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  They curtsied, departed and raced, down the stairs again, and I waited for their footsteps to dissipate. A half minute later I turned to Coronado.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said to him.

  “They look like their mother. Thank God.” Coronado said.

  “Thank God,” I repeated.

  “There’s another on the way. Beatrice told me last week. She’s due in one month.”

  “You must be very proud.”

  “I am, Sardina. So. Where were we?”

  “I forget.”

  “No, you don’t. We left off with Cajamarca. After the battle.”

  “Oh, yes. Cajamarca…”

  “Please continue, Sardina.”

  I examined the rose and sniffed its petals. I was purely stalling, and Coronado knew it, but I took my time. My mind was exhausted and I gave the rose my full attention. The petals were fresh and its color was a deep violent that reminded me of the roses my mother used to grow back in Spain. It was full, and its scent was sweet and effervescent, but its stem, like my mother’s roses, were full of sharp thorns, and although I was extremely careful, I pricked my finger and drew a tiny amount of blood, and after seeing this Coronado laughed and sighed and yawned.

  And I tried to remember.”

  II

  “When the battle was over there were dead bodies all over the square. Blood and feces lay all about. It was a horrible smell that permeated throughout the day and I could barely breathe.

  I remember the swirls of black smoke that hovered in the air. We inhaled the smoke and it made us choke and gag, and for that reason, much of the morning remained uneventful.

  It wasn’t until the afternoon that we saw the exact extent of the massacre. When the smoke lifted and we saw just how many bodies were scattered amongst the square, even the hardened of our men were appalled at the sheer amount.

  Several injured Incas still lay on the square. They were the undead. I saw some of them hold their intestines in their arms and I remembered their eyes were too white, and their pupils were as small as mosquitoes. They crawled and moaned and sputtered, and we stabbed them again and for good measure, sometimes taking the end of our swords and smashing in their skulls. I know some things are better left unsaid, but some things of the past never really escape our minds in the speed we want them to.

  Some men chased the Incas to ends of the city and into the jungle, but after they disappeared, the men returned to the square and collectively shrugged their shoulders.

  As the afternoon progressed, I managed to see Atahualpa stand with a dozen of our men at his side. I heard him sob and cry with loud bursts of anger as the guards threatened him with their swords and escorted him away, but I internally I knew why Atahualpa had cried and why his heart was broken.

  It was because he was still alive.”

  III

  Because Atahualpa was still alive, he was the main center of coercion, and he himself knew full well what the extent of his capture meant. Everything now would be dictated under Spanish terms and he would have to succumb to every one of their commands.

  Atahualpa was escorted by three guards and transferred to the lower end of the temple steps. From there he was shown by the smiling Spaniards the corpse of the high priest who was stabbed multiple times in the back. The translators told him that this was the fate he’d share if he were not to comply.

  Atahualpa asked his guards for Manco, but the guards gave no reply. He found his servants now enchained by the Spanish. Atahualpa cried out to them, begging any of them if they had seen Manco, but none of the servants said a word.

  And in his silent prayer, he tried to communicate to Manco. He repeated Manco’s name over and over again. Then he turned calm and he tried the best he could to keep his hope alive.

  As for the rest of the Incas, the majority of them fled on foot and joined each other, forming individual groups. And with only their songs and prayers, they ran. They ran until they couldn’t run anymore. It didn’t amount to much some days, and some days their feet were too sore, but they knew staying in Cajamarca meant immediate death, so they ran as far as possible.

  When they were too tired, they stopped and prayed and their eyes were still filled with sorrow. The Incas all knew there was nothing they could do but pray. And pray they did and waited for the shaman. The sung their songs of laments and they talked and expressed their unaccountable dreams, and some believed that they were still dreaming, still trying to awaken from this nightmare. They tried to erase the events of the previous day out of their minds, but deep down they knew the exercise was pointless, for deep down they knew the shaman was right. This was a Pachukuti. This was the world turned upside down, and indeed, this was only the beginning, and although Atahualpa was still very much alive, he was as good as dead to them. Life was saved for the living, and they ran and hurried out of Cajamarca to make sure of their survival. For in their minds, and in all reality, there was only one option: and that was Cusco. The last great city. It had to be saved.

  Manco’s first son, Titu Cusi, and his wife, Cura, joined one the groups in the first week of the escape, and they too fled from Cajamarca as fast as they could, and although they asked many times there was still no sign of Manco.

  A group of Incas soon grew from a dozen to about a hundred, and Cura kept close to Titu and she held his hand through the long trek through the Vilcabamba jungle. They were all fearful and their eyes were still in a state of shock, and some dropped dead from sheer exhaustion.

