The Gate of Worlds, page 7
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For the next two days I was on my own. I ate at the hotel that night, and rested soundly, and in the morning, on the day of Four Eagle, I went back into central Tenochtitlan feeling not quite so stunned by it all. I roamed about like any sightseer, doing the public buildings, the temples and lesser palaces. I spent a long time in the marketplace. As I expected, no one approached me. In a city this size, every man is a stranger and the barriers are never breached.
I wondered about Quequex' warnings. Did he have some personal dislike for Topiltzin? Or was he genuinely concerned that I wanted anything to do with him? He hadn't pressed me for information, but he had left me with the idea that Topiltzin was an idler, a wastrel, a man of no account. Quequex seemed eager to protect me from falling into his clutches, and Quequex was a good friend with no motive to injure me. On the other hand, Nezahualpilli was a good friend, too, and it was he that had given me Topiltzin's name.
Time would tell. I would see this Topiltzin, and make up my own mind about him.
On Five Eagle, I played the part of a tourist once again. Of course, I could stroll through Tenochtitlan for the rest of my life and never see it all, but this time I covered a good deal in the western part of the city, crossing the bridge onto the mainland and inspecting the sacred hill at Chapultepec.
When I returned to the hotel, there was a message waiting for me from Quequex.
I tugged open the sealed sheet of thick paper and found that he had written Topiltzin's address-and he had written it in English. Thoughtful of him, I told myself. He realizes that I can't read the Aztec alphabet as well as I can speak the Aztec language. But then it occurred to me that he might have had a less considerate reason; if Topiltzin's address happens to be a deep secret to the local authorities, Quequex was taking the route of caution by writing it down in a script few people here understood.
At the hotel office I inquired about the location of such-and-such a street, and was pleasantly surprised to learn that it was only a short journey from where I was. At the nearest canal I hired a boat, and within half an hour I was on the street where Topiltzin lived.
I found the house easily enough. It must have been a grand palace in the days of early Aztec glory, but somewhere along the line it had been subdivided and now was a cheap boarding house badly in need of repainting. It seemed improbable to me that a prince of the royal blood would spend so much as six minutes in a place like that. But Topiltzin, I reflected, had come upon hard times.
I went in.
According to Quequex' message, Topiltzin occupied an apartment on the ground floor. I knew no more than that. I picked a direction at random-the left-and walked down the narrow, musty-smelling hallway. There were doors. Which was Topiltzin's? Did I knock at each until I found the right one?
I stood in the half-darkness, baffled a moment.
Then hands slid under my arms from behind. They came up across my chest and locked around my throat. I made a gurgling sound and the hands dug in tightly.
"Go it silent, now," muttered the deepest bass voice I had ever heard. "What do you want here?"
I couldn't answer, because my windpipe was in the grip of those steely fingers. My lungs cried out for air; my knees sagged. I toyed with the idea of reaching for my knife and rapidly swinging my arm back to drive the blade into my captor's side. But the instant I twitched a muscle in my arm the fingers pressed more brutally.
Consciousness started to ebb.
"You have no business here," the unknown assailant said in that midnight voice. "You regret coming here already, don't you? You wish you'd stayed away."
My legs buckled. I dropped toward the floor, half feigning a faint and half fainting for true. I fell so leadenly that the hands on my throat relaxed their grip.
That was the opportunity I wanted.
I gulped air deep into my aching lungs. Then I swung around, seized my attacker's left ankle, and yanked hard. He came crashing to the floor, doubtless surprised to get pulled over by a man he had just choked into unconsciousness. I got my first clear look at him as he landed beside me. He was an African, the blackest man imaginable, the color of his skin so deep that it looked purple. He must have been about thirty. His close-cropped woolly hair rode high on his shining forehead; his body was compact and powerful, with enormously wide shoulders; muscles rippled like cords on his bare arms.
