“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.”
At dusk they found a watering place for the llamas, and tethered them for the night. Trying to get comfortable on a patch of moss, Simon decided it didn’t take long to be spoilt for life in the open. It would have been nice to lie on cushions, with his serving wench bringing him chocolate. But the day’s riding, which had left him with aching muscles, had also tired him. He did not stay awake long and slept soundly.
There was an intervening city which they passed through by moonlight, seeing no one. In late afternoon of the fifth day they looked down from high ground to a dazzle of water. Within an hour they had reached Xicocoaz, and rode through busy streets to the harbour. The boats bobbing at the wharves were not impressive compared with the Stella, or even with a Viking longship: they had a very shallow draft and seemed to have been made of skins, sewn and caulked over a bamboo framework.
They were lucky in finding a boat almost ready to cast off. It was already full, in fact, in Simon’s view overloaded; but the captain was prepared to make room for three extra at a price. Negotiations on that point did not take long. Bos pointed to the llamas, and indicated that they were offering them as a straight swap for their passage.
The expression on the captain’s face made it clear this was well over the odds for three tickets to ride, and he ushered them on board with a great show of deference, ordering other passengers in the stern to make a place for them. Simon was not too happy about this, since those moved included a frail-looking woman and an old man, but knew they must comply with Aztec custom. And Aztec custom, where this sort of thing was concerned, was strict and simple: the rich got all the privileges, and the poor got all the kicks.
The voyage lasted five days, and long before it was over they were glad of the extra space: most passengers had barely room enough to lie down. They were fortunate in having calm seas and a favourable wind; they learned a week was the more usual duration for a trip, and two weeks not uncommon. Cooking was going on all day long. A wood-fired oven was in operation, dangerously close to the mast and flapping sail, and the crew operated a rota against payment in cocoa beans. Nothing was demanded from the Romans though, and Simon suspected that if their rations had run out, others would have been made to feed them.
The boat entered harbour in the early morning. The port itself was unimpressive: wooden jetties extended from low stone wharves. Beyond, there was a handful of stone buildings surrounded by the usual shacks. But it was a relief to stand on a surface that did not roll under you.
Bos said: “When we have found Lundiga, where do we go, Bradus—to this country of yours in the west?”
“I think so.”
“Can we get there by land?”
“Yes.”
“That is good. Because if there were more sea voyaging, I think you would have to go without me. Our Christian symbol is the fish, but I will be happy to die without seeing the sea again.”
• • •
If the entry port had been unimpressive, Tenochtitlan more than made up for it. It was many times the size of the cities they had seen so far; in fact, it was more like a complex of cities. It had been built on four separate but linked lakes, and everywhere white buildings towered over lagoons and canals; there was as great a traffic by boat as there was by road. Close by the causeway along which they entered ran a gigantic aqueduct of masonry, as imposing as any in the Roman empire.
The city’s centre stood on an island surrounded by a considerable breadth of water on which small pleasure boats and big barges plied. The barges were mostly mercantile, but one with a great yellow-and-red awning obviously belonged to someone of importance. The causeway continued on through a quarter of increasingly prosperous-looking houses to a great battlemented square in which there were fountains and palaces. There was also the pyramid, which was the temple of the gods. It was at least twice the height of the one in Palzibil. At intervals all round it statues of the gods squatted on blocks of dull blackish stone, glowering down at the spectator. They represented many different deities, but had one thing in common: a look of cruel contempt for their worshippers.
The city and suburbs were full of bustle and activity. Its markets and arcades sold every imaginable commodity and some which Simon could never have guessed: one entire quarter was reserved for stalls selling the feathers of eagles and other birds of prey. The population was polyglot, with Indians from South America as well as North.
The size and complexity of the place at least made it easier not to attract attention; even if word of their disappearance should come from Palzibil they were unlikely to be discovered in this teeming stew of humanity. West of the central square was an area occupied by the rich, many acres in extent. They rented one of the more modest houses there, together with a household staff of slaves. It was furnished with frescoes and painted carvings Simon could have done without. Several depicted gory battle scenes, and there were graphic illustrations of human sacrifice. A particularly unwelcome one showed the aftermath of a battle, with prisoners being tortured in various unpleasant ways. It was all too vivid a reminder of the possibilities arising from an unsuccessful outcome to the enterprise.
