Casca 2: God of Death (10 page)

The weeks passed rapidly, one day leading to the next. The guards were ever present. They were friendly, but they were alert, and Casca was only allowed so much freedom. Always he was watched. Several times he had made it known that he would like to spar with some of the guards and try out their peculiar weapons, the clubs lined with sharpened stones or flint – and, in some cases, with jade. But his requests were firmly refused. The memory of the stranger's powers in battle were too vividly recalled around the fires and tables of Teotah. There was no way they were going to let him get his hands on a weapon.

Escape was never far from his mind – even when
Metah was in his arms. She had finally decided that he was not going to eat her for breakfast. At most he might do a little light nibbling at night when it was not the least bit unpleasant. As for Casca, his natural ability to learn new tongues served him in good stead as he wrestled to wrap his tongue around the strange, twisting language of his captors. But he persevered. And in the end he succeeded.

Tezmec
seemed to take a special interest in Casca's learning the language. When he came around he would nod in approval at Casca's continued progress.

Getting information about his men and ships, though, was more difficult for Casca than learning the language. He tried in all the devious ways he could to pick the brains of those he talked to, but he discovered nothing about the dragon ships or their crews.

Actually, if it had not been for the matter of the continuing line of messengers being sent to the gods – and knowing that he was destined to join them – he might have thought of this place as being the nearest thing to a perfect and happy society he had yet seen. The people of Teotah were the most orderly he had ever seen. There was no sign of thievery – or of any of the other typical vices of city life. Here all seemed to be working for some common goal. There were no prisons as such, and only for those destined to be messengers were there any restrictions at all. Even in the case of the messengers, they were treated as privileged persons for whatever time was allotted to them. Tribute flowed into the city, so there was no question of prosperity. The art and sensitivity of the Teotecs was amazing. It resembled nothing Casca had seen elsewhere. The markets were full of food and goods. None seemed to hunger. The yellow grain was the staple of life here, and it was plentiful. The people seemed absolutely devoted to their city, their gods, and their representatives on earth. Even the boy king Cuz-mecli was a paragon of virtue. His father had himself gone as a messenger when drought threatened the land. He had taken the prayers of his people to Tlaloc, and the prayers had been answered. Tlaloc had let loose the life-giving rains, and the earth had prospered. Surely there was no other greater sign of devotion than that the king himself should send his spirit to the heavens. Could less be expected of the people?

Casca grumbled to himself in his usual manner:
“Religion and gods. There is no escaping them. Everywhere I go it seems I am pursued by religion and gods."

The high priest, old
Tezmec, had, carefully explained to Casca how important he was to the people of Teotah, and it showed in the way the people treated him. When they met Casca they honored him and showed deference. If his eyes lit on an object in the marketplace, the owner was honored to give it to him. As for the children, once they lost their fear of this stranger with the great twisting muscles and many scars, many came to touch him for luck.

Casca felt that he had a pretty good chance of getting away and into the mountains surrounding the valley, but from there he couldn't be sure of the way back to his men. So, if he did escape, he felt that it would not be long, until he was found and recaptured.

No. This time he would play the hand out. Maybe he could use the curse the Jew had put upon him. There must be a way...

Metah
, though, spent many hours instructing Casca in the religion of her people and the way the gods must be appeased. She told him of Huehueteotl the fire god who lived in the smoking mountain not far away. But always she came back to the Quetza, whose messenger Casca would be.

Finally one night, immediately after the evening sacrifice,
Tezmec came to Casca still wearing his ceremonial robes and headdress. He bowed to Casca as he entered. The Roman knew that this was a special sign that something important was to be done or said.

Taking his elaborate headdress off and setting it down carefully on the couch, the old man motioned
Metah to leave. Her eyes were wide, and she was clearly a little frightened. But, smiling timidly, she left the two men alone.

