New Found Land (12 page)

Simon's awareness of the futility of this was short-lived. Almost at once something smacked him on the back of the head, and he went out.

S
IMON FIRST REALIZED THAT THE
face looking solicitously down into his was that of a pretty girl; second that he was lying on soft cushions. He had a moment of wondering if he were dead, and the Moslems had been right about the afterlife: instead of golden harps on clouds, timeless houris serving lemonade from a cup that never emptied. On the other hand his head was aching savagely, which didn't square with Paradise. He pulled himself up on an elbow, wincing, and saw Bos and Brad on couches similar to his own.

Bos said: “Are you well, Simonus?”

He closed his eyes and opened them again. “That's more than I'd like to say. Where are we?” Something of the events prior to his being knocked out came back, and he sat up properly. “Where's Lundiga?”

Bos gloomily shook his head. “We do not know.”

Simon tried to think. “We attacked the guards. Why didn't they kill us? Why aren't we in a cell, at least?”

The couches were made of elaborate inlaid woods, the floor was covered with colourful rugs, and there were embroidered hangings on the walls with quite a bit of gold thread in the embroidery. In niches on the walls were jade carvings, some of them fairly large. Three girls were in attendance. The one who had wakened him proffered a cup—polished wood with a silver rim. He was thirsty and drank; it wasn't lemonade but a very pleasant fruit drink.

Brad said: “What do you mean, a cell? We're the champs, kings of the heap.” His voice was flat. “We're booked in at the Palzibil Hilton, on an unlimited expense account.”

Simon said: “I don't get it. What about Lundiga?”

“The winners of the games can get away with just about everything, I guess, including assaulting the
military. Soldiers aren't sacred, you see, even when they're attending the Chief Priest. If one of us had laid a finger on him, it would have been different. Very different, I should think.”

Simon's recollections were hazy. He remembered the weight of the gold chain . . . Lundiga saying “It is not proper” . . . her hair cascading . . .

“Just what did happen? The Chief Priest wanted Lundiga's hat off. Was it because she'd disobeyed him that he told the guards to grab her?”

“No.”

Simon said: “Because he discovered she was a girl, then? There's a rule against girls taking part in the games?”

“There may be; I don't know. But it wasn't that. It was her hair.”

“Her hair? I suppose it seemed a bit striking, since the Aztecs are all brunettes. But I don't see . . .”

“Not just striking,” Brad said. “The word is unique. The only blonde they've ever seen. That made her something extremely special. Too special for ordinary mortals, according to the Chief Priest. He claimed her as a bride for the gods.”

“What does that mean?”

Brad was not looking at him but the ceiling. “Those young girls they sacrifice at the top of the pyramid—they're called brides of the gods.”

If his mind hadn't been so fuzzy, Simon thought, he would have known something like that was involved: there was nothing amiable about the Aztec religion. He felt a wave of revulsion and anger, and said: “We've got to do something.”

Brad looked at him. “What?”

He got rockily to his feet. “I don't know. But something anyway—not just lie here, being waited on.”

“Look out the window.” Brad's voice had a weary impatience. “This room is about forty feet above street level. There are four armed guards outside in the corridor, and another forty within call. If you want to fight your way out go ahead, and the best of British luck.”

Simon glanced at Bos, who shrugged helplessly. The gesture was a total confirmation of Brad's words, especially since it was Lundiga who was at risk. He had not shared Brad's and Simon's reservations about her; to him she was simply a marvellous girl, a substitute for the daughter which a gladiator's life had denied him.

Simon said: “They won't have done anything to her yet?”

“No.”

“Can you be sure?”

Brad said: “I've picked up a few things from eavesdropping on the guards. They're not keeping her in Palzibil, first of all. She's being taken to the capital, Tenochtitlan, where the chief temple is. The only blonde in the Aztec empire is too important for a local show.”

Brad's matter-of-factness annoyed Simon. He said: “So what happens now?”

