by Barry Sadler
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 Teoti
huacan. 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.
"I am the Quetza!" he cried. Then he put his hands on both sides of his chest and pushed the edges of the wound together, closing the gaping hole.
Moctezuma wept as he saw the wound close and rivulets of blood run down the messenger's chest to flow onto the stones and drip down the steps. Above the roar of the storm, he saw Casca raise his arms to the heavens and cry out in pain and anguish.
"I, Casca. I am the Quetza!"
Moctezuma tried to cover his ears but couldn't as the last words tore at the very fabric of his soul. The man on the altar, his body burning with the green fire, screamed again and drowned out the thunder of the skies with his words:
"I am God!"
Moctezuma fainted. When he awoke, his guards were carrying him in a litter back to his palace. When he questioned them as to what they had seen that night, they looked at him in confusion, not knowing what was wanted from them. They could only answer honestly. "We saw nothing, our lord, only you and the strange man sitting on the altar of the sun. You watched him for a few minutes and then fainted. That is all we saw, nothing more save the storm."
Moctezuma never returned to the City of the Gods. That now belonged to the scarred one and his magic. Now more than ever, he feared those from the sea. What should he do? What could he do? They were coming. He could not keep them away forever. They were coming for him even now.
Cortes questioned his new allies about the disappearance of his man known as Carlos Romano. They knew nothing. There had been rumors that one such as he had been seen heading west across the trails leading to the high deserts. But that was all. The subjects of the Aztecs were not speaking. A silence had fallen between them and their subject and vassal tribes.
Cortes had the feeling that Romano was up to something, but what it could be he couldn't even guess at. One man was not important enough to cause him to have a major confrontation with the Aztecs. Whatever Romano was up to, he had a feeling it would not be to the advantage of the Indians. There was an odd quality about the man. Just what it was, he couldn't put into words, but there was definitely something.
Cortes shook the thought off. He had more pressing matters to worry over than the whereabouts of one man. He had an entire country to conquer for the glory of Spain and himself.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Cortes had spent the last months fortifying his new city of Vera Cruz to make it secure from attack and building alliances among his neighbors. Soon it would be time to move against the city of the Mexicas. Then he would not be denied his meeting with the king of the Aztecs.
It was not long after the nephews of Moctezuma had left that the Cempolans asked Cortes for help in destroying the Culhuan, who were one of the few willing vassals of the Aztecs. They had a garrison at Tizapantzinco, a fortress built on a rocky butt near a river on the border between the lands of the Totonacs and those of the Cempolans.
When the Culhuans there found the countryside in revolt and their tax collectors attacked, they sent their warriors out in strength, raiding the villages and towns within their reach, putting them all to the torch and taking captives for the altars. Cortes decided that it would be good to reinforce his new allies' faith in him, and so he agreed to go with them the two days' journey, taking with him a hundred foot soldiers and fifty horses.
When they reached the base of the butt, he held his Spaniards back, letting the Cempolans go out first to show themselves and hurl challenges at the Culhuans, who reacted predictably, sallying out in full strength to destroy the impudent Cempolans. Once they were committed and fully exposed, Cortes set loose his Spaniards on them, his cavalry cutting off the Culhuans from their city. The natives panicked when they saw the Spaniards; they had never laid eyes on white men or horses before. They broke and ran for the trees and river with the Cempolans hot on their trail. Cortes took four of his officers and climbed the butt to the gates of Tizapantzinco, holding it with no difficulty until the main force of Cempolans and Spaniards could enter.
He turned the city over to his allies after making them promise not to hurt the civilians there. They were to disarm their prisoners and then set them free. This was a strange thing for the Indians to do, as they never released captives, but they obeyed his wishes. As usual, Cortes had reasons for everything he did. He wanted the survivors of the Culhuan force to go out into the countryside and spread his fame. They would let the world of the Aztecs know that he was not to be resisted. At the same time
, he would gain the support of several other tribes, including those of the other Culhuan cities.
One other bit of good news awaited his return to Vera Cruz. A friend of his from Cuba had arrived with a caravel carrying sixty good soldiers and nine horses, which were worth more than fifty men each because of the effect they had on the Indians.
Upon his return, he called for a meeting of his town leaders, the alcaldes and regidores. The treasure they had acquired to this date was brought into the square of the City of the True Cross and displayed for all to see. Besides the small things of cotton and feather works, which had no real value other than their craftsmanship, the gold and silver they had gained was valued at twenty-seven thousand ducats.
It was time for him to renew the loyalty of his men and buy the favor of his king. He told the council to distribute the wealth among the men after deducting the king's fifth share and then said that he would take only his fair share as captain general of the expedition, not deducting at this time his costs for the ships and supplies he'd had to pay for. He wanted his men to have their shares in full so that they might pay off any debts they had accrued in order to join his forces.
Among the king's share were sent the two disks of gold and silver that had been given to him by Tuedilli. Also on the list was a necklace of gold with eighty-three small emeralds set in it and another of four twisted strands of gold with one hundred and two rubies and a hundred and seventy-two emeralds. These and many other items, some of gold or silver, others of pearls and gems, and many articles of native clothing that showed the incredibly beautiful work of the Indian craftsmen in cloth and feathers were all included on the list.
