Casca 10: The Conquistador (3 page)

The merchant grasped the exposed root of a tree to hold on to, all the time crying out for mercy as the thing holding onto his leg began to crawl slowly up his body, pulling itself on top of him until he could feel the full weight of it on his back. The smell of decay that came from the creature was overpowering. The merchant screamed once more, but suddenly he felt a crushing pain in his chest and knew that he was going to die. Making one feeble attempt to cross himself before expiring, he let go of the tree roots and slid back into the pit.

Casca rolled off the merchant's back when he'd let go of the root. He slid off onto slimy ground as the merchant took his place in the pit. Through sticky, pus-filled eyes, he looked at the merchant's face in the water. The mouth was open as it sank under the fluid. No bubbles came from the lungs, and so Casca knew that there was nothing he could do for the man; he was already dead.

His head was still at the same odd angle it had assumed when they buried him. He rose to unsteady feet, knowing that he had to get some distance between him and Sevilla. This time fortune was with him. The merchant's mules had sought shelter near the walls of the city. It didn't take him long to find the ropes and drag them, with stumbling steps, away from Sevilla. He would inspect the contents of the packs later.

Once in the clear, Casca took time to go through the merchant's belongings. Inside, he found clothes that were good enough for him to pass for a reasonably successful looking caballero, along with many items for trade. Most of the packs held samples of wares from Africa, France, and Italy – mostly bales of brightly colored cloth and a few fine yards of polychrome silks. In another pack he found foodstuffs carried for the merchant's journey. These he especially appreciated, as he did the use of the man's razor and soap at a stream when the storm passed. A bit of scraping, rubbing, and cursing, and Casca looked surprisingly fit.

He kept away from Sevilla and took the road to Cartagena. This took three days, during which time his neck returned nearly to normal. For a time he was afraid that it would never straighten out.

At Cartagena, it took but a few hours for him to trade his goods in for enough money to buy a sword of fair steel, one that had seen good service. It left him enough Castellanos to provide for his needs for several months if he was frugal and if he abstained from wine and whores.

Taking quarters at an inn, he promised himself to keep away from wine. As for women, he knew that might be a bit tougher after his long confinement. In fact, it was impossible. Before he spent all his money on the wenches, the talk in the inn and city about the New World kept him from going broke.

He liked the idea of moving on and leaving Spain and the Inquisition behind. The New World offered riches, land, and slaves for the taking. He had heard promises like those many times before; they didn't interest him, but the talk of the New World did. Drawing what information he could out of some sailors, he gained a general idea of the location of the Spanish acquisitions and the placement
of the island of Cuba. From there he knew that the Spanish would, if they hadn't already, come across the lands of the Teotec and other nations, peopled by fierce, intelligent natives who built temples and cities to their gods that rivaled those of ancient Rome and even Egypt.

Even with Torquemada dead, the Inquisition was still in force in Spain and most of Catholic Europe. He had no desire to share in its blessings any further. Perhaps in Cuba he might be able to lose himself and walk once more the great lane leading to the Pyramid of the Serpent in the city of Teotihuacan. He had lost much there. Maybe if he returned, he could find some of that which was taken from him over a thousand years ago. A thousand years? He was beginning to think that Jesus would never return. Several times over the centuries, he had gone to see those who were thought or proclaimed to be the returning Messiah. But all were fakes, although he had liked the old reprobate Mohammed quite a bit.

His next task wasn't too difficult. There was a steady stream of ships leaving Spain for Cuba and the New World. Using most of his money, he made purchases of a used breastplate, a helmet in the Spanish style, and most important, a horse trained for war. If there was employment for him in the New World, having his own horse would give him an advantage. His last purchase was a one-way ticket on a caravel bound for Cuba.

From the roof garden of his palace in the great city of Tenochtitlan, the king-god Moctezuma set aside his robe of rare feathers and removed from his wrists and arms the bands of beaten gold that were set with emeralds. Stroking the thin hairs of his mustache, he watched the sun set, casting pathways of shimmering gold streaming over the dark waters of the sacred lake Texcoco. Torches set in gold brackets cast a red glow over his sun-dark features. His face was troubled; worry lines creased the high, noble brow.

