Casca 10: The Conquistador

by Barry Sadler

  Casca spoke once more. "You are a brave man, but this fight does not have to be, for you cannot win. See the marks on my body! How can you offer the burning flower to the gods when I have already been under the knife of the priests?"

  His voice rose in strength, the words coming easier.

  "Has a man such as I ever been to your lands in your lifetime? No! Yet I know of the great city of Teotihuacan and the temples of the sun and moon. I know Tlaloc who brings the rains. It is his image which lies beside the symbol of the Serpent God on the stairs leading to the place of sacrifice. I know of the death masks of the kings and where they lie in the temple of the serpent. All this I know and have seen long before your father's father drew his first breath. I walked this land when your nation and people did not exist. Do not bring death upon yourself, for I have no desire to spill your blood. Leave your death to another and take me to Moctezuma."

  Maxtcli's heart pounded in his chest. He was now truly frightened of what he had seen and heard. The stranger knew things that no one like him could have known. Was it possible? Maxtcli pushed the fear back, thinking, No! He is trying to trick me. Someone has told him of these things. He is only a man, no more, and as such, he will die.

  Maxtcli whipped his courage into a flame and cried out to the gods as he swung the heavy macama, aiming for the head of the foreigner. Casca blocked it with ease and countered with a side stroke, opening up Maxtcli's face to the bone. Maxtcli came again, his hide shield covering him as he moved in to the attack. Casca's steel blade cut the shield to ribbons. Then he hacked the wooden haft of the macama to splinters. Neither the Aztec warrior nor his weapons were even close to being a match for the skills of one who had fought in the Circus Maximus and had been trained in the school of Gladiators under the tutelage of Corvu the Lanista. For Casca it was nearly like fighting one of the andabate, the condemned men who were blinded and then put into the arena to fight with knives. Still he tried to avoid killing the man, using his blade only to prick and tease, trying to wear Maxtcli down to where he wouldn't have to take his life.

  It was too late for such thoughts. Maxtcli had been humiliated. He was bleeding from a dozen cuts, and his shield and weapon had been destroyed as if they were children's toys. And this pale ugly thing before him bobbed and weaved, teasing and toying with him. He would not be humiliated. He was a war captain who had been honored by Moctezuma himself and given his emblems of courage by the king's own hand. If he could not kill this thing before him, he would at least make sure that his own death song would be sung with honor throughout the lands of the Mexicas. He lunged at Casca, not trying to avoid the sword. He threw one arm around Casca's shoulder as the other hand grasped Casca's sword wrist.

  The movement was a surprise. It caught Casca off guard. The weight of Maxtcli's body pressed him back a step. Then Maxtcli quit his forward pressure and stepped a full pace back to his rear. Before Casca could react, Maxtcli moved forward again. This time he jerked Casca's sword wrist up and over their center. Ramming his body on the point, he pushed hard. He clawed at Casca's shoulders as he pulled himself onto the steel of Castile. His mouth filled with blood as his lungs were ripped apart. Throwing his head back, neck muscles extended, mouth pouring out bright scarlet blood, he cried out to Huitzilopochtli to take his offering. He jerked his body to the side and twisted so that the sword slid sideways from his lungs to sever the great muscle of his heart. He had made his sacrifice to his god as he had sworn to do.

  The manner in which Maxtcli died and the futility of his effort to kill Casca silenced the watchers, many of whom touched hidden totems to ward off evil. Casca walked slowly over to the nephews, Xocomilco and Tletzin. The sweat gleamed on his torso as he held his blood-dripping sword in his hand. The scar running along the side of his face seemed much paler than before. Pointing the blade at them, his voice dull and deadly, he said, "Now will you lead me to Tenochtitlan, or do others have to die this night? I am weary of your refusals. Do not try my patience further, for you are dealing with things you know nothing of. Only the lord Moctezuma can judge what I have to say and in turn be judged."