Tezmec
indicated for Casca to sit on the bench. "You have done well in learning the tongue of my people," he said. "Now it is time for us to speak." He was quiet for a moment, as if marshalling his thoughts, and then he went on: "First, I must ask you what message you have for my people. How best may we serve the gods from whence you came? What is the reason you have been sent to us from the Quetza?"

Casca thought carefully. This could be it.

"Yes, old one," he began, "I do have a message, for, as you know, I came to you on the Feathered Serpent. At first I did not know the reason why I was chosen, but now it is clear. I have come to tell you that no more must die on the altars, that the great god Quetza whose name I carry wishes no more blood to soak the stones of your temples. In me I carry the message of life. I am the embodiment of the Quetza. The needless slaughter must stop."

Tezmec
clicked his tongue in the manner of exclamation of his people and shook his head.

"You speak strange words. How is it possible not to send the messengers? How else can the gods know of our needs – and of our gratitude? We must send the still-beating hearts to the heavens because in them is where the soul lives, and in the sacred smoke of the fires the soul is sent most rapidly to the heavens. If we wait until the messenger dies of natural causes, the soul dies in him – or is trapped until the body returns to dust and sets it free. That is too long a time." He looked sadly at Casca, pityingly almost.
"No, my son. You have not understood properly, for what you say cannot be correct. If you are right, all we have done and believed in for many ages would all be a lie, and that is impossible." The sadness deepened on his face. "You are mistaken in what you say – but there is yet some hope for us to understand the meaning of your coming. Soon, in less than one cycle of the moon, we shall send you back to the gods. It shall be the greatest offering we can make. You shall carry all our hopes and prayers with you, and then, surely, when we return you the gods will answer our prayers and all the unanswered questions will be made clear. I am disappointed that you cannot give us a message now, but perhaps we are not yet worthy." He sighed and picked up his feathered headdress. "For the time remaining, until your spirit returns to the great Quetza, you shall be treated as if you were he. From this time until the full of the moon you are a god, and all in this land shall do your bidding – as long as it does not conflict with the laws of our gods. Rest now, holy one. You are blessed most among all men."

He turned to leave, but Casca stopped him with a raised hand.

"It is not time to go, old one. The Quetza lives in me. The killing must stop – and will, for I shall not die. I am the Quetza."

Tezmec
shook his head. "Be at peace, my son. Many times have I seen messengers have dreams that made them think they were more than they were. But on the great stone, all is the same. One cycle of the moon ..."

Metah
returned as soon as the shaman had left. Casca told of his conversation with Tezmec.

"The next full moon!" she wailed, tears filling her lovely, almost almond-shaped eyes. Between sobs she snuffled, "I know I should be happy for you, lord. Going to the gods is a great thing. But I shall miss you!"

He took her small hand in his.

"Don't worry, little one. I shall be around longer than you would believe. I have no intention of dying on the altar. Your priest may have to change his thinking before we're through. Now, put out the lamp and come here. Show me how you would treat a god."

Casca was in truth a god to the people of Teotah. Nothing was denied him. The best of food and drink, a new palace, slaves for whatever pleasure he might wish – they were all his. And all were eager to please him.

But he had his duties, too. Every day one of the priests would come and instruct him in whatever messages and prayers the priest wished him to take to the gods. Each was repeated over and over until there was no doubt in the priest's mind that Casca had it all correct.

Two months before the day, a weathered, wizened little man showed himself at Casca's door. Bowing his way in and kneeling before Casca, he said:

"Lord, I am
Pletuc. It is for me to make the sacred mask that you will wear on the day of ascendance."

Casca acquiesced, and
Pletuc began his labors. Swiftly, efficiently, the little man's quick hands formed a mold in beeswax of Casca's face. From this, he explained to Casca, he would make a plaster likeness, and then from that would carve a spirit mask in sacred jade. To honor the occasion, after the lord's spirit had gone to the gods, the mask would hang in the inner chamber of the temple of the Quetza as an object of worship so that the people would always remember. It would give them something to focus their prayers on. In the great hall were only six masks. Each represented a special happening, a great occurrence such as the ascendance of Mexilte, father of the king Cuz-mecli, when the king Mexilte had asked to be a messenger and the rains came. The Lord Casca was indeed privileged above all men to be given the honor of becoming one of the great heroes of the Teotec.

