In the cool of the evening, they walked the half-mile to see the Uxmal ruins. Unlike those at Chichén Itzá, these were on hilly country; they did not cover so great an area, but were almost as impressive. The sight of them again stirred memories in Adam, and he felt certain that some important event in his past life had occurred there.
The nearest to the road was the Pyramid of the Magician. It was very high and the steepest in Mexico. The flat-roofed temple on the top was only partly in ruins, and the lintels over the doorways were huge balks of wood, showing it to be pure Maya and very old.
Down in a hollow, some way behind it, there was a large, square court, on all four sides of which there were long buildings about twenty feet in height. They faced inward, stood on terraces well above the level of the court and had a number of doorways and beautifully-carved façades. The Spaniards had christened this well-preserved ruin ‘The Court of the Nuns’, because the stonework in the upper half of one of the buildings had been carved in the form of a grille; but Adam knew it to have been the university at which Maya priests were educated in the mysteries.
On much higher ground, a third of a mile to the left of the pyramid, stood another long and quite lofty building, known as the Governor’s House, because it was the biggest of its kind in Mexico. Over each of the doorways and at the corners there were many carvings, several times larger than life, of the ‘Plumed Serpent’—a man’s head looking out from the distended jaws of a crested snake—which was Quetzalcoatl’s symbol.
Behind the Governor’s House, the ground fell away sharply, almost in a precipice, and across the valley from it stood another large building, now a ruin. The upper structure consisted of a row of gables, which gave it the appearance of a thick-toothed comb. In the gables there were many square holes which had purposely been left unfilled, to let in air. For this reason it was now called ‘The House of the Pigeons’.
Scattered about in the area there were several other ruins and fallen monoliths which Adam could recall in the days of their splendour as temples and palaces with crowds of brightly-clad priests and warriors moving about among them.
The sun was just setting as they returned to the hotel, but it was still blissfully warm; so they again swam before dinner. Afterwards they went out into the garden with Father Lopéz, and Adam recited his piece.
The priest was far from happy about Adam’s rendering of it and declared that, as pronounced by him, it was hardly recognisable as Maya. Adam thought he knew the answer to that. Every language is constantly changing. When practising that afternoon, he had ignored the phonetic spelling under the typed sentences and, as more and more of his past acquaintance with Maya returned to him, said the speech over as he would have done a thousand years earlier.
Obviously it was pointless to address an audience in a speech which none of them would understand; so, without arguing about the matter, Adam submissively allowed Father Lopéz to coach him in modern Maya, repeated the speech sentence by sentence after him three times, and agreed to have another session with him the following morning.
Next day, as there was nothing whatever to do at Uxmal except laze in the hotel or walk round the ruins, Adam and Chela made a second visit to the ancient temple-city before the sun became too hot. Rambling about there aroused in Adam many vague memories of people and ceremonies. He described them to Chela, but she reluctantly admitted that, like Chichén Itzá, Uxmal recalled nothing to her, so it was unlikely that she had ever lived in either.
On returning to the hotel they found Father Lopéz impatiently awaiting them. By then the sun was well up in the heavens, in the garden there were no great trees that would give shade to several people, and he was naturally reluctant to give Adam further instruction in the pronunciation of his speech anywhere where they might be overheard. In consequence, the garden it had to be. As Adam had practised the speech several times early that morning with Chela, after a few minor corrections the pink-faced priest said he thought it would pass; but they must have another session after dinner that evening.
Adam and Chela swam, lunched, had their siesta together, swam again and, in due course, went in to dinner. Several times during the day he had been worried by the thought that he really ought to let Ramón know what was going on, but he was never out of Chela’s sight for more than a few minutes. For his continued failure to contact Ramón he comforted himself with the thought that the first ceremony was to be one only of ‘Recognition’. There must then elapse a period of at least ten days, possibly a fortnight or three weeks, before he was to make another appearance somewhere else that would trigger off the rebellion. When they had returned to Mexico City with, he expected, many days to go it seemed certain that plenty of chances would occur for him to get in touch with Ramón and put him in the picture.
After they had dined, Father Lopéz invited them to have coffee and liqueurs with him. Adam once more recited his speech and it was finally approved; then they settled themselves at a table in a corner of the bar and talked of a variety of subjects.
