Walking past the sinister stone image, Adam advanced to the edge of the broad terrace and for some moments gazed down at the silent, expectant crowd gathered below. He recalled his dream, in which he had stood there before to be received and acclaimed as a Man-God. In the moonlight the clothes of the people down there could not be distinguished, so they might just as well have been wearing the cloaks with gaudy patterns that their ancestors had worn a thousand years earlier. The blur of upturned faces was the same.
He decided that he must be dreaming again. It was absurd, fantastic, unbelievable, that there could really be a plot in this day and age to destroy modern Mexico, with its booming industries, skyscrapers, achievements in science and art, magnificent motorways and broad-minded government which was slowly, but surely, turning it into a Welfare State; to turn the clock back hundreds of years, leaving the country at the mercy of hordes of primitive Indians led by a handful of fanatics. The whole conception of such a revolution was hopeless: utterly impractical. It could be no more than an idea conjured up in a nightmare. He must soon wake up in his bed at the El Presidente, or perhaps in London.
Like receiving a bucket of cold water in the face, he was brought back to earth by one of the priests handing him a microphone, a spotlight that completely blinded him being switched on from somewhere, and Alberuque’s voice coming from within a few feet of his ear with the harshly whispered ultimatum, ‘Now say your piece, and clearly; otherwise I’ll smell out your woman, have her stripped naked and give her to Chac-Mool.’
Although it was cold up there, beads of perspiration started out on Adam’s forehead. He had played for time, had done his utmost to enable Hunterscombe to arrive before the assembly below dispersed, carrying his message, and the codeword was sent out that would inflame the whole country. How could he possibly send them away inspired to commit themselves to a ruthless civil war in which thousands of their kind and thousands of other entirely innocent people must be killed.
But if he refused, what of Chela? Strong as he was he could not hope to overcome the seven priests, and Alberuque was armed. The thought of her being murdered before his eyes was positively horrifying. He must continue to play for time. Even while he was speaking Hunterscombe might arrive.
Fearing that half-measures would probably drive Alberuque into such a fury that to revenge himself he would carry out his threat and sacrifice Chela, Adam resisted the temptation to mumble and declaimed his speech in a loud voice. It was received by the crowds below with an awed murmur of appreciation.
The wave of sound had hardly subsided when Alberuque took the hand microphone from him and shouted into it:
‘Sons of Mexico! Rightful owners of its soil and silver. You have heard the Man-God delegate temporal authority over you to me. There is one way only in which we can hope to triumph. It is by swift and ruthless action. The masters must be destroyed root and branch before they have time to organise against us. When you go forth from here, kill! kill! kill! Death to the descendants of the gachupines.’
As he paused, there came a thunderous burst of applause. The cheering lasted a good minute and it was only as it began to fade that Adam caught Chela’s voice coming through it from behind him. She was shouting:
‘No! What are you saying? No! No! No!’
Drowning her cries, Alberuque resumed his speech. ‘I call upon you now to witness the ancient ceremony of Elevation. The Man-God has made his will known. As in the past he again ascends to rejoin his Divine Brothers. The shedding of his blood will rejuvenate our nation.’
It had come—the dread decree that Adam had been fearing ever since he had recognised Alberuque to be Itzechuatl. Yet still he could hardly believe it possible that in this modern age such a thing could really happen. Even now, at the eleventh hour, he thought again that he must be suffering from a ghastly dream and, as is the way with nightmares, would wake at the critical moment to find himself in bed, sweating but safe.
Fear for Chela had kept him obedient up to the moment of Alberuque’s final sentence. The actual announcement that he was to be the victim of the ritual murder put her out of danger. Suddenly he woke to the reality of his own peril. Alberuque was standing on his right and within a yard of him. Had his hands been free, he could easily have seized him and thrown him down the pyramid. But they were not. In his right hand he held the long staff of authority tipped with his cypher in jewels; in his left the big shield from which dangled his plumed head-dress.