There had been portents and signs that disaster would soon walk the lands of the Aztecs. For the last five years, there had been increasing signs from the gods that they were not pleased with their children, the sons of Itzcoatl, the great king who had led the Aztecs to greatness, and Tlacealel, who had proved their descent from the god of war, Huitzilopochtli, and had given them their laws, always ensuring that the sun would not die by offering to him a constant stream of human sacrifices to feed on.

The first omen had appeared in the eastern sky – a flaming ear of corn. It bled fire drop by drop, as if the heavens themselves were wounded. Wide at the base and narrowing at the peak, it burned in the very heart of heaven, only to fade with the coming of the sun, then to reappear each night for a full year, beginning in the year 12 House. The people were frightened and in wonder of the meaning of the omen. When the skies themselves bled, it could bode only ill for mere mortals.

The second sign came when the temple of Huitzilopochtli burst spontaneously into flames on the site of Tlacateccan (the house of authority). And there had been others: lightning appearing on a clear day to strike sacred places and fire racing through the skies in broad daylight in three streams to where the sun rises, the tails giving off showers of sparks to burn and fade like the coals of an oven. Even increasing the sacrifices threefold had not brought any change in the signs.

Moctezuma moved closer to his balcony, where the breeze from the lake cooled the evening air. From this height, he could see the lake and the torches on the prows of distant fishing boats where the fishermen were gathering their harvest for the marketplaces on the morrow. His slaves had been dismissed to return to their barracks, leaving him alone with the heavens. Only his guards, knights from the Clan of the Eagle, armed with the macama, a wooden club lined with chips of obsidian or flint, so sharp that a man could shave with one, stood near his doors with orders to permit no one to disturb his thoughts this night.

Why had his dreams been so tortured? Was he not greatly loved by his people? So much so that on the day of his ascendance to power, they had honored him by sending the still-beating hearts of twenty-five thousand messengers to the gods as a token of their love.

To the south, he could see the fires of the priests burning brightly on their altars at the great pyramid of the Teocalli. On his orders, they were sending the red flowers to the gods in an unending stream, imploring them to accept the offering of burned hearts and end the nightmare dreams that plagued their master.

To the northeast, heat lightning rippled over the ancient city of the gods, Teotihuacan. It had been there centuries before the Aztecs had made their migrations from the north out of the deserts. They had found a few inhabitants remaining who had told them of the city and their chief deity, the Quetzalcoatl, whose symbol was the Feathered Serpent. From those few remnants of the once great Teotec and the Toltecs, they had acquired the worship of the Quetza, fitting him into their pantheon. The god was not of the same bloody mind as their own deities, but if he could found such a city as this and be worshiped by tribes reaching beyond those of the Maya to the south, then he must be powerful and not be offended.

In one of the temples of the old city, the savage Aztecs had found masks of jade still cared for by the one remaining priest of the city. Disease had taken all the others long ago. From him they had learned of how the Quetza, a light-haired, fair- skinned god, and his shining warriors had come from the sea riding on a Feathered Serpent and brought peace to the city after defeating the armies of the Olmec king, Teypeytal.

Of late, Moctezuma had visited the city and its shrine where the masks were cared for by their new priests, those of his race. Often he had looked upon the face of the god from the sea, the eyes of blue-gray set in the jade mask, the scar running from one eye to the corner of the mouth. It was a face unlike any of his race or those of the smoking lands. According to the priest of Teotihuacan, the Quetza had promised to return one day. The tiamatinime (wise men) had read the signs and given that date as 1 Reed, which occurred every fifty-two years. 1 Reed would come again in five years.

Perhaps that was what the omens from the heavens were trying to tell him. The Feathered Serpent was going to return, and he would not be pleased at the changes that had taken place.
For he was a strange god who demanded no human sacrifice. Indeed, according to the last priest, his teachings forbade it. This was not logical, and those who had spoken to the last priest of the Teotec said that he was nearly mad and that many of his words made no sense. Therefore, they honored the Quetza as they did their own, with sacrifices.

The Aztec kings and nobles believed, as did the wise
men, that for their race there was only one great god, Huitzilopochtli. All the others were only his different aspects, both male and female, by which means it was easier for the peasants and slaves to understand the awesome power of the creator. Could it be that the Feathered Serpent was another of those faces? But he had not been born of their people. The legend of the Quetza had been old before the first of the Aztecs had entered the valley. Perhaps he was an older and wiser god than Huitzilopochtli? Moctezuma mentally chastised himself for his doubts as to the power of the giver and taker of life, the living sun.

