by Barry Sadler
In the Roman manner taught them by Casca, the Vikings drew their swords at Olaf's command and with the wind whipping through the blond and red mustaches cried out as one man: "Hail, Casca, Lord of the Keep! Ave! Ave!"
Casca signaled, and the junior priests lowered their burden carefully to the ground. He stepped to the front of the litter.
His barbaric splendor was a sight to see. On his arms and wrists he wore bracelets of gold in the likeness of serpents eating their tails, while around his neck a massive pendant of beaten gold inlaid with jade pictured the history of the Teotec.
He removed the mask. It was beginning to cramp him anyway. His familiar scarred face, red and sweating, smiled at his men.
Sweeping Olaf up in his arms, Casca roared with obvious pleasure. He thumped Olaf on his back until the young Glamson thought his ribs would give way.
"Pray, lord," he pleaded, "if you would have me in any condition to fight later on, go easy now."
Casca's rolling laughter echoed around the square, and the sound of his mirth set the native people to smiling. All was well. The Tectli was pleased. Passing through the ranks of his men, Casca called each by name. He asked about the faces that were missing and frowned at their loss. But the life of a soldier is death, and they had died like men. When the living returned to their home fires even the dead would become immortal in the telling and retelling of great feats.
Returning to his litter, Casca called out to the city: "These are my men! They are to be your friends! They shall live among you! But, remember, they are not of your ways and customs. Be patient with them, and they will learn. If any offends, you tell me, and I will administer justice. These are my words. So let it be. I am the Quetza."
Turning to Olaf, he said, "You will be made welcome. Quarters are prepared. You and your men must rest after your journey. Come to me for the evening meal. Bring your officers, and we will talk of what must be done here."
Olaf was properly astounded. He bowed his head. "As you wish, my lord." Then he turned to his hairy band, and his voice boomed out in command – very much like Casca:
"Let none here offend our hosts by bad manners. Though these people appear to be savage, I think we could learn much from them. The first one of you who gets his ass in trouble – particularly over a woman – will find himself singing his death song a helluva lot quicker than he thought. Understand? Good! Then follow these men." He indicated the priests who had stepped forward at Casca's bidding. "We will rest."
Once at their assigned quarters, the Vikings settled down to an excited chatter about their new surroundings and about what had happened to Casca. While this was going on a group of women slaves, heads bowed, demure, entered. Each went to one of the warriors and put a necklace of gold and turquoise about his neck, then a bracelet of gold set with jade on his wrist. Shy and fearful, they then withdrew. After getting a good look at the asses of the slave girls, several of the Vikings were immediately ready to trade their gifts for a quickie.
"All right, settle down." Olaf's voice came through the excitement. "You men hit the sack. But before you go to sleep, make sure your weapons are clean and ready for use. Also, I want three men posted at the entrance at all times. We may be guests here, but we should be careful as always."
Totzin had watched the proceedings with the bile bitter in his mouth. Well enough, he thought. More of these paleskins for the altars. His eyes caught a glimpse of Metah as she joined Casca on his litter for the return to the palace. Totzin ran his tongue over his lips as he watched the rich sway of her hips and the bounce of her ripe breasts. When I am done with the Quetza, I shall take her for my own as long as she pleases me. When she no longer amuses me, I shall feed her to the Jaguar ... except for those parts I take for myself....
Olaf followed his painted priest guide across the way to the palace of Casca. His quick gaze missed nothing. He was taken past guards in elaborate headdresses and with strange weapons. The walls were covered with murals depicting the life and culture of the people of Teotah. Behind Olaf his officers followed him in awe. Finally they came to a massive door of carved wood. Two Serpent soldiers opened it and ushered the Vikings into a more familiar presence.
Casca stood in the center of the huge room wearing only a loincloth. His arms and wrists were covered by massive gold bracelets. Casca welcomed the Vikings. They stood for a moment looking around the room. In the center were benches and a table covered with many foods – even the flesh of the small dog that these people prized so much.