“As far as we're concerned, nothing much. The Chief Priest may have requisitioned Lundiga for the gods, but the rest of us are heroes. We won the ball game, didn't we? We were taken into custody when we fought with the guards, but it's no more than a kind of house arrest. They'll let us loose in a few days, providing we give them no further trouble.”

“After which we can live a life of ease on what we picked up from the games?”

“That's right.”

“Providing we give no trouble?”

Brad nodded.

“While Lundiga's carted off to be sacrificed to their gods?”

Brad shrugged.

Simon turned angrily to Bos: “What do
you
think of that for an idea?”

Brad spoke: “The trouble with you is not simply being dumb, but assuming other people are. Ritual sacrifices take place at the major religious ceremonies. What I've also found out is that the next is fixed for the next full moon but one. Till then Lundiga's safe, and that gives us time to do something about rescuing her. But before we can start making any sort of plan, we ourselves need to be free, which we probably will be in a matter of days, providing we're good little boys meanwhile. Is anything getting through that thick skull of yours?”

Bos said: “Bradus is right, Simonus. There is an old Roman proverb: hasten slowly.”

Simon felt his head starting to ache again. “Yes,” he said. “I've heard it.”

•  •  •

On the fourth morning of their incarceration, the guard commander indicated that they should follow him. Outside, a palanquin capable of carrying four in comfort was waiting with its attendant bearers, six to each pole. It was lined with gaudy cloths and
feathers and a lot of gold leaf. It was the governor's private vehicle, in fact, and, supported on the shoulders of the trotting slaves, it conveyed them to the governor's palace.

There they were made much of, and lavishly fed. They were also given bags of silver and gold: yet another bonus from their victory. The Aztecs' passion for the games extended to heavy gambling on the outcome, and the champions picked up a percentage of the winning bets.

There were three lots of bags; no reference was made to a fourth, or to Lundiga. Presumably her share went to the priests. Simon had argued with Brad that they should make some complaint, or at least inquiry, about Lundiga—that not to do so might rouse suspicion. Brad had disagreed. The Aztecs would see nothing odd in their displaying indifference to her fate. Their own fear of the gods and the priesthood was such that they would be prepared to hand over their closest kin without protest at a priest's behest. Nodding and smiling in response to the flattery of the Aztec nobles, Simon was forced to conclude Brad had been right. In the games Lundiga had been given the greatest applause,
but as far as they were concerned now, she had never existed.

He had had no favourable view of the rich Aztecs, and he decided he liked them even less on close contact. He forced himself to endure the socializing, thankful that, as foreigners, they weren't expected to do more than nod and smile, and was relieved when the governor's withdrawal signalled the party's end.

The good bit was that this marked the termination of their detention: the guard commander returned with them, but only to collect his troops. Watching the soldiers march away, Brad said: “Right. We can start making plans.”

“This place where they've taken Lundiga,” Simon asked, “—what did you say it was called?”

“Tenochtitlan.”

“And where is it?”

“After Cortés and his conquistadores destroyed it—in our world—Mexico City was built on the ruins.”

“So how far away?”

“Well, if I'm right in thinking Palzibil is located somewhere near Sumter, South Carolina, more than two thousand miles, as the llama trots.”

“More than two thousand miles! But that would take months. And the ceremony's less than two months away.”

Brad was unperturbed. “These highways are pretty good. I think you could go as much as seventy miles a day, with fast llamas. Four or five weeks, even so. But there's another way, apart from Incan roads, in which this Aztec empire is different from the one the Spaniards conquered. Those Aztecs weren't seagoing—I don't think they had anything bigger than inshore fishing skiffs. But I've learned from Strong Feather that these Aztecs have boats that cross the Gulf of Mexico. It's a natural development with an empire that stretches both north and south of it. That will cut the distance by nearly a third, and the time by a lot more.”

“When do we start?”

“Easy. Remember that Roman proverb. We have things to do first.”

“What things?” Simon asked.