Still it was said that disaster would come if the people of the valley spilled human blood in sacrifice. Many of the original inhabitants of Teotihuacan had reverted to their old practices of human sacrifice, and a series of droughts and plagues had nearly wiped them out. Was it the Serpent punishing them for disobeying his commandments? And if so, would he punish the Aztecs because they were now the people of the valley? Moctezuma was terribly confused, for he was a pious man and an initiate of the priesthood. He could not deny his gods their due, for that was to invite disaster, too. Yet if the Serpent did return, how should he be greeted? Could a mortal man go against the will of a god? Would Huitzilopochtli help him against the Serpent?

Moctezuma decided that he had to do more to make certain he would gain the favor of the giver and taker of life. In the morning he would order his warriors to go forth and return with no fewer than twenty thousand captives for the altars. That should give him some peace of mind for a time.

The long journey to the New World began auspiciously enough, with fair winds pushing at the two masts of the caravel. The ship had the smell common to all sailing vessels: wet tar and hemp from the lines and the sour odor of sunburned bodies performing the thousand tasks necessary to keep the ship from rotting away.

Captain Jaime Ortiz was a master of the old school, believing in the lash or a knot of the ship's rope to enforce discipline as his ship's priest read from the Bible. Ortiz was a most Catholic man who saw evil in everything that was not understood. Stern, hawk-nosed, spade-bearded, and dark as a Moor from his years under the sun, he stood on the upper deck dressed in total black, with a sterile white neck ruff as his single ornament. His eyes never resting, he missed nothing in the skies or on board his vessel. As he stood by the wheel, hand to his sword, he ruled over those beneath him as if he had God's mandate.

Casca tried his best to keep his distance from the captain. He had seen too many men with that same sternness of spirit that allowed no compassion for anyone who was not of their faith or nation. It was a certainty that if he and the captain ever exchanged more than a few words, it would lead to trouble, which he could ill afford. He'd had enough of the good Christians of Spain. That was one of his main reasons for taking the ship to the New World, the farther the better. His recent experiences with the Grand Inquisition of the Dominican priest, Torquemada, and his relish for the auto-da-fe proved that Spain was no place for one such as he.

Among the other passengers, there was to be found the usual mixture of priests out to gain new souls for Mother Church: indentured men and women, gentlemen adventurers seeking their fortunes, men on the run from the law, and the scavengers who went to feed on what their betters would leave behind. Of those on board the rolling, ungainly vessel, there were some who paid for their passage with their sweat. These had it worse than the regular seamen, for they were neither part of the crew nor counted among the passengers, and the good captain, Senor Ortiz, knew the value of them as compared to his regular crew. Therefore, they were given the most dangerous jobs, as they were more expendable and their death or injury would be less of a loss to the ship than those of his regular crew. It was one of these semi-slaves who brought Casca into his first confrontation with Ortiz.

Four days out, the first heavy swells began to push at the stern as the winds began. At first, only a light froth whipped the tops of the waves as the swells gradually became deeper and longer. The caravel rode up and then slid down them under the force of the gathering storm. On the sixth day, the winds from the north hit in their full fury, driving the ungainly vessel deeper into the swells until the mainsails had to be lowered. Only the top gallants were kept aloft to give the ship some control over her forward momentum. If the mainsails had been left up, the force of the wind would have driven the ship bow first into the watery valleys to be swallowed up and never seen again.

With the winds came the clouds, black thunderheads of cracking violence that turned day into near night. Captain Ortiz stayed at his post for the first two days, eating by the wheel and shouting commands through his horn. He played his ship in the storm as a musician does his instrument, riding the tempo of the waves, gauging every movement and pause, and taking advantage of any
weakness in the winds to better his position. Hanging on for life, the able-bodied seamen went into the upper rigging to reef sails and tighten lines. Cargo was lashed down in the holds, and the horses were blindfolded to keep them in place in the event of panic. Casca stayed on the upper decks, not wanting to be below if the ship was driven under.

