God Of Death c-2 Page 16

  Casca watched her face intently, concentrating on willing her to live. He saw the progress of the blood, watching the flow increase the weak pulse in her throat. Seconds passed. Metah stirred. Slowly the pulse in her throat quickened.

  "It's working, Sactle! It's working!"

  Metah stirred more strongly.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  She screamed.

  She screamed over and over, ever louder and louder, then weaker.

  A dark flush ran up her face, turning her once-beautiful features into a contorted mask. She screamed once more, one final cry that faded into nothingness as her face turned black and she died, mouth open, eyes unseeing.

  "No!" Casca cried. "What's wrong? What's happened? Why did she die?"

  Sactle backed away from Casca, fear written in his face.

  He made a sign to ward off the evil eye.

  His voice quivered:

  "Your blood… it's poison. Deadly poison. I have seen the same thing happen when one has been bitten by a poisonous snake. You are the Quetzal Your blood is poison for you are a god!"

  The priest prostrated himself.

  "Forgive me, Tectli, for I had doubted your divinity. Now no one can deny it. Forgive me…"

  Unnoticed, he crawled out of Casca's presence.

  Casca wept, tears running down his face. He cried as a child would, uncontrollably, as if trying to purge himself of grief and pain in one tremendous outpouring of anguish.

  "I have killed you, Metah! My blood has killed you! If another had given it to you, you would have lived. I gave you mine seeking to give you eternal life, but I gave you hell. Forgive me, Metah!"

  Totzin climbed higher and higher. He was in the pine forests of the mountains. The thick trees let the light of the moon break through, casting beams of silver on the forest floor. He made his way toward safety. Dawn was almost upon him. By noon he would be safe. He paused by a pine to catch his breath… and a familiar sound came to him.

  The coughing roar of a hunting jaguar.

  But not as men might imitate it. This was the full, vital, deadly cry of the jungle master, the killer.

  Totzin froze, eyes wide. He searched the bushes around him. The jaguar was close. Silence. No sounds reached Totzin except that of his own labored breathing rasping in his ears. Then there was the soft whisper of brush cracking.

  He saw it.

  In the shadows, a spotted hide mottled black against the bushes.

  The Jaguar.

  The huge cat's eyes gleamed in the moonlight as it lowered its body to the ground, the tail whipping slowly back and forth. Nose black and shiny, the cat gathered itself, the. great muscles bunching. It looked Totzin in the eye. Totzin could not move. His mouth opened.

  "Mcht tl ley cotzli, Teypetel…" he whispered.

  The cat cocked one ear, listening.

  Again, louder, Totzin began the ancient chant of the cat god: "Mcht tl ley cotzli, Teypetel." Repeating the chant, Totzin lost his fear. After all, this was his god, and he its servant. He stepped forward, chanting louder, the beast seemingly understanding the ancient words. Totzin was elated. The god heard and understood…

  The thought that the god with the spotted hide listened was still in his mind when the great cat sprung, but the words on his lips seemed far away; the sound of his bones being cracked between the cat's teeth was much louder.

  Much louder…

  So Totzin, high priest of the Jaguar, served his god well to the very end. His god enjoyed him to the fullest. Then, licking the blood from its muzzle, it dragged the remainder of the carcass to its lair where its cubs waited to be fed.

  FOURTEEN

  During the following days the Teotec captains consolidated their gains against the Olmec, taking hostages and having the successor to Teypetel swear allegiance and send tribute to pay for the damages the Olmec had done to the city. The Vikings buried their dead under massive stones in the hills, facing them out to the distant sea. The men's armor and weapons were not buried with them as was the normal custom. Steel was too precious a commodity to leave. Instead, the men were buried with weapons of the chiefs of the Teotec.

