by Barry Sadler
Across the canal, standing with knights of the Eagles and Ocelots and looking in his direction, was Cuahtemoc, wearing the priestly costume of Itzli, god of the obsidian knife. He wore the flayed skin of a noble warrior, human skin that was stretched and treated until it was as easy to wear as a tunic. From the skin of the flayed warrior the hands still dangled at the wrists and the face was stretched to fit over that of Cuahtemoc, who watched the retreat and death of the Spaniards through the eye sockets of a dead man's face. He was content.
Cortes led the way to Tacuba, where they had to fight another small battle. If the Aztecs had come after them in strength, they would have all perished. But the Aztecs, for some reason which the Spanish could not fathom, decided to wait. Casca knew that it was a mistake the Aztecs would pay for dearly.
They had left Tacuba and were on the road leading to Tlaxcala, where they would have friends and help. Many in the ragged column were moaning over the wealth they had left behind and were swearing that they wouldn't rest until they had the gold of Moctezuma once more in their grasp.
Cuahtemoc made this impossible. From the canals and waters of the lake; divers brought up the treasure. The bodies of the Spaniards and Tlaxcalans were stripped so that there would be nothing on them when they met the gods.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Four hundred and fifty Spaniards, forty-six horses, and over three thousand Tlaxcalans died in the few minutes from the time when they left the palace of Moctezuma to the time when they reached Tacuba. For the Spaniards, that time would be forever known as la noche de tristes, or the night of sorrows.
For others the night of sorrows was not over. In the city of the fishermen they made sacrifices of ten Spaniards by placing them in nets and then twisting and tightening until each victim's flesh and intestines were squeezed out of the mesh. This process took over two hours to complete.
At the altar of the war god, Cuahtemoc was ready to pay homage to his god. The altars were prepared for sacrifice, and the heads of the dead invaders and even their horses were set on the ceremonial poles by the temple of Huitzilopochtli. From out of the flayed man's eyes he saw the offering being brought to him along the wide streets lined with the thousands of the city of Mexico. To make certain there would be no unseemly display during the ceremony, the "messenger" had been forced to eat and drink a mixture made of sacred mushrooms and ground coca leaves.
Juan de Castro sweated beneath the ceremonial mask. His eyes dilated, he moved as if in a dream world. He had been sweating heavily even before he was given the mixture. He felt lightheaded and dizzy. Faces swam before him, and the feathered robe seemed very heavy. He moved in time with the beat of the drums that were covered with the skin of humans. Reed flutes shrieked above them, and in his drugged state he thought that he could hear the breathing of every one of the thousands on the streets. Slaves went before him, casting flowers to the crowd as naked girls swept the earth in front of him with their hair. He felt strangely content and at peace. Behind the mask he smiled at the painted faces around him. On either side priests, their faces painted black, helped to guide his steps as they began the climb to the top of the temple.
He stood, his back to the sacrificial stone, making no move or protest as his mask and robe were removed. His face had a pale waxy cast to it. Cuahtemoc motioned for him to step back. He did as he was commanded. It all seemed so natural. Even the man wearing another's skin did not seem out of place. Gentle hands helped him lie back on the darkly stained stone. It felt cool and pleasing to his hot flesh.
His arms were stretched out to the sides. Priests held them taut as they stretched out the skin of his chest and arched his back. Cuahtemoc stood over him as thousands of voices in the streets below chanted paeans to their gods, praying for this messenger to be accepted.
Cuahtemoc raised the knife of flint to the four winds. Drums and flutes increased the tempo to a crescendo. The knife plunged, sliced down, and was pulled to the side, exposing the chest cavity and the thing Cuahtemoc sought – Juan's beating heart. Grasping the pumping, rubbery organ in his hand, Cuahtemoc severed the arteries and muscles holding it. Juan never screamed. The pain he felt was a distant thing that had no relationship to him. There was only a vague discomfort as his mouth filled with blood and he died.
Cuahtemoc showed his prize to the people of Mexico, and they roared their approval. The new king was pleased at the way the ceremony had gone. To honor his victim, he had Juan's body sliced into thin strips and distributed to the mob, who ate the flesh as a sign of honor to the messenger.
Casca felt a stab of pain in his chest. It nearly doubled him over. He knew that pain well. Looking back at the great city, he thought he heard a distant rumble of voices crying out in righteous joy. He knew that Juan was gone. It was also time for him to leave this land of smoking mountains and death. He had failed, and there was no longer anything for him here.
That night he walked past the last sentry and went into the desert. Looking at the stars, he faced to the east and began to walk. He took with him his battered armor and sword and the small pouch of gems. With them he could arrange passage back to Cuba and from there take a ship to somewhere else he didn't belong, perhaps Peru or Africa.
That night the Aztecs rejoiced in their victory, not knowing that death more terrible than the guns of the Spaniards or even the knives of their priests was already walking among them. When they ate of the body of young Juan de Castro, they ate death. For in the cells of his fevered flesh he carried smallpox...
Continuing Casca’s adventures, book 11 The Legionnaire
Dien Bien Phu. It was to be France’s most glorious victory in the Indochina War. Eleven thousand courageous Legionnaires were flown into the valley, totally unaware that fifty thousand Viet Minh with heavy cannons were waiting in the hills above them. One relentless officer vowed to lead his Communist forces to victory. But his soul would never rest until he danced on the grave of one godforsaken Legionnaire….
Death to Casca!
For more information on the entire Casca series see www.casca.net
The Barry Sadler website www.barrysadler.com
THE CASCA SERIES IN EBOOKS
By Barry Sadler
Casca 1: The Eternal Mercenary
Casca 2: God of Death
Casca 3: The Warlord
Casca 4: Panzer Soldier
Casca 5: The Barbarian
Casca 6: The Persian
Casca 7: The Damned
Casca 8: Soldier of Fortune
Casca 9: The Sentinel
Casca 10: The Conquistador
Casca 11: The Legionnaire
Casca 12: The African Mercenary
Casca 13: The Assassin
Casca 14: The Phoenix
Casca 15: The Pirate
Casca 16: Desert Mercenary
Casca 17: The Warrior
Casca 18: The Cursed
Casca 19: The Samurai
Casca 20: Soldier of Gideon
Casca 21: The Trench Soldier
Casca 22: The Mongol
By Tony Roberts
Casca 25: Halls of Montezuma
Casca 26: Johnny Reb
Casca 27: The Confederate
Casca 28: The Avenger
Casca 30: Napoleon’s Soldier
Casca 31: The Conqueror
Casca 32: The Anzac
Casca 34: Devil’s Horseman
Casca 35: Sword of the Brotherhood
Casca 36: The Minuteman
Casca 37: Roman Mercenary
Casca 38: The Continental
Casca 39: The Crusader
Casca 40: Blitzkrieg
Casca 41: The Longbowman
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