Casca 10: The Conquistador

by Barry Sadler

  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.

  Pointing a finger at the pale face of the Aztec king, he whispered, "Do not offend me further."

  Moctezuma pulled his cloak over his head and fell to the floor on his face. Prostrate before the god, he sobbed out, "Mercy, Tectli Quetza. Have mercy on me and my people."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Moctezuma and Casca stayed in the king's chambers until past midday. Casca had to deliver his words carefully when Moctezuma asked what he should do.

  Casca stood by the door thinking. He had made Moctezuma tell him all he knew about the Spaniards and what they were doing, including the slaughter of Cholula and the sacrifice of the children by the Cholutecas. Cortes was coming and was not far away.

  "You must not oppose their coming any further, for if you do, all the tribes who are not your friends will ally themselves against you. Let Cortes come."

  Moctezuma was too frightened to argue, but he was still confused. "But if you are the god, then who is the one called Cortes?"

  Casca took his time. He knew more about the religion of the Aztecs and Indians of Mexico than any other of his race.

  "I have many faces and many bodies. I can enter the soul of any I choose and use them as my tool. I am Cortes and a hundred others. You will treat him as you would me, for we are of the same spirit and use these fleshy shells only to serve our purpose. If they are destroyed, then I shall take another and another, for the spirit cannot be destroyed. I am going to leave you for a time, but we shall meet again. Obey me and do not resist those who are coming."

  Casca walked away from the palace and out across the causeway leading to Tlacopan. From there he took the road leading to the volcano Popocatepetl. Cortes would have to pass within view of the smoking mountain. He would wait there until he came; it should not be much longer.

  What he was doing to Moctezuma was harsh, but it was the only chance he had to save the lives of tens of thousands. If Moctezuma gave over the control of the Aztec empire to Cortes, there would not be as much bloodshed. It would save the lives of both Indian and Spaniard and perhaps preserve the good things of the Aztec culture too.

  For now he could do no more. He would just have to wait for the conquistadors to come to him.

  Three days and nights passed as he waited and watched on the slopes of the volcano. During the day he would go down lower to where he could gather wood and brush to keep him warm in the thin air. For food he ate mostly dried corn and meat he had picked up at the market in Tlacopan. At night the volcano rumbled and smoked to keep him company. On the third night, he heard men coming up the rough slopes. From the manner in which they moved and the hush of their voices, he knew that they were searching for him and that they were not Castilians. If his fire hadn't gone out as he slept, they most likely would have found him by now. Wearily he put on his plain breastplate and unsheathed his sword. He wondered if Moctezuma had sent them but thought it unlikely. Hiding behind a boulder of volcanic slag, he waited and listened.

  The Aztecs were not very quiet. Loose rocks and gravel gave away their movements. Moving to the side of the boulder, he saw them coming up. Leading them was a priest, his face painted black. He knew where this bit of trouble had originated. One of Ceypal's priestly order had taken it upon himself to seek vengeance. The six warriors with him were from the war god's Eagle Clan. In the lead, just in front of the priest, was a captain of the Eagles. Casca let him pass by, half crawling on hands and knees up the steep sides of the smoking mountain. This was no time for a sense of fair play or nobility. Casca was in no mood for it. He wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

  The Eagle captain was only a few feet up from the boulder when Casca rose, stepped forward two paces, and stabbed him through the back, his long steel blade entering the warrior's heart. Whipping his sword hand back around, he caught the priest rising, half on his hands and knees. The sword sliced his lower jaw off and then flicked back to open his throat. One more of the remaining five Eagle warriors found his belly split open by the Spanish steel. The last four turned and ran, racing back down the hill, slipping and sliding. Without the priest and their captain, they had no desire to meet the devil on the mountain. By the time they reached the bottom of the volcano, they looked as if they had been in a major battle. Their bodies were covered with cuts and scrapes from which blood oozed. Casca let them go. He doubted that he would be bothered anymore, but just to make sure, he moved his camp to another place where it would be even more difficult for anyone to come on him by surprise and he could still watch for the army of Cortes. Idly he wondered how de Castro was faring.

