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  But then the moment passed. And the burden of dishonesty returned.

  All that was left was the crowd. And the crowd kept staring.

  “They are good and holy.”

  Manco felt his presence slip, and as he slowed his pace he saw many Incas leave in disgust. He tried to bring them back. His eyes grew and he pointed to them, but still he couldn’t utter a word of his own nature. It was in that moment, and it was only then, where I understood the pain in Manco’s face. For I knew that pain quite well. The pain that comes with ultimate defeat. Of life unlived.

  After the speech was over there was neither shrill nor applause. Just stupefied silence. Painful and unprecedented silence, which no one on either side took for truth.

  The translators and priest confirmed. Word for word was spoken, no phrase went missing, and nothing else was added. After the speech, Manco was left alone. Only Escobar and I were present. I was surprised at this, at first, but it might have been a direct order to keep him sequestered as we did.

  The next day his wife, Cura, came to his side but she did not stay for long. Clearly there was more on her mind than what she presented to him, but what struck me the most was that she hardly ever touched him. It was as if he was cursed. She kept her distance and never was more than two feet from him. Escobar and I intervened from time to time when we assumed that they were giving each other signals, but the more I saw it, the more I knew her distance was not one of deception, rather it was one of disdain.

  The day after, Cura did not appear. She must not have been in the mood.

  The next day, though, several Incas came to Manco’s side, though Escobar and I made sure they were at a safe distance. However, they did not treat their king kindly. They approached Manco and sneered without saying a word, but at the same time, the Incas gave a cold stare. One Inca stood out in particular. Waman Poma, I think his name was. He was a stout, giant of an Inca and his eyes were wide and intense. He started to shout at Manco, and as Manco shouted back, the bickering intensified so much that they were at each other’s throats. Escobar threatened the Inca with his sword, but it did not stop the Inca from berating Manco.

  I knew not what they said to each other. And when I asked the translators all they said was that they were cursing and swearing at each other. Then the giant Inca spat on the ground and left in disgust, and Manco was alone again. And the day ended with no other visitations.

  In the days we guarded him, I noticed that Manco prayed numerous times a day. He didn’t pray in a group all too much, but he did pray alone, and for hours at a time. When he was at prayer, I gave him a very good distance. He looked desperate when he prayed. His eyes were closed and his hands shook. He whispered secret words. Words of pain and mystery. Words that he held sacred to but was starting to forget. I didn’t know whom he prayed to, but he had many gods, and he addressed them directly and moved his head to a different direction each time.

  In a way I was envious. Unlike us, the Incas had many gods to pray to, and their entire day was devoted to them. The Incas had a god for everything. A god for the earth and a god for the water. A god of the mountains and the god of the sky. They were true gods because they were real. They could be seen, and as a result, the Incas were in constant communication with them. They had different realms and different words, deep and impenetrable, but their gods were always in communication. They spoke clear and direct straightforward language. They spoke in what they could see. They spoke in the air, the rain, the rivers, and of course, they always started with the sun and moved on to the moon. And their gods were still creating. They never took a day off. They never asked for recompense. Their gods were always in accord.

  And, unlike us, the Incas held their gods with more reverence and fortitude, and every breath was a prayer. They really believed. There was no time to doubt. There was no word for it. They were too busy living.

  We were sharing the same earth, but this was still very much their land, and it was woven in every vine. I saw the raw passion and convictions in the Inca faces. I saw the same for Manco. It was right for him. I gave no judgment, I merely examined. All men need to believe in something.

  An odd morning arrived. I smelled smoke about a mile from the city’s gates. Then I heard the shrieks of Inca women. At first, I thought it was a result of our men who took to their pleasure, but then I heard the shrieks of the Inca men who rushed out of the city with spears in their hands. We were soon informed that the Huáscar tribe was invading the city. An order was called, and the other guards commanded us to seek shelter inside the lower basement of the temple while the rest of our men rushed to the gates to fight off the Huáscars and defend the city.

  Escobar and I escorted Manco down to the temple. It was dark in the temple with the only light coming from silvers and crevices from the outside walls. We stayed in a small room, and at times, it was only Escobar, Manco, and myself. Our orders were to protect Manco from any possible harm, but doing so meant that we had to stay in the room for the duration of the battle. And as assumed, Manco neither protested nor did he say a single word.

  We relied on our ears to make head or tail of the battle. I heard shrieks and cries, horses galloping, and swords clanging off metal, but then everything was drowned out when the cannons took over. I heard the cannons roar as they belted out and fired, and I heard it repeat over and over again. The heavy plummeting sounds rang my ears.

  I managed to look at Manco’s face when I grew bored of the cannon fire. He remained stoic and beaten. He was beyond disbelief, beyond tragic. He was becoming numb and he looked resigned.