Casca looked at the old boy.

"Carve away, little man," he said drily, "but I shall hang the mask in the hall with my own hands, for I am the Quetza."

Casca's claim to be the embodiment of the
Quetza was rapidly becoming popular gossip throughout the Empire. Already thousands upon thousands were making preparations to attend the greatest day in memory. As for Casca's claim, it was not unusual for the gods to give madness to those they had chosen. It was well known that madmen, hunchbacks, and dwarfs were touched by the holy spirits and were not as other men. On the other hand ...

Casca spent his days in lovemaking with
Metah, and was not averse to sampling some of the other willing maids of the city when she was not around. Even though she would make no statement about his messing around with other women, he had caught a look from her a time or two that said in no uncertain terms: If you weren't blessed by the gods your ass would be in big trouble with me.

Tezmec
brought the boy king to talk with Casca. The youngster was eager and curious. Crossing the great square, the king and Tezmec acknowledged the obeisances of the people. Two Jaguar guards preceded them, and two more followed. It was the turn of the Jaguar soldiers to stand palace duty.

Which brought up an interesting little matter Casca had learned about on the grapevine – for gossip in
Teotah was no different from gossip in Rome.

The priests of the Jaguar faction were surly enough when they were at their best – but they had been even more surly than usual of late. Keeping to
themselves, meeting in the small hours of the night, talking in hushed tones (which became louder when anyone from the Serpent clan was near) – they were obviously up to no good.

It had to do with
Tezmec.

Since
Tezmec had become the teacher of the king the power of the Jaguar faction had been eroded. The people no longer showed proper deference to the Jaguar god – or so it seemed to the Jaguar priests.

But the priest-soldiers of the Jaguar god now had plans that would change all that – thanks to one of their number,
Totzin.

Totzin
waited his time. Patience was a great ally. Like the Great Cat, they must show patience.

Now as
Tezmec and Cuz-mecli crossed the great square, Totzin was watching their progress. Totzin's face was drawn and bitter with the bile of frustrated ambition. To him, the stranger from the sea was just one more example of how the Jaguar faction was being treated. Jaguar soldiers had captured him, and he should have been assigned to them to use as a messenger. But ever more often the sacrifices were being directed to Tlaloc and the Quetza. And the strongest warriors and most beautiful women were being denied the Jaguar priests, for these Tezmec was taking for his gods.

An inner thought caused the bitter face of
Totzin to change into something that might have been called a smile. He did not say the words, but they sounded in his brain: Soon ... soon. After the solstice all will change. Does not Teypetal, king of the Olmecs, also worship the Jaguar? Soon, old man, soon.... Totzin moved back into the shadows, feeding on his thoughts of vengeance. The time was at hand.

Inside his own temple,
Totzin prepared for a special sacrifice, a personal one between him and the Jaguar. Stripping himself naked, he donned the skin of a sacrificed warrior who had fallen into his hands, a warrior of the Toltecs. The warrior had been skinned alive from the head down to the ankles. It had taken the entire night for the skin to be so carefully removed. Only the warrior's hands were still attached, and they had been smoke cured along with the rest of the skin. The problem was as always in how to keep the skin from shrinking and how to keep it supple. Now a novice priest laced the skin from the back and Totzin sat and crossed his legs in front of a stone brazier, the hands of the human skin dangling from where his own clawlike fingers extended out of the almost black cured hide. The curing process always darkened the skin. Totzin mused briefly about how the skin of the foreigner would look on him, how it would fit. In that case they would probably have to let the skin shrink some.