Читать книгу The Serpent and the Eagle - Bruce Dow - Страница 6

Circa 1510

With detached interest, the boy observed the scraggly group of captives. They were being herded into the holding area, each to await his death in turn on the altar stone.

It was a singular honour for one so young to be invited to stand with the exalted priesthood who made these hallowed offerings.

A flowery war had been called by his father, Canaille, the High Priest, in order to provide the quantity of "God Food" demanded by the Lord Huitzilopochtli. The line of sacrificial victims stretched as far as the eye could see.

They stood atop the Great Pyramid - Canautli arrayed in his crimson robe and plumbed crown of multi-coloured Quetzal feathers, and around his neck the gold amulet of his authority. On his right, Zpitl, his son; on his left, the six lesser priests. The temple musicians assumed their positions flanking the High Priest and his acolytes. On a signal from Canautli, the drummers began the slow funereal rhythm which would continue until the first victim had been guided up the one hundred and fifty two steps and bent backwards over the altar stone.

Above the drum beat, the conch shell trumpeters entered with a stirring high pitched oblligato; they were followed by the five reed flautists who spun the melodic line. The temple choristers, two hundred strong, sounded forth the invocation hymn:

Oh Great Huitzilopochtli, Lord of the night.

Oh thou who sends down blight and plague,

Who breaks the quetzal feather in twain,

Let these offerings be acceptable in thy sight,

Oh all powerful Lord,

Let this flowered sacrament of blood open to

Your people the butterfly of obsidian delight.

There were ten conch trumpeters on this occasion as Azteca Holy Writ demanded. Each one a virtuoso, yet each schooled to achieve a unified sound. The intonation was impeccable. The sound clarion clear.

The very excellence of the trumpeters made the one discordant note which was sounded, so much more offensive - a sacrilege against the Lord Huitzilopochtli.

The High Priest, Canautli, reacted with dispatch. The guilty musician was seized and held fast. Canautli gave a peremptory command. The man's head was sawed off. The Captain of the Eagle Knights under the command of the High Priest, picked up the still animated severed head, mouthing its silent scream, and flung it into the populace crowded around the base of the Great Pyramid. The Blasphemer having been expunged, the ceremony might continue.

The boy observed what his father, the High Priest had commanded, and he saw that it was good.

As dusk fell, the oratory atop the Great Pyramid was stuffed to overflowing with a hundred thousand steaming, rotting human hearts. The white robes of the priests of Huitzilopochtli were wringing wet - sopped with blood. So great was the blood that it flowed like meandering streams down the steps of the pyramid and through the streets of Cactus Rock.

The experience of that day was a great spiritual revelation for Zpitl - His very special, personal epiphany.

He longed for the day when he himself would be privileged to offer up the "God Food" to the Lord Huitzilopochtli for the salvation of his people.

The tall athletic looking young man with curly brown hair was escorted into Joseph Brown’s cavernous study.

This was the first time he had been privileged to meet with the big man at his home. The body guard left him standing in front of his employer’s stolid walnut desk.

Joseph Brown sat hunched over his PC.His Corinthian leather executive desk chair was custom made to accommodate his bulk. He ignored his visitor, and continued to scroll through the information on the screen with palpable impatience, pausing now and again when something caught his interest.

The young man made a valiant effect not to show his nervousness. He stood rigidly at attention. Sweat appeared on his brow. His underarms were beginning to smell. The waiting and the silence seemed interminable. Furtively, he scanned the room. It only exacerbated his unease.

Joseph Brown’s study was huge, and everything in it was oversized and expensive. Mahogany panelling throughout enclosed dimensions approximating a basketball court. The pegged oak floor was covered with plush, hand woven Persian carpets. The wall behind the big man’s chair housed three oriental screens. Everyone on Joseph Brown’s payroll had heard about them. Each screen was valued at well over $ 500,000. The soapstone carvings were inlaid with mother of pearl. The panels were trimmed with twenty-four carat gold leaf. The screens dated from the seventeenth century.The scenes depicted on the panels were considered to be among the finest examples of oriental erotica extant, at least, outside of China.The acts of sexual intercourse depicted on the panels were consummated in unusual places and in acrobatic postures. In trees; on swings; in hammocks; hanging from beams. Of course, the figurines displayed only partial nudity as tradition and good taste demanded; yet, there was an excess of bondage; the penises and vaginas were grossly enlarged and fattened. However, the participants acted out their coupling in well- mannered, stylized understatement.

Finally Joseph Brown looked up from his PC; Cold, pitiless eyes lasered the young man like an insect pinned to a mounting board.