“Finding out more details about the route, first off. And then getting hold of llamas—racing llamas if there are such things.”

“Won't that seem a bit odd?”

“Why should it? We're filthy rich, remember. It's no different from a Wimbledon champion buying himself a Ferrari.”

•  •  •

Among other things, their new status in society entitled them to wear headdresses; in fact, representatives of the headdress makers' guild insisted on providing them with exotic specimens of their art. Viewing himself in a polished bronze mirror, Bos protested that he would not wear anything so ludicrous.

“You have to, Bos,” Brad said. “All the big ball players do.”

“I look like a woman!”

“Not really.” He managed not to smile. “And remember, it's in a good cause.”

They bought llamas at a farm west of the city which was said to have the best in the province: the Aztec breeder was proud to demonstrate the speed and general quality of his beasts. Since they were ignorant foreigners, he offered riding instruction, and was impressed by their quickness in learning, unaware of their previous horse-riding experience or, for that matter, of the existence of such a thing as a horse. The swaying camel-like motion was different, but they adapted to it.

The following afternoon, Brad said: “I reckon we're ready to go. I've been picking Strong Feather's brains again. There's a port called Xicocoaz about four hundred miles south, from which ships cross to the western shore of the Gulf. I figure if we really push these llamas along, we can make it in five days. We should be able to keep comfortably ahead of anyone who decided to come after us, but having a head start would help. If we leave at dawn tomorrow . . .”

“What about the servants?” Simon asked.

The three girls had remained with them, and they had also acquired a household staff of another twenty or so.

“I thought of that. They'll expect us, as foreigners, to have our own religion. We'll tell them there's a holy day coming up, and we have to spend twenty-four hours in solitary prayer. It's a reason for sending them away this evening.”

“Do you think they'll buy it?”

“They have to,” Brad said. “They're servants and we're masters. But being religious nuts, they won't even find it strange.”

Bos touched his headdress. “We can leave these behind?”

“I'm afraid not. They're worn on journeys, as you've seen. If we're on llamas we belong to the upper crust, and members of the upper crust wear headdresses. And there's something else you're not going to like, Bos.”

Bos looked at him suspiciously: “What?”

“That beard of yours has got to come off.”

“No! I will wear this comic thing, if you say I must, but I will not shave off my beard.”

“We can't afford to attract attention. For Lundiga, Bos.”

The big man groaned, but did not argue further.

•  •  •

Unlike Roman cities, where there was considerable nocturnal activity with rumbling carts and roistering merrymakers often until dawn, Aztec cities were silent and unpeopled after dark; even the homeless did not stir from their patches. The llamas were tethered in the house's ground-floor colonnade. Their saddlebags held rations for the journey, and also gold and silver; Simon heard it chink as they rode through the deserted streets.

Dawn was just lighting the sky. Stone buildings gave way to hovels and then to open country: they
heard the gobble of turkeys, and pigs grunting. The climate had continued to improve as the region's short winter retreated, and it was not cold. The sun rose behind the green screen of an avocado grove, its rays splintering into shards that dazzled the eye.

Soon cultivated land gave way in turn to scrub and woodland. The road remained empty; except at certain special times, usually connected with religious festivals, journeying between cities was not common. It was amazing, Simon thought, that so much effort had been put into building highways that were so little used, though the superabundance of labour did make the extravagance more understandable. And, at least, unlike motorways crumbling beneath the weight of juggernaut lorries, these would probably last a thousand years without maintenance.

They had their first encounter some hours after leaving the city: with a llama-rider heading the opposite way. A purple band on his sleeve proclaimed him as imperial messenger, and official-looking satchels hung from his saddle. He saluted them respectfully but did not speak. Bos turned his head to watch him. “He will speak of seeing us.”

“He'll mention seeing three riders,” Brad said.
“There'll be no reason to connect it with us till the servants report us missing. Even if they come after us, it's going to be too late to make a start today. And we've got the fastest beasts available.”