Casca 2: God of Death (9 page)

The guards left him to his own devices and returned to their positions outside the door. There was no other exit. Lying on the pallet, Casca tried to take in all that had happened since his capture. There were questions in his mind, too many to be answered. What of his men and his ships? Were they all right? Would they stay where they were or come looking for him? He considered the latter to be unlikely. They were sea rovers, not jungle fighters. No, they would stay close to their ships and wait for him.
But for how long?

The evening was drawing to a close, and long shadows were being cast across the great square. People were beginning to gather around the base of the largest pyramid – not the one with all the snake heads on it, but the other. Group by group the people came until the plaza was filled. The drab white and sand-
colored garb of the commoners was broken here and there by the rich spectacle of the feather-clad warriors and nobility; from this distance they resembled giant butterflies on a field of gray. There was a muted murmuring that swelled and then died as if on command. Then came drums and a distant chanting. The people kneeled – all except a line of warriors who appeared out of the mass as if by magic and flanked the broad thoroughfares and sides of the square. Their lance points glittered like gems; their plumed headdresses sparkled with brilliance.

Casca had been around long enough to spot soldiers, and that's what these were. They were proud ones, too. The Jaguar men and Serpent soldiers were most in evidence and held the positions nearest the pyramid. They faced each other on opposite sides of the square, and a separate line of each ran from the thoroughfare to the steps of the pyramid and up the long flight of steps leading to the temple on top.

Many of the warriors had their faces painted in patterns. The designs apparently had some significance, but it eluded Casca. Most of them used only yellow and red to separate their faces at the nose, the upper half being red and the bottom being yellow, with black outlining around the eyes giving them a weird and terrible look as if they were strange beings from the netherworld – or from a nightmare.

The drums began to beat, slowly at first, then building in intensity. From the north Casca could see a procession approaching. Here were the priests. The priests had a look about them that he could spot as easily as he had the look of the warriors. First there were the lesser priests in front, chanting and waving branches. Their faces were painted black. Apparently only the priests used black as a dominant
color. The more important priests following, though, seemed to have more liberty in their body painting for they used yellow and red on their faces along with the black.

As the focus of the procession two Jaguar guards held a man by the arms as if helping him along. He was garbed in the most beautiful of feather robes, the
colors so brilliant they looked as if the feathers from ten thousand hummingbirds had been taken and woven in a magical manner. On his head he wore a feathered crest set over a helmet that appeared to be the likeness of a serpent. As the procession grew closer, Casca could see that the man was the first of the native prisoners that the old priest had pointed out. The prisoner's eyes were glazed. Casca had seen that same look many times on the faces of religious fanatics, and also on the faces of men who had accepted death and knew it was coming.

Sacrifice ... they are going to sacrifice....
The truth hit Casca like old Thor's hammer.
That's the reason they have been so careful to get us here alive and in good health. They are going to sacrifice all of us to their gods....

Step by step the procession advanced. The solemnity of the ceremony was impressive in spite of the grisly reason. The priests and the ones leading the man to be sacrificed walked in stately dignity. The crowd knelt, bowing their heads to the ground from their kneeling position. Only the brilliantly garbed soldiers remained erect. The scene was strange, bizarre, but the orderliness of the procession and the controlled
behavior of the crowd was in sharp contrast to the religious rituals Casca had witnessed in Europe and Asia Minor.

The procession reached the first steps of the pyramid just as the shadows of the ending day began to grow longer. They started up the pyramid. At each level some of the escorting party would drop off and begin a different chanting. The remainder of the procession would advance to the next level, and again some would drop off and remain there chanting. This continued, level by level, until only the old priest, two guards, two lesser priests, and the victim were left to reach the top of the pyramid. At the moment when they attained the apex the setting sun was directly behind them, and its golden rays cast a radiant halo over the proceedings.

Incense burners were sending wisps of aromatic smoke to the skies as the old priest turned and faced the waiting masses below. His voice could be clearly heard. He talked to his people. There was no shrillness in his words, no feeling of the religious fanatic. Even without understanding those words, Casca knew the man was absolutely sincere in whatever he was saying, and the crowd apparently felt the same way. Oddly, considering the circumstances, at many points the old man's voice became very gentle ... as if he were talking to children and reminding them of their duties.

Caught in the hypnotic power of the ritual, Casca gazed transfixed at the scene upon the top of the pyramid. Despite the distance between him and the pyramid top he could make out all but the smaller details, could see clearly what was going on.