Before he could seize me again, I jumped on him and tried to smash his skull against the floor. He didn't smash so easily. I gripped his shoulders and forced him down with all my strength, but he levered himself up, inch by inch. Veins stood out on his dark forehead. My muscles quivered and red streaks blazed in my brain as I pushed him toward the floor again.
I got him about six inches from the floor, and there he stuck, my knees pinning his arms, my hands griping his shoulders. His eyes were bright and wide, and he was grinning despite his effort, displaying a double row of large gleaming teeth.
Down… down… down…
But it was clear to me that I couldn't get his head all the way down. He was too strong. I could choke him, though, and try not to make the mistake that he had made with me. My hands slid inward from his shoulders to his collarbone and I began applying pressure to his throat.
Slowly he weakened and grew limp. It was a fantastic struggle, but I was winning it. I didn't want to choke him. I respected his enormous strength, in a way. But he had attacked me. He had grabbed me from the rear. And if I had to choke him to unconsciousness to save myself, why, I'd do it.
He wasn't grinning now. He was grimacing in pain. Another moment…
And then I felt what could only be the tip of a spear prod none too tenderly into my back.
"Release him," said a man with a high, feathery voice. "Release him and stand up. Put your hands high over your head. Now!"
The cold metal dug a little deeper into me. I released the African, rolled free of him, and got to my feet, with my hands overhead. The African, looking a bit the worse for wear, sprang up and pulled my knife from its sheath. Then the man with the spear came around to face me.
He was a native of the Hesperides, but he wasn't a Mexican. His clothing was different and his appearance was different. His skin was darker, his cheekbones less prominent, his nose rounded instead of sharp. I suppose he was about twenty-five years old. He held the spear as though he would gladly plunge it deep into my chest if I made a false move.
"Why are you here?" he asked me.
"To see Topiltzin."
"Who is Topiltzin?"
"The son of the King's brother. He lives here. You know that as well as I do."
"There is no Topiltzin here."
"Then who are you? Why did you two jump me?"
"We did not know your business. You are a stranger. You may be dangerous."
I eyed the tip of the spear, not very far from my waist. "Will you stop this nonsense and take me to Topiltzin?"
"We do not know a Topiltzin."
"You're lying!"
"Why do you think Topiltzin is here?"
"I know he's here," I said.
"How can you know it?"
"I was told."
"By whom?"
I hesitated. "By Quequex the sorcerer."
A moment of silence. The black man and the spear-holder exchanged glances. They said something in a language I did not understand.
Then he of the spear said to me, "What business do you have with Topiltzin?"
"I want to serve him. To fight for him. I'm looking for adventure."
Another conference. Then:
"Turn around. Keep your hands above your head. Walk straight forward."
I was taken to the presence of Topiltzin.
They marched me down that musty hall to a distant doorway, where I halted while the African opened a latch. We entered. Within, in a battered, dilapidated apartment, draperies and cloths had been hung to provide a semblance of Aztec opulence, and in the middle of the floor, reclining comfortably on a thick mat, was Topiltzin.
He looked somewhat like Nezahualpilli: long-legged, as many of these Aztecs are, with shoulder-length jet-black hair, sleek swarthy skin, a lean, muscular frame. His nose was long, his lips were thin, his eyes were dark and sly. He got lazily to his feet, curling up from the mat as though he had no bones at all, and eyed me with that fishy stare practiced by aristocrats all over the world.
"Well. What are you?" he said.
I despised him at that moment. He had said only four words, yet I decided at once that he was vain, arrogant, lazy, supercilious, and cruel. In truth he really was all those things, but there were strengths in Topiltzin that I did not learn till later. At first glance he seemed foppish.
I said, "I am an Englishman, come to your country to find excitement and adventure. I'm looking for military service with a likely prince. Your name was given to me."
"By whom?"
"A friend," I said, unwilling to get Nezahualpilli involved too deeply in this.
"By Quequex," said the African.
"Quequex is no friend of mine," Topiltzin declared.
I said, "He is a friend of mine. But it was another who told me to seek you out. Quequex merely located you for me. Against his will, I might add. He does not think highly of you."