"Before we talk, eat and drink," Casca commanded. He indicated for them to take their places with a sweep of his muscled arms. The movement of his arms focused attention on the jagged scar on his chest, the raised red welt that had not yet had time to pale into the many other faded scars that limned his body. Olaf eyed the jagged wound but said nothing. Casca would tell of it when he was ready – but now for the food. The Norsemen fell to with their normal vigor, though most of them carefully avoided the red peppers and spices. They had met those on their journey, and just looking at them they could remember how they had burned their mouths ... and even later the burning was renewed when the chiles made their exit. The meat they favored most was that of a large bird resembling a giant chicken, but with drumsticks twice the size of that familiar domestic fowl.
The men showed a definite liking for the local wine, once they got used to the taste. Casca told them it was called octli. There was also the more pungent mezcal. A few of the Vikings even swore to its good effects. Both, Casca explained, came from a fleshy, long-leaved plant with sharp spines that was known as the magucy.
Olaf swallowed a long draw of pulque, wiped his blond mustache clean with the back of his hand, and said, "Well, Lord Casca, it may not be beer or mead, but it does set your head feeling as if all were well. Is it?"
The question cut through the clamor.
"Well enough, Olaf Glamson."
They all stopped eating. Casca looked around at the waiting, expectant faces of those who had followed him so far from their home waters. One by one he gazed into their eyes, into the faces of these, his officers. They were rough men with the blood of heroes in their veins, not the refined cultured officers of the Roman nobility nor of the princes of the East. These men could spend a lifetime without sleeping under a roof and feel no sense of deprivation. They could eat anything that walked, flew, dug, or swam – or that could eat them, and they'd even take that on if they got in the first bite. Their form of courage was basic and primitive in its origin. They had been raised on a steady diet of what they believed to be the manly virtues. Courage and loyalty to their own came first. Their own lives were less important to them than being faithful to what they considered to be their honor as warriors.
Beside Olaf sat Vlad the Dark. His hair was coal black, with traces of blue lights in it. His skin was deep bronze from the sun. He could almost have been taken for one of the Teotecs had it not been for the piercing blue eyes that watched all about him in quiet study. Quiet he was, and the most mannerly of the barbarians seated here. Seldom did he get into the piss-binding drunken stupor that his comrades seemed to enjoy so much. Nor was the Viking habit of boasting his. He never sang his own praises nor boasted of his prowess with the great axe. Yet few intentionally offended him. The foolish ones who did soon found themselves without their uppermost appendage, for Vlad's quiet manners belied his swiftness with axe and sword. Only to Olaf – whom he loved like an elder brother – and to Casca, the Lord of the Keep, did he show deference.
The other Vikings were cut more from the cloth of rude violence and boisterous spirits. Bjornson, Olvir, and Swey were very much like Holdbod the Berserker. When Holdbod fought, the rage would come over him. His lips would froth. He would scream in what seemed an unknown tongue, literally crying for more to come, and slaughtering those who did with his great two-handed blade that was larger than one most half-grown youths could even raise to the waist. With this great sword he could split a man from crown to the waist as clean
as a butcher would carve beef.
Casca completed his mental survey. These, then, were his men. He addressed them.
"Olaf, we will soon have work to do. Messengers have come to me that the king of the lands adjoining Teotah is preparing to march against us. And, while I have the loyalty of most of this city, there are some whose mouths speak well, but whose eyes and actions lie."
Olaf broke in, "But, lord, why should we involve ourselves with these people's fights? Why don't we just take what we will and set sail for home? Surely from what I have seen here there is gold and silver enough to make us all rich as kings. What are these people to us?"
Casca caught hold of his temper. His voice dropped a register.
"Olaf, I love you for yourself and for your father. But this is my will. These people and this city are now mine and they are my responsibility. They have the makings of a greater nation than any I have ever met, but they must have time to grow. Here I have stopped the sacrificing of human beings to their gods, and they look on me as a god. I have taken away from them something they held sacred for centuries. And more ... I have found a woman. There are other reasons, but these will suffice."