It emerged that the little priest was an authority on Mexico’s ancient civilisations. Adam, owing to his visions, had a considerable knowledge of a people whom he had recently realised were the Toltecs and some knowledge of the Mayas, but only during the tenth century A.D. Apart from that, he knew only what he had acquired from books, so he asked:
‘Can you explain the cause of the Maya migrations? From what I have read, over a period of two thousand years they developed four separate capitals, many hundreds of miles apart, all having great pyramids and other buildings; here, at Palenque, in Honduras and in Guatemala. Yet there is no evidence that they were driven from one to another by war. Every five hundred years or so they just abandoned everything, made a great trek and started somewhere else from scratch.’
Father Lopéz nodded. ‘That is so, and it is most unlikely that they were forced by enemies to abandon their cities. When Cortés landed, the Maya civilisation had existed for over three thousand years, yet they had not become decadent and showed greater courage than any of the other Indian nations. Cortés destroyed the Aztec Empire in two years; it took his lieutenants, the de Montejos, fifteen to defeat the Mayas, and another half-century was to elapse before the Spaniards were fully masters of Yucatán. No; the only possible explanation for the Maya migrations is the poverty of Mexico’s soil.
‘The Indians lived almost entirely on maize, fruit and vegetables, as indeed the majority of our people still do today. And the cultivation of maize spells death to the land. The earth here is a thin layer of decomposed limestone. After two years’ cropping, its fertility is exhausted, then the peasants must clear new areas of jungle. As time went on, these milpas, as they are called, had to be further and further from the centre of the civilisation; and, at last, so distant from it that the time and labour given to bringing the maize to the capital did not leave long enough for the peasants to cultivate their plots. Famine must have ensued and year after year become worse until eventually the Maya rulers were forced to order the whole nation to march out into the wilderness in search of another great area of virgin land.’
‘Then that would account for Mexico’s having, for its size, so little land suitable for raising crops.’
‘That is the main cause, but it was unwittingly aggravated by the Spaniards. Before their arrival, the Indians used a pointed stick to make holes in which they planted each grain separately. By that method the subsoil was not disturbed; but the Spaniards introduced the plough. That resulted in the destruction of the root fibres which held the earth together. When the heavy rains came there was nothing to prevent the soil from being washed away, or, in the long, dry season, strong winds whipping it up and whirling it off.’
‘I see. So that is the explanation for the dust-storms that plague Mexico City and other places. I have been told that the Spaniards also did an immense amount of damage to the land by cutting down the forests in order to make the thousands of beams they needed for building their towns and churches.’
‘True,’ the priest agreed. ‘But it should not be forgotten that the Spaniards brought great benefits to Mexico; first and foremost, the Christian Faith. Then they imported sheep and bred them in vast numbers, so that the export of wool became second only to that of silver as Mexico’s source of wealth. For that, the establishment of a sugar industry and many other profitable ventures, the great Cortés was responsible.’
‘Yet I gather that today his name is hated here.’
‘You are right. They even carry their hatred to Doña Marina, the clever young woman who was given to him as a slave and remained for many years his devoted mistress. She spoke two Indian languages and quickly learned Spanish; so as an interpreter she was invaluable to him. The Aztecs gave her the name of “Malinche”, which means “the Tongue”. Now that word has a double meaning. If you wish to say that a person is a traitor you term him a “Malinche”.’
Father Lopéz paused to sip his brandy, then went on, ‘But this abuse of Cortés is most unjust. He was not only a great soldier and shrewd statesman. After the conquest he became a great administrator and adopted a wise policy of conciliation towards the conquered. He resettled the Indians who had been dispossessed of their lands, relieved the caciques of all taxes and made them magistrates over their own communities, appointed many Indians to high office and, as far as he possibly could, protected the lower orders from being exploited by unscrupulous fortune-hunters. So beloved was he that they christened him “Mighty Father” and, when he at last retired to Spain, the whole populace was stricken by a great grief.’
‘You surprise me,’ Adam remarked. ‘I had no idea that Mexico owed so much to him.’
Chela frowned. ‘Perhaps to him; but think of the brutal way in which most of the other Conquistadores treated the people.’
‘More is made of that now than the facts justify, my child,’ Father Lopéz said mildly. ‘From the beginning the great Dominican, Fra Bartolomé de las Casas took up the cudgels on behalf of the Indians. His furious diatribes to the Council of the Indies in Seville, denouncing those Conquistadores who despoiled the Indians, soon resulted in Holy Mother Church intervening on their behalf.’