  During this time Casca was not to be seen. He was sunk in black, deep grief and refused to be consoled by anyone. Only during Metah's funeral did he appear, to see that she was treated with the care of a queen. The entire city turned out in mourning for the occasion. The women wailed and slashed their faces with their nails. The men wore ashes on their bodies and somberly lined the funeral procession. She was taken to a hill outside where a tomb had been prepared filled with all the things she would need in the afterlife… pots and clothes, jewelry and toilet articles. At the burial, each article was in its turn broken so that its spirit could travel to the spirit world with her. Even the clothes were torn so that they could perform the same purpose. Twenty of the bravest of the Olmec warriors slain in the fight were laid in a semicircle at her feet, to be her slaves forever in the afterlife. A silver mask covered her face, and her hands were crossed over her bosom. Massive stones were laid about her, and their area swept clean. Trees were planted on the spot so no one could find it again.

  Casca observed all this silently, rigid, without emotion for he had been drained of all feeling.

  The night following the funeral he made a decision.

  Going to the chambers of the king Cuz-mecli, he called for the wise men and priests to hear his words. They gathered in one of the larger vaulted rooms of the palace, a room painted with brilliant frescoes.

  Standing before the ones he had assembled, Casca gathered his thoughts, slowly picking every word he would say.

  "Your majesty, wise men of the Teotec nation, listen to my words and pay heed. It has come to me that my time with you is at an end. The circle is complete. As I came to you from the sea, so I must return again to the sea. It is my fate, and the will of the gods."

  Cuz-mecli started to protest.

  "No, young king, it must be so. Now hear me. As I have said, everything is a great circle, and all that was shall be again. So it shall. One day I will return. Watch for me to come from the sea. I brought you messages from the gods. Obey them. There shall be no more human sacrifices on your altars. Remove from all the paintings and artwork of your city any sign of human sacrifice. It is not needed. Though you may be sorely tried and tempted to resort to the old ways when bad times come upon you, do not fall to that temptation if you fear the gods and my vengeance. The bad times will test to see if you obey."

  One old shaman was nodding, his head apparently filled with the sleep of age. Suddenly his eyes snapped wide open, and he straightened, his rheumatoid hands clenched in gnarled fists. In a thin, crackling voice he spoke:

  "Tectli, I have seen that what you say is true. You will come again with others, but the ships will not be of the dragon. They will have many sails, and the men will appear different, with skins of shining light. Marvelous beasts will do their bidding and carry them into battle so that they will appear to be half men and half animal, able to run like the wind and travel far. They will spread fire and death among those who still sacrifice on the altars. The people of the valley will be destroyed, but they will not be our people. Our city will long since have been covered by the forests and deserts, but our city will die peacefully and will obey your law.

  "You shall return to the valley of the Teotec, but we shall be gone. Yet you shall be remembered. We shall send out holy men to tell of you and your coming. As you have said, the circle will be complete, and those who have not honored your command will perish. As a people and as a nation they shall be as dust. New ones will inherit all that was in the valley. In one reed, Tectli. It is so, and shall be."

  The old man dropped into silence, his cheeks hollow, exhausted by his vision, breath rattling in his body chest. As Casca watched him, for just a blink of an eye a shadow seemed to settle over the Teotec shaman, and the features of Shiu Lao Tze seemed to smile out from him… then they vanished.

  A weary Casca p
repared to leave the chambers. But before he left he said, "In the morning, then, we shall leave. Farewell, and rule well, young king. You have the soul of greatness about you."

  The Vikings cheered when Casca told them of their returning. Loud shouts of "Ave!" and "Hail, Casca!" rang out as they scurried to gather their possessions and loot.

  The morning rose and the feel of the day was auspicious. The Vikings gathered as a company at the foot of the great pyramid that had known so much blood and pain. They waited, packs on their backs, weapons slung and scabbarded.

  The great square was filled not only with the city people but also with those from the surrounding countryside. Shoulder to shoulder they waited, fathers holding their children on their shoulders so that they might see and remember this day for all their years.

  Casca appeared on the pyramid in his feathered robe, Serpent headdress, and wearing the jade mask. He motioned with one hand. A line of two hundred porters advanced, each carrying a straw basket. These went before the Vikings, and several porters opened their loads to show the contents gold, silver, jewels, and precious stones filled each basket to capacity. Just one basket would have made each Viking richer than his wildest dreams, and here were two hundred of them.

