Casca 10: The Conquistador (17 page)

Cortes tried again the next day, destroying a few houses and capturing a couple of bridges which he later had to relinquish. The losses of the Aztecs were ten times those of the Spaniards, but the Aztec ranks were constantly replaced with volunteers. When the Spanish lost a man to death, capture, or wounds, he could not be replaced. With each loss, their strength was sapped from them.

Casca was put to work building three wooden siege machines. Cortes hoped they'd enable him to get close enough to the surrounding houses to be able to destroy the Aztecs and clear them away from the palace. This would give his marksmen the advantage of range with which to use their weapons and would force the Aztecs to cross an open area to reach them.

While they were building the machines, Cortes went to Moctezuma, promising him his freedom if he would speak to his people again and persuade them to lift the siege and let the Spanish leave the city.

Casca was working on one of the machines in the palace courtyard when Moctezuma was brought from his quarters. The king of the Aztecs paused briefly when his eyes met those of Casca. He shook his head sadly as if to say, "I have done my best," and then was hauled off by his guard toward the battlements where he once more would try to stop the attack.

When he appeared on the battlements, the fighting ceased. A silence ran through the thousands of watchers. Cuahtemoc moved to the front in full battle dress. He wore the helmet of an Eagle knight and a shield rimmed with gold and trimmed with eagle feathers. He held his macama above his head to complete the silence. He had loved his king and admired him. Moctezuma was the last of his line and had been the best of them.

Moctezuma raised his arms above his head to speak, but at a command from Cuahtemoc, he was shouted down. Cuahtemoc could not take the chance that Moctezama's words might, even at this point, influence his warriors. Regretfully, he gave an order to his ten best slingers to let loose their stones. He did not want to kill Moctezuma, just keep him from speaking or interfering. The stones left their slings, and one found its mark on the king's temple. The sound of bone cracking was heard clearly by the now silent warriors. Moctezuma fell to the walkway of the battlements, where he was picked up and carried back to his rooms by his captors.

Moctezuma was nearly in a coma. Blood-tinged fluid came from his nose and ears. His nobles and family were in constant attendance. In his sleep he would call to the gods to witness that he had done his best for his people and ask the Quetzalcoatl to forgive him for failing them.

Cortes was enraged that the Aztecs could assault their own king. He liked Moctezuma as a man and a noble. It would be a great loss for the Spaniards should he die. Even with the city in revolt, there were many others of the Aztec nation who would rally to their king – if they were able to get out of Tenochtitlan alive to even ask them.

Casca wiped the blood from his sword. They had just beaten off another attempt by the Ocelot warriors to break through a section of the palace built of bricks and mortar. He pretended not to notice, as did the other Castilians, that the bodies of the dead Aztecs were not thrown outside as they had been in the past. Their Indian allies, the Tlaxcalans, took the dead with them to the part of the palace grounds where they camped. There was a kind of logic to this. If the Tlaxcalans sustained their strength on the flesh of the Aztecs, there would be more grain for the Spaniards to eat.

It wasn't difficult for Casca to lose himself in the midst of the soldiers. With the reinforcements Cortes had brought with him and the current state of siege, no one paid him any attention other than to call on him if his sword was needed. Juan had recovered from his wound with little more than a nose that would be slightly out of kilter for the rest of his life and a headache that lasted for two days. He was told of his being rescued by a scarred, stocky man who fought like a maniac as he carried Juan on his shoulder. He had started to tell Cortes about the return of Carlos Romano but, for some reason he couldn't fathom, chose not to. If his friend, and he still thought of Casca that way, wanted to keep a secret, he would not say anything. He might not understand Romano, but he did know that he was no traitor, nor was he a man without honor.

Casca was concerned about the health of the king. From what he had been able to find out, Moctezuma was fading rapidly. He would not last many more days. The servants who took food to his chambers, only to bring back full trays, said that he called out many times for the god Quetzalcoatl to come to him.

He waited for the second hour before dawn, when men's souls were the deepest in sleep and the senses of those yet awake were dulled. It had been three days since the stones of the slingers had been thrown. He had to see the king before he died.