Their most urgent need was for information about Lundiga, and for that they did not have long to wait. As in all capital cities gossip was rife, and the maiden with hair like threads of gold provided a
main topic of conversation. Some stories had it that her hair truly was of that metal, and an embellishment provided her with fingernails and toenails of jade. There were varying accounts of her origin. Some made her a visitor from lands beyond the sunset, while others ventured into the realms of the entirely fanciful: she had arrived riding a llama with a golden hide . . . she had come out of the sea at sunrise . . . she had flown into Tenochtitlan on the back of a giant eagle . . .
But if there was no consistency here, there was unanimity as to her present whereabouts. Everyone knew she was in the care of the Arch-Priest, in his palace at the summit of the pyramid of the gods.
They went back to take a more considered look at it. The experience was disheartening. Apart from being so much higher than the one in Palzibil, it occupied a far greater area: the four base lines were about half a mile in length. And near the top the steep inward pitch of the walls reversed itself, creating an overhang under a long blank parapet. Access to the top was by ramps on the northern and southern sides. Each was guarded by armed men, and they established that this was a twenty-four hour guard. The men on duty were replaced by fresh detachments at dawn and dusk.
While a tropical storm deluged the city with warm rain, they discussed possibilities. Simon said: “We can rule out direct assault. Short of inventing the cannon there’s no way of getting past those guards, and we haven’t time enough for that.”
“I do not know what this cannon thing is,” Bos said, “but I have known Roman soldiers who could be bribed. And we have money.”
“More than twenty men,” Simon said, “plus the guard commander. And all answerable to the Arch-Priest, who’s got a very well-equipped torture chamber. And anyway, could we trust them? They could take the money and turn us in. It’s not just a question of getting in there, but of getting Lundiga out. I don’t think any money could buy the golden girl.”
“No,” Brad said. “That wouldn’t work.”
“So what’s left?” Simon asked. “Start a revolution and overthrow this empire, too? We don’t have a lot of time for that, either.”
“And we don’t speak the language well enough. And there’s no group like the Christians ready to rebel. We can forget revolutions.”
Silence followed, broken only by the slash of rain and the distant gurgle of water in the gutters. The prospects were not just bleak, but hopeless. No amount of derring-do on their part was going to help Lundiga; there was no way of rescuing her.
They would have done better, Simon thought, to stay in Palzibil than to come to the city where the horror was to take place. In fact it was unthinkable that they should be here on the day of the sacrifice, listening to the bloodthirsty howls of the mob. He was wondering how to voice that without seeming callous and indifferent to Lundiga’s fate, when Brad put a question. “Can you climb?”
Bos asked: “Climb what?”
Simon said: “The pyramid, do you mean? It would be pretty difficult anyway, but that overhang at the top makes it impossible.”
Brad said: “I did some rock-climbing the summer before—” He glanced at Bos. “—before you and I were shipwrecked and washed up on the shore of Britain. You can get past overhangs with pitons. It wouldn’t be easy with solid rock, but there are crevices between the blocks one could hammer into. I think it might go.”
Simon visualized himself upside-down beneath the overhang, with a three-hundred-feet drop below. He said: “Where do we get pitons for a starter?”
“Bronze chisels. That’s something else the Aztecs got from conquering the Incas: a lesson in metallurgy. Stone chisels and a stone hammer would have made it a lot more difficult.”
“Are you serious?”
Brad paid no attention. “I’ve done some climbing, as I say. And I’m the lightest. If I can get past that overhang, then winch you two up . . .”
Simon said: “It won’t . . .”
He was overridden by Bos. “I do not understand all you say, but if you think it possible, Bradus, we will do it.”
“But . . .”
“It is that or leaving Lundiga to the priest’s knife.”
Bos looked at Simon, not reproachfully but like a man explaining things to a child or someone mentally deficient.
“We must try.”
8
THE MOON WAS A THIN crescent of silver against starlight—the storm had passed over and the night was warm and windless—as they slipped through the shadows. They wore belted jackets and rope sandals, and Bos had the coil of rope hooked over one shoulder. The bag with the hammer and bronze pegs hung from Brad’s belt. Simon was unencumbered, and glad of it.
The sight of the wall they proposed climbing made him feel terrible. It towered vastly over them, gleaming dimly in the faint light, seeming almost sheer. It was too dark to see the top, which was just as well; merely imagining it, and what Brad was proposing to do, made him queasy. Brad paid out a length of rope on which they were to secure themselves. He tied it as he had been shown. Brad whispered: “Okay. I’m going, Simon. Follow when the rope tautens.”