Letting fall his impedimenta, he thrust out his right hand to grab Alberuque. But the evil priest had anticipated that he would make a fight for his life, and had taken precautionary measures. Unseen by Adam five of the other priests had closed in behind him. The second he moved, they flung themselves upon him, grabbing him round the neck and waist and by both arms.
His only assets in a fight against such odds were his towering height and the powerful muscles in his big limbs; but although small men, the priests were muscular and, except for one, they were in the prime of life.
Exerting all his strength, he wrestled with them, striving to throw them off. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of Chela. The seventh priest was holding her back from coming to his assistance. Through the almost deafening shouts of excitement that rose from the crowd, he could hear her screaming at Alberuque:
‘You cannot do this! You cannot! Oh, what have I done that this should happen? Holy Virgin, have pity. Save him! Save him!’
Adam got an arm free and brought his clenched fist down on the head of one of the priests. The man fell like a pole-axed ox. But another of them seized his arm again. With both arms held, his body was vulnerable. One of the priests, lowering his head, ran in and butted him in the stomach. The blow winded him. The breath driven from his body, he doubled up. His limbs went slack. Seizing their advantage, the priests dragged him towards the Chac-Mool.
Again he caught a glimpse of Chela. The priest was holding her with her arms behind her back. She was struggling violently with him and still screaming, ‘Oh, Lord, have mercy! Holy Mary intercede for me! Save him! Save him and I’ll become your handmaiden. I have sinned; I know it! But I repent! I repent!’
It was then that Adam subconsciously became aware that new sounds were vibrating in the air. From overhead there came the roar of aircraft while the shouting of the crowd no longer held a note of fanatical elation; it had changed to pandemonium. Out of the night sky above the massed people, row after row of flares descended, dropped from fighter aircraft. Help had come, but too late; for aircraft could not rescue him.
Yet the thought that succour was so near lent him new strength, and he had got back his wind. Desperately he turned and twisted like Laocoon among the serpents. Snarling with fury, the four priests strove to force him down on to the Chac-Mool. For a moment he let himself go limp, gave a terrific heave and broke free. But, as he jumped clear, the older priest tripped him. He went down heavily, hitting his head on the raised knees of the hideous idol. The blow did not knock him out, but he was momentarily blinded. Stars and whirling circles flashed before his eyes. Involuntarily his muscles slackened, and he was rendered temporarily helpless.
Panting from their exertions, the priests got him down. One of them tore off his gold breastplate, another ripped away his shirt; the two others were using their full weight to pin down his arms. As his vision cleared, he saw Alberuque standing over him. The High Priest’s painted face was demoniac. Grasped firmly in his hand he held the obsidian sacrificial knife. He raised it to strike.
Adam knew then that his hour had come. As the government forces had arrived before the completion of the ceremony, the codeword that was to rouse the mobs all over the country would not yet have been sent out from the museum telephone exchange. He had saved Mexico from a terrible Civil War. But he must pay for it with his life. Fate had decreed that Itzechuatl should, after all, wreak his hate and vengeance on the victim who had escaped him a thousand years before.
At that very moment there came a piercing yell. A se
cond later, two shots rang out. With a wail of agony, Alberuque dropped the knife and clutched his side. For a moment he swayed, then heeled over and fell. Another shot followed. The priest who had torn off Adam’s breastplate gave a sudden grunt and went over backwards. The other three hastily let go of Adam and took cover as well as they could behind the Chac-Mool.
Gasping for breath, Adam heaved himself to his feet and looked towards the place where Chela had been standing. The spotlight was still on. In its glare he saw that the priest who had held her was dabbing at his face, from which blood was dripping. She now lay sprawled at his feet.
Instantly Adam grasped what must have happened. She had somehow managed to get her head round and fix her teeth in the man’s chin. Then, as he released her, she had drawn the little automatic she often carried strapped to her thigh and shot Alberuque. The infuriated priest who had been holding her must then have knocked her down.
Adam took a stride in her direction. Having no longer anything to fear from Chela, the priests behind him sprang to their feet and came at him again. The man with the bitten chin ran to their assistance. Once more Adam found himself fighting for his life against four of them.
