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  And I confess that when they were both there on that beach, I knew in my heart we'd find that city. In my mind, it was only a matter of time.

  So Almagro came. The man with the better tools. He had what we needed. He had the essentials: men, horses, and food. But he also brought with him the necessary elements for a long stay. He brought two cannons, a dozen arbalests, and three dozen crossbows. These tools were indispensable and he reminded each man every day of this fact. In all, there were fifty men that arrived that day, including a dozen friars and about twenty dogs. There were men whom I knew and men I met for the first time. They seemed fresh and rested, and I was glad that they brought their dogs with them. The dogs panted and whined with their mouths open. They slobbered and barked and raced around the sand, and although it wasn't said, they reminded us of ourselves: for they were fiercely loyal, fiercely restless, and all too hungry.

  And as Almagro came to shore, Francisco greeted him with a handshake and a bottle of wine, and even from my distance I could tell Almagro wasn't the least bit pleased.

  It was clear that this was the last gamble for Almagro. He put his entire investment into the expedition, and as days elapsed, I could see his patience with Francisco was drawing to a close. Their negotiations were ongoing and endless. I eavesdropped from time to time, but I knew one thing for sure. I knew Almagro had Francisco by the balls and was perversely enjoying every second.

  "What do you think you're going to find here, Francisco?”

  "A city."

  "A city? Ha. I loved that rumor. I almost forgot about it." Said Almagro. "I heard it about 5 years ago when I joined you and Balboa. Here in hell. You have to beg a little more."

  "60 percent. That's my final offer."

  "65."

  "All right. That's all! 65!"

  "This had better work."

  "It'll work."

  As the afternoon drew to a close, I helped the men on the boat and carried off the loads onto the shore. There were trunks of food and wine and trunks of heavy artillery equipment and shields and swords. An hour passed, but we were nowhere near finished.

  Then I saw Almagro's son, Diego, and introduced myself briefly. He didn't think too much of me, and I couldn't blame him. He was the splitting image of his father, for he was disciplined and calculating, and a little taller. He was his father's personal valet and confidant, and without any other brothers to contend with, Diego knew his role well. He knew his responsibilities, and he knew if he kept his mouth shut he'd go far in life. I never much talked to him, though the times I did, I knew he was thinking too much, always looking over his shoulder, and anticipating someone to stab his back. He seemed too old for his own good, and I steered clear of his sight any chance I could.

  While I continued to unload the ship, I heard a familiar voice.

  "Still alive, Sardina?"

  And as I turned my head, I saw Soto again.

  I was shocked, for I genuinely thought he had died. I hadn't seen him since he left with Balboa. Soto still looked the same, although his face was much more stern and weathered. He smiled and patted me on the shoulder. Then he helped the crew and after another hour, we finished unloading everything Almagro brought with him accompanied him on shore.

  Soto seemed to be in good spirits, and I was glad he came. We talked all night and made a fire right by the beach, and we shared our hard luck stories. Although I knew he was in clear pain, Soto managed to not show it too often. He spoke softly but each word was deliberate. He was in the prime of his life, and he knew it, and he still possessed all the confidence in the world.

  Though in truth, what made Soto unique was his intelligence. He knew much more than average men. He knew even more than Francisco. And that’s what I longed for most: information.

  During the night, Soto and I discussed the rumors, and as time passed he relayed new ones to me. Rumors that we were closer to this city than we actually realized. Rumors that the tribes stopped fighting a while ago, and that if we could make peace with one tribe, we could use them as allies and fight off the other. Even if this were true, I couldn't move as fast as he thought, and I was amazed at his fluidity. It was if he had seen a vision of the future. He could see every twist and turn as if he saw it before and he could point to all facets of the vision. It was just a matter of time. He just had to wait.

  Then he took out his bag and retrieved something very familiar. It was a chess piece. It was black pawn made of stone. Then he gave me a cold glare.

  "Remember this, Sardina?"

  I nodded and stared at the piece for the longest time.

  "I think it's time I finally teach you how to play."

  So he set up the board, and as the evening unfolded, it all seemed too strange. There were two armies. 32 pieces. 64 squares. Black and white.

  The board looked crowded and confusing, but Soto explained it to me in terms I understood.

  There were the two opposing Kings who were as worthless, but nonetheless the object of capture. Then there was the all-powerful Queen, who could move any way she wanted. Then there were the bishops that slashed diagonally. And then there was the knight who moved unlike any piece on the board.

  Then Soto gave me a pawn and said to me, "Don't forget about the pawns, Sardina. They may seem worthless, but they're priceless when you need them, and that's all the time."

  And from that night on, Soto taught me the rules, the moves, and the strategies. Each night I learned something new, and each night I lost, but Soto was a compassionate teacher. I remember Soto playing with other men, mainly for money, but other times simply for pride. He played with an eerie ease that was sometimes people saw as his own boredom, and then there were moments where I felt as if he invented the game.