“Your report is crap. Each one of the women you figured would be “hard on” material for Bourque has a history of being an easy fuck. He’s not goin' t’ buy into it. I don’t give a damn how smart these academic cunts are, or how many post graduate degrees they have, they’re all fuck happy, so they’re absolutely useless to me. Take this bimbo for example:

Allison Beauchamp, twice divorced; five year old kid; put it out for adoption; father-well not sure who that particular sperm donor was. Several faculty members were dipping their wicks at about that time. Further, Ms. Beauchamp was heavy into the bar scene. Need I go on.”

“But, Allison Beauchamp has a double PHD, one in physical anthropology as well as Paleoscatology.”

“So, she’s an authority on fossilized shit; big deal. Yeah, and she probably sucked the Dean’s dick as part of her oral dissertation.”

“You told me that Bourque was a player.” His tone sounded petulant.”

“That’s the point, you little dick-head. An easy hump isn’t goin' t’ impress Bourque. We need pussy bait; an upright, tight assed young lady with moral fibre. You see I understand the Jonathon Bourque’s of this world. Underneath that supercilious, disinterested façade is a weak kneed romantic. The right woman, and he’ll be pussy whipped- gives us the perfect leverage.”

“I guess I screwed up,” he offered with forced contrition.

Joseph Brown smiled obliquely, transfixing the young man with a crocodilian stare.” Your files weren’t a total waste.I found one good prospect: attractive lady; good morals; brainy; IQ about 150; PHD in physical anthropology; good stuff; really good stuff. I’m goin' to check her out personally. She’s doin’ some kind of research on a tribe of “fuzzy-wuzzies” in a god-forsakin’ jungle somewhere in the Pacific; New Guinea I think you called it; yeah New Guinea, sounds like a stinkin’ clap ridden hole to me. Anyway, your file suggests that this brainy broad’s got a reputation as a tree huggin’ granola bar do-gooder. That’s even better.

“And as for you, my incompetent young friend, I’m gonna give you a second chance. It’s a simple assignment; a little job. Don’t fuck up. You can’t afford to fuck up. Now, get out.”

As soon as the chastened young man had left, Joseph Brown shut off his terminal. He opened his desk drawer, and took out his personally coded remote control. He lumbered over to the far wall of his study, keying in the access code as he walked. The heavy rear panel, which had appeared to be seamless, opened inwards. Joseph Brown stepped through into his private theatre.

He dropped heavily into his velvet covered recliner. He keyed in the requisite codes. The screen came down. The videos would come on in their programmed sequence.

The first video was somewhere between X- rated and soft core pornography. It was puerile stuff: prancing, stripping, frontal nudity, simulated bump and grind sex - standard sound effects - groaning, moaning, panting.

After about five minutes, Brown flicked the remote. A second video appeared on screen. This one was heavier: full penetration; variations on “deep throat”, crotch shaving, dildos, vegetable and otherwise.

After about two minutes, the third video came on. This one was the hardest of hard core stuff: whips, and pointy things; instruments that penetrate, and do serious damage.

Fifty–eight seconds into the video, he flicked again. The final video came on. It was worse. It was much worse. Throughout the screening, Joseph Brown’s face showed no expression of any kind.

"Why the hell am I here? Couldn't I have just walked away?" Jonathon Bourque had asked those questions of himself a hundred times.

From the moment he had seen and understood the final pictogram, he was hooked; he had come alive for the first time in - years, maybe ever. The effect of the revelation was so profound, that, for once, he could not think of a sardonic rejoinder. That tattered corner of parchment became the "key" to his personal "Kingdom of Heaven." It was, in fact, the key which might unlock the door to the greatest archaeological find in history. And yet, the parchment defied all evidence of history, and scholarship. Everyone knew that the fabled Treasure of Moctezoma had indeed been lost forever, swallowed up by the quicksand at the bottom of Lake Texcoco along with most of Cortez' army. Incredibly the codex revealed that the Aztecs had saved the treasure somehow, and hidden it. The codex was an anagram which, hopefully, would lead Jonathon Bourque to the repository of the culture and wealth of a lost civilization.

As soon as he was certain that Bourque had grasped the magnitude of the project Brown probed him. "Jonathon, would you like to know how much the treasure will yield on the open market?"

"Not particularly," he replied.

"I didn't think so," Brown agreed knowingly, a perverse grin spreading across his heavy features. "Would you, Jonathon, like to have full control over my project to recover the treasure - not only the expedition itself, but on its successful completion, the final authority on handling, and cataloguing the artifacts, with exclusivity on all source materials for the learned papers you people like to turn out. You’ll even have your choice of all or any items to donate to museums or academic institutions, if you deem them to be of importance to posterity."