  At the time, Titu was only seven years old, but the trauma of that day remained in his mind and, as a result, he remembered every detail. He remembered the faces that were burned. He remembered the heads that were decapitated and the gigantic horses that trampled over the children. He remembered the look his uncle Atahualpa gave him, how he wept and sobbed as Cajamarca burned. But most of all, the thought that pervaded Titu’s mind was the thought that he would never see his father again. His mother continued to ask the group if they had seen any whereabouts of Manco, but all she received from the group were shakes of heads and shrugs of shoulders.

  For seven nights and six days Titu waited for his father to return, and each night his prayers went unanswered. Cura could see it in Titu’s eyes, that all he wanted was to see his father, and as each day drew to a close she could see that doubt grow into her child’s mind, and this made her anxious and afraid. What Cura too could only think about was Manco, whether he was still alive, or whether he died in Cajamarca, and there were some nights she didn’t even have the energy to cry because she was so exhausted. In her dreams, she thought about the future, and what happen to Titu, and still what would happen to Cusco and the rest of her people, and when she awoke she found Titu clutched to her leg and still asleep. She held him a tighter and cried but she did not make a sound, and in the morning, she took Titu by the hand and joined the rest of the group and passed through a trail that led to the valley.

  Then one kind morning finally arrived, and with it came Manco. He appeared from behind a redwood and outstretched his arms to the delight of a hundred Incas. He had been running in haste for a week and had finally caught up with townsmen he knew and followed them through Vilcabamba. When Titu caught sight of his father, he leaped into Manco’s arms and didn’t let go, and after a minute, Cura did the same. The excruciating week was over and the family was finally back together again.

  Then Manco took control of the group and lead them towards a hidden path that he and Atahualpa used in times of emergency. Some of the group were dismayed at the extent of this new found path and cursed Manco underneath their breath, but the rest went along and refused to say a word, and for another two days the Incas forged through the new pass with absolutely no clue which direction they were going.

  They asked repeatedly two questions. Where were they going? And where was the Shaman? But Manco answered neither.

  After a week, the group's’ demands were vocalized louder, and finally, Manco answered their questions with comp
lete and brutal honesty. He had no idea where they were going, and he had no idea where the shaman was, and naturally this only brought more questions.

  “What’s happen to Atahualpa? What will become of Cusco? What are we to do?”

  Again Manco refused to answer any question. Instead, he gave them a look of sympathy, which was the same look he gave when important heads of states died. But the real reason he gave them this look, was the simple fact he knew none of the answers. In reality, they were about ten miles away from Cajamarca. They still smelled the smoke, but they still weren’t as safe as they knew they should be. Thoughts crept into Manco’s mind as weeks passed. Certainly returning to Cajamarca was not only absurd but there was no point in doing so, nor was hiding in Vilcabamba an option. And as Manco thought more he knew that if he could return to Cusco, he could warn the citizens of the Spanish invaders. But he knew he had to get there before they did.

  The trek was long and dreadful. Thick wavy vines that went on to climb on gigantic four hundred foot redwoods went on for miles at a time. And below in the canopy were bright nasty black toucans that often fought with blue jays and other Peruvian birds. And beyond the nests of spiders, the bats shrieked and harmonized with the growls of ocelots and jaguars.

  Manco was careful not to follow the same trails through the canopy in fear that the Spanish would follow them, so he comprised a strategy of creating a new trail every three miles. To the dismay of his followers, this meant trekking under brushes of poisoned ivy and underneath snakes and lizards. About three of his accompanied Incas grew violently ill and died while clutching their stomachs. And after two days of doing this, it was clear to everybody that they were hopelessly lost. Frustration clamored onto the faces of his followers, and dejected by this, they left Manco in disgust and forged their own way.

  “We’re lost!” A handful of them said. “This is the Huáscar land. We’ll be butchered!” They shouted. But their cries were ignored.

  “We keep moving.” Said Manco.

  And so they did.

  But for those who stayed, they had seen a state of Manco’s face that they’d never seen before. It was the face of utter fear and tumult. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Manco’s reticence was purposeful. He was their leader now, but there was no shred of confidence in his face.

  He was terrified.

  After heavy rains, the sun shined again and bold rainbows were sought through the falling streams and brooks, but these things couldn’t bring a smile to Manco’s face. He looked at them with apathy, for he was paralyzed with fear. He thought about Cusco, and he knew that it was the next to fall. He could see the lines of devastation, and the vision he had in the ceremony was now as clear as the full moon. As he thought, it was as if he was growing older by the second, and in that moment, Manco paused and sighed, for he finally felt and acknowledged in whole the insurmountable weight that was now square on his shoulders.

  It was too much to bear and Manco was finally coming to terms with it.

  IV

  “While I waited in the square, I searched all around for Soto, but I couldn’t find him. I wanted to see him smile. In reality, I wanted someone to confirm that I wasn’t dreaming and that I would wake up still in the jungle.

  I paced around the square for almost an hour. There was a cut in my eye, and periodically the blood would drip and mix with my sweat, but I hardly felt it. I couldn’t manage to think in all that time, so I stood in the square and overlooked it all.