Casca's gray gaze forced Olaf's eyes down.
"Aye, lord. We have sworn to obey you in all things. If this is your wish, then so it be. We are your men," Glamson replied.
Pleased, Casca responded in gentler tones: "Olaf, after the fighting is done, those who wish may take the longships and sail for home. And, as you say, each man will have enough gold to make him rich as a king. But before that time, each must earn his reward. When the Olmecs are beaten, I will release you from your oath of fealty."
"Very good, my lord. But, if there will be slaughter, then perhaps you will have need of this."
Reaching under the table, Olaf pulled the sack he had been carrying when they entered into full view. It was bulky. It clanged as he set it on the table, sweeping aside trays and plates with his arm, clearing a spot.
Olaf reached inside the bag and pulled out, one at a time, items that each evoked a memory of Casca's past. First, there was a full set of Roman armor. It was the set Casca had in his pack when he and Olaf s father, old Glam, had fought for and won the keep in which Olaf was born. It was well-used armor, but it had been even better cared for.
Olaf held up each piece of the armor for his leader's appraisal. The only new piece was the tunic of white linen with half sleeves and a skirt reaching to the knees. The cuirass was of three parts. The shoulder epaulets and the chest and back covering were all made of boiled, formed leather on which were sewn circular pieces of iron. The shoulder pieces were made of four plates, smaller than those of the cuirass to which they were fixed on the ends and passed over the shoulders like straps. From the waist were two thick borders of leather plated with strips of iron reaching almost to the knees.
As each piece was brought out and presented, Casca felt a rush of memories.
"One last item, lord," Olaf said. "This was dropped when the cat soldiers took you captive. For some reason they left it where it lay."
Reaching deep into the sack, Olaf withdrew Casca's famous short sword. The weapon had been meticulously cleaned and sharpened. Not a spot of rust would dare make itself known on the shining surface. The blade had been honed on both sides to razor sharpness. There were, however, several deep notches in the blade that gave it a slightly serrated appearance. They had been too deep to remove without damaging the rest of the sword.
Casca took the weapon in his calloused hand. The grip felt alive. He had carried this weapon ever since he had left the battlefield in Parthia where the city of Ctesiphon had been put to the sword. How many years had it been? Fifty? Sixty? More?
Casca put his free hand on the forearm of Olaf. "Thank you. This weapon is more than a tool. It is the story of my life. It and my destiny are one. Thank you, Olaf Glamson. Now I must go. Even a god has duties, and several await me. You and the others, eat and enjoy yourselves. Tomorrow we begin to ready for the battle."
That night, while the Norsemen slept, they were closer to war than they imagined. Even now, while they were tossing in their sleep and dreaming of the women they had left at home, Teypetel was being borne on a giant litter carried by eighty slaves at the front of his army. Thirty thousand strong the enemy marched. The litter bearers were changed and replaced by fresh slaves every three miles. Less if the going was rough.
In Teotah, the city of the Teotec, only Totzin knew what was transpiring, and he slept the best sleep of all. Victory was soon to be in his grasp, and the city and its people would be his. The few foreign devils who had come could make no possible difference in the outcome. Five days, and the king of the Olmecs and his army would be at the doors of Teotah. Then the god of the Jaguar would feed to the fullest. He, Totzin, would see to it that the one calling himself the Quetza performed no further tricks or illusions. He smiled as he slept. A warm, wet flash ran down his leg from the groin as he dreamed of what he would do to the woman of the Quetza. Not all his excitement was sexual in nature; the thought of feeding himself on her flesh was as strong a stimulant as the sex act itself.
Dawn brought no indications of the coming violence.
Casca sat and breakfasted with the king and Tezmec.
"Priest," he asked, "why do your cities have no walls for defense?"
Tezmec smiled and spoke in the same tone of voice he used in teaching novices. "The jungles and hills are our walls. We have scouts out on every trail leading to our city. If an enemy approaches, it is from the walls of the jungle that we meet and strike them before they can reach us. In the event that the enemy manages to break through to the city itself, then our people use those same jungle walls to hide in, taking with them their items of most value.
