriors. Eighty-two men lived, and all but four were fit for action. Time and again they had beaten back attacks by hostiles, until finally their fierce prowess had made them more desirable as allies than as enemies. One of the weaker tribes had come to their aid when they were in battle with the Jaguar men. Between them they had smashed the attackers, and the Vikings' new allies had enjoyed the unusual and rare pleasure of seeing how the Jaguar soldiers would behave under the blade of their priests. First one, and then another small tribe allied themselves with the fair-haired strangers from the sea. Several times disgruntled and weary Vikings wished to board their ships and sail for home, for surely the Lord Casca was now dead, or else he would have returned by now. These objections were quickly quelled by a blow from Olaf's fist, or the flat of his blade. Raising his voice after the last incident, he squared his jaw and spoke:
"We serve the Lord of the Keep. My father served him, as did yours. Never did he fail them, and he shall not fail us or we him. Norak, when last we saw the lord as the heathen warriors swarmed over him, did he not cry out for us to wait for him? That he would return?"
Norak voiced his assertion that what was said was correct.
"Then," Olaf continued, "we wait. Remember that Casca is not as other men. He is the Unchanging One. He is the Walker. And though these strange people cut his very heart out of him, I know he will return. He is Casca, Lord of the Keep, and our lord. Who would dare to face his wrath if we left without him and he should come upon us in the future?"
Olaf's crystal blue eyes searched the faces of his warriors for a dissenting answer.
There was none.
"Then we wait. Though it take the time for all of us to become graybeards, we wait."
CHAPTER NINE
The jade mask stifled Casca. It seemed to imprison his brain in a green dungeon. He walked slowly to the beat of the drums. The heat of the day was overpowering. Trickles of sweat ran down Casca's back, and his armpits felt as though t
hey were filled with wet mud. Through the eyeholes of the mask he looked through waves of shimmering air that distorted anything over a hundred feet away. Through the shimmering heat waves the distant pyramid of the Quetza, two miles away, seemed floating above the earth, suspended as in a dream ... or nightmare:
Step, step, step to the sacrifice. The throbbing of the drums beat in rhythm with his own pulse, step by step, each step a beat of the skin-covered drums. The reed pipes shrilled; the flutes cried. Every sound seemed doubled, repeated, doubled again. He imagined he could hear the beating of his own heart, in monstrous rhythm with the obscene drums. In the shimmering heat waves the brilliant emerald green robe of feathers that covered his shoulders and reached to his knees reflected thousands of pinpoints where the sun hit them.
The great Serpent headdress was amazingly light.
Step. Step. Step. Everything had an endless repetition ... step, shimmer, beat ... beat, step, shimmer ... through the endless crowd that lined the way to the pyramid. As he passed, all would fall and bow their faces before him ... endlessly repeating....
The taste of the coca distillation was bitter in his mouth. His senses seemed to be far apart from his consciousness ... as though he were two separate persons, but each a not-quite-complete entity.
Only Tezmec was in front of him; to the side walked an honor guard of lesser priests and soldiers. The heaviness of the day was like nothing he had ever known ... or had he? That day in Judea had been oppressive, too. The image of that day flickered in his brain, brought back the feelings, the taste, the sight ... the menacing heaviness of the hot air. Brrrum, brrum .... Over and over the drums pounded their way into his brain. With each beat and step, time assumed a kind of distorted reality, as though time were itself a thing, heavy, dark, and solid.
Then he was there.
The foot of the pyramid.
Chanting broke its way to the forefront of his awareness. When had it begun? It engulfed him in a molten wave of sound. He made the first step up the pyramid. Then another. And another. Focusing his attention on the old high priest's back, he climbed, the chanting growing distant as they neared the top.
The thongs holding the mask to his face felt as if they were cutting into his skin, but the sensation of pain was oddly removed from him. It was as though it were happening to someone else....
They were there.
The top of the pyramid.
The stone, black with the blood of thousands of victims, was before him. The chanting of the priests continued, seeming now to be flowing up the sides of the pyramid and louder here at the top.
At that moment a beginning wind tugged gently at Casca's feathered cloak and caused him to look at the sky. It was even darker, more oppressive than on the long walk. To the west great clouds were gathering, and even from this distance they appeared to be like great cumulus stallions racing through the heavens on some never-ending odyssey that mortal man had no share in. Over the palace, a bank of lightning suddenly flickered. The wind freshened, bringing a smell of salt from the sea.
Storm Coming.
Tezmec stood, arms raised to the skies, his old voice growing in strength as he called to his gods to accept this token of their worshippers' devotion and love.
The measured beat of the drums that had never ceased was now echoed by the approaching wall of dark clouds. The first distinct gusts of the rising wind would be whipping around the base of the pyramid, blending with the sudden uneasiness of the hundred thousand waiting worshipers, an uneasiness so strong it seemed to rise with the beat of the drums and be felt here on the top of the pyramid.
Casca looked back to the city below. The eyeholes in the jade mask seemed to take him to the very place; he was seeing it as though he were down there. The great square was a solid mass of humanity in all its varied forms, rich and poor, thin and fat, weak and strong. Every square foot as far as the eye could see was covered with waiting, expectant humanity. Even the rooftops looked as though colonies of ants were covering them.