Two Spanish sentries were on guard at the king's door. Tired and hungry, they were near to sleep. Even while they leaned against the stone walls, Casca walked easily up to them in full armor, his face lost in the shadows of his helmet and the dim light of the single torch near the doorway. In his hand he held a flask of wine. It had cost ten gold pieces to liberate it from one of the former soldiers of Narvaez. There was not much of the precious fluid left, nor had there been for several weeks. From the coffers in the basement of the palace, he had found what he needed: leaves of the coca plant like those he had used to dull his senses during the long walk to the altars of Teotihuacan. The wine would be bitter, but it would give the weary sentries rest.

He greeted the soldiers with a slight slur to his words, giving the impression that he had already been at work on the flask. "Hola, caballeros! The night is long, and the day promises nothing to look forward to." He shook the flask. The gurgle of the bottle brought the guards' eyes to full awareness. Raising it, he pretended to drink. Sighing as if he were as tired as they, he leaned against the wall. Then, as if he had just noticed their stares at the wine, he apologized to them for his discourtesy, saying, "Enough of this. I am tired and have no taste for anything anymore. Here!" He tossed the flask to the taller of the guards and turned back the way he had come. Stopping at the staircase leading down to where it was dark, he waited.

The guards looked at the bottle and licked their lips. If they were found drunk on duty, it would go hard with them, but they were both grown men, and one flask of wine couldn't have much effect on such as
they. There was no chance of it getting them intoxicated.

Casca was getting a little impatient, but at last he heard the gurgling of the bottle and knew that the guards were drinking. One of them gave a curse as he finished his swallow.
"Madre de Dios! This is nearly as bitter as that vile concoction the Indians drink." His compadre laughed and tilted the lip of the flask to his mouth. Letting the muscles of his throat relax, he took half the contents in one swallow. His friend grabbed it back from the greedy lips and sucked down the rest of it, emptying the container. In the dark Casca gave a small grin. The wine might be bitter, but it was still wine. Now to wait a few minutes more. He rested his jaw on his forearms as the minutes passed. He couldn't see them from his position, but he could hear them clearly when the first blubbery snores drifted down the dark hallway. He waited to see if there would be any protest from the other guard. There was nothing, and he figured that the other man just didn't snore. He rose quietly, staying close to the wall until he could see the guards. They had both suddenly become very tired and were leaning back against the wall to support their strangely weak legs. They slid down to a sitting position as the essence from the coca leaves did its duty. They were out cold and would be for some time.

Opening the outside bolt to the carved door, Casca slid inside. Beside the king's bed sat Itzcuauhtzin, his eyes closed.
The faithful retainer. Casca did not disturb his sleep. A small tap in back of the ear put the old noble into a deeper slumber.

The king moaned softly as Casca leaned over him and whispered, "I am here. I have come to you."

Moctezuma opened his eyes slowly. The lids were sticky with sickness. From the glow of the night outside his window, he could barely make out the face of Casca.

"My lord, you have come." He
coughed, his face pale and wan. There was little strength left in him. Death would come for him before the next day saw the sun fall. Casca knew this. He had seen thousands die in every manner, and the cast of death on a man's face was something he knew better than anyone else.

He held the king's limp hand in his own, speaking gently. "Yes, I have come to you. Fear not, for you have done the best you could, but the stars have ordained otherwise. What must be will
be."

Moctezuma tried to rise to his elbows but failed, falling back heavily to his pillow. His breath came in short gasps as he searched for the strength to speak.

"My lord god, what is to become of my people and of me?"

Casca gave the king's hand a gentle squeeze. "Your people are beyond anyone's help now. They must live with the future they have made. But you will be remembered and loved for the memory for as long as I exist."

Moctezuma smiled. "Then I will not go to my death unwilling. Yet there is one thing I would ask of you if I have served you well, my lord."

Casca tried to read the face of the king but couldn't. "What is it that I can do for you at this time, noble king?"

Moctezuma drew in a deep breath. "My lord, I would not die by the hands of my own people. Will you not accept me as an offering for them? Take me with your own hands that my death will not be the shame of my nation."

The request was totally unexpected, but Casca understood the reason for it. The greatest honor the king could have in these last minutes of his life, a life spent in dedication to his gods, would be to be taken by a god, a god who would take the king as a final offering for his people. Rising to his feet, he placed both his hands on the clammy face of the king. "I understand, Moctezuma, last king of Aztecs. I accept you as an offering. You have not sinned but have been a good and faithful servant to your gods and duty."