Adam smiled. ‘Yes, I’ve read his work, and Bernal Díaz’s wonderful descriptions of the marvels of art and architecture here that, in their different way, could rival anything produced by the Renaissance. But I just say, Las Casas struck me as prejudiced. He seemed a little too vitriolic against the soldiers to be painting quite a true picture.’
‘Perhaps; but by repetition he made his point. And he was far from being alone in his determination to secure for the Indians equal rights with their conquerors. The first two Viceroys, Don Antonio de Mendoza and Don Luis de Velasco also played a part that cannot be praised too highly. Both were humanitarians of the highest principles and would suffer no wrong to be done to the Indians. Between them, in fewer than thirty years, they brought order out of chaos, and made Mexico a land good to live in. The high standard they set was followed by many of their successors; and it should not be forgotten that for the three hundred years that Mexico was ruled from Spain, while the European nations were almost constantly at war, here the people enjoyed peace and security.’
‘That’s true,’ Adam agreed. ‘The Pax Española in the New World lasted nearly twice as long as the Pax Britannica in India and the East. I imagine that few people in Europe, outside Spain, realise that.’
‘Yet it is so. Our troubles began only when the so-called “yoke” of Spain was thrown off and the Church, deprived of much of her power to ensure that the people did not become the victims of their baser instincts. Since then it has been one long tale of self-seeking, injustice and bloodshed.’
Breaking off, Father Lopéz looked at his watch and exclaimed, ‘Dear me, I have been talking too much! It is a quarter to eleven and we are due at the pyramid at eleven o’clock.’
Startled, Adam sat up straight. He had assumed that the ceremony would not take place for another day or two, and that he would be given warning of it. This pleasant talk about the Conquistadores had lulled him into a false sense of security. Uneasily he turned and looked at Chela. She was just lighting a second cigar. Smiling at him, she said:
‘Women are not permitted to be present at such ceremonies, darling; so I can’t go with you. But I know that you will acquit yourself nobly.’
Reluctantly, but putting the best face on the situation that he could manage, Adam said good-bye to her and accompanied Father Lopéz out of the hotel.
The night was warm and the garden scented by moon-flowers. On leaving it they followed the road for some distance, then the priest turned off it and led the way along a bridle path. It was densely wooded on either side and it was not until they emerged from it, a quarter of an hour later, that Adam realised that it by-passed the Pyramid of the Magician to bring them out opposite the Court of the Nuns.
During their walk Father Lopéz had made light conversation, to which Adam had replied only in monosyllables, as he was grimly wondering what form the ceremony would take. Now, as they approached the building, the priest addressed him formally:
‘From now on, throughout the ceremony, it is required that the Man-God should utter no word, except to make his declaration to the people, and return no obeisance that is made to him.’ In silence, side by side, they walked the last few hundred yards.
From the Court there came a faint glow, and as they emerged on to one of the terraces, Adam saw that there were lights and people in some of the rooms that opened on to it. As he passed one of them, he glimpsed several priests in their surplices kneeling in prayer, and in another a set of gorgeous Indian robes arranged on bamboo frames. Halting at the entrance of the third room they came to, Father Lopéz stood aside and signed to Adam to enter.
Five or six priests were in the room, all clad in rich vestments. Among them Adam instantly recognised Don Alberuque. All the other priests were Indians or Mestizos. Again, as Adam met the glance of the Monsignor’s black, lustreless eyes, he felt that he had known him somewhere before. He still could not think where, but his instinctive feeling of dislike for the man was stronger than ever. At Adam’s appearance, they all genuflected, then Alberuque said to him:
‘In the name of an oppressed people, I welcome you, Exalted One. Our Lord Jesus has sent you to be their saviour. Your name has been revered by them for countless generations. In the future it will be accounted blessed.’
Adam’s face remained expressionless and, in accordance with Father Lopéz’s instructions, he did not reply. All the priests genuflected again, then Alberuque said, ‘Be pleased, Exalted One, to accompany Father Lopéz.’
Turning about, Adam rejoined the little priest outside and was led back along the terrace to the chamber in which he had noticed the robes. Four Indians in semi-clerical attire, whom he took to be deacons, were there. After going down on their knees before him, they stood up and set about robing him.