The main sails were being ripped into shreds and had to be retied to keep them from being torn completely away. A cry from aloft was barely audible over the scream of the wind through the humming lines. The seaman's body was ripped from the rigging to fly with the winds, bouncing off the center mast, until his spine cracked. The body was blown away with a sheet of torn sail to be lost in the froth-driven waters of the Atlantic. Ortiz screamed for another man to take his place in the swaying, rain-lashed heights above the ship.

"You, hombre!" He pointed his horn at the lower deck. "Get aloft and help secure those sails!"

Holding on to a stanchion, a diminutive figure tried to keep from being thrown over the side. It was to him that Ortiz had made his command. Juan de Castro turned his eyes to the swaying, dizzying heights of the storm-lashed upper mast. His stomach started to turn in on itself at the thought of climbing up those thin, wet, slippery lines. The winds were beginning to shift, trying to turn the caravel sideways where the deep, green-black waters could wash over her sides. Ortiz lashed at the helmsman, straining against the wheel with two ordinary seamen helping to control the rudder under his direction. The ship slipped sideways and rolled as de Castro grasped wet lines to begin hauling his thin body up into the rigging. He was barely able to get his feet on the ropes and hold on, much less climb. A hand grasped his leg, jerking him back to the deck. Its eyes nearly blinded by the beating rains, a square face looked down at him.

"Stay here. If you go up, you'll just get yourself killed and someone else will have to go anyway."

De Castro would have protested, but the man already was clambering up into the lines. With practiced hands and feet, the climber balanced himself against the movement of the ship. Ortiz watched the exchange but couldn't move to do anything about it. The man, now high in the yards, was not one of those who were working their way across. He was a paying passenger and had no right to interfere with his lawful orders as commander of this vessel. If the smaller man had died, it would have mattered little, for that was part of his bargain. If one signed on as a seaman, it was not unreasonable to expect that person to perform the duties of one, no matter what the risk, for that was in the hands of God.

Hanging on to the spars, Casca had a vision of being blown off the rigging to be lost in the heaving seas beneath him. He cursed himself for being a fool and giving in to a whim of the moment. Beside him, in the same condition, were others of the crew, their feet resting on swaying lines beneath the spars. They bent over and hauled the heavy, wet sails back up to tie them down again. Fingers bled from the wet lines as flesh peeled off the palms of hands and fingers. Faces blinded by the winds and rain, they worked for over an hour to get the last of the sails properly secured. Only then could they come down. If they failed to perform their task, it would not be a much worse fate to let the winds and seas have them rather than face the wrath of the ship's master and his lash.

Taking his time, arms and legs trembling from the strain, Casca began the climb back down to the deck. No sooner had his feet touched down than the second mate yelled for him to go to his
quarters and remain there until the captain sent for him. He received several pitying glances from the crewmen who had been aloft with him. De Castro went with Casca to where he shared his quarters with three others in the cramped space of the lower foredeck.

Once inside and out of the rain, all they had to contend with was the heaving of the ship itself. Rummaging through his bag, Casca found a semidry shirt that was only a bit green from mold. Drying his upper body as best he could with it, he ignored de Castro's look of wonder at the scars on his torso. He was used to the effect his body had on others. They sat side by side on his bunk, feet resting against the other side to stabilize them. Casca waited for whatever it was de Castro was going to say. Clearing his throat, the smaller man tried to put his words in order. He was a man of good though poor family and, like most of those born to Castile, had an overdeveloped sense of pride.

"Senor...?" He paused, not knowing Casca's name. Adjusting his body to where it rested more securely against the ship's planking, Casca told him, "Romano, Carlos Romano."

De Castro tried once more: "Señor Romano, I wish to thank you for your noble gesture, but I assure you, I was quite capable of performing the task myself."

Casca smiled at him. "That's bullshit, and you know it. Look at your hands. Those wet lines would have ripped them apart, and from the color of your face, you don't handle rough seas very well to begin with. Let us just say I performed a service for a gentleman, and one day you may have the opportunity to return the favor."

De Castro accepted the terms; at least it returned some of his pride to him. "That is a duty I shall consider an honor from one caballero to another. Will you take the hand of Juan de Castro on it as a pledge of my friendship?"