  Thousands of corpses still lay on the square. Somewhere stacked in piles, but some remained alone as if purposely discarded. Each corpse I saw seemed bloated and disfigured, and each face was cold and blubbery. Some had their eyes open. Some had them shut, but their faces were cold and blubbery. Rats crawled out from their crevices, and I wasn’t surprised to see some of them gather to the corpses and gnaw at their faces.

  Then suddenly an Inca tackled me to the ground. He managed to put his entire weight on my shoulders and tried to choke me with his bare hands. Our faces were inches away from each other and he clenched his teeth then tried to bite my face. Seconds later I heard the shot of hand cannon, and the Inca’s blood splattered onto my face. Five soldiers rushed over and plunged their swords into him, and more blood spilled onto my armor. When they were finished they heaved the corpse onto the pile, and in the afternoon, we were ordered to burn each pile and each visible corpse.

  I went to the stream to wash my face and I heard men snicker at me as I rushed over, but most of them just looked at me with indifference. When I got to the stream, I rubbed my face. The water was cold and I blinked several times, but it took awhile for me to stand up straight.

  I returned back to the square and sifted my way through. My hands felt heavy as if they were someone else’s. Then I heard shouts coming from the temple steps, and Gonzalo Pizarro was the loudest voice of all.

  “Burn it! Burn it all!”

  So men with lit torches went to work and burned more corpses, and rarely did I see anything more surreal. Then when I finally recovered I saw the square from a distance. The smoke arose once more, and the smell of burning flesh and dried blood filled the air, and my God was it awful.

  The last thing we burned that day was the magnificent wooden totem pole the Incas named “Malokei," and until that day it served as a spiritual vanguard. The Inca women wailed when we came and drew our torches and when we approached the pole and lit asunder, we were amazed how quickly it burned. There were many heads carved into that pole, heads of snakes and birds and faces of gods that must have been there for a hundred years, but our orders were to burn it.

  The pole continued to burn. Its charred remnants fell and swirled in the wind as it crackled and sifted, and the flames grew brighter and stronger as the wood flew into splinters and scattered along the stone. And in a flash, it was gone, and its remnants were only ash.

  Then the priests took over and replaced the pole with a twenty foot cross of their own, draped in velvet purple satin. We found a crevice and planted it, then crossed ourselves, and then the priests recited and prayed the rosary.

  “Hail Mary Full of Grace The Lord is with Thee. Blessed Art Thou amongst Women and blessed is the Fruit of Thy Womb, Jesus.”

  When it was over, we recited the Lord’s Prayer and moved away from the square and waited for further orders, and the priests looked for any Inca worthy to baptize.

  In the afternoon, we gathered the slaves, laced them with chains on their hands and ankles, and ordered them in rows and squads. I remembered there were many, but I never knew the exact number. I just remember their sad, painful walk as they left the square and were quartered outside of the city’s limits, and I remembered them looking at the remaining corpses on the square: each corpse a friend, and each as dead as the stone they lay upon. They walked with fear and dread and shame, and the men were quick to lash them when they languished. They prayed, looking up to the gray sky as if they wished the heavens would pour and flood this land forever, and somehow and by some way their people would swim to safety, land upon a new land ashore and start over. But the more they looked up to the sky, the more dismayed they got, for they knew in their hearts nothing would come down for a long, long time.

  As evening came, the smoke lifted and the blood stained square became clear again, though there were still unattended corpses scattered around the square.

  The night was filled with laughter, but most of all questions. Questions that rolled like thunder. Loud and dreadful and unending questions.

  I was exhausted and my mouth was dry, and the wine I drank poisoned me to stupor. Then I drooled and the last thing I remember seeing was the victorious cross that was planted before the temple.

  Some of the men were still too excited to sleep, but not me. I slept more than I ever slept in my entire life, but I didn’t dream. All was blackness. And I didn’t hear a sound.

  In the morning, I woke and saw Soto sitting close by. He was studying the chessboard and shaking his head. Th
en he looked at me with disdain, smirked, and then left.

  An hour passed but I was still in a daze, and my head seemed as if were on a swivel. I inadvertently ran into many men, and they shoved me about and grunted and cursed at me. Then I found myself in the corner of the city, where stone slab steps crossed into the jungle, and from there I saw Francisco and Soto converse by a tall tree.

  I wasn’t shocked nor was I surprised. Clearly Soto had some influence in the expedition’s matters, but it seemed now that he was more than just a “good friend” of Francisco and Almagro, and he graduated into a general manager of sorts. It was Soto’s time to shine and he knew it well.

  Whispers and mumbles were all I could discern, but when I looked at Francisco, it was as he was a changed man. His presence seemed tolerable. There was a newfound levity to his personality. Even the way he staggered seemed a bit lighter, and his pale old gaunt face turned red and full, and for the first time in his life, he looked incredulous.