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  Then I looked at Francisco, and with beaming eyes he merely nodded at me and ordered me to guard the temple steps.

  Then an interpreter whispered into Francisco’s ear, and he turned to his brothers and nodded.

  About a minute passed, and there the wails of Incas cries belted in echoes and flooded the city, and I finally pieced together and remembered what Francisco had said at the fire.

  But how did he do it? Had he poisoned him? Had he paid men to stab him?

  It was an expectation and it came quite quickly. My question was how it was done, and who did it. Was it Diego? Was it Juan? Was it another man? Was it an Inca?

  Whichever was the case, Francisco made sure it was quick.

  Then the Incas gathered along the square and the Royal Court members appeared and some sobbed and trembled. Then all of our men gathered.

  All was quiet and every Inca face was filled with fright. Then a servant blew into a horned trumpet, and with that, the citizens of Cusco knelt down to their knees.

  The king was dead.

  The servants brought Tupac Huallpa’s body and carried it down the steps and lay him on the gravel. He wasn’t stabbed, nor decapitated. He was just dead. There were no visible wounds. They said he died in his sleep.

  Immediately, the Inca servants wrapped the body into cloth and held a vigil from him. They sang a wilting prayer and winced with faces filled with disgust. And the wails and sorrows continued.

  Some said he was poisoned and I agreed with the theory. He looked rather ill to begin with, but now with him dead, so was the whole government of Cusco.

  Then the Pizarros entered into the temple, and the negotiations begun immediately after.

  The time had come. The time to choose a new king, and there was no question who would it be.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Francisco and Almagro entered the main temple and consulted with the high priest. The two spoke calmly. After half an hour, they came out of the temple and yelled out their decree.

  Then a signal was sent. Then a great scream was belted out from the height priest, and the fastest Inca runner carried a white torch and raced through the city’s streets. After a few minutes, a swarm of people assembled. They made their way north to the city’s steps.

  They watched and held their vigil as they surrounded the square and anticipated with wide eyes. After the general angst passed, they saw their new king paraded on a high chair. Their supreme ruler of the great Cusco.

  And it was none other than Manco Inca.

  Some screamed. Some wept. Some were shocked, but most were relieved. The crowd cheered and piled on to each other to get a good view. But in a matter of seconds, some of them groaned.

  But as it was, the coronation continued. It was ostentatious. And its pomp set its rhythm and propelled the crowd’s excitement. Though the ceremony was quite long, the general feeling of the spectacle felt rushed and forced, and the tempo sprawled out of control. The acrobats performed daring feats of jumping out of hoops of fire. And the musicians played their pipes and bang their drums and sang and chanted their songs of old and many. Then the children of Cusco danced in rhythm to the constant drumming and paraded down Cusco with their colorful dresses. The Incas then unleashed a flock of birds from their wooden cages, and soon the sky was flooded with doves and toucans.

  Then a group of Incas gathered and placed the royal throne squarely on the top step, and, with a smirk, Francisco Pizarro pointed and led Manco up the temple steps.

  “Manco Inca! Please step forward.” Francisco said.

  Then the Elders of the Court bowed and one of them held the crown, then put it on Manco’s head.

  As the moment passed, the silence took over and all eyes turned to Manco who sat on his throne. It was apparent to everyone but himself that he looked fearful. There was no life, no spirit, and no blood in Manco’s face. And his tired eyes told all that needed to be told. His face was gaunt. Pale. As if he had no energy at all. It was if by osmosis Tupac Huallpa’s lethargy had entered into Manco’s body, and assumed order.

  But on top of his head rested the golden crown that Atahualpa refused to wear, which was also the same golden crown that Tupac Huallpa had worn for less than a year. But now it was on Manco's head, squarely fit, for everyone to see.

  And with it came the inevitable responsibilities. But in that moment, Manco only saw glimpses. His people. His deities. His enemies. All things swirled into one.

  He stared at it all and saw the entirety of Cusco gathered there to see him. Familiar faces. Faces he’d never seen. Faces of the very young that blushed in reverence. Faces of the very old that seemed disappointed and reserved. Faces of the shocked and faces of the curious. But he was accustomed to them all. For these were the faces of the Inca. The faces of his people.

  However, when he looked to the faces of the Spanish, all he saw were faces of pure and righteous evil. Those smiling evil faces that destroyed Cajamarca in a single day were the same gruesome grinning faces that now surrounded every square inch of Cusco. They were the suffocating spirits. The spirits of evil. The spirits of the damned. Spirits that returned to conquer and feed off the living.

  But beyond these faces, Manco saw one individual thing. The thing that he seemed to lack. The thing that was vital to living. It was dark and red, and it was spilled all over. It was blood. He saw the blood of the future and the blood of the past spill onto the ground like rain.