"As well he might not," said Topiltzin. He laughed. "Quequex was at court when I disgraced myself last. Do you know what I did, yellow-haired stranger? I took my cousin Chimalpopoca, the favorite son of my uncle the King, and fed him on liquor until he could not tell up from down. And then he burst into the throne room when Moctezuma was with his council, and did shameful things before them all." Topiltzin laughed at the recollection. "Later he implicated me, and I was in trouble again. But it was worth the consequences. To see that stuffy little boy turning handsprings in the councilroom…!"
"And you are in disfavor for a small thing like that?"
"No, stranger. For many things of which that was but the last and the least." He walked over to me. He was a head taller than I, and I had to crane my neck to peer into his cold black eyes. "What are you looking for in Mexico, Englishman?"
"Land. Fortune. A name among warriors."
"Have you fought in war?"
"Only in my dreams."
"Have you killed?"
"I could kill, if the need arose."
"But you have taken no lives?"
"No."
"Can you fight?"
"Ask your African friend," I said.
Topiltzin looked at the black man. The black man expressively touched his throat.
"He can fight," he said.
"Will you follow me anywhere?"
"Anywhere, Prince. So long as a reward lies at the end of the journey."
Topiltzin smiled. Then, without warning, his foot lashed out and swept behind my right heel. He hooked my heel in such a way that my leg went out from under me. I began to fall forward, and in the same instant his long arms reached out to seize my head and shoulders. His aim, I think, was to grasp me and hurl me in an arc against the wall.
I moved so swiftly I surprised myself. As I swayed toward him, I slapped my right foot against the floor to steady my body, and at the same moment I slipped under Topiltzin's grasping hands and caught him by the throat. I flexed my knees, straightened them again, and heaved. The prince flew gracefully through the air and landed in a tangle of limbs on his couch.
Instantly the African had my own knife against my ribs and the other was menacing me with his spear. Topiltzin rose slowly, rearranging his jade bangles a bit, and gestured to them. "Back," he said. "Let him be. That was well done, Englishman. Your name?"
"Dan Beauchamp."
"Which is the first name?"
"Dan."
"It happens, Dan, that we are about to leave on a mission of enterprise. There might be a place for you. I have not often been thrown to the ground in such a way."
"I meant no offense, Prince. It was sheer self-defense."
"Of course. I tested you, and you passed the test. I shall impose only one more test on you."
"I stand ready."
"Tomorrow at midday," Topiltzin said, "you will come with us to the ball courts. Are you skilled at tlachtli?"
"It is a game I've never played."
"One learns the rules fast. Play tlachtli with us. That will be your final test."
It was arranged that the three of them would call for me at my hotel tomorrow morning and go with me to the ball courts, which were not far from the temple precincts. I was uneasy, for I had heard grim things of the Mexican national sport, but there was no backing out now.
Topiltzin introduced me to his two comrades before I left. The black man was Sagaman Musa of the Mali Empire. I took back my knife from him. The spear-wielder was a Peruvian, Manco Huascar, who according to Topiltzin was an exile member of the royal family of the Incas. Evidently Topiltzin was collecting the restless riffraff of all nations for his planned adventure.
I was restless too. And I suppose I could be considered riffraff. A pity I couldn't lay claim to being a banished scion of the House of Plantagenet, perhaps second cousin to King Richard. But Topiltzin would have to make do with me as I was. Common blood or not, I could fight, as I had demonstrated amply today. If only I lived through that ball game, I knew I would have a place on Topiltzin's staff.
SEVEN
We Play a Little Game
I knew something of this Aztec sport already. On my journey to Tenochtitlan from the coast, I had stopped with Quequex in a city that had a fair-sized stadium. We had watched the ruffians play a while, and then, after the game had ended, we went down into the ball court itself, for Quequex wished to show me some handsome bas-reliefs along the walls. I saw sculptured scenes of lively action, depicting the players at their game. And toward the end of the field I saw one bas-relief that did not duplicate anything I had witnessed. The death-god, Tezcatlipoca, all bones and skull, presided over a ceremony in which the captain of the losing team was being sacrificed by the victors. A flint knife had been plunged into his chest, while the players, still in their uniforms, stood by and watched.
