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 it 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…
TWELVE
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 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 troups 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.