  Cortes was ecstatic at the news the messengers from Moctezuma had brought him. The way was now open to Tenochtitlan and the heart of the Aztec empire. There would be no further resistance.

  The Spaniards and their army, which had grown to six thousand, marched with him. They were still cautious about ambush or treachery, which was well, for since the Spanish had come, Moctezuma had done little to oppose them. The king was not in favor with many of his military commanders. Kings had been made before, and they could be broken if they went against the will of their people, especially the clans of the armies.

  The conquistadors made Hudjotzingo their camp after the first day's march. The next day they reached a pass between two snow-covered peaks from where they could look out over the valley of Mexico. Its lakes and towns dotted the shores. Cortes led the way down from the pass. He would be the first to set foot in the valley. Once off the mountain, he made camp at a large estate belonging to a prince of Mexico. It was large enough so that his entire force was easily accommodated and fed.

  While the Spaniards were there, many nobles of Tenochtitlan and other cities came to plead with him to go back, though they knew that Moctezuma had given orders that the strangers were not to be hindered in their advance. Cortes was promised tribute to be paid each year if he would return to the coast and go no farther. Cortes would have none of it. No matter how much gold they promised, he knew that there had to be ten times more at Tenochtitlan. He had not come this far to be turned back by promises. He could see that some of Moctezuma's nobles were not averse to trying to make their own deals. That didn't surprise him; it was a common enough practice with a long history where he came from.

  The next day he reached Chalco, a city of twenty thousand, where he was presented with small gifts of gold and forty slave girls. In the morning, he was met by twelve Aztec lords who had come to give him greetings. The most important of them was another nephew of Moctezuma, Cacama, a young man of twenty-five who was carried in a litter on the shoulders of slaves. When he stepped down, the ground in front of him was swept away to remove any stones or objects that might hinder his progress. He gave greetings through Marina and told Cortes of their purpose. They were to escort the Spaniards the rest of the way to Mexico to ensure that there would be no trouble from recalcitrants in their path who had no love for the strangers.

  From Chalco they moved to Culhuacan, where Cuitlahuac, its lord, made them welcome, opening his palaces to the Spaniards, who were much impressed by what they saw. The cities on the other side of the mountains had been rich, but these were the equal of the finest in Europe. The palaces were filled with gardens and pools, flower-covered lanes, groves of fruit trees, and animals and birds of many kinds that walked unafraid among them.

  Here Cortes spent three days to rest his men and animals. They were close to their dest
ination now, and he wanted his men to beat their best when they met Moctezuma. He didn't notice that a new arrival was in his ranks, marching with the foot soldiers, his face covered most of the time by a scarf. Casca had rejoined the Spaniards, but he didn't speak even to Juan, who passed him riding on his horse. From Juan's posture, Casca knew that the young man had given himself over completely to the ideology of the Castilian conquistadors. He turned his face away from his one-time friend. This was not the time for questions. Twice he had seen Marina. She'd spotted him easily but had said nothing. The ways of gods were not hers to question.

  They could smell the lakes from Culhuacan, and from its temple in the distance they could make out easily the white structures on the island where Moctezuma resided. Cortes was led by Cacama to Ixtapalpa, which was connected with Mexico by means of another long causeway like the one Casca had taken from Chapultepec.

  Marching in good order on the causeway, they came to a stone bastion between them and Tenochtitlan. It was two fathoms high, with towers at both ends between crenellated bastions. There, four thousand richly dressed gentlemen of the city waited to greet him. As Cortes neared, they each in turn bent over, touched the earth with a hand, and kissed it before moving on. Such was their manner of welcome. It took over an hour for the ceremony to be completed, and Cortes and his men waited impatiently for what came next. Past the battlement, they continued on the causeway. The waters on either side were bright and sparkling in the early sun. Before the causeway reached the main walls of Tenochtitlan, it was broken by a wooden drawbridge ten paces in length where the waters from one lake flowed into the other.

  Suddenly Cortes saw what he had come to this place for. At the far end of the bridge stood Moctezuma under a pallium of green feathers strung with beads of silver. The pallium was carried by four men of noble blood to shield their lord from the elements. Moctezuma came forward. Macama and Cuitlahuac, both members of his family, supported each of his arms.