  After the cannons seized fire we departed from the temple. It was an hour or so later that we were told that it was safe to return to the surface. It was eerily similar to the aftermath of Cajamarca. Though my hands, this time, were completely clean and not smeared with blood. The casualties lay flat on the city’s street. And history repeated itself.

  When we came up, we saw the inevitable. The stench was familiar and it was all throughout the city. The stench of blood and shit and fire. Billows and billows of smoke hovered over Cusco. Hundreds of Huáscar warriors lay as corpses on the Inca steps. They looked similar to the Incas, as their garbs and head plumes were bright, and their bone necklaces were laced gaily, but, all the same, they were rotting corpses ready to be burned.

  Manco overlooked the smoke and the smell of burning flesh from his old enemies. He walked through the entire city with a lean, and Escobar and I gave him a leeway about ten feet and allowed him a further distance as his walk continued. He sighed and inhaled the smoke and went through every crevice of the city for hours at a time, and we followed his trance up and down. He bent over and picked up a broken spear.

  But as he walked on he saw more of the same. As did we. More dead bodies. More blood. And the amount was staggering. Cajamarca repeated. But it was now in Cusco.

  Escobar and I took to our rounds and followed Manco as he encircled the temple steps. Then Francisco staggered up to Manco and gave him a wide grin. I heard their conversation. It was sparse and crude.

  “Don’t cry, Inca King.” Francisco said to him.

  “We told you we would protect your people at all costs. We’ll continue to do so. Your friendship means that much to us.”

  Then Francisco departed.

  As the afternoon drew to a close, our men gathered a group of Inca men and locked them in chains. Then the Incas were ordered to form a single file line and they trembled and screamed while our men lashed them with whips and presented them to the temple square. These Incas were tried for treason, for reasons, I still to this day don’t know. It was obvious that Manco knew these men very well. Some he knew as children. Some he knew as elder statesmen. And some were his father’s closest friends. But now they were merely faces, faces he would now have to execute.

  “These are traitors to the state, dear King Manco.” His translator began to say. “We ask you what to do with them.”

  And upon hearing this, Manco averted a
ll eye contact.

  He looked to the Royal Court, and they gave no signs, and he saw that their faces were filled with rage.

  Then Francisco intervened.

  “Do what you will with them. But our suggestion is that you kill them all. The Royal Court also shares this feeling. They are a danger to us all. We suggest… We suggest…Well. It’s your decision, King Manco.”

  And with a swift nod, Manco withdrew his stare and listened intently to the Royal Court. Their words came in mumbles, and they looked beaten.

  Manco did not sigh, nor did he protest in the least, he merely signaled for the executioners, and within a half an hour the alleged Incas were all hung, and those who survived the first attempt were hung again.

  Throughout the night, I heard the sobbing of the Inca women as they grieved and moaned and sulked. But then the silence of the night took over. It was a calm silence that was accompanied by the hum of birds and crickets, and with it, I rested.”

  IV

  The morning after the execution, Manco spotted Waman Poma from a distance. Waman Poma’s look said it all. Sardina and Escobar remained at Manco’s side, but the two Incas still glared at each other, gravely and unfettered.

  “What are you doing?” Waman Poma said to Manco.

  But Manco gave no reply. Then Waman Poma shouted.

  “You are not Huapac Tuapalla. You are a better man, Manco! Show yourself!!”

  Waman Poma grabbed hold of Manco’s shoulder. Then he gave Manco the longest stare he had ever given anybody in his life.

  “What kind of king are you? What are you, Manco? Who are you?!”

  Manco gave no reply.

  “Have you forgotten your gods?”

  “No. The gods are with me.” Manco finally said.

  “How about your heart? Have you lost that too?

  Manco gave no reply. Then he grabbed Waman Poma’s arm and pointed. Manco then took Waman Poma’s hand and pounded at his own chest several times, and with a final stare Manco walked away, and Sardina and Escobar followed.

  In his walk, Manco came across his wife, Cura. She was breastfeeding the nobleman’s daughter. Manco stopped and whispered words to Cura that she could only understand. But Cura kept silent. They stared long into each other’s eyes the same way they did as children. Manco held the child and reached into his pocket for a handful of white rose petals, which he then threw up into the air.

  Then he said one phrase to Cura as loud as he could. Upon hearing this, Escobar intervened and ushered Manco away. But Manco resisted and shoved Escobar with his wrists and elbows. Then Sardina grabbed Manco by the shoulders and Escobar quickly recovered and regained his mount. The guards ushered Manco away, but Manco forced himself and dragged his feet.

  Manco repeated the phrase, and once it was said Cura’s face glowed. She understood in full.

  Manco said the phrase one last time, and after he said it, he watched Cura’s face disappear, and he gave the guards no further resistance.

  “I will talk to the shaman.”