  He never let me win, but he showed me what I was doing wrong, and although I truly didn’t comprehend everything, he’d always comfort me with words of encouragement.

  "Every time you play, you learn something new," He said.

  Then I asked him how long he played the game and his response was: "All my life."

  All of his life. He was different from the men here. That was for certain. He knew the rules in both chess and life. He wasn't a king yet. Nor was he as predictable as a bishop or rook. He was a knight. He knew his role, and he moved in mysterious ways. And I saw it all.

  And as I learned more about the game, both on the board and out there in the jungle, I finally understood how the game worked and how the pieces moved, and with that knowledge I felt the content of my self-awareness. I knew I was still a pawn.”

  V

  “We left the shore and headed down the Andes two days later, and as the elevation rose higher, it got harder and harder to breathe. The coolness of the mountain ice refreshed my mind. Day after day got colder, but my God was it beautiful. Beyond the sharp and deep ice were the valleys below and their slopes were green and far and wide, and even in the fog they looked majestic. But all those views came briefly, for each day was a slog and each slog seemed worse than the last. So up the slopes we went, and we followed the guides towards the path.

  Days on end, we trekked, averaging fives when we were lucky. Days turned into weeks, and when I asked one of the friars exactly how much time had passed all he could tell me was "A month and ten days." I didn't know if he was telling the truth. To me, it felt much longer.

  Some days the guides were confused, and I honestly thought they were lost. Some of them pointed south. Others pointed east. And they argued with each other for hours. Their hushed voices were now loud and booming as they shouted and swore and cursed each other, and at times, I could feel the doubt in each of our men’s faces.

  In the nights we rested, I studied the board. Some nights I played with Soto. Some nights I played alone. But every night I studied the board. We ate very little, and what little I ate, I wanted to vomit, and indeed some days I did. There were foods though that I found quite good. Seldom was the case, but there was a food that was so delicious that in my mind it was on par wi
th gold. In Quechua, they called it “papa”. It was a smooth, round food that grew underground with dimples that looked like eyes. When I first encountered it, I was afraid it was poison, but I had no choice. I was starving. And my God, it was delicious. It was creamy and sweet and when cooked long enough it melted in my mouth, and even raw it tasted like something out of heaven. It saved us from starvation, and indeed, it must have saved these people for centuries.

  As we descended down the valley the next morning, we reached the interior of the jungle. There were snakes all over the jungle, and most of them dropped from tall trees and on to our armor. We slashed and cut each one, but there were simply too many and it slowed our momentum greatly.

  When we got to the pass, the first thing we saw was a version of hell itself, for we crossed a stretch of land that was scattered with an immensity of skulls along the black rocks. Skulls shaded yellow and fading and solemn and chipped. Skulls fresh and not entirely ridden of flesh. There seemed to be a thousand of them. The translators said it was a grave of an unsuccessful tribe who were at constant war with the Incas, and these were their remnants.

  As we went further down, I heard Francisco bicker on with Almagro, but I couldn't discern the words nor the swears. I just looked through the morning fog. Then as the mid noon sun peaked, we reached the base of the mountain and saw another version of hell. It was our "warm welcoming" as Soto suggested. The guards pointed and there in view was a line of a dozen heads stacked on wooden palisades that seemed to go on for a quarter of a mile, and the trail of blood was fresh and the ever-present stink of death hovered in the air.

  After we passed another mile of the valley's jungle, I spotted the guides conversing with each other. Then the friars interrupted and asked again, and when the guides responded I could see the friars' faces light up.

  The translators went on and on. There was gold there. That was certain. Then the guides brought back specimens and we held them in our hands. They were only little chunks of amber stone, but if melted, they could rule the world.

  The men shouted as word had spread, but soon the shouts dissolved to whispers, and we forged on with our hopes and heads held high.

  "We're close!”

  “We’re finally close.”

  “Thank Christ.”

  VI

  But what the Spanish did not know was that this land of gold was much more than a land. It was an empire. An empire of millions. The empire of the Incas. And their leader, Atahualpa, was not a man who took to invaders lightly. He was tall with wide shoulders, and he walked like a king even when he was a child. He reveled in war and looked forward to every battle. He looked forward to blood and looked for it in all things, especially within the falling rain.

  Had they known these facts, the Spanish might not have gone so far as they did. Had they known just how impossible it might have seemed, they wouldn’t even think of such things. And some may argue that had they known the true and incredible limitations and the odds against them, they wouldn’t haven’t even left Spain in the first place.

  But history continued, as did the expedition.