“The enemy takes an empty city. From the hills and jungles we will strike down and attack his warriors. When they learn the cost is too great they will return to their own lands, and we will come back. At the most, they will have taken the items left behind, but these are of no real value. What use can they make of cooking pots? The value is in the people. Without them there can be no real victory. If they destroy our temples, then we will simply build greater and larger ones when they are gone, and when the time is right. We will avenge ourselves. Our people would never accept a foreign king. He must be one of our own."
The young king nodded in agreement. "Is it not so in the lands you said are across the waters, Tectli Quetza?"
Casca shook his shaggy head in denial. "No," he said, "it is not. Perhaps your way is better for you, but the people I know are different. There we need the walls to defend ourselves. Perhaps even here you will one day find a need for them."
The Olmecs and their grotesque king were now only four days away from Teotah. On this day the passes leading to the city were guarded by serpent soldiers. Tomorrow the guard would change; the soldiers of the Jaguar would take over the duty of watching the far passes through which the enemy must pass.
Casca paid ever increasing attention to his troops the next days. More and more he drilled them in new methods of fighting, methods new to them but old to the legions of Caesar. His Vikings would be the anvil against which any invader would smash themselves; his regular Teotec soldiers would be the hammer.
Totzin smiled, especially when he saw Casca with Metah. Enjoy the woman while you can, he thought. Soon it will be the trust of my loins that she screams out for.
Teypetel entered the valley, his army strung out behind, not yet in battle order. Cautiously his scouts proceeded and returned, prostrating themselves before their king and giving the word that the way was clear; the Jaguar soldiers of the priest Totzin had honored their word and were even now coming down to join the army. Their remaining brothers in the city would strike from the inside when the time was ripe. The way was open, and soldiers of the Olmecs poured through, faces painted for war. Many had the same flat lips and noses of their king, for he and his fathers had spread their seed wherever they could. The cast of bruta
lity was clearly stamped on them.
Casca sat late in his rooms. Metah walked softly so as not to disturb him. She knew that he had many things on his mind. He sat alone looking out over his city. The flat roofs and the temple pyramids seemed frozen in the light of the brilliant moon and the cloudless sky. His thoughts reached across the dark waters, far, far to another land, Rome. Rome ... It has been long since I saw the city of Caesar Augustus. He still referred to it as the city of the man who sat on the throne of the world's most powerful nation when he, Casca, was young and first served in the legion. Who was emperor now? How much longer would Rome endure? Or had she already fallen to internal rot and the bright swords of the more vital peoples surrounding her?
Rome.... Now he understood a little of what the Caesars must have endured. The weight of responsibility is heavy for a ruler. I wonder why they, the power seekers, crave it so much?
There were, of course, things that Casca could not know. While he ruled the Teotec not as king but as god, Rome was moving ever closer to her final days. It had been 253 years since the so-called "Messiah" had died on the Cross. Valerian was once again trying to stabilize the frontiers of the Empire. He had made his son Gallienus emperor of the west while he marched to the east to try and restore order. He was too late. Ever increasingly, better organized and more violent rebellions had sapped the spirits of the legions along the Danube. They were now facing the new confederation of the Gothic Empire. The borders were crumbling. The Goths laid to the sword much of Asia Minor and even northern Greece. Valerian was taken prisoner by the Persians.
This same night Valerian's son Gallienus sat with the thoughts of disaster foremost in his mind. He had retaken the Balkans, but his strength was so limited that Gaul, Spain, the Rhineland – and even Britain – paid homage only to their autonomous rulers. Gallienus sighed deeply. The weight of Rome was heavy. He pondered the responsibilities of power as he poured another draught of the famous Falerian wine, sipped slowly, and cut with a touch of spring water. Finishing his cup, he called for his masseur to come and rub away some of the tensions of the day. Rome may be fading, but that is no excuse to live like a barbarian....