Casca 2: God of Death (15 page)

Olaf held up each piece of the
armor for his leader's appraisal. The only new piece was the tunic of white linen with half sleeves and a skirt reaching to the knees. The cuirass was of three parts. The shoulder epaulets and the chest and back covering were all made of boiled, formed leather on which were sewn circular pieces of iron. The shoulder pieces were made of four plates, smaller than those of the cuirass to which they were fixed on the ends and passed over the shoulders like straps. From the waist were two thick borders of leather plated with strips of iron reaching almost to the knees.

As each piece was brought out and presented, Casca felt a rush of memories.

"One last item, lord," Olaf said. "This was dropped when the cat soldiers took you captive. For some reason they left it where it lay."

Reaching deep into the sack, Olaf withdrew Casca's famous short sword. The weapon had been meticulously cleaned and sharpened. Not a spot of rust would dare make itself known on the shining surface. The blade had been honed on both sides to razor sharpness. There were, however, several deep notches in the blade that gave it a slightly serrated appearance. They had been too deep to remove without damaging the rest of the sword.

Casca took the weapon in his calloused hand. The grip felt alive. He had carried this weapon ever since he had left the battlefield in Parthia where the city of Ctesiphon had been put to the sword. How many years had it been? Fifty? Sixty? More?

Casca put his free hand on the forearm of Olaf. "Thank you. This weapon is more than a tool. It is the story of my life. It and my destiny are one. Thank you, Olaf
Glamson. Now I must go. Even a god has duties, and several await me. You and the others, eat and enjoy yourselves. Tomorrow we begin to ready for the battle."

That night, while the Norsemen slept, they were closer to war than they imagined. Even now, while they were tossing in their sleep and dreaming of the women they had left at home,
Teypetel was being borne on a giant litter carried by eighty slaves at the front of his army. Thirty thousand strong the enemy marched. The litter bearers were changed and replaced by fresh slaves every three miles. Less if the going was rough.

In
Teotah, the city of the Teotec, only Totzin knew what was transpiring, and he slept the best sleep of all. Victory was soon to be in his grasp, and the city and its people would be his. The few foreign devils who had come could make no possible difference in the outcome. Five days, and the king of the Olmecs and his army would be at the doors of Teotah. Then the god of the Jaguar would feed to the fullest. He, Totzin, would see to it that the one calling himself the Quetza performed no further tricks or illusions. He smiled as he slept. A warm, wet flash ran down his leg from the groin as he dreamed of what he would do to the woman of the Quetza. Not all his excitement was sexual in nature; the thought of feeding himself on her flesh was as strong a stimulant as the sex act itself.

Dawn brought no indications of the coming violence.

Casca sat and breakfasted with the king and Tezmec.

"Priest," he asked, "why do your cities have no walls for
defense?"

Tezmec
smiled and spoke in the same tone of voice he used in teaching novices. "The jungles and hills are our walls. We have scouts out on every trail leading to our city. If an enemy approaches, it is from the walls of the jungle that we meet and strike them before they can reach us. In the event that the enemy manages to break through to the city itself, then our people use those same jungle walls to hide in, taking with them their items of most value.

“The enemy takes an empty city. From the hills and jungles we will strike down and attack his warriors. When they learn the cost is too great they will return to their own lands, and we will come back. At the most, they will have taken the items left behind, but these are of no real value. What use can they make of cooking pots? The value is in the people. Without them there can be no real victory. If they destroy our temples, then we will simply build greater and larger ones when they are gone, and when the time is right. We will avenge ourselves. Our people would never accept a foreign king. He must be one of our own."

The young king nodded in agreement. "Is it not so in the lands you said are across the waters, Tectli Quetza?"

Casca shook his shaggy head in denial. "No," he said, "it is not. Perhaps your way is better for you, but the people I know are different. There we need the walls to defend ourselves. Perhaps even here you will one day find a need for them."

The Olmecs and their grotesque king were now only four days away from Teotah. On this day the passes leading to the city were guarded by serpent soldiers. Tomorrow the guard would change; the soldiers of the Jaguar would take over the duty of watching the far passes through which the enemy must pass.

Casca paid ever increasing attention to his troops the next days. More and more he drilled them in new methods of fighting, methods new to them but old to the legions of Caesar. His Vikings would be the anvil against which any invader would smash
themselves; his regular Teotec soldiers would be the hammer.

Totzin
smiled, especially when he saw Casca with Metah.
Enjoy the woman while you can
, he thought.
Soon it will be the trust of my loins that she screams out for
.