His hands slid down to the king's neck. "I take you now. Know that you are well loved, Moctezuma the king."

At peace, Moctezuma closed his eyes. He raised his chin so that the god's fingers could be placed easily on his throat.

Casca had killed many with his hands. He knew where to place the pressure so that there would be no pain, only a dullness that would turn into eternal sleep. He squeezed gently until the spirit of the last king left its earthly shell to join those of the others of his line. Moctezuma died feeling that he had been blessed and forgiven. His last thought, just before the darkness claimed him, was of the figure before him. When he opened his eyes for one last look at the Quetza, he wondered why the scar-faced god was crying.

From the rooftop, Cortes had Marina call out to the Aztecs for a truce, during which time the body of Moctezuma would be turned over to his people. This was granted, and Moctezuma was carried by members of his own family to be delivered. He was taken to Chapultepec for funeral rites amid great wailing and mourning. The Aztecs claimed that the Spaniards had killed their king, and the Spaniards said that it was the stone thrown by them that had caused his death. Only one man knew that both accusations were correct.

There were several minor forays by Cortes during the next few days, but any gains he made had to be given up quickly. He just did not have the strength to take and hold a city this size with its entire population in arms against them. There was only one thing to be done. They would have to try to get free of the city and back into the open. On the seventh day after his arrival, he was ready. His men had worked all that night making a portable bridge with which they hoped to be able to cross the canals whose bridges had been destroyed by the Aztecs.

During the last attack, he had lost two horses, and several of his men had been killed. He had been wounded in the arm and knee, but not badly enough to keep him from moving. However, it gave the Aztecs further proof of the vulnerability of the Spaniards and showed everyone once and for all that Cortes was only a mortal man.

Cortes gave the order to open the storerooms of Moctezuma where the treasures were kept.

The king's royal fifth was set aside in the presence of his alcaldes and regidores. He assigned them men and horses to transport the king's share. This way, if anything happened to it, he would not be held to blame. As for the rest of the treasure, which had been estimated to be over seven hundred thousand ducats worth, he told his men to take what they wanted. He was making them a present of it.

Those who had been with him from the first knew more of what they had to face. They took mostly jewels, stuffing their pockets with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Narvaez's men went for the gold and silver, weighing themselves down like pack animals in their greed.

As he watched the men of Narvaez load themselves with heavy gold and silver objects, Casca shook his head. They were going to pay dearly for every extra ounce they carried. Juan had his own treasure trove. Around his neck hung jewels on heavy chains of gold. In a sack he had something that he could not bear to leave behind. It was a gold sun disk set with rubies and emeralds weighing thirty pounds. Casca didn't try to persuade Juan to leave it behind. He'd seen the look on his friend's face and knew that it would be a futile effort. He wondered if the wound Juan received was still having some effect on him. In the last couple of days Juan had not looked well. There was fever in the eyes and a sweaty face that bothered Casca. Perhaps Juan's madness for gold came from a touch of fever.

He took only a pouch full of gems for himself. He had not come to this land for treasure, but he would need money to get him to the next place.

Casca was in the lead element when Cortes gave them the word for the breakout. It came at the stroke of midnight through a hole they made in one of the garden walls. Behind the lead element
came forty men, carrying the portable bridge they would need to get over the canals and causeways that had been cut. Behind the bridge came the Tlaxcalans, carrying the cannon and supplies. Bringing up the rear were the prisoners who had been taken captive at the time they had arrested Moctezuma. Most were members of his household staff, with several nobles among them. Cacama was one of them. Cortes thought they might yet prove to be useful when he made his return to Tenochtitlan.

Luck was with them for the first minutes. They were able to get over the first three canals without a problem, until they reached the Toluca causeway. The portable bridge had just been laid down, when a horse whinnied. From all around the road came cries of, "Brothers, it is the Spanish. They are escaping. Come, brothers, gather your spears and arrows!"

The Aztecs poured out of their houses, jumped from rooftops, and ran out of orchards as they raced for the escaping enemy. Boatloads of archers took to the water. The Castilians were hit from the sides and rear most heavily. The soldiers in the rear had to destroy their own bridge so that the Aztecs could not cross after them. As they withdrew from the city, they were hounded with war cries and arrows. The canoes kept pace with the column, letting loose hundreds of arrows, ignoring the return fire of the Spaniards.