"In the old days," Quequex had said, "it was not uncommon to put an entire team to death if it lost."
I shivered. "Why would anyone want to play such a game, considering the risks?"
"Not to play," said Quequex, "was not to be a man."
And even today the game seemed to be the ultimate test of manhood. It pleased me to know that the losers no longer paid for their athletic shortcomings with their lives. But from what I had seen and what I knew in advance, I was expecting a rugged time. I was not disappointed.
Topiltzin, Sagaman Musa, and Manco Huascar came to get me early the next day. I had slept poorly. Since Topiltzin was supposedly in hiding, I didn't understand how he would dare to make an appearance in so public a place as the grand tlachtli court, but when he showed up I saw the answer. He was in disguise. A thin rubber mask over his face was enough to conceal his identity.
I unslung my knife and started to take off the gold ring Nezahualpilli had given me, figuring that they'd be in the way during the game. But Manco Huascar shook his head. "Take those things with you. You'll have need of them."
We went downtown.
Evidently this game had already been scheduled, for a goodly crowd had gathered to watch it. I felt small and insignificant as I stepped into the stadium.
It was of colossal size, possibly 500 feet long and 150 feet wide. From the middle of each of the long walls projected a stone ring, mounted vertically about twenty feet overhead. Benches rose in tiers above these goals, and there was room for thousands of spectators.
Knots of players were huddled at the far end of the field. They were wearing thick leather belts that covered them from chest to waist, with leather arm-shields as well, and leather gloves. Legs and shoulders were bare. Topiltzin led the way toward the group.
As I approached, I saw a heap of treasure on the ground at one side of the court-a mound of ear plugs, pendants, anklets, golden beads, and other costly items. Sagaman Musa said to me, "It is the wager. Each player must add to the stakes. The winning team divides the booty."
Topiltzin shed the magnificent feather cloak he was wearing and dropped it on the pile. He added his jade ear plugs and a pouch of jingling golden beads. Manco Huascar put down a turquoise necklace and a superb cloth cape of the Peruvian weave. Sagaman Musa put down nothing. Everyone looked at me.
What could I give?
Reluctantly I pulled Nezahualpilli's ring from my finger and tossed it on the treasure-mound. I waited, hoping to be told that that was sufficient.
"More," said a squat, burly Aztec who turned out to be the captain of the other team.
My hand shook a little as I removed Opothle's knife and added it to the heap. Now we had to win, I told myself, or I'd be weaponless in Mexico. The squat one seemed satisfied; perhaps he realized that I had nothing left to give. Quequex' jade necklace was back in my hotel room.
"Come," said Topiltzin. "You must get dressed now."
He took me to a room below the stadium, where slaves quickly stripped off my clothing and covered my entire body with a pungent spicy perfumed oil. Then I was given a white cloth tunic to wrap about my hips. Over it went the massive leather belt. It was six inches thick, and must have weighed thirty pounds. I slipped on the arm-shields, which protected me from wrist to shoulder, and the gloves. For my head I wore a leather helmet. Topiltzin and Manco Huascar were similarly attired. Sagaman Musa, though, remained in street clothes.
"What about you?" I asked.
The African smiled broadly. "I do not play this game. It is much too dangerous for a man of my limited strength."
I had to laugh at that, remembering the wrestling match I had had with the powerful Malian. He was having his little joke. Evidently he did not feel the need to prove his manhood on this playing field.
We stepped into the open again.
The teams were unequal in size, which did not seem to matter. We had thirteen men, they had fifteen. Since one of our men-me-had never played this game before, the odds seemed all the more unequal. I said a silent farewell to Nezahualpilli's ring and Opothle's keen blade.