Finishing his oration, the old priest made mystic signs to the four points of the heavens. The two lesser priests removed the robe and headdress from the sacrificial messenger. Then gently, almost with affection, they drew him back over the altar stone, his chest bare to the heavens. The old priest held up a knife of clear, gold-colored flint. He faced the victim, the messenger, and began to talk to him. Even without knowing the words, Casca had a flash of insight as to what the old priest had in mind.
He's giving the man the prayers of the people to take to their gods. That's the meaning of this.

The priest stopped. He touched the man on the forehead with his open palm for a moment. Then swiftly the golden blade flashed in the dying sun. In his imagination, Casca knew what came next: redness ... a pause ... then a jerking of the blade and the old man held something in his hand, something red and quivering.
It's his heart. He's cut out the man's heart!
Casca grimaced. A shiver ran over him and he could see in his mind's eye the messenger's body trembling, twitching, and then lying still. The priest took the still-beating heart and cast it into the incense fire where it crackled and sizzled. Casca imagined that even at this distance he could catch a whiff of the cooking meat. The crowd stood and cheered ... happy ... rejoicing ... as if it were a holiday. The victim's body was carried back down the steps and put on an altar at the base of the pyramid. People from the crowd began to file by this altar, dipping pieces of cloth into the open chest from which the heart had been cut. Even children timidly touched the dead man's extremities and then ran to their parents – who would nod in approval at their children's act of devotion and faith.

"Damn!" Casca thought....

Food was brought Casca. The bearer was a girl. She carried a platter of those leathery flat pancakes of yellow meal together with spiced meat.

When she entered Casca's room she had bowed her head in obeisance, not looking up, careful to keep her eyes away from this stranger with the eyes of
colored stones and the hair unlike that of any of her people – or of any people she had ever heard of ....one with light hair that held streaks of gold in it. She moved quietly, with small steps, and laid his food upon his sleeping bench and then knelt, as though waiting for either orders or permission to leave.

Watching the girl closely, Casca tried to make sense of what was going on and what the girl's functions were. Taking her by the chin, he raised her head in order to get a good look at her.

Pretty. Damned pretty.
Her hair was long and gathered in the back to hang almost to the small of her back. Her eyes were wide and slightly oval in. shape. Her mouth was full. The rich copper tone of her skin reminded him of some of the dancers he had seen from the lands past the Indus.

"Your name, girl.
What's your name?"

Holding her firmly by the chin so she could not look away, he forced her eyes to meet his.

"Name," he repeated, thumping himself on the chest. "I am Casca." He touched her gently between the breasts. "You. Your name?" Again he thumped himself in the chest and repeated, "Casca." What was it the old man said ... Chicxa? That's it. Chicxa. Aloud he said, "Chicxa?"

The gentleness with which he spoke seemed to reassure her. Timidly she touched his chest, but jerked her hand back rapidly as if burned.
"Quetza?"

"No," Casca said, smiling, "Casca.
Casca. I am Casca."

Shyly she nodded.
"Casca." Then she touched her own breast. "Metah. Ih mech Metah."

"Good, we've started to talk." Taking her hand, Casca led her to the window from which he had watched the sacrifice. He pointed to the pyramid, then up to the altar, and pantomimed the sacrifice, the killing of the native by the old priest. Then he pointed at his own scarred chest and indicated a knife cut. "Me too," he said.

Metah faced the pyramid, then Casca. She nodded her head up and down and looked into his eyes.

"When, woman?
How long until they do me? Tonight? Tomorrow? When?"

She did not understand. Casca pointed to the sinking sun, then made a circle around his head and said, "One day?" He circled his head twice. "Two days?" He pointed back to the sun,
then circled his head repeatedly, rapidly. "How many days?"

Metah
shook her head and took her own hand and circled above her head many times. Then with an eloquent shrug of her shoulders she made it clear that he was not to be sacrificed soon, but she didn't know how long he had.

The sun sank behind the wooded rim of the valley, and night closed in on them. The coming darkness brought a chill into the room, for these were the highlands and the nights were cold.

The girl stayed. She sat beside his sleeping bench and watched Casca's every move, her eyes luminous. Amused, Casca said, "Good enough. If that's where you want to stay, okay, but I'm going to sleep." Taking one of the blankets, he lay down facing the door, wondering what the next days would bring. He had forgotten the girl until he caught her slight movement out of the corner of his eye and realized she was shivering in the chill air.

"Oh, crap!" He raised the blanket with his arm and motioned for her to climb in bed with him. "No sense you freezing out there, little girl. I won't hurt you. I'm too damned
tired to do anything other than crap out, so get your ass in here and get warm."