  But then the vision disappeared, and Manco was left with the present.

  The celebration continued with more singing and more performances of jugglers and acrobats. They were then followed by the many sacrifices of both animals and humans. The Spanish laughed at these, but as the children were brought to alter some of the Spanish yelled out and wanted to interfere, but they were ordered to keep at bay, so they watched in horror as the chosen Inca children were ushered forward and sacrificed on the slabs of the stone altars.

  The crowds dwindled as the secondary ceremonies continued. At the height of the day, there were about million people, after Manco was crowned half a million remained, and after the main prayers were over, the crowd scattered, and those who remained were only a couple of hundred.

  In all that time, the Spanish were delighted to see their puppet not say a word, and then after he was decorated with a golden cloak that looked much like Atahualpa’s gown.

  The sun seemed as if were drawing to a boil, and the heat of the day lingered even after dusk. Amazed, yet reserved, Francisco remained quiet. And when he felt it was over, Francisco sauntered up the steps of the temple and stared off into the distance. He was aware of the giant steep mountains that stretched for miles at a time and he stared amazed at it and was caught in its awe. They called the peaks Machu Picchu, and beyond them was the sacred green valley that sprawled beyond to the ends of the earth. The green ridges of stone bent and sloped like undulating waves. But it was many miles away, perhaps hundreds, and after Francisco turned to the crowd he never thought about it again.

  For a straight hour, Manco gazed at Machu Picchu. Though he wasn’t alone. Several of the Spanish men guarded him and kept a distance of about ten feet. At that moment all Manco wanted to do was run towards the mountains and stay there. But he knew he couldn’t. He was now responsible for the whole of Cusco, the whole of his people. But he remained immobile and afraid.

  So Manco peered for solace in the mountains. He looked for answers. But he found none.

  And when the ceremony was finally over, the Spanish and Incas went their own way.

  And another day came to a close.

  II

  The next day arrived. Francisco approached Manco and wasted no time. And like a child, Francisco was entangled in his newfound toy. He eased his way inside the temple and took his most trusted translators with him. Then he gave Manco a grin and went to work. It was time to experiment. It was time to see what strings did what, and a great energy was established.

  For Francisco’s state of mind was very much
like a young musician’s mind when he came across a new instrument to play. At first, Francisco was very careful and started his manipulation with the basic scales; playing long, elementary and empowering full notes and he welcomed Manco with open hands and friendly gestures of trust. But as time went by, Francisco eventually graduated to more complex, subtle pieces, and as he learned the finest things, the rapid pace of Francisco’s manipulation grew second nature.

  And when the formalities were over, Francisco asked the questions.

  He started with easy questions. The typical ones. The question of where more gold could be found had been a trite one, but Francisco asked anyway, and with reluctance, Manco spoke and the translators pointed.

  Then Francisco posed for the next question, and then the next.

  “Who is in charge of the Imperial Court?”

  “What enemy tribes were needed to be conquered.”

  “What happened to the Huáscars?”

  “Who were his relatives?”

  “Where were these rumored hidden temples located?”

  “What was there to be found inside the temples?”

  “How many miles were they from the river?”

  And Manco answered all the questions, one after another to Francisco’s grinning beaming face. Then Francisco flaunted his hands and gestured to the whole of the city.

  “Don’t look so glum, Manco King.” Said Francisco.

  They stared at each other for a long time. The translators were confused, but Francisco shook his head and the translators withheld from speaking.

  Then as morning turned into the afternoon, Francisco felt it right to ask Manco the whereabouts of the extra gold mines that he had heard rumors about, and Manco showed him without reservation. An hour later Francisco put his men to work, and in squads of twenty men, they went into the aforementioned caves and returned with smiling faces.

  The questions and approved answers were repeated for days on end. However it was clear that when the Spanish were alone, certain other things needed to be discussed and agreed upon. When they were ready, Francisco and Almagro agreed to meet together and negotiate the terms of how they would divide Cusco.

  Night fell and Francisco and Almagro met together at the prime center of the city. No others attended. They were both very drunk, but as ever they were both very determined.

  “So what is it? What shall it be?” Said Francisco.

  Almagro pointed to the sky. He drew his sword and pointed to the North Star.

  “65. 35. A line across Polaris.” Said Almagro. “Like we said in the beginning.”

  They stared at the stars for a long while. Their attention switched back and forth to the line.

  “No objections.” Francisco finally said.

  “1 to 14 degrees Latitude.” Said Almagro.

  “Fine suggestion.” Said Francisco. “I’ll give you 15. That should settle a lot.”

  So it was settled.

  And so Cusco was divided. Pizarro’s side towards the east. And Almagro’s side to the west.

  And each of the Spaniards smiled, knowing that the other man was never to be trusted ever again.