  Xocomilco was not a brave man by nature. He was trained not as a warrior but as a politician. This man or thing before him was primal violence, and he knew that the wrong word would mean his death: The warriors of his escort didn't give him much comfort, and he wasn't certain that they could have done any good. Perhaps this man had been speaking the truth about knowing things long past and having walked in the city of the gods. Those questions, augmented by superstitious fear, were too much for him to deal with. He knelt down before the scarred man.

  "Lord, I must obey my king or give up my life. He has commanded that no one give any of your people any assistance or aid in reaching our capital. There is nothing I can do to help you, though you take my life. However, I have not received any instructions to do you harm. This act against you this night was not of our doing. It was completely the idea of Maxtcli, who has now sent his spirit to the gods of our fathers. If you choose to follow after us, there would be nothing I could do to hinder you."

  Casca accepted that. He understood the man's fear for his life. He knew that even though he didn't give aid to Casca, he still might be killed for not doing something to prevent his following after them. But that was his problem. Casca had more important things to consider than the lives of one or two or even a hundred men. It had long since been proved that human life was a very cheap commodity where the future of nations was concerned, and the individual became immediately expendable to the so-called greater good.

  Lowering his sword point, he motioned for Xocomilco to rise and said, "I agree. You may go on ahead of me, and I shall follow. But know this. At the first sign of treachery, I shall come for you and kill you in a manner that will give your children nightmares for the rest of their lives."

  The Aztecs left, the campfire, taking the body of Maxtcli with them. They returned to their beds shaken at what they had seen this night. If the scar-faced man was representative of what all the Spaniards were like, they were truly a most fearsome people and not completely human.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In the morning, the ambassadors and their escort took to the trail again. Casca was ready. He put his armor in his pack and followed after them. He could have reached Tenochtitlan on his own, but it was best this way. If he hadn't agreed with the Aztec ambassadors, he would have had to fight every step of the way. Now, if he was lucky, he would not have to exert himself much more and still would reach his objective.

  He trailed after them as they passed through the heavy, tropical forests and began the slow climb to the mountains, where the air grew thin and the lungs labored. He began to see landmarks that were familiar as they neared the passes that led to the high desert. He knew that across them lay the great lakes where the city of Tenochtitlan awaited his arrival in the valley of Mexico.

  If he wanted food, he took it from the cooking pots of the villages they passed through, not caring whether it was dog meat or even the large lizards the Indians were so fond of. There were no protests, only looks of wonder at his paleness. If he touched an object, it was carefully wrapped and given to a priest, for it was well known that magic could be made through the use of objects that had been touched or drunk from by a god.

  In each of the villages, the story of his contest with Maxtcli was repeated with wonder. In the telling the story grew greater, for Maxtcli had been a great and famous warrior.

  Casca was left alone. If he came near a child, the mother or father would scoop it up out of his path and cover its eyes so that it would not have its soul stolen by the gods, for that is what the people of the tribes were beginning to call all the Spaniards. The story told of the scarred one proved that at the very least they had powers beyond those of mere mortals.

  Casca had learned to use his wounds to his advantage. The sight of those scars on his body brought instant fear to the Indians. Wounds were something they understood, and those on the body of t
he god ensured that he would not be bothered by any on his journey. When he began the trek across the desert, he could see a smoking mountain in the distance and knew that he was nearing the end of his journey.

  The mountain had been sacred long before the Aztecs had settled in the green valley of the lakes. It was called Popocatepetl, the smoking mountain, and not far away, was its sister mountain, Ixtaccihuatl, or the white woman, named for the pale ash and snow that rested on its crater's rim. These ancient volcanoes had witnessed the rise and fall of many peoples including those Casca, as the Quetza, had ruled over – the Teotec, who now were only distant memories in the minds of the Aztecs as the builders of the city of the gods, Teotihuacan.

  He passed through many small towns with populations numbering only a thousand and several large cities, the most important of which was Cholula, a holy center where the principal god to whom they made sacrifice was the Quetza.