Metah
pulled herself under the blanket, putting her back to this strange man. Her heart beat wildly. What would he do to her? She lay awake for many long hours needlessly, but finally the sound of Casca's snoring and the warmth of his body lulled her to sleep. Like a child she snuggled close to the source of the warmth. Had she been awake, she might have been awed by such intimacy, for the old priest Tezmec had said that this pale stranger was a gift from the gods, that he bore the name of the god Quetza, that he was Casca the Serpent...

For the next few days
Metah was the only visitor that Casca had. During this time he made maximum use of her company to learn as much of the Teotec language as possible. By the end of the week he had picked up enough of the tongue to make himself understood for many basic matters. Using the pictograph paintings on the walls of the room, Metah had tried to explain to him the Teotec culture and religion. For obvious reasons the religion was of interest to him, and, when he was permitted to walk around the great square, accompanied by guards and Metah, he discovered something that made that interest in religion even greater.

When they came to the temple with the snake heads she said, pointing to them, "
Quetza. Casca."

The old priest dropped by from time to time to see how Casca was getting on. He would sit in the sun on a reed mat in front of the doorway, looking like a kindly grandfather. His wizened face smiled, and he nodded his approval when Casca tried to speak the
Teotec tongue. In his mind he thought:
I was right in sending the woman to the stranger. She will teach him more in the time remaining than anyone else could have. It is good that it is so, for we must talk long with the stranger. There are questions that must be answered before he is sent back to the gods....

Long had Tezmec served the great gods of his people, for when he had been a youth his father had bound him over to the priests. There were two deities that held the interest of Tezmec. One was Tlaloc, for it was Tlaloc who gave the rains, and thus all prosperity from the land came from him, for without his blessings the land would wither and die – and so would the people. Tlaloc was a god of life.

And then there was the
Quetza, the strange one who seemed to fill every niche not already occupied in the heavens. He was the Stranger, the one whose Coming would change all, for it was said that one day the Quetza would come to them from the sea riding a giant feathered serpent, which was his symbol. The Quetza represented an enigma, a question mark. No one knew much about him. The other deities were readily understandable in their likes and dislikes; custom had long established their positions in the hierarchy of the Teotec panoply of gods; but there was little knowledge of what the Quetza was like – or where his position was. To some extent, all gods were mysteries, but the Quetza was the mystery of the mysteries. It was all very intriguing to Tezmec.

Great was
Tezmec's love for both his people and his gods. He felt that his nation had been favored above all others. Teotah was the city of the gods; the Teotecs the people of the gods – and he, Tezmec, was the servant of both.

He was always patient with the messengers. He would explain to them that they had been
honored and were not to fear, for they had been blessed. Even when the messengers would refuse to be enlightened by his words he was still gentle. He would cluck his tongue sympathetically at their ignorance of the honor being shown them. There were times when the messengers threatened to disturb the dignity of the proceedings. Even then Tezmec was kind. He would make use of a compound brought to his people from the far south, a leaf called "coca" that relieved exhaustion and eased pain. Tezmec would mix a blending of these leaves with certain other plants and with the sacred mushroom that grew in the mountains. Once a messenger ate this potion all fear left him and he felt closer to the gods and the promise of paradise that went with them.

This day,
Tezmec moved to the side of his modest home, thinking of his conversation with the stranger shortly before. Tezmec's home was no more pretentious than the poorest of his people. He lived like them, for his reward came from his service to them and to the gods. There were no jails or prisons in Teotah, only houses and palaces where the messengers were housed until it was time for them to perform their act of devotion. Those who broke the laws of the Teotec were not imprisoned or made slaves; they were allowed to redeem themselves by becoming messengers, and all their sins were forgiven them by the sacred knife flashing in the sun. Even common citizens and many of the elderly and infirm would voluntarily ask to become messengers, especially when the crops were poor or other disaster threatened. Devotion was taught to all in Teotah from their earliest days. It was too bad that so many of the barbarians did not understand the honors given them when their hearts were cut out, for it was well known that the heart was where the soul was, and when it was burned in the incense the soul rose with the smoke to heaven.

And soon a special soul, a great soul would rise in the smoke of the incense to the gods.
Tezmec recalled his conversation that day with Casca.

A period of three months had passed. Now Casca stood before the old priest and asked: "O priest, o
tlopan ... when do you send me to the gods?"

The old man's eyes had sparkled like chips of blackest obsidian, burning in his wrinkled and weathered face.