The full brunt of the Aztec attack hit as they reached the Toltec causeway. Thousands of warriors hurled themselves at the hated enemy. Flint-lined macamas and spears searched out openings in Spanish armor as the Castilians were held to the ground. At a break in the causeway where a bridge had been destroyed, hundreds died as they tried to leap the expanse from one side to the other. The weight of the treasure they carried pulled them down. Horses and men clogged the gap, drowning or having their bellies slit open by Aztec swimmers. Their bodies formed a bridge over which their comrades raced. It was every man for
himself. Pleas for help were ignored. From the mass of bodies, hands would extend into the air holding one of the items of gold they had stolen, offering it to anyone who would stop a second and pull them back up. There were no takers. Gold was not worth very much now. Others, more wise, dropped their loot to make better time.

Nearly all the treasures of Moctezuma were lost that night as the baggage animals went down, their sides filled with arrows or spears. Pedro de Alvarado stayed with the rear guard, trying to hold off the Aztec waves and rescue who and what he could. At last he saw that he could hold no longer, and the thought of being taken alive gave him a new strength. He was the last to make it across the canal, using his spear as a lever with which to launch his body over the gap.
All those still behind him fell to the Aztecs, who screamed in pleasure as they pulled the Spaniards and Tlaxcalans down. These they would take alive for the gods.

All the women of the Tlaxcalans were taken as captives or killed. Only a few with Spanish lovers near the head of the column made it to dry land. Marina wept as she saw the defeat of the Spaniards by her ancient enemies. She passed Casca and stopped for a moment, her eyes pleading with the god to do something. Her hands began to rise in supplication and then dropped back to her sides as Casca wearily shook his head from side to side.

Casca heard voices crying out to them, pleading for help, but there was none to be given. He was still in the lead element when they reached the banks of the lake and were at last off that terrible highway of death. He cleared a space with his sword, cutting down four painted and feathered warriors of the Eagles to make room for those behind him. He expanded their bridgehead, which rapidly widened and gained strength as more Spaniards and Tlaxcalans reached the shore, from which they could at last fight on a broad front. Casca looked over his shoulder back toward the direction from which they had come. All over Tenochtitlan fires were lit on the temples. He knew what they were for. Tonight the ancient gods of the Aztecs would be sated with the blood of the conquistadors.

The Aztecs were in a solid mass, pushing at the rear of the Spaniards. Men were being trampled on and crushed to death under the feet of friends and enemies alike. Casca heard a voice above the throng crying out to Saint James. Juan! He moved back toward the way he had come. Shoving men out of his path, he tried to reach the voice. The last of the Spaniards were coming across with them. At last he saw Juan, his face bloody and his armor torn. The jewels around his neck had turned from green to red with his blood. He fought like a berserker, cutting and slashing at the brown hands trying to drag him down. No one helped. It was every man for
himself. Hanging from Juan's shoulder by a wide strap was the sack in which he carried the sun disk. A slash from a razor-edged macama cut through the strap. The golden disk fell out to lie on the stones in a puddle of blood. Juan was only twenty feet away from the safety of the rear guard when the disk fell. He was almost there.

Juan slashed off the face of an Ocelot knight and started to make a final effort to reach the Spanish line. Facing the Aztecs with three others, he fought his way back five feet and then saw the disk under the feet of the Indians. The gold gleamed in the light of the fires; the jewels mocked him. He couldn't leave it. He left the three soldiers and ran toward the object. He would have the disk.

Casca cried out to him, "Leave it! Come back!" Juan didn't hear, and if he had, it wouldn't have changed his mind. He had to have the disk; it was his future for himself and his family. The other three men made it into the safety of the Spanish line. The Aztecs swarmed around Juan, pushing right up to the Spanish defense in a solid body. Casca couldn't get through to him. The last thing he saw was Juan being carried overhead by dozens of hands. They passed him from one band of warriors to another, taking him farther away. In his hand Juan held the gold sun disk. Then he was gone. Tears ran down Casca's face. He knew the fate waiting for Juan and only hoped that somehow he would be able to make the Aztecs kill him quickly. Another rush by the Aztecs took him back to the business of killing.

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.