  On the borders of the valley of Mexico were other cities with populations of over fifty thousand: The people here did not have the look of the Aztec about them. Subject or vassal, in the faces of most he saw no love for the brilliantly clad warriors who treated them with contempt and disdain.

  The capital city of the Aztecs could be reached only after crossing the deserts and then descending into the broad valley. As they came closer, they had to pass large fields of the spiny maguey plant, hills spotted with hundreds of the tall white flowering yucca, and a few patches set aside for maize. Once inside the valley, every bit of arable land was used for cultivation of foodstuffs, mostly maize, the staple of the Aztec diet.

  When they left the desert and passed close to the towns built around five lakes, hundreds gathered to watch them, gawking in wonder at the strangers. All the cities were well built, clean, and orderly. Temples and gardens were everywhere, their walls covered with carvings and painted frescoes. The strange art of this land decorated nearly every flat space on both the insides and outsides of buildings and walls.

  He passed several cities on the edge of one lake, Tlapan, Tizapan, and Coyohuacan, before they reached Chapultepec, where a broad causeway led to the island city of Tenochtitlan. The escort of Coyote warriors was relieved at the gates of the city by the Eagle Knights of the palace guard. They took over the responsibility for guiding the ambassadors to the palace of Moctezuma.

  Casca had his way blocked by fifty fully armed warriors who made their bows, lances, and hand weapons obvious. He got the message that he was not to follow after the nephews of Moctezuma.

  Fast runners had gone ahead of the party, and Moctezuma had known of the coming of the stranger for some days before his arrival. He still had no wish to see the man face to face but ordered that he be treated as a guest and shown all courtesy. The only thing to be denied him was access to the king's presence. He would have to wait until he was sent for. Other than that, he could have complete freedom of the other cities but could not enter the walls of Tenochtitlan.

  Casca was given reluctant greetings by a priest, a nasty looking bastard whose long, greasy hair hung nearly to his waist and smelled of blood. The priest indicated that Casca was to leave the causeway and follow him. He led him to a house in Chapultepec and he made it clear that Casca was to live there. It was much like those of the other cities, with a low roof, small windows, and walls painted with bright frescoes depicting Aztec life and their gods. Guards were stationed at every exit including the windows.

  The priest's manner made it obvious that he did not like having any intercourse with the stranger. Using as few words as possible, he made it clear that Casca could go where he wished as long as he stayed away from Moctezuma and his city. The guards were there to make certain he was not bothered and to ensure his own protection and security until Moctezuma decided what he wished to do about him.

  Personally, the priest hoped that the scarred one would be given to him as an offering to Huitzilopochtli or even for the mother of the gods, Coatlicue, who, wearing her crown of snake heads and necklace of hearts and chopped-off hands, waited in her temple by the Place of Reeds. Sometimes the priest felt that she was not given her fair share of the blood offerings.

  Casca entered the low rooms of his new abode without comment. He was not ready to push the issue of seeing Moctezuma to the breaking point yet. He had done well to get this far. Now he would take the time to learn of the Aztecs and their people. He would see what they were really like and what their future might be. Once this was done, he would see Moctezuma. Of that he had no doubt. When he was ready, the king of the Aztecs would grant him an audience. That was not conjecture; it was destiny.

  For now he was content to wander the valley of Mexico, walk in the markets, watch the people, and learn. They had much that was good about them but had more that was not. If a man admired the Spartans, he would love the Aztecs. From birth, they had a rigid system that allowed no deviation. Even the number of corn cakes that one could eat each day was controlled. Maize was the property of the state. Beans and other vegetables or even meat could be owned or bartered for, but maize was the staple, and the staple was controlled.

  Children of the Aztecs who became farmers or craftsmen were first trained as priests or warriors. Here even the priests went into battle for the glory of the gods. Many of them achieved great fame for their prowess and courage. Children of the Aztecs were punished by regulated methods dependent on their age. A disobedient child of nine could be punished by being beaten with a rod or else be tied hand and foot and have his body and limbs pricked with the sharp points of the maguey. Girls were treated slightly better. As the children grew older, the punishments grew more harsh.