Bourque didn't have to reply. His expression said it all. He was hooked firmly. Brown had only to reel him in.

"Why me?" he asked, incredulously. "There are those who are much better qualified to tackle this project. The logistics are mind numbing. Take the problem of the anagram, possibly Professor Archibald Jones of Harvard should be your man. He is the foremost authority on the Indian cultures of Mesoamerica, and as for a Cryptographer, right here at Oxford there's Augustus Toplady, and at the University of Mexico itself there's..."

"Hold it!" Brown raised his peremptory ham hand. "If I had wanted a pedant, I could have found any number of them. I knew what I wanted - A brainy, irreverent, shit-disturbing, one-of-a-kind genius named Jonathon Bourque. Now, is there anything else you need before we head out for Mexico City.?"

"Yeah," Bourque replied with mock gravity, "A parachute and a considerate bartender who won't forget to mix four parts gin to one of tonic." They both laughed.

3

The Captain's voice came on, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are commencing our descent into Mexico City. Please fasten your seat belts." The voice was cultured, smooth, very English.

"How reassuring," Bourque mused. "I would have crapped my pants if the Captain had opened the intercom and said, 'My name iz Effreen, Seniors - Seniores; I am your guide. It iz so good of you to come aboard de plane while I practice being Gringo Fly-boy.' Or worse still, if the Captain had blurted out hysterically, 'Mahn, mahn, dis plane is eh cool runnins brudur.' God how our prejudices slither to the surface when naked fear strips away that oh-so-thin veneer of enlightened tolerance with which we delude our egos."

He glanced furtively out the window. A supreme act of courage, he thought. As if, by peering at the ground thousands of feet below, he might convince himself that he had truly confronted and conquered his fright. He pictured the headlines: 'Jonathon Bourque, our latter day Conquistador, Conqueror of The Fear of Flying.'

Through the reddish-orange ooze which engulfs Mexico City and environs, he could make out the Pyramids of Teotihuacan, "The Place Where the Gods Gathered." There was the Pyramid of the Sun; and there, the Pyramid of the Moon and The Street of the Dead - A shudder, followed by a whining noise. His heart thumped. 'It's Okay; just the landing gear, I think.' His palms were slippery - sweaty. 'Just my luck; I would have to look out to see The Street of the Dead from 10,000 feet up.' He grabbed for his gin and tonic; a second later, he was wearing it. the '747 had hit an air pocket and dropped with such force and suddenness that the entire liquid balm flew out of the glass, dumping on his forehead, from which it unceremoniously dribbled down his face, and into his lap.. After that, the flight smoothed, and mercifully, only minutes later, a terminal building passed underneath the airborne behemoth. Bourque estimated - less than 500 feet up. 'If we crash now, at least I'll probably die on the ground.'

The wheels touch; thrusters are reversed.

Jonathon Bourque contemplates his gin-dribbled face and the equally embarrassing wetness in his crotch. 'What the hell; I'm still alive.'

They were hustled through customs with a minimum of fuss. Obviously, the Mexican Authorities had been alerted as to Joseph Brown's impending arrival.

"I drop a lot of money in this country," Brown observed matter-of-factly, yet with more than a hint of stridency.

"In point of fact, the value of your Mexican holdings exceeds the Gross National Product of a lot of third world countries, does it not?"

Brown laughed heartily. "Ah, Jonathon, you have been doing your homework."

The terminal building was cloyingly hot. Bourque's head began to pound. "You don't look too good," Brown observed.

"A surfeit of terror and booze will do it to you every time," Bourque replied with acerbity. "If we could only get away from this God-Damned heat."

"Yeah, the wonders of Mexican technology. The air conditioning is broken, as usual. But cheer up. Our limos will be waiting outside. And there's Megan." Brown bellowed out her name. Not that anyone within a hundred yards could fail to see Brown's imposing bulk and the fawning attention from both the Mexican officials and his own staff.

Megan McPhee was one of a number of scientists and executive assistants who had been awaiting his arrival. She was tall. Statuesque is an overused adjective, but it fit. She was 5' 9" in flats , naturally slender, without the fashion model's anorexic kind of emaciation. And Bourque, bilious as he was, could not help but notice her. She was wearing a tailored woollen Eve St Laurant pin stripe pant suit.

"Jesus," Bourque thought. "I'm roasting, perspiring like a pig, wearing only slacks and an Hawaiian shirt and this one is dressed for a board meeting - not a hair out of place. I wonder, does she ever sweat?"

"Jonathon Bourque meet Megan McPhee," Brown commanded. "Megan has been assigned to you for the duration of our enterprise. She is fully versed on the project and she is a first rate anthropologist in her own right." With a wry smile, he added, I’m sure you two will have plenty to talk about."