Teypetel
entered the valley, his army strung out behind, not yet in battle order. Cautiously his scouts proceeded and returned, prostrating themselves before their king and giving the word that the way was clear; the Jaguar soldiers of the priest Totzin had honored their word and were even now coming down to join the army. Their remaining brothers in the city would strike from the inside when the time was ripe. The way was open, and soldiers of the Olmecs poured through, faces painted for war. Many had the same flat lips and noses of their king, for he and his fathers had spread their seed wherever they could. The cast of brutality was clearly stamped on them.

Casca sat late in his rooms.
Metah walked softly so as not to disturb him. She knew that he had many things on his mind. He sat alone looking out over his city. The flat roofs and the temple pyramids seemed frozen in the light of the brilliant moon and the cloudless sky. His thoughts reached across the dark waters, far, far to another land, Rome. Rome
... It has been long since I saw the city of Caesar Augustus
. He still referred to it as the city of the man who sat on the throne of the world's most powerful nation when he, Casca, was young and first served in the legion. Who was emperor now? How much longer would Rome endure? Or had she already fallen to internal rot and the bright swords of the more vital peoples surrounding her?

Rome.... Now he understood a little of what the Caesars must have endured.
The weight of responsibility is heavy for a ruler. I wonder why they, the power seekers, crave it so much?

There were, of course, things that Casca could not know.
While he ruled the Teotec not as king but as god, Rome was moving ever closer to her final days. It had been 253 years since the so-called "Messiah" had died on the Cross. Valerian was once again trying to stabilize the frontiers of the Empire. He had made his son Gallienus emperor of the west while he marched to the east to try and restore order. He was too late. Ever increasingly, better organized and more violent rebellions had sapped the spirits of the legions along the Danube. They were now facing the new confederation of the Gothic Empire. The borders were crumbling. The Goths laid to the sword much of Asia Minor and even northern Greece. Valerian was taken prisoner by the Persians.

This same night Valerian's son
Gallienus sat with the thoughts of disaster foremost in his mind. He had retaken the Balkans, but his strength was so limited that Gaul, Spain, the Rhineland – and even Britain – paid homage only to their autonomous rulers. Gallienus sighed deeply. The weight of Rome was heavy. He pondered the responsibilities of power as he poured another draught of the famous Falerian wine, sipped slowly, and cut with a touch of spring water. Finishing his cup, he called for his masseur to come and rub away some of the tensions of the day. Rome may be fading, but that is no excuse to live like a barbarian....

Casca clicked his eyes back open. He shook his head. He had been asleep and dreaming.... Or had he? What was the matter?

Shit! I know something is wrong.
Totzin is walking around like he is the cat that just swallowed the mouse. Something is rotten. Tomorrow I'll send out my own scouts to take a look around the countryside.

Casca
slept, the warm body and soft hair of Metah his only coverlet in the warm night. Mumbling in her sleep, she snuggled closer.

The first light of dawn saw Casca up and about, waking his men and sending the runners out to the far passes.
Tezmec; too, was up early. On a temple, unseen, he was praying for forgiveness and divine guidance, bowing low before the sun rising from the basin surrounding them. He was singing the ancient songs of his race. The carved figures of the Serpent and Tlaloc seemed to mock him. He received no answer. Weary from his long vigil, he took his old bones back down from the pyramid to his home. The day was almost upon them.

Casca's Vikings were rousing themselves from various stages of sleep and stupefaction. Those who had chosen women were running them off so they could be about their master's work for the day. Platters of venison, half-cooked, charred on the outside, were being gulped down, along with the flat cakes called tortillas.

Casca stood with the young king instructing him in the use of the short sword, explaining that weapons didn't just happen; they were designed to serve the style or battle and other accouterments of the user. Patiently answering Cuz-mecli's questions, he explained that the short sword was designed to stab around and beneath even when the opponent had a longer weapon and greater strength. If he could be forced to close with you, the shorter blade would give good service while the longer blade of the enemy was almost useless.

This discourse was broken up when the bloody figure of a Serpent soldier stumbled into their presence and threw himself down before Casca and the king, a feathered barb protruding from his back. Bloody froth on his lips showed that he was shot in the lung.

His painted face was raised painfully. “Tectli Casca… They came… the Olmecs. They are through the pass and even now are less than an hour from the city. Their king, Teypetel, the monster, leads them...."

The man shivered as if from a sudden chill, gave one short cough, and was still. He was the first victim of the war between the
Teotec and the Olmec.

First blood was the Olmec's, but, swore Casca, not the last.

Tezmec stepped in front of the king and Casca. He had been coming in the entrance to the king's chambers when the runner appeared.