The first of the dark clouds reached them. Shadows raced across the land. The sky grew still darker. The wind strengthened again.
Storm.
Lightning.
Thunder.
"It's like the day of the Jew, Yeshua," Casca said in the Latin of the Caesars, the Latin of his youth, the Latin of That Day....
Tezmec paused in his oration, the approaching thunder having drowned out some of his words as though the onrushing storm was a sign.
Casca raised his face to the increasing darkness, the wind rustling in the feathers of his brilliant robe and headdress.
The mask seemed to be growing into his face. Casca felt strange forces pulling at him.
Stop it, Jew! his silent thoughts seemed to scream in his mind. This is my day. Leave me alone. I am a better man than you, and what I will endure this day is greater than the pain you felt on the Cross. And then thoughts and words melded, and he was shouting into the wind: "I am Casca, son of Rome, soldier of the legions, and I will beat you! I will endure more than you and triumph. Leave me alone!"
Tezmec touched his shoulder.
"What are you screaming, my son? In what strange tongue do you speak? Please do not spoil this great day with unseemly behavior. Remember your dignity!" His voice cracked as he chastised Casca, "Remember your dignity!"
Casca laughed bitterly. "Dignity, old man? What dignity is there in death like this? Death, when it serves no purpose, is not dignity. It is useless."
Abruptly the darkness was upon them, as if a curtain had been drawn suddenly. A murmur ran through the waiting thousands: The thunder rumbled, and the ground quivered.
Tezmec took the helmet from Casca's head and freed the bindings of the feathered robe.
"It is time, my son. The gods are impatient. The signs and portents of this day are great."
The two lesser priests reached to take Casca by the shoulders and lay him on the altar.
"No."
Casca pushed them away. "First I must speak." He turned from the stone and faced out to the masses below.
Filling his lungs to fight against the thunder and wind, he cried:
"I am the Quetza.
"The one whose coming was foretold.
"In this body is the living spirit of the Feathered Serpent.
"The wish of the Quetza is that there shall be no more sacrifices. With me it ends, and I shall place the mask of jade in the great hall with my own hands, for it is not yet time for me to die."
He turned to Tezmec, and his voice thundered: "Priest of the Teotec! You cannot take that which is not yours. It is not for mortals to take my life. Only a god can kill a god. But try if you must."
The wind screamed mindlessly. Raindrops, fat and heavy, made puffs of dust jump around the stone upon which so many living hearts had been cut out.
They were like that at the foot of the Cross.... The ground trembled.
Is this my crucifixion?
Ignoring the hands of the priests, Casca lay himself upon the stone. The feel of the well-used granite was cool against his back.
Is it time for me to die?
Are you coming again, Jew?
Is it now that I shall be set free?
The darkness was upon them, and in that darkness Tezmec raised the shining blade of golden flint. The beat of the drums was a distant memory. The knife flashed, and, as it did, lightning burst from the heavens, sending blinding streaks of light breaking through the darkness.
Is it time to set me free?
Pain.
Burning.
Cold.
The shining knife struck deep.
Behind the jade mask Casca bit through his lower lip, his teeth grinding against each other. A coldness like nothing he had ever felt or imagined ran over him.
Is this death? Are you here, Jew?
A greater pain ... and a tugging deep inside ... and a sudden feeling of emptiness.
Tezmec held the beating heart of Casca in his hand, blood spurting fr
om the severed aorta. The organ emptied itself on the altar.
Jew, came Casca's unspoken pleading, now I can die. The coldness reached to the ends of his fingers and feet, his body chilling in the death spasms. The storm raged, and the darkness was a blanket of black nothingness. The wind screamed as if in some terrible pain of its own.
The people covered their heads and faces. Clearly this was the work of the gods. Tezmec stood, confused, as the wind tried to tear his robes from him.
Lightning reached from the heavens and struck the base of the pyramid, then walked its way up to the altar on which Casca lay, his chest open to the skies. It struck again, enveloping the top of the pyramid and all upon it in. a crackling green inferno, the main bolt centering on Casca's body, the electric shocks sending his flesh into uncontrolled fits of jerking. The last remnants of his life force and consciousness asked once more the question: Jew, can I die now?
With that terrible voice that had sent Casca upon his wanderings came the words of the crucified Yeshua:
"As you are, so you shall remain."
Lightning flashed continually, the thunder echoing and echoing, reverberating over the land. The wind was as nothing he ever felt.
Tezmec stood frozen.
A burning phosphorescence – like the kind seen at sea that hovers over the masts of ships and travels along the decks – enveloped the sacrificial stone. The jade mask glowed and seemed to throw out rays of emerald light. Teztnec held the still-beating heart in his hand. It was throbbing and moving as if trying to get away, twisting in his grip, slippery and bloody. The golden knife dropped from Tezmec's grasp when another hand covered his.
Casca, his body enveloped in the green fire of the sea, stood holding Tezmec's hand stationary over the altar fire in which the heart was to have been burned. And then Casca took his own beating heart out of the priest's hand.
"I told you I was a god. It takes a god to kill a god, and my time is not yet come."
Tezmec was paralyzed with fear. Then, like a puppet with its strings cut, he fell on his face in front of Casca.