The garments were similar to those that Father Miguel had transferred to him before he had sacrificed the pig at San Luis Caliente, but infinitely more splendid. The long cloak was of fabric upon which had been stitched thousands of small feathers of many colours, arranged in intricate patterns. There was a breastplate, knee guards, anklets and wristlets of solid gold, set with many precious stones that glittered in the light from the lanterns. The sandals were soft, gilded leather and the shield of tough hide, the latter having a zigzag design formed by hundreds of turquoise studs and a fringe of quetzal feathers sewn all round its edge. Round his neck they put seven necklaces from which hung dozens of tiny gold bells and from the lowest of them depended a wonderful carved jade cypher. The enormous helmet was a magnificent affair, composed of gold, gilded leather, jewels and a huge plume of feathers. It was so tall that, had Adam worn it in the room, the feathers would have brushed the ceiling; but his attendants were too short to crown him with it and looked uneasily at Father Lopéz. The priest spoke to them in Maya, then said to Adam in Spanish:
‘It is desired that the people should see the Man-God’s golden hair, so he will carry his head-dress slung to his shield.’
When it had been fixed securely, Adam was handed a seven-foot-high staff, the top of which was crowned by a plumed serpent made of jade and gold set with jewels, which he recognised as the symbol of power.
During his robing he had been speculating unhappily on what form the ceremony would take. It seemed probable that it would follow the same lines as that at San Luis Caliente: a Mass followed by the sacrifice of several pigs. To have to witness the sacrilege of a Mass combined with pagan rites was bad enough, yet he was even more revolted by the thought that he would again have to tear the heart out of a live pig.
But he was committed now. Not only had he given his promise to Chela, but in retaining the goodwill of Alberuque lay the best chance of sabotaging the conspiracy and preventing a bloody civil war. So, hateful as his part would be, he knew he must go through with it.
As he stood there, miserably contemplating the hour or more that lay ahead, he heard footsteps ringing on the stone terrace outside. A moment later, the head of a procession came into view. It consisted of some twenty priests, all Indians and Mestizos, with the exception of Alberuque. Many of them were carrying banners upon which Christian saints were depicted and, in their midst, Alberuque was bearing the Host. As it passed, Father Lopéz and the deacons went down on their knees and Adam bowed his head.
When the last of the priests had passed, Adam instinctively took a step towards the doorway, intending to follow; but Father Lopéz whispered, ‘The presence of the Man-God is not yet required. He will show himself to the people only at the end of the ceremony.’
Adam’s heart lightened a little then. The end of the ceremony must surely mean not only after the celebration of the Mass, but also after the sacrifice; so he could now hope to escape haying to perform that horrible rite.
While the minutes ticked by, his mind turned to Chela, by now probably in bed. But it could not yet be midnight, so other guests at the Hacienda would still be up and about. It was easy to picture the handful of rich, elderly Americans, sitting over their Bourbon on the rocks, or J. & B. ‘Rare’ whiskies, telling new acquaintances of other trips they had made in recent years, of their young people at the universities, of their summer places at Cape Cod and winter ones in Florida. Pleasantly courteous to one another, laughing quietly now and then; entirely normal citizens of the modern world.
They were less than a mile away; and here was he, separated from them in time by a thousand years, decked out in a costume and accoutrements that, if sold at Christie’s, might fetch a hundred thousand pounds, and about to play the role of a Man-God to an assembly of pagan fanatics. The whole idea was fantastic—unbelievable. For some minutes he persuaded himself that this was one of his visions, but one such as he had never had before, in which his past incarnation was somehow mixed up with his present one.
At last, Father Lopéz said, ‘The time has come, Exalted One. Be pleased to follow me.’
With an effort Adam came back to earth. This was no dream but really happening. Adam Gordon, the poor Scots lad who, through a number of strange vicissitudes, had made good, become a best-selling author and flown out to Mexico in search of a background for a new book, had got himself caught up in a conspiracy to overthrow the government and, dressed in the costume of a Toltec Prince, was about to present himself as a Man-God to scores of credulous people. It was absurd, ridiculous—but a fact.
Father Lopéz preceding him and the four deacons following behind, Adam, towering above all five of them, walked at an unhurried pace to the rear of the Pyramid of the Magician. At its base there were some half-ruined arches that formed an arcade. For a few minutes he waited there with his attendants, while Father Lopéz stood beyond the furthest arch, looking up the steep slope of the pyramid. Suddenly, he called:
‘The signal has been made. The Man-God is summoned to ascend.’