"Soon," he had answered. "Soon. When the day is at the longest will be the time for you to go to the heavens with the prayers and messages of my people. It is a great honor. It is a very great honor...."

Now
Tezmec sighed as he moved to a sunnier spot in his own house. His back was aching a little. His years were long, and his bones were old. A naked child crawled up to him. The boy's skin was dirty, but the child was healthy. The mother was filling a jug at the communal fountain. She smiled as she saw her baby crawl into the old man's lap, curl up, and go to sleep as only children can do when they feel safe and loved. Tezmec stroked the hair of the sleeping child and was content.

He chuckled to himself, his face a wreath of happy wrinkles, as he thought of the stranger and how he,
Tezmec, had sent the slave girl. A woman softened a man and made him reasonable. Soon he would be able to speak to the stranger from the sea.

When the day was at its longest, four months hence, he would have the great
honor of sending the Serpent God's own messenger back to him. The problem was that he might not be able to understand all the stranger would say beforehand, that it might not be interpreted properly. After all, the gods did move in strange and mysterious ways. Mortals were not always able to understand the actions of the gods. It was also not outside the realm of possibility that the gods sometimes amused themselves by playing tricks on their subjects. Logically the stranger from the sea should have a message from the Serpent god, and he, Tezmec, should be able to receive this message before that day four months hence. But, one never knew.... Well, enough. He would do the best he could and leave the rest to divine providence.

A sudden feeling of warmth ran down his leg, momentarily startling him. Then he laughed gently – as did the child's mother when she came to get her sleeping baby. The child had
wet not only on himself, but also on the Most Sacred High Priest of the Teotec Nation.

Tezmec
handed the baby to its mother, careful not to wake the child. Sighing, he grunted as he rose. It was time to visit the palace of the king. The king was only a child, but already he showed a surprising degree of precocity. He would be an honor to his people. Making use of the same fountain as the young mother, Tezmec rinsed his legs off and then made his way to the palace where the future of his people lived in the person of the young priest-king, Cuz-mecli. There he would teach and instruct the boy in his duties. The afternoon sun on his back felt good, and he would rather have dozed in his courtyard as old men do, but duty was duty, and none could claim that Tezmec, High Priest of Teotah, was negligent in his....

Tezmec
met with his student and king. Cuz-mecli was twelve years old and bright, his face alert and intelligent. He listened to the words of the aged priest as they explored the problems of the nation. What to do about the Olmecs? Of late they had been making inroads into the lands of the Teotec and setting up their own idols as an insult to the Teotec. Their monstrous idols all bore the same face, that of the Olmec's greatest king, a throwback and a monster of a man who delighted in snapping spines with his bare hands. He was hugely overweight. The Olmec people emulated him; to them obesity was a form of beauty. The Olmecs were dangerous. They were the brains; the subject peoples of their nation provided the muscle and the warriors when needed. Their power was growing. They were a threat to the Teotec and must be watched....

And that brought up another problem. The boundary disputes with the Toltec kings must be worked out and a confrontation avoided until the Olmec question was settled. Besides, the Toltec were a vital and dynamic people, almost as advanced as the
Teotec. They had a fair amount of commerce between them and that could be of more value than subjugation. The Toltec could serve as a buffer zone between the Teotec and other hostile barbarian tribes to the north. Far to the south the Maya lands were of no consequence. Only a trickle of information about them passed to the holy city.

So, for the moment, little action was required. The Olmec question would have to be answered later after the astrologers made their sightings and read the stars for the proper portents and signs.

Then Tezmec brought up the subject of the man from the sea, he who had come on a serpent ship, the man who called himself Casca. The young king was very excited about his city's captive and plied the old priest with question after question concerning the foreigner. How big was he? Were his muscles really as large as the soldiers said? Was his skin really so pale? And how brave had he been in battle?

Old
Tezmec smiled at the young king's eagerness. Boys would be boys ... even when they were kings.

"Yes, my lord," he said, "the stranger is very strong. There is probably none in our nation to match his strength."
And probably the only one from the other nations who could even come close would be Teypetel
, he thought to himself. Teypetel was the monster king of the Olmecs who had taken for himself the name of the Jaguar god the Olmecs worshipped. He had inherited his forebears' ugliness – flat nose and lips, rounded head and obese body – but underneath the layers of fat were muscles that could rip the arms off most men like a child tearing the wings off a butterfly. Teypetel fancied himself the strongest man on earth.

Tezmec
wondered how the one called Casca would fare in a wrestling match with that monster....