Casca looked the smaller man over. Although the face was thin and drawn, with no more than twenty-five or twenty-six years in it, there was a sincerity to it that touched him. De Castro was obviously one who had come upon bad times and was going to the New World to rebuild his life. While his body was not that of a strong man, there was a litheness to it, and the wrists had strong bands of tendons that showed that this was one who had spent his youth mastering the sword.

Casca took Juan's hand. "I accept your offer gladly and return your pledge with my own. In these new lands, who can know when it will be good to have one at your side or back you can trust?"

With those words the men made a bond to be compadres, sharing whatever came against them.

Captain Ortiz had no such feelings for the two men. He was master of his ship, and every word he spoke was the law. There was no other way to control such animals as he had in his crew. They respected only power and fear. Absolute obedience was the only true law of the sea. The wind shifted again, and he called out new orders to compensate for it. From the taste of the wind, he knew that they had reached the peak of the storm. From here on out, it would diminish; then he would see to the men below.

By sunfall the following day, the storm had passed over, leaving the seas glassy smooth and calm, with just enough wind to fill the sails gently. Ortiz went to his cabin. He would see to his problems in the morning, after he had slept. He turned control of the caravel over to his second mate, Luis Vargas, a man who had risen to his current position primarily because of his ability to get the most out of his crew. When Vargas swung the lash or knotted piece of ship's rope, it left a lasting impression on both the body and the soul of the man who experienced it. Short in size, he was nearly as wide at the shoulders as he was tall, and he could perform any task on the ship faster and better than any of the crew. He drove those in his charge to meet his standards, which they never did. He and his captain made a perfect team. Ortiz, with his fine manners and disdain for those beneath him, gave Vargas all the opportunities he needed to enforce his own manner of discipline on the crew, a task Vargas took great pride in. Never in his twenty-two years at sea had there been a man under him whom he could not beat at any game of strength.

Shortly after dawn, Casca and Juan were sent for. Luis Vargas escorted them personally to the captain's cabin. Knocking on the door with calloused knuckles, Vargas was given permission to enter. He let the two men enter first and then followed after them, closing the door behind him. The captain's cabin was much the same as the captain himself. It was spare in creature comforts; the only furniture was a single narrow bunk and a desk with two chairs in front of it. The rest of the cabin was lined with racks for his charts and ship's papers. Near his bed was a small altar on which an image of the Blessed Virgin waited patiently for his prayers.

As always, Captain Ortiz was dressed in a black suit with a single white ruff around his neck. He motioned for Casca to take one of the two chairs. When Juan started to take the other, he was brought up short by a jerking motion of the captain’s hand; “Señor de Castro, you are not a paying passenger; therefore, you will remain standing." Casca saw the flush of embarrassment rush to Juan's face, but Juan did as he was ordered, for the captain was correct. Ortiz turned his attention to Casca. "As for you. You, señor, are a passenger. That entitles you to certain privileges aboard my ship, but it does not permit you to interfere with my lawful commands to a member of my crew."

Juan started to protest, extending his right hand out to draw the captain's attention. This was halted by the thick meaty fingers of Vargas grasping his wrist. An involuntary grunt of pain broke from Juan's lips as Vargas increased the pressure. Vargas was concentrating on the force he was applying and didn't notice Casca rising from his chair until his own wrist was trapped in the sinewy, knotted hand of the one-time galley slave. From Vargas there came an involuntary grunt of pain. Casca sent strength down his arms to his fingers, forcing Vargas's hand open until he released Juan's wrist.

Vargas tried to twist out of the grip only to find that he was being forced to his knees; tears welled up in his eyes. He could feel the bones in his wrist starting to rub together. If the pressure increased, the bones would snap like green twigs.

Ortiz rose from his chair only to sit back down once more when Casca pointed his free hand at him, speaking very quietly and gently: "I believe that our problem stems from Juan de Castro not being a paying passenger. Am I correct?"

Ortiz nodded his head in affirmation. Casca gave Vargas's wrist a bit more of a squeeze, forcing another groan from the man.

"Then, Señor Captain, I propose that we put this unpleasantness behind us by your permitting me to lend Señor de Castro enough money to pay for his passage from the day we left port in Spain. By
doing this, Señor de Castro would have to be considered as a full fare from that time and there could be no hint of disrespect to you or your command."