Stepping out into the open, Adam began to climb the steep staircase of broken steps. Weighed down by the mass of gold upon him, he found it hard going. Looking upward he could see the partially-ruined temple on the top, but no human figures were outlined against the starlit sky. By the time he had accomplished two-thirds of the ascent he was breathing heavily and looking down at his feet as he put them in turn on each succeeding step.
It was then he heard footfalls and glanced up again. Now he could see a massed body of men. Alberuque and his escorting priests had come round from the front of the temple and were just beginning the descent of the pyramid. As they approached he saw that they were coming down one side of the broad flight of stairs, leaving the other free for him. When he came abreast of them they halted, turned and bowed to him, then went on. Two minutes later he reached the summit. Behind him Father Lopéz said in a low voice:
‘From here the Man-God proceeds alone.’
As Adam walked along the broad ledge round the side of the temple he expected to smell blood, but the night air was clean. That seemed a sure sign that no sacrifice had yet been made. Perhaps, then, he was expected to slaughter not only one pig, but many. He had nerved himself to go through the nauseous business again of tearing the heart out of one animal, but the thought of having to repeat the process was almost too much for him. He was seized with a sudden urge to turn about, throw his hand in and refuse to have anything more to do with Alberuque and his fanatical followers.
Chela would be bitterly disappointed and be justified in reproaching him for going back on his word. It might mean a quarrel; but he felt sure that, loving him as she did, she would understand and forgive him.
It was at that moment that he turned the corner of the temple. No hideous image of Chac-Mool reposed in front of it, awaiting the slaughter of a warm-blooded animal in its stone lap. Nor was there any other altar upon which a sacrifice could be made. The priests must have removed the one at which the Mass had been celebrated and put it inside the ruin. The terrace was now entirely bare and he was alone upon it. Evidently, for some reason, Alberuque did not consider a sacrifice desirable at this ceremony of ‘Recognition’. Immensely relieved, Adam drew himself to his full height and walked to the centre of the terrace.
Looking down, he could make out a sea of white faces turned up towards him. Suddenly a searchlight was switched on from below. It wavered for a minute, then fixed him in its glare, completely blinding him. From the crowd of two or three hundred people massed below a vast sigh of wonder ascended to him. In some mystic way it seemed to lift him so that his body became almost weightless and he felt as though he was floating upright far above them.
Automatically, in ringing tones, he began his speech. Then a strange metamorphosis engulfed him. While he was still speaking, his mind was elsewhere. It had gone back to an earlier time when he had addressed a great multitude from the top of the Pyramid of the Magician. He was again Quetzalcoatl making his farewell speech to his people.
But he was not only Quetzalcoatl. He was also Ord the Red-Handed, and it was revealed to him how he came to be there.
As Ord the Viking he had voyaged many times to Scotland, Ireland and England on plundering expeditions. He also knew Iceland well, and its inhabitants were akin to his own people. There he had heard stories of a land to the west of the northern ocean. It was said to be rich and fertile, and grapes, such as were to be found in Spain, grew there; so it was known as the Vineland.
He had determined to go there and one spring set sail with his hardy jarls. But they had met with storms that had driven them hundreds of miles to the southward. The voyage had lasted many months. On scores of occasions they had landed, terrified the inhabitants of those unknown lands by their size and ferocity, taken such supplies as they needed and sailed again. Time after time they had set and attempted to maintain a course to the northward; but again and again, after a few days, storms had forced them to furl their sail, and great seas swept them down into hotter climes. The end had come, as Adam realised now, somewhere in the Caribbean. A hurricane had cast their galley up on to a reef. Except for Ord, those of his crew who had survived the terrible voyage had been drowned. He alone had been washed up, still alive, on the shore of Mexico.
When the natives had come upon him, half drowned, they had marvelled at his tall stature, white skin and golden hair and beard. With superstitious awe, they had tended and revived him. Once he had recovered he was able to repay them a hundredfold, owing to his knowledge of many things about which they knew little. So they soon looked upon him as a worker of miracles—a being sent to them by a dispensation of heaven.
As he acquired their language, they told him of rich cities that lay many miles inland. His instinct, as a born freebooter, had nagged at him until he became determined to raid them. He had had no difficulty in raising an army, because the people were by then confident beyond all doubt of his power to lead them to victory.