  III

  “Three days after Manco was crowned king, I started to think about how long this would last. Since it was declared that the city would be divided, I could only think of what would happen to it all once enough time had passed.

  Thoughts rushed through my mind. How long everybody could last pretending? How long could they hold their facade? How long would it be till it would all fall apart?

  Though it wasn’t said outright, it already seemed to be a schism of alliances. Pizarro or Almagro. And nothing in between. Men kept to their side of the city and sequestered their territories accordingly. Flags were hung and territories were divided. And Old Spain once again arose from its ashes.

  But before all of that, there was tremendous peace in Cusco. It was peace and plenty. At least from its outside. From its inside, though, every man knew it was slowly imploding, but they never said so outright. I tried to find Soto to discuss these matters, but every time I had these thoughts, I couldn’t find him. So I was left to ponder the thoughts alone.

  Then the day came where Francisco approached me. He handed me a sack of gold and gave me my orders. The payment was about half of what I earned in Cajamarca. My eyes grew. I had a hard time believing it.

  Then it was explained to me. I was employed to be one Manco’s guard.

  “You’re a very important man now, Sardina.” Francisco said to me.

  He pointed at Manco then patted me on the shoulder.

  “He’s yours now, Sardina. Watch his every move.”

  I assumed there were others much more competent, but I knew there was much more for Francisco. It was trust. A trust he no longer found in anybody else. As he shook my hand and gazed into my eyes I knew that he found solace. It was as if he was unloading a heavy boulder from his shoulders, and he gave me the gift of watching over his puppet from top to toe.

  So I went to work.

  I watched Manco from morning until sundown and studied his every move. One other guard accompanied me. I did not know his name at first, and I was sure that he belonged to the new men who arrived late at Cajamarca. Later, I found out the other guard was named Escobar. He did not talk much. At least not then.

  We gave Manco a distance of ten feet and not an inch more, and, as we were instructed, we followed his every movement. At night two other guards replaced us and they assumed their roles. The other set of guards, the “Night Watchmen," as we called them, came in every sundown. Yet all remained quiet for quite some time.

  I wondered often what Manco did at night, being that he did absolutely nothing in the day. He often jilted and his eyes would flicker from time to time as if he was to wake up.

  But that’s about all he did.

  Day after day, we reported to Hernando what Manco’s state was at the time we were on guard. And so day after day, we repeated our boring task, returned to Hernando, and reported a variation of the same thing, which was the God’s honest truth.

  “He seemed fine. He didn’t say a word.”

  At first, Manco glared at me. He looked me straight in the eye and told me everything without saying a word. Then, as expected, he ignored me and never looked me in the eye again.

  But for whatever reason, I started to feel something I had not felt in a long time. It was short of sympathy, but it was strong. And I saw it in his eyes. Being watched every second of everyday must have been a slow, disturbing pain. For us, it was a merciless deed. For Manco, it was much more. It had to have been.

  When I think about it now, it was a horrible move Francisco had made. It made sense at the time, but had others been sober and thought it through, they would have protested. They would have screamed bloody murder. To do this to a slave was one thing. To do this to a king, even a puppet king, was as ridiculous an idea ever thought.

  But fools playing a rigged game never really understand the rules. And we were no exception.

  And Escobar and I never missed a day.

  Soon after, a special day arrived, and all the Pizzaros gathered around Manco and walked inside the main temple. I didn’t know what was happening, but when Valverde arrived with the sheets of parchment in his hand, I finally put two and two together. Francisco put the questions to an end and began to expose Manco’s real talents.

  For two days in a row, Francisco examined at his copy of the speech and studied the words, though he himself was illiterate. So he repeated the major points to Valverde, and Valverde repeated them to Francisco verbatim, and with each word that sounded right, Francisco nodded his head, winked, and affirmed.

  Francisco performed the speech first with fervor and authority. The translators then produced the speech on parchment, then transcribed it to Quechua and spoke it to Manco word for word. Manco relayed the words, and to Francisco, it was as if he was listening to a favorite song of his youth.

  The next day Manco delivered his s
peech to the throngs of Cusco, and with a gilded tongue, he managed to recite every word.

  “Great citizens of Cusco.” Manco began. “We are to welcome these spirits. They are good and holy.”

  He could sense the thousands of eyes set upon him as he gave his speech, and he repeated the phrase over and over. “They are good and holy.”

  In all, Manco repeated that phrase three times, and in the shadows, Francisco nodded and watched. To his surprise, many of the Incas accepted these words, but only because there was nothing else Manco had to offer. Fear had prevailed over reason, and with the fear came the silence. The crowd kept quiet. For a moment, Manco felt dazed, and for a mere second, his heart stopped beating, and for that moment, that one instant in time he saw his brother Atahualpa laughing among the clouds.