He pointed a withered finger at Casca. "I knew disaster would befall us," he accused. "You have betrayed us! Because of you, many of my people will perish. It is too late to hide in the hills. We must have sacrifices to appease the gods and prevent this disaster from befalling us!"

Casca faced the old priest.

"No! By all the hounds of hell, no! There will be no more hearts cut out on your bloody altar for your bloody gods!" Pushing roughly past the startled old priest, Casca strode to the balcony and bellowed like the mythical bull of the German forest, "Olaf!"

"Olaf!" he thundered, the name echoing around the great plaza. "Bring me my men!" Men... men... men.... The words repeated and faded.

The army of the
Teotecs was gathered. Not all could make it in time, but fifteen thousand men stood ready, brilliant in their war dress and painted faces. They stood in silent ranks waiting for the one who would lead them in battle. In the city were Olaf and the Vikings, and the indication that today was different from others was mirrored in Vlad's face, which seemed a little darker. Holdbod fingered the edge of his great sword a little more frequently. They all waited like faithful hounds for their master's appearance.

Then he was before them.

The great Serpent helmet of feathers and gold seemed to set off the armor of Rome that he wore. Casca, Lord of the Keep, the Quetza of the Teotec stood before them.

The silence was oppressive.

And then, all at once, fifteen thousand voices cried out:

"
Quetza!

"
Quetza!

"
Quetza!"

The roaring thunder of the name increased with each breath until it seemed the very force of their calling would bring down the walls of the buildings even before the Olmec had a chance at them. The Vikings, too, were taken up in this outpouring of
fervor. Banging their steel swords against their shields, they tried to drown out the cries of the Teotec warriors with their even louder "Ave, Casca! Lord of the Keep! Ave, Casca, Lord of the Keep! "

Casca raised his recently reacquired short sword above his head and motioned for silence. He was obeyed. In the language of the
Teotec he gave the command for the captains to come forth for orders. Gathering his leaders to him, he first ordered the captain of the Jaguars to take up positions behind the pyramid of the sun. From there they would strike on the signal given by a giant conch shell. Dismissing the Jaguar soldier, and waiting until he was out of earshot, Casca then turned to Olaf and his men.

"Vikings," he ordered, "you will place yourselves in the rear of the Serpent soldiers and hold your position."

Olaf started to grumble, but was quickly cut short by Casca's terse "Obey!"

"Yes, my lord." Olaf fumed at the idea that the Vikings might be left out of the main thrust of the coming battle, but he followed his orders.

Casca then ordered a squad of Serpent men to take the king to the hills outside and not to return until he sent known runners to bring the word that all was well. Those who could would follow from among the women and children, but all men must stand ready to fight whether they were capable of standing on their own two feet or not. These would mount the rooftops with stones and anything else they could throw down on the heads of the invaders.

The Coyote soldiers were to be on the right flank with the remaining miscellaneous troops covering the rest of the right. The Serpents were to hold the
center; theirs was the place of honor. Casca dismissed his captains. He wished that he had Avidius Cassius here to borrow his brain for a moment. Avidius might have been a butcher, but the son-of-a-bitch knew how to plan and organize a battle.

Shit, I'm okay for small unit actions, but I never had to deal with anything like this....
Self-doubt afflicted Casca.
Well, all I can do is the best I can, but it won't be anything fancy
.

The
Olmecs were coming into sight. From the tops of the highest buildings the faint-hearted already had begun their death wails – which Casca soon stopped with the order to cut the throat of anyone who made a sound he didn't authorize. Separating a few of the toughest-looking troops, he positioned them on the exits and avenues leading off the plaza. He wanted the Olmecs to stay where he could keep an eye on them. Where the Hades are Tezmec and Totzin? Part of his question was answered as he saw the high priest of the Jaguar standing in full regalia watching the proceedings from his temple top.
Well enough. That's a good place for the shriveled-up little bastard
. But of Tezmec there was no sign.

Giving orders right and left, Casca raced around the square checking on his men and their leaders. Making sure his Vikings were in position, he gave his final orders ... leaving Olaf with a smile on his face.

Teypetel sat on his litter, an obscenely fat, royal gargoyle. He wore only a robe made from the hide of the great spotted cat he held holy. Otherwise he was naked. The eighty slaves carrying his monster litter strained and sweated under the lash of his priest soldiers. They crested a small rise, and there before them lay the city of Teotah.

Teypetel's
fat lips pulled back from his gums, exposing the needle teeth. He ran his tongue over the sharp teeth as if already tasting the blood that would flow so freely from the bodies to be slaughtered by his soldiers and him this day.