Like a pack of wolves attacking a big reindeer, they fastened on to his limbs and strove to pull him down. Staggering from side to side, the group reached the very edge of the terrace. One more step in that direction and all five of them, with arms and legs whirling, would have pitched down the steep steps.
Adam was facing that way. Over the heads of his shorter assailants he had a swift view of what was taking place below. The road to the pyramid was made as bright as day by the glare of the headlights on a long line of vehicles. The leading ones had already drawn up and police or troops were tumbling out of them. The mob had dispersed and was running in all directions. But there were scores of people still on the pyramid terraces, and some of those on the nearest were making for the top.
Again he was near despair. Even if he could succeed in fighting off the priests who clung to him, help would soon reach them. Assailed by greater numbers, he must succumb. He was fearful, too, that now they would all go over the edge. Splaying his feet, he made a violent effort to heave himself backward. It took the others by surprise. All but one of them lost their hold on him. Jerking up his elbow, he struck the man under the chin with it. His teeth snapped together, his head fell back and he dropped to the ground.
Chela had been left unguarded. For a few moments she had been knocked out. Now she had come round and again came into action. Raising her pistol, she shot in the back the priest whose chin she had bitten. With a hideous scream, he sank to the ground.
There remained two unwounded priests, and the one Adam had hit on the head, who had now staggered to his feet. All three of them had to be dealt with if he was to stand any chance at all of escaping with Chela down the rear side of the pyramid before the mass of shouting Indians coming up its front was upon them.
The nearest priest was the one who had piloted the helicopter. Rushing at him, Adam seized him round the body. The other two ran at him. With sudden dismay he saw that they had drawn their knives. It was clear that, realising they could no longer hope to overcome him and get him down on the Chac-Mool, they meant, if they could, to kill him where he stood.
Desperately he looked round for a weapon. His glance fell on the long staff of authority. It would not be as effective as a spear, but the jewelled serpent-head at the top could inflict an ugly wound on a man’s face. Snatching it up, he fended off the attack. Backing away, he jabbed with it first at one priest, then at the other, while hoping that Chela would use the rest of the bullets in her pistol to shoot them before one of them could stab him. Ten seconds later he realised that hope to be vain. To escape their first rush he had leapt aside and turned; so now he had his back to her. She would not dare shoot at them for fear of hitting him.
The two priests had their backs to the edge of the terrace. Adam was sparring with them at a distance of only four feet, so he could see beyond them down the steep slope. Howling like dervishes, the thirty or forty Indians and Mestizos who were pounding up the steps from the lower terrace were now within twenty feet. A few flourished knives and sabres, but most of them were armed with pistols.
He dared not turn his head and so take his eyes off his two assailants, but with all the strength left in his lungs he shouted to Chela, ‘Run! Run for your life!’
As he urged her to flee, he knew that within the next two minutes he must be overwhelmed and hacked to pieces by the ferocious mob that was surging up towards him.
19
A Truly Bitter Pill
Time is entirely relative to circumstances. At school, the last lesson of an afternoon can seem endless and the hands of the clock barely crawl. Yet a long evening spent together by two lovers seems to be over when it has only just begun.
To Adam, fighting for his life, the next minute seemed an eternity. Automatically he parried the knife thrusts of the two priests and struck out at their faces with his staff. But through his mind flashed a multitude of jumbled thoughts. Hope that Chela would get away; grim satisfaction that, at last, Alberuque had paid for his evil intentions with his life; a sudden speculation about what Aunt Flora would do with all the money he had left her as his only relative; a gripping fear of the pain he must suffer from knife thrusts in his flesh and bones smashed by bullets before he finally expired; a longing to be through with this terrible end decreed to his life as Adam Gordon, and again free of his mortal body.
Suddenly, above the din that was coming up from below, there came from close at hand the staccato rattle of a Stengun. Fearing that he was about to be shot down from behind, Adam gave a swift glance over his shoulder. To his amazement, he saw Jeremy Hunterscombe standing only a dozen yards away from him on the edge of the terrace.