He set off, hauling himself up the wall, and all too soon Simon felt a tug on the rope. He closed his mind to everything except reaching high, hooking fingertips over the ledge above, heaving himself up, finding a foothold, reaching out again . . .
Brad’s voice whispered overhead.
“Okay. Twitch for Bos to start.”
They climbed steadily, occasionally pausing to rest. That meant standing with one’s face pressed against stone and leaning inwards: the ledges between the blocks were just wide enough to accommodate the ball of a foot. It wasn’t bad once you settled into a rhythm. They seemed to have come a long way, but Simon didn’t feel like looking down to check. Nor up; it was better to keep his eyes fixed on the wall.
Resting, with Brad climbing, he indulged in a daydream in which this was over and they were on their way again. He excluded thought of Lundiga: there seemed no point. He imagined the hazards they might encounter: hostile natives, hunger and thirst, poisonous snakes . . . At least it would all take place on level ground.
The sky exploded, and automatically he looked up. The sound was like the rattle of dozens, hundreds of machine guns, and he pressed himself in against the wall to escape the hail of bullets. The rattling continued, louder and spreading wider. Moon and stars were obliterated by a cloud that flowed out, and he wondered, stupidly, if the pyramid itself was collapsing—if their climb had disturbed some delicate equilibrium and it was falling apart. Then the cloud started thinning and breaking into individual particles, and he could see they were birds, flapping away into the night.
His heart was thumping and he had to take several deep breaths. Brad had disturbed a roosting site. There must have been thousands of them. Unnerving as it had been for him, it must have been much worse for Brad. He whispered up: “Are you all right?”
There was a pause. “Sure.”
“I thought . . .”
“No talking. Those guards . . .”
He did not need to finish: the bird flight could have aroused curiosity. Without thinking, Simon looked down. He saw no movement, but the realization of how high they had come frightened the life out of him, and he quickly looked away.
At last he heard the slight noise of Brad resuming the climb, and followed in his turn. Another hazard for which the birds were responsible emerged when he found his fingers not gripping bare stone but digging into a layer of slimy droppings. It was not only nauseating, but made climbing a lot more difficult. He hoped it might mean they were nearing the top, but after some minutes the wall was clean, and Brad was still going up.
He began to tire, and he had to halt and massage a cramp out of his right leg. The realization that he was holding things up caused him to set off again before the pain had completely eased, and it continued to hurt. It was once more starting to get unbearable, when Brad whispered: “I’ve reached it. Come on up.”
Simon did some further massage on his leg while Bos climbed to his level;
then they went up the rest of the way together. Brad had driven a peg into one of the grooves between the slabs of stone, and he now tested its firmness by tugging at it.
Simon said: “Want any help?”
Brad was fitting in another peg. “No, I’ll do it. It’s supposed to take my weight if I fall, and I’ll feel happier if I’ve done it myself.”
The hammering seemed loud, but they were so far above the ground it probably didn’t matter. Just over their heads the overhang blotted out the sky. He tried to estimate the length of it: ten feet, maybe twelve. Too long for comfort.
“Right,” Brad said. “Here I go. Anchor yourselves to these pegs when I move on. It may help, if I crash.”
“Anything else we can do?” Simon asked.
“Not a lot. A prayer would do no harm.”
“I have been praying all the way,” Bos said. “But I will pray harder.”
Brad drove a peg in higher. He had loops of rope on either side of his belt, and once the peg was firm he hooked one over it. He swung free, hanging from the peg, and Simon braced himself against the wall. He could hear Brad’s laboured breathing, and the sound of another peg going in.
The process was maddeningly slow, and having to listen to Bos muttering Latin didn’t help. After some time he heard an exclamation, and something just missed his head. A peg struck the step beneath them, and clattered down the side of the pyramid. It seemed a long time before the noise died away. He thought of the guards and wondered if Brad would suspend operations, but the hammering restarted immediately. He was right, of course: the only thing that mattered now was getting past the overhang.
At last, craning his head back, Simon could see Brad’s outline against the sky. He had his hands on the parapet and was trying to heave himself up. Something was holding him back. He contorted his body desperately, and Simon realized his rope was caught on the peg below. If Brad were to fall now . . . He braced himself harder. Bos had abandoned prayer and was urging Brad: “You can do it, lad!”