  The Aztecs were extremely moral, demanding a high standard of conduct from everyone. Thievery and drunkenness could be punished by death, as could adultery on the part of a woman. A married man could have relations with a woman only if she was not married. Once wed, fidelity was demanded of the women and was enforced strictly. Only after they reached the age of seventy were they permitted to drink to excess, which most of them did. Because of their age, their actions were forgiven them; the elderly were honored and respected.

  Throughout their lives, religious doctrine was rigidly enforced with an intolerance that Torquemada would have envied. To Casca's mind, the Aztecs were nearly Catholic in their attitudes toward heretics and blasphemers.

  He went out to visit other cities. Leaving behind his Spanish dress, he wore the loose mantle of the Indians as well as their loincloth. He covered his head with a small cloth cap of cotton. If he wasn't looked at too closely, he was ignored, at least until his escort of Eagle Knights was noted. Everywhere he went, they accompanied him. All that he did, said, touched, smelled, or looked at was noted and reported back to Moctezuma.

  The cities of the Aztecs were built around five connecting lakes. To the north was Xaltocan and Zumpango, to the south Xochimilco and Chalco, and between them the most sacred of all, where Tenochtitlan rested on its island, was Lake Texcoco. All of these were connected by canals and drawbridges. On the lakes were man-made floating islands of reeds tied together and covered with soil. They appeared as floating gardens whose plants' roots reached the reeds to feed directly on the waters of the lakes.

  The other Aztecs seen outside the valley were for the most part military families who had been sent into subject lands to strengthen the Aztec rule and provide warriors if trouble threatened. But the valley was the heart of the Mexicas, the place where its life source came from. This would have to be destroyed if the Aztecs were to be conquered.

  As Casca went from one place to another, content for a time to wait, another felt that time was running out for him. Moctezuma was confused and worried. In the last few days he had received more reports about the Spanish and their actions. He had the feeling that fate was taking sides against him, forcing him into patterns over which he had no control.

  And what was he to do about this scar-faced one who had followed his nephews back to his city? He had punished his nephews by exiling them f
rom the city. But now there were these constant wanderings of the stranger. His men had reported back to him how Casca was looking everywhere, going to temples and markets, watching the people as they went about their everyday life. This was troubling the king. He had just been told that the stranger was leaving Texcoco, where he had been for the last two days, and heading out into the countryside, taking the old road that led to Teotihuacan. Why did he wish to go there? The city was visited only by some priests who went to inspect the shrine of the Quetzalcoatl, making an occasional sacrifice in his name to honor the spirits of the original builders.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The way to Teotihuacan was filled with memories that surged back to the front of Casca's mind after centuries of being buried. When they returned, it was as if they had happened only yesterday. The faces of those he had known, loved, and killed walked with him. Teypeytal, monstrous king of the Olmecs who resembled one of the ugly idols they worshiped, had died at his hand near this spot. As he entered the lane leading to the temple of the sun, he looked up at the pyramid where he had lain under the knife of the old priest Tezmec.

  The old priest had been a good man, kind to children, gentle and greatly loved by his people. He'd had no desire for wealth or power, only to serve his gods and city to the best of his ability. He was a kind, caring old man who believed that what he did in the name of the gods was holy and right. When Casca put a stop to the offering up hearts of humans to the gods, Tezmec had offered himself up to his gods, sacrificing himself on the same altar on which he had sacrificed others.

  The sun was setting as he reached the house where he had lived with Metah. He had loved her, and because of his love, he had tried to give her life beyond that of mortals; in trying, he had given her a horrible death. There were others, good and evil, whom he could see as if in a fog.

  All that night, until just before dawn, he wandered the dead city, wondering what had happened to those he had left behind. His guards wearily kept him in sight, though they did give him some breathing space. They could feel that he was not trying to get away from them. Something important to him was taking place in this city of memories.