  It was about year ago that Atahualpa lodged a spear into the eye of the last remaining Huáscar warrior. Then afterward, the bloody three-year civil war had seized, and Atahualpa was finally crowned king. But Atahualpa, wanted no ostentatious ceremonies, nor well-wishers to greet him. Instead, he reveled in the silence of the moment and sauntered through his kingdom alone for weeks at a time and always with a grin. As he made his strolls from the dense, green lush of the impenetrable jungles of Vilcabamba, to the grand and mighty city of Cusco, and then through the snow and ice of the south cliffs of the Andes, it was as if he was floating, and on nights where he saw the stars peeking out from the horizon, he sat and contemplated and looked at his beloved land. His empire.

  "It was worth fighting for." He thought. "And again if necessary."

  A month elapsed and the Generals and Imperial Court members became quite alarmed at the extent of Atahualpa's meditation. Whenever a messenger was sent to him he would dismiss each plea with a look of disgust and a spit to the ground. Atahualpa’s brother, Manco, accompanied him on occasion, and on stifling summer evenings they walked through the thick jungle canopy and ate whatever the jungle had to offer. As autumn arrived, though, Manco departed and left Atahualpa alone to think, and as the brisk autumn mornings arrived, the thoughts came in a rush and were all abound.

  Atahualpa thought of the blood, the men he lost, and the men he killed. Certainly he couldn't calculate the numbers, but it was considerable, well into the hundreds, if not into thousands, yet all that blood now seemed opaque in his mind and more abstract. Death was never a rarity, it could be seen in all things, and he knew deep down that it was beautiful. Atahualpa thought about his own death many times over. His father told him to be ready for that day since he was a little boy and ever since then he was looking for to it. There was always an eerie calm in this way of thinking, and he imagined his death would come in battle. In his mind, there was no other place. He imagined the spike ramming straight through his flesh, and could sometimes feel the gush of his own blood spew like drips of rain. He imagined the seconds where the world would spin and the faces of his ancestors would appear through dark clouds, and when it felt right he would finally join them, and all below would sympathize, and afterward, another king would be crowned, and the cycle would repeat itself.

  Yet most upsetting to Atahualpa was the awareness of being king, for the tumult of commitment and control became overwhelming, and he was beginning to see the gray in all situations. Every decision was more important than the next, and for the first time in Atahualpa’s life acting calm took more energy than he ever thought was possible.

  But with all his swarming thoughts, Atahualpa knew one thing for sure. He'd much rather die young than to die the death of an old man, for in his mind dying an old man's death was the worse curse anyone could cast on a man, and under no circumstances would he accept that. From all this, Atahualpa concluded a very simple thing: being a king meant doing things in his own terms.

  And now was his time to rule.

  As it got too cold to bear, Atahualpa returned to Cajamarca, a city-state of his empire, and to the dismay of the Inca Royal Court, he stayed there permanently. Each night Atahualpa gathered near his women, his wives, and his sisters, and they sat and prayed and watched the night stars, and each night Atahualpa indulged accordingly. He ate feasts of fowl and bats, and delicacies reserved only for sacred ceremonies, but for Atahualpa, and indeed for all of his people, every day was a sacred ceremony, and now was the time to do such things. As time passed, Atahualpa grew more arrogant and had formed a bulging, protruding stomach that no other man was capable of possessing.

  One morning Manco and Atahualpa walked along the base of the mountain to meet the shaman. They waited for him on a humid afternoon and ate berries and aguajes that were overripe. Atahualpa looked extremely tired as he gazed over the sacred hills of the Andes and tried to quell his exhaustion by singing an old, lilting song.

  Manco, on the other hand, looked quite disturbed as he saw gray clouds emerge from Machu Picchu, for he had spoken with the shaman a week prior and was informed of the bad news. He repeated the conversation over and over again in his mind, and tried to relay it to Atahualpa, but he failed to gain his interest. Word for word came back to Manco and haunted his soul. It also came to him in dreams and visions, and in the deep and unknowing blackness of the night. It was the prophecy. A Pachukuti. The world turned upside down.

  But Atahualpa needed to hear from the shaman himself. So he, along with Manco, set forth to meet the shaman beyond the mellow brook. They waited an hour while a storm rumbled along the land. Soon rain poured onto the valley and the temple walls were surrounded by mud. As the rain subsided Atahualpa and Manco waited another two hours and rested on rocks, giving into the tranquil of the stream and tips and muddles of the fish below. They waited another hour and the stillness of the air drew
back as the sun returned.

  Yet another hour elapsed, but there still was no sign of the shaman. The clouds turned black and the storm raged beyond the Andes, and the black rain submerged in mud.

  But there was still no sign of the shaman.

  VII

  As Atahualpa reigned, he was always surrounded by people he trusted, and there was no man more than Waman Poma. Waman Poma was Atahualpa’s friend for five years who held a minor role in the Royal Court and was later appointed as Atahualpa’s prime adviser. Though the two never said more than five words to each other in a given day, their respect for one another was palpable. As for Manco, it was much the same, though his conversations with Waman Poma were even more limited, and Manco being a man of few words, asserted his agreements and disagreements with only nods and sighs.