  Manco walked for hours. He walked as far as the crescent grove and swayed into the interior of the jungle, a place where the Spanish regarded as well outside the city’s limit. From there Manco found many birds. They were birds of many colors. Orange and black. And pink and red. White and Yellow. He knew these birds all of his life. He knew they were gods in of themselves. Then he went up to the tallest tree in sight, where found a small wooden bowl and ingested its contents. His guards looked at him queerly, but they did nothing more than stare and watch Manco perform his rituals.

  And as Manco prayed, he dreamt with his eyes open. He tried to run away from the pain, but deep down he knew he had to run right through it. He let the dream run its course, and in the dream, he discovered everything he already knew.

  In the dream, Manco tried his best to communicate with the birds, but they gave him no sympathy. He outstretched his arms and shouted across the sky. And again the birds paid no attention. They merely fluttered and jetted across the sky, and never returned.

  He found his future self, still asleep, still alive, still king, with the Spaniards dictating his every move. But as he looked closely to his own face, Manco saw that he had grown very pale, and very old. His skin was frail. His face was wrinkled.

  The dream continued, and Manco found himself on the great river on the higher plains. He studied the shadows in the dark green, and Manco saw himself amongst the new and undiscovered lands. The lands beyond Cusco. Then Manco felt the world tumble as he stood in the rain. He breathed in and out, but still the world spun, and he spun with it.

  He tried to find the shaman. He walked for miles. Through the great forest, down the slopes and rocks of the valley, and across the whipping giant river. And there above he saw the bird, and Manco knew that the bird was the shaman. He did not need to ask for confirmation. He just knew. The bird was black, heavy and mean, and it landed on Manco’s shoulders.

  They talked for a while, but most of the words were from Manco as he cried and explained his fears and all that happened. And the bird only nodded. Manco continued to spout all his injustices and what had happened to himself and his people, and the bird pecked at his shoulders then spoke aloud.

  “Tell them stories.” Said the bird.

  “Stories?”

  “Stories.” The bird repeated. “And when it is done, and when the time is right, fight as best as you can. You will know the time when you feel it in your heart. In time, you and your people must build a new Cusco. Then you will find it. ”

  “Find what?” Said Manco.

  “You will find your soul. ”Said the bird. “It has been hiding for a very long time.:

  And from that exchange, Manco knew exactly what to do. He nodded and watched the bird fly away. He stared at Machu Picchu and Vilcabamba and he sense all the spirits he once knew.

  Then Manco woke up. And the dream was over.

  During the evening, Manco escaped the view of his night guards. He assembled his companions and those of the Royal Court into the temple.

  By firelight, he made a speech to them. It was short and direct and only lasted five minutes, but Manco made sure every word mattered, and for the first time he stared at all of them square in the eye.

  “We will tell them stories. All the stories. We will distract them. So they can’t help themselves. We will them the stories they love to hear. Let these evil spirits destroy themselves.”

  Although it was vague, the Incas knew exactly what to do. Manco’s eyes were wide and strong, and from that moment on they knew he was their king.

  The next morning, the Incas relayed the stories first to the market, then finally to the temples steps, and through the streets, the stories circumvented throughout the city.

  Stories of new lands of gold. New tales of absurd glory. And to every ear, what were once mere vibrations of sounds, were now evident and pure, and righteous and worthy of discussion.

  From then on, there was a new, revived spirit in the Spanish ranks. And when the nights came to dawn, Manco knew that the inevitable excitement of the Spanish returned and that the stories had worked their charm.

  Day by day Manco grew in confidence, and he could hear it in the air that the Spanish were drunk with stories. He could see it on their faces. He could smell it on their lips.

  The plan was working.

  V

  “That afternoon in the jungle seemed fairly odd, and whatever brew that Manco consumed might have been poison for all I knew. Still, I found it to be a refreshing retreat from the city and I shared no qualms.

  I confess, I thought my job at the time was quite easy, and it was extremely profitable. But I still felt uneasy, as if I knew this whole thing would come apart at the seams, and I must also confess that the feeling stayed with me for a very long time.

  While on the job, Escobar remained very attentive. But as night fell all that was boiling inside of him spilled and spewed from out his mouth, and it mostly came in the form of swears. One t
hing was for certain, Escobar sure liked to talk, but he did so only at night. It was as if he were two different people. The humble, unassuming guard in the day, and the wildly enthusiastic man-child at night. He loved gossip as much as any man I knew. And he told me everything, for he was one of those men who found extreme discomfort in silence.

  He heard rumors. Multiple ones. And I was always the first man to hear them. There was a general air of excitement in Escobar’s eyes, for each rumor satisfied his hunger. There were many rumors. Too many to count. He told me of certain rumors of a golden sword that ruled the lands beyond. That Atahualpa was once the owner of the sword, yet had lost all its power. And that is why he was so easy to defeat in Cajamarca.