Teypetel
gave his orders to his commanders. The Olmecs spread out on the plains facing the city, forming an arc tapering to the ends but thickened in the center. The Olmec plan was to use the points of the arc to encircle and outflank Casca's forces while the strong center smashed into the Teotec and kept them concentrated there until the horns of the arc reached each other and the encirclement was complete. Teypetel knew he had numerical superiority on his side; that and the aid of the Jaguar soldiers loyal to the would-be priest-king Totzin were enough to guarantee victory.

Now, surely the
Teotec must be aware of his presence. They would be in a panic to get their troops organized and ready for fighting. That combined with what must surely be the panic of the civilian population would greatly hinder the efforts of the city to defend itself.

Smiling at the thought of the panic that his approach must be bringing,
Teypetel ordered his drums to begin – drums so large it took six slaves to carry each. The drums were positioned every two hundred feet in the rear of his troops. On his signal, they beat as one, a terrible rolling sound, like thunder in the valley.

The sound of distant thunder reaching the defenders in the city confused them. The skies were clear. Was this an ill omen?

Casca looked to the sound, the sun sparkling off his brilliant feathered robe, the same robe he had worn on the day of his sacrifice. Shading his eyes with his right hand he watched the soldiers of the Olmecs spread out and begin to move in toward the city. From this distance the invading army looked like the horns of one of the African bulls he had seen in the arena at Rome. To the rear of the soldiers he could just make out the huge drums and their attendants. So that's what's going on. Relaying to his men below that the thunder was only caused by giant drums, he ran down to the square. Taking a thousand warriors with him, he raced to the city's edge where the broad avenue stopped and the lesser trails began.

The enemy was approaching through the tall fields and the rows of cultivated, spiked maguey plants. Lining his warriors in three ranks, Casca waited. The drumming sound was almost overpowering. Steadily the Olmec approached. One hundred of the thousand warriors Casca had taken were archers. By his standards they were nothing to compare with the archers of the Scythians and Parthians. They lacked the laminated bows of those famous fighters. The
Teotec bows were lighter, and they were shooting arrows of cane from the marshes, tipped with sharpened bits of stone. But they were what he had, and he planned to use them. He had the archers stationed behind the rearmost rank of warriors.

Carefully, Casca watched his men for any sign of panic. They were standing fast, the ruddy, square faces composed and placid. Never had a Roman commanded an army of such brilliance. With their feathered headdresses and plumed wicker shields, the warriors seemed more like terrible beasts or birds than mere men. They carried deadly weapons. Their lances were tipped with flint and obsidian. Their clubs were edged with the same razor-sharp stones. The nobles among them each
vyed with the others in their elaborate war suits. Many wore enough gold and precious stones to set even an avaricious Caesar's mouth-watering with envy. They waited, confident. After all they had a god with them.

The Olmec stopped their approach one hundred yards from the soldiers of the
Teotec. Their drums were silent. The sudden stillness had a strange, eerie quality.

Casca advanced out from his line of warriors to where he was clearly visible, escorted by only one Serpent soldier, the escort carrying one of the spears he had been given by Vlad the Dark when Vlad learned he was to be one of Casca's bodyguards. Vlad had insisted on the man taking the Viking spear.

Casca walked slowly. The Roman cuirass seemed to be a second skin, except there was still one place over the ribs on his left side where a knot of thread holding the metal discs affixed cut into his skin, slowly wearing a sore spot.
Shit,
he thought,
I meant to have that fixed. The damn thing's going to hurt all day.

Filling his lungs with air and raising his right arm in salute, Casca bellowed out:

"Teypetel! Dog king of the Olmec! Come forth!" Casca's voice clearly reached Teypetel.

Stunned, with surprising agility
Teypetel leaped from his litter.
Dog! He dares call me a dog!
Never in all his life had anyone dared to insult Teypetel. Not even his mother. For she knew full well that he would have cut her heart out and eaten it as he had done to his own brothers when they contested his right to the throne.

Pushing his way through to the front ranks,
Teypetel stood there, gross, huge, his breasts like those of a fat woman. He towered over every one of his warriors by at least a head. His arms were larger than the thighs of his biggest and strongest warrior. His skin was oiled. In his right hand he carried a battleaxe of native copper, hand-beaten, and as large as the skull of a deer. Using the instrument to bash the brains out of a soldier who was too slow in moving out of his way, he reached the foremost rank and stepped out.

Casca took a look at his opponent.
Shit,
he thought,
that is one large hunk of suet.