It then flashed upon him that Jeremy, having alerted the police, had driven out to Teotihuacán in his racing car and must have come up the rear side of the pyramid.
Hunterscombe had his weapon pointed slightly downward and was swivelling it from side to side. Screams and curses made the night hideous as the bullets ripped into the mob that was streaming up from the nearest terrace.
Although it seemed to Adam that he had been fighting for his life for half an hour, actually less than six minutes had elapsed since Alberuque had pronounced his death sentence. Now, the sight of Hunterscombe gave him, for the first time, real hope that he would survive. But that one glance over his shoulder nearly proved his undoing.
Both his attackers rushed in. He jabbed wildly at the face of one of them. The jewelled serpent caught the man in the left eye. Letting out a long-drawn howl, he slumped back on to the Chac-Mool, but the staff snapped off short. At the same moment, the other priest ran in, stabbing upwards with his knife at Adam’s heart. With not the fraction of a second to spare, he swerved aside. The blade ripped through his robe and the man’s evil, painted face came to within an inch of his. Seizing the man’s wrist, Adam gave it a savage twist. The knife fell with a clatter on the stone flags. Still holding the priest by the wrist, Adam swung him round and away. Bringing up his right foot, he kicked him hard in the crotch and let him drop.
Trembling from the violence of his exertions and nearly exhausted by the terrible fight he had been through, Adam turned on his heel to see Chela and Hunterscombe standing side by side.
‘Come on, chum!’ the Wing Commander shouted. ‘Into their old kite before these devils get us all.’ Then he and Chela began to run towards the helicopter.
There came the crack of a pistol. Chela staggered, seemed to trip, then, with outflung arms, pitched forward on her face.
Adam had believed Alberuque to be dead. But he was not. When, clutching at his wounded side, he had fallen, he had hit his head on one of the big, uneven chunks of stone and knocked himself out. A minute earlier he had come round, managed to get out his pistol and seized the chance to use it. Adam was only a couple of yards away from and behind him. In one bou
nd he reached him, lifted his foot and kicked him hard in the face. The toe of his shoe caught Alberuque on the side of the jaw. With a groan he rolled over and lay still.
Whimpering with pain, Chela had scrambled up, but stood precariously balanced on her left foot. Alberuque’s bullet had gone through the calf of her right leg. Hunterscombe was beside her. Putting one arm round her shoulders and the other under her knees, he lifted her and staggered with her to the helicopter.
Adam was about to follow. Checking his stride he turned back. Snatching up Alberuque’s pistol, he seized him by the scruff of the neck. Berserk with fury, he shouted at the unconscious man, ‘You bloody swine! So there’s still life in you. But I’ll see to it that you’re not rescued by your murderous friends. You’re coming with us.’ Exerting all his remaining strength, he dragged the unconscious Monsignor across the uneven area of tangled stone.
When he reached the helicopter, Hunterscombe had already got Chela into the front seat beside that of the pilot’s in which he was sitting; and evidently being familiar with such machines, he had got the engine started. Adam heaved Alberuque up on the floor beside them, then scrambled into one of the back seats.
They were none too soon. Hunterscombe’s volleys had taken by surprise the men who were swarming up the pyramid, accounted for a number of them and temporarily checked the rest. But, as he turned away, they had come on again. Many of them had pistols. As the helicopter took off, they let fly a hail of bullets at it. Lurching forward, the Wing Commander cried:
‘Oh God! I’m hit!’ The helicopter lurched dangerously, then gained height and flew on down the valley.
Adam leaned forward and asked anxiously, ‘Badly?’
‘Not … too good,’ Hunterscombe grunted. ‘Got me through the back. But this kite’s easy to fly. No need to fuss.’
Only partially reassured, Adam tried to relax. He felt incredibly tired and was aching all over. Although his height had enabled him for most of the time to keep his face clear of blows, when he had been down one of the priests had given him a kick above the left ear that still made his head sing. Another had struck him in the mouth, so that his lips were bleeding. His legs and body were one mass of bruises from their kicks and his scalp was smarting where one of them had seized and tugged at his hair.
Unholy Crusade Page 34