  Calling out in the Norse tongue, Casca said to the men below:

  "There is your reward as I promised."

  The Vikings started to break and run for the precious baskets, but were quickly snapped back in ranks by a harsh word from Olaf.

  The drums began to beat, a sharp, distinct pattern. With each stroke Casca took a step and began his descent from the pyramid. The bindings of the jade mask again felt as if they were cutting into his face. He peered out the eyeholes as if through a tunnel. The scar on his chest burned. He reached the bottom, and the people of the city bowed in homage to the god Quetza. One small child, about three, ran forward and took his hand, bright, fearless eyes looking up into those of Casca behind the mask. The boy's mother came forward to jerk the boy back, but was stopped by a sign from Casca. Bending over, he picked the boy up and put him on his shoulders, and the three-year-old Teotec squealed with pleasure. The sound of the child's laughter broke the tension, and all began to cheer and sing in happy voices. The day had changed from one of sorrow to one of promise.

  Casca strode along, his steps picking up speed as if by the trust of the child he was being relieved of the pain that was Metah and the grief was put to rest. He went to the entrance of the great hall. Setting the boy down and taking the child's small hand in his larger paw, he walked inside past braziers burning incense to where the only decorations were the six masks hanging on the walls.

  A bent figure stepped forward and bowed. It was Pletuc the carver. Now Casca remembered him as the one who had broken the Olmec captain's nose with the chamber pot full of night soil, and he smiled. Taking the mask from his face, he walked to the place prepared for it on the day of his sacrifice. Slowly, carefully, he set the mask with the others and stepped back, looking at his own face in motionless, timeless jade… true to the smallest detail. Even the hairline scar left on him by the Greek whore was perfect. He glanced at the old carver.

  "I told you I would hang the mask in the hall with my own hands."

  The carver chuckled. "So you did, Tectli. And it does look very good there hanging with the others." The old man walked to the display with pride. As if he personally owned the masks here he pointed to each one and called it by name. His great-grandfather had carved the first two, his father the next three, and he had been honored with the duty of carving the likeness of Cuz-mecli's father, the king and the even greater honor of carving this last one, this likeness of the living god, the Quetza. He paused, and then spoke, his reedy voice piping:

  "Something is missing."

  "What's that, old one?"

  "These." Pletuc showed two gray-blue ovals.

  Taking the mask of Casca down, he worked with the jade for a moment and then put it back on its hanger. "There. It is complete." The jade mask seemed to have taken on life. The oid man had inserted two carved eyes of the same shade and hue as Casca's. The jade mask lived. "It needs eyes to watch over your city, Tectli. Now it shall see all."

  Pleased with himself, Casca grinned. "It's good, old man, but I'll wager you I shall wear the mask again when this city is gone from memory."

  Cackling, Pletuc laughed. "No, Tectli. I do not wager. You won the last time you said you would do something. I did not get this old by wagering on things I could not collect on."

  Casca laughed with him and swung the young boy back on his shoulders. Tousling the child's hair, he said to him, "I would give all the years of all the centuries and the wealth of great nations to one such as you to be my son. Will you be my son?"

  The three-year-old smiled timidly, and though he did not understand the meaning of Casca's words, his trust in this strange man was so complete that he bobbed his head in an affirmative manner.

  "Good. Then so it shall be. For am I not a god? And are not the words of a god law?" He carried the boy out into the bright day where the masses of Teotah waited. Raising the child above his head, he boomed out: "Hear me! This is my son. I adopt him." The boy's mother had a look of confused panic. Was she going to lose her son?

  Casca looked her straight in the eyes and said gently, "Fear not. I leave him in your care. Take him back to the city. But from this day this child shall carry my name. He will be called the Quetza. Not a god, but a man. Remember, he is mine. Take care of him."