A nod from Brown and their introduction was rudely pre-empted. Joseph Brown's phalanx of muscular shock troops drove a wedge into the milling crowds as Bourque and Megan rushed along through the steamy terminal building.

Just before they arrived at the exit, through his alcoholic haze, Bourque noticed a commotion in front of him.

Brown's guards had bowled over a person, who, evidently, had not moved to accommodate their 'parting of the Red Sea.'

The man who had been assaulted got back on his feet. He stood where he was; mute, unmoving.

As Bourque passed him, the man fixed Bourque with a dry ice stare. His clothes were ragged - peasant garb; loose fitting coarse cotton shirt, sandals made from vegetable fibre, and wide brimmed straw hat. Yet, his demeanour was aristocratic - almost contemptuous. He was tall for a Mexican Indian, just over six feet - high cheek bones; an imperious, aquiline nose. It was a deeply etched leathery face of indeterminate age.

The man's eyes were cold, and purposeful; he emanated an aura of detached menace. Bourque shuddered; his eyes clouded. A veiny membrane began to grow over his eye balls. It pulsed bright red, filling his line of sight. The vision lifted as quickly as it had come on him. His concentration dissipated into his stomach where pools of gin were sloshing about.

Brown's body guards pushed Bourque and Megan along, and onto the street, out of sight of the implacable observer. Bourque shook his head to clear the cobwebs. He belched repeatedly, and noisily. It made him feel better.

Bourque noticed a procession of sleek, elongated cars. "Our personal Imperial convoy? How thoughtful!" he blurted out too loudly.

The limousine which waited to take them to their hotel, was a white Cadillac with the customary T.V. and wet bar. The vehicle was just the sort of thing that Joseph Brown would conjure up. It was sixty eight feet, eleven inches from stem to stern; 18 wheels in total, 10 aft, 6 in front. A helicopter pad was built into the roof. Brown chose to ride solitary in a companion vehicle, while Bourque and Megan were ushered into the rear seating area of their own white leviathan. This section of the vehicle constituted a vast open space covered in deep pile broadloom. Velvet covered seats paralleled each other on either side of the open area. The enclosing panelling was oak. This opulent, cool and quiescent vehicular fortress was like an oasis of refuge amidst the outside din of glutted traffic, insufferable Mexico City heat and the noxious smells of automobile exhaust and city offal.

"Christ almighty," Bourque blurted in tipsied hyperbole, "you could plunk down a table between up and still have room to dance."

Megan laughed. "Mr. Brown has seen to that, of course." She leaned forward and input a sequence to the terminal built into the limo's roof. Within moments, an elegantly hand carved work table slid silently into place between them from its resting place behind the oak panelling.

"I'll be damned. How did you do that?"

She laughed again.

Bourque wasn’t feeling too well. His mouth reeked of gin; he was unsteady on his feet; more than a bit woozy. He wished he had a breath mint or better still a mouth wash.

"Now, I suppose you'll tell me that this overblown taxi comes replete with gaming tables and an arcade of Brown's mindless video games."

She reached for the terminal again.

"Don't bother." He took her hand, holding it a bit too long.

After an awkward pause, he offered, “ I’ve read your various papers on the Kenyahn tribesmen. Your research has added mightily to our store of knowledge with respect to stone age cultures.” He spoke slowly so as not to slur his words. It didn’t work.

“And I’ve read your many tomes on every subject under the sun.”

Bourque smiled. A bit of drool dribbled down his chin.” Your research on the Kenyahns is truly encyclopaedic; you must have a lot of spare time on your hands.”

“Well, there’s no Neiman Marcus or Sack 5^th Avenue in Papua New Guinea, and the nearest disco is about 1,000 miles away.”

“I should think a little peace and quiet might be a good thing about now. So tell me, how did Brown suck you into our little treasure hunt?”

“It’s a long story and probably a boring one. And, frankly, you look too tired to listen to it.”

“That’s a nice way to put it-wasted is the word I would use; pissed to the gills.”

Megan gave an infectious smile. ”Maybe I could brew up some strong coffee.”

“Thanks, just the same. The thought of putting anything in my stomach makes me want to puke.”

They rode the rest of the way in silence. Bourque began to doze off with his eyes wide open. Falling asleep with his eyes open was a skill he had mastered in order to get through the deadly dull obligatory faculty meetings over which Dean Ridley Tichborne presided. On arriving at the Camina Real Hotel, and feeling bilious still, Bourque said a hasty goodbye, went up to his room, and put out the “ Do Not Disturb” sign.