With his army he had marched three hundred miles to the great city of Tula. After only a feeble resistance the Toltecs, whose capital it was, had fallen down and worshipped him. Before that he had been known as Acatl Topeltzin. It was they who gave him the name of Quetzalcoatl, and recognised him as a Man-God.
Beloved by all, he had reigned in Tula for twenty years. Then the semi-barbarous Chichimecs had swept down from the north. There had been a terrible war, in which his Toltecs had been defeated, had lost their great, sacred city of Teotihuacán, with its pyramids of the Sun and the Moon, and he had been taken prisoner.
His captors had also regarded him as a Man-God, and he had lived among them for close on a year. Towards its end he had been told, without warning, by the High Priest Itzichuatl that he was to be sacrificed. But, owing to the intervention of Mirolitlit, he had succeeded in escaping and rejoining his devoted Toltecs. Having lost their capital and most of their lands, they were in sore straits. But he had put new heart into them and led them in a great trek down to Yucatán.
There they came upon both Chichén Itzá and Uxmal, abandoned by the Maya hierarchy many centuries earlier, but still having considerable numbers of Maya people scraping a living for many miles round. Their caciques too had accepted him as a God, and he had set them to work on restoring and embellishing their sacred buildings. Much of the land round about had been fallow for so long that it had again become fertile, so he had decreed that his Toltecs should settle there and become one with the Mayas. But he was by then well on into middle age and more and more had begun to long for his bleak northern homeland.
That he had sailed away on a raft of snakes was a legend. Actually he had supervised the building of a small Norseman’s galley, the prow of which, instead of having a bird or beast as a figurehead, had been fashioned as his own emblem—a great serpent with head drawn back and wide-open jaws framing a man’s face.
His people had been most reluctant to allow him to leave them, so he had promised to return. Then, from the top of the Pyramid of the Magician, he had made his farewell speech. From that point on, his memories again became vague. He could not recall whether or not he had taken with him a crew of volunteers or had sailed alone. He was only aware that he had never reached the lands in which he had spent his youth and early manhood. The galley had gone down during a hurricane, and he had drowned, presumably somewhere in the Caribbean.
During those minutes of dual consciousness Adam was aware that he was delivering the speech he had learned by heart. As he ended, there came, as from a great distance, the sound of thunderous applause. Then the shrill blowing of whistles impinged on his mind. The spotlight that blinded him was suddenly switched off. For a moment, standing there in total darkness, he had no idea where he was. A voice behind him brought him back to reality. It was that of Father Lopéz, who had emerged at the corner of the temple. He was shouting:
‘We are betrayed! But God will protect His own. There is still time to escape. Run, Exalted One! Run!’
Afterwards Adam realised that Lopéz had meant him to turn and run towards him. But, instinctively, he jumped forward and began to descend the pyramid, taking two of the deep steps at a time. Still half blinded from the spotlight, he was only vaguely aware of what was happening below him. There was some shouting and movement, like a troubled sea. As he ran down towards the crowd, the greater part of it seemed to disintegrate and fan out in all directions. But a small compact group formed at the base of the pyramid.
Suddenly, to his horror, he realised that the impetus with which he had launched himself forward had now become too great for him to control his speed. His feet were flying from step to step. In vain he endeavoured to check his wild career down the steep slope. He kept his balance only by a miracle. As he neared the bottom he could see the group that waited below more clearly. They were not a part of the congregation. They wore uniforms. They were police.
Utterly unable to check his flying legs, he hurtled towards them. Another moment and he was within seconds of crashing into the group. Fearing that he would bowl several of them over, the men in his immediate vicinity sprang back, leaving him a gap to pass through. Aghast, he saw that with nothing to act as a brake, he must land with a bone-breaking crash on the ground just beyond them. But two of them grabbed at his cloak as he shot past, lay back on it and brought him up with a frightful jerk. His shield, feathered head-dress and staff of authority were jolted from his hands. His cloak ripped away from those who were hanging on to it and he staggered on a few paces. But the police did not mean to let him escape. One of them sprang after him and hit him on the back of the head with a truncheon. His knees buckled under him and he slumped to the ground unconscious.
When he came to, he was sitting in the back of a car; his chin on his chest, his head lolling forwards. As he opened his eyes, an excruciating pain shot through his head. Then he saw that his wrists were handcuffed.