  Striding to where his Vikings waited, Casca took from himself the feathered robe of green and gave it to Cuz-mecli. "Grow into this, young king, and rule wisely, for I shall be watching." He touched the boy's cheek with approval. Then he put on his Roman armor, drew his sword, and pointed east. "To the ships! We sail for the Hold… and home."

  The Vikings roared in approval. Olaf stepped forward, the first step, and they all followed. They marched escorted by a guard of one thousand Serpent warriors. Holdbod refused the litter ordered for him. Even with his sore back he marched beside Olaf and Vlad. "The way to the sea is for men to walk, and not be carried like babies," he grumbled.

  The way to the sea was pleasant. Casca and his men were honored wherever they stopped. Food was always ready and willing maidens added some bloodlines to their tribes.

  Casca, though, refused all women. Metah was still too close.

  The hills gave way to jungle. And finally to one last rise. Here Casca led the way and pointed down. "The sea. We are here."

  His men spent that night in revelry, telling the story of their adventures to those left behind on the ships, filling them with envy that was soon dispersed when those who had to remain behind were shown the baskets of wealth of which they would receive a full share. The next morning the ships were hauled back into the surf and lay at anchor. Supplies were loaded all that day and the next. The ships swung on their anchors as if eager to be off from these strange waters and to return to the more familiar fjords where they were born.

  When the ships were loaded and the tide favorable, Casca bade farewell to the escorting Serpent soldiers and sent them back to their city where so much had happened to him and to them, then he returned to the ship. The Vikings were ready. The cargo was stowed. Casca stood at the tiller. The sun reflected silver spots on the small waves.

  "Set oars and begin the stroke!" he ordered. "We sail for home."

  The oars sliced into the water and the dragon ships began to move, slowly at first, and then with greater speed. They entered the open waters and turned north. North, back the long way they had come. Many of their brothers would not make this voyage with the Vikings, but surely they were already in Valhalla drinking and boasting of their feats in this strange land of temples and birds. Wassail would be sung for the dead when the Vikings returned to home fires. The striped red and white sails were set. They filled. The wind was now the master. The dragon ships rode like well-trained stallions, sliding and slipping through the waters, homeward bound.
>
  The night was warm, but the sails were filled, and the bows of the dragon ships cut through the phosphorescent water. In the leading ship, Casca, forward, looked across the dark waters.

  Home… he thought. Where is home for me? Everyone else has a place to which he belongs. I do not…

  Beyond the silver phosphorescence of the bow wave the sea waters were black… like death…

  Would that I could lose myself in you… Would that the wetness might cover me forever. Surely everything must end in time… and my time cannot be much longer…

  Moving his hand against the smooth railing, he muttered aloud:

  "When will it end?"

  A shiver ran over him as the Jew's voice came, unbidden:

  "Till we meet again…"

  FIFTEEN

  "Sir… sir!" The voice was insistent. It was as if the lights had been turned on. Goldman turned to the voice. He saw Johnson, the museum guard, standing there with a confused look on his face.

  "Are you all right, sir?" Johnson asked. "You've been standing there for hours. Your friend said that you weren't to be disturbed, that you were studying the article. But it's closing time now, and we have to shut up until tomorrow. You can come back then if you haven't finished examining the mask."

  Goldman's mouth was dry. Closing time. That meant he had been here seven hours. "Yes. Thank you." He read the guard's metal name plate. "Thank you, Mr. Johnson. Yes. I'm quite all right, thank you. May I have just one more moment, please alone? Then I'll leave."

  Johnson nodded. "All right. But five minutes more is all I can let you have." Leaving Goldman, he shook his head. What the hell could be so interesting about an old jade mask from Mexico? These brain types. I'll never figure them out. How can they stand in one spot for hours looking at something that doesn't move or talk? Just sits there. Well, that's their business…

  Not waiting until the guard had left, Goldman had turned back to the mask. Where had Casca gone this time? Would he return? Somehow, Casca, I think we will meet again. I don't believe you've yet finished what you started.