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  We marveled and stopped to look at it. But when our shock was over, we shook our heads and went to work.

  We stripped off the base of each statue and then pried off its back and the head peace until all that was left was stone. The statues looked strange and naked, but we paid little attention. We had work to do.

  We the day ended we returned to the temple and the chamber room and dropped the load onto the floor, but it only filled five feet. The rest of the room was still very much empty.

  It wasn’t enough. We need more. Much more. More work was needed. More gold was required.

  All knew it. All knew it well.

  It would take a year to fill the entire room, or so we thought.

  We didn’t care. We went back to the caves. We went back to work, and each day was a gift.

  Again we took to the cave’s ceiling and focused on the tiny specks scattered along. So we got to work and chipped away with our swords. For hours at a time that’s all we did, and the chinks and pings and plops and slinks of falling rocks were the only sounds made, and it became the downbeat of our daily prayer. And to the end of each day, our faith was replenished.

  The metal was incredibly dense and after a week, it wore out our swords. The blacksmiths made us pickaxes and shovels that were crafted out of iron ores. And we went back to work.

  It was work and it was tiring. We sang songs, songs we knew and songs we forgot, and we filled the barrels and moved on to another cave.

  There was more silver in the caves to the south, and more men poured in with pickaxes and shovels. But obviously, the gold caves were the most popular and the most worked on. And the farther we dipped into the darkness, the more gold we found. At the end of each day, our faces were drenched with dirt and sweat, and our hands were mangled and busted and rotting from the inside. And the caves were very good to us. There was never a bad day of digging.

  In a week’s time, we ended up with quite a sum. Yet to the grim reality of all, what we dug were rocks with gold specs hidden few and far between. It wasn’t gold in the proper sense yet, for it needed to be melted and multiplied, and that job was left to the half dozen selected goldsmiths and hall markers, which we nicknamed “The Gold Makers”. We hadn’t much respect or patience for them at first, but when we saw the finished product they became our closest friends.

  The process baffled us and it was pure magic to watch them work, and we were always so curious, acting like children with big wondrous eyes, pointing our fingers, and giggling in excitement.

  I saw the soupy golden concoction being boiled, and it reminded me of my grandmother’s horrible stew that she made for weddings and festivals. Then the melted gold bubbled and the goop was placed and pressed and multiplied into thousands of pieces. Then more gold was pressed into other contraptions and the final product came out in the forms of coins, rings, plates, and bars. But when the gold simmered, it was startling. And when it cooled I was speechless. The gold makers were professionals and meticulous, and the more gold we piled the more gold they poured and melted. Primed and pure.

  The final product satisfied all, for it finally looked like the old world, and although the jungle wore us down, we could finally hold the gold in our hands and that made all the difference.

  Then the hall makers made it official. And finally, the finished product was transported in bars, coins, and crosses. But it was all gold. And now it was permanent.

  The treasurers marked down and tallied. Every day more gold was produced, and every day we made our way into the room and filled it a little deeper. Then in a month, the calculations came in. There were thirteen thousand gold bars, but it didn’t fill even a sixteenth the size of the chamber room.

  So we went back to caves to search for more.

  A month passed, but the old song remained the same. We approached more caves along the south cliff, and another ten miles down the basin of the great stream we found, even more, caves. It was exciting, yet all too baffling, and as we rode passed the cliff we used our horses to drive the wagons up and down.

  In all that time the servants never said a word. They simply did their work, whether they were whipped or not. They carried the loads onto the wagons, went back into the caves and repeated, and their faces remained gray and lifeless and resembled the corpses that we burned not too long ago. There were times I wished I could I tell what they were thinking, and often times I wondered if they were thinking why we were doing this. Why gold meant so much to us. Why we felt like new men when we found it. And how strange of a creature we were and remained.

  But most of the time while in the cave, I didn’t think at all. Most of the times, I marveled at our daily production. And most of the time, I tried not to die of astonishment.

  And fine mornings blurred into fine months. Every day was the same, but we were delighted. Piles and piles lay upon the chamber floor. But we didn’t count it. We left that job to the treasurers, and my God were there a slew of them. They wrote on parchment and their penmanship was horrendous, but they attested each day, “These reports are accurate. Yes. We spared nothing in our accounting.”

  Needless to say, no one believed them, and I wasn’t the only man who gave them their daily-deserved sneer.

  The treasurer, Alvar Moldova, was in charge of the calculations, but after a few days, the amount of gold was impossible to account. It was hard for Moldova to keep a straight face at times. Even he didn’t believe the amount we had accrued.

  Then one day came and the Incas simply revolted and refused to comply with their orders. I guess they finally had enough. It was quite a complex little cue and for an entire afternoon, they gave us a hell of a resistance. Their energy was relentless. They pushed and pulled and tore into faces with their fingernails. It was obvious the revolt was planned, but once initiated it was poorly executed, and it left with the majority of the Incas fleeing instead of fighting on. Some of them escaped and ran into the jungle. But most of them had been killed. We killed about a hundred in all, but those who escaped might have well been into the thousands. It took quite a while to control the areas, and our men required more chains and delivered lash after lash with our whips to secure the captured slaves. The later stages of that afternoon were filled with anger and distrust. But after the day ended, it was certain that this would be the last of the revolts. So we went back to the caves, dug our daily quota, and whipped the Incas a little harder when they refused to show us more.

  In the time I rested, I studied the Brothers and tried to draw my own conclusions, but I passed no judgment, only my observations, for keeping up with the Pizarro brothers proved to be quite difficult. Francisco was always in private quarters with Hernando, and there were sometimes where I couldn’t find Juan for weeks. I suppose he was busy doing other things. But the brother who stood out to me was Gonzalo because I understood him the most, and quite frankly he was very simple to understand. Now that’s not to say that I related to him. I only understood him because he was the most incurable.

  The Pizarros all muttered to themselves (indeed might have a family practice), but none muttered to themselves more than Gonzalo. His growls were pitched in a deep baritone, and in his mind it was a one-sided world, and he was very much in love with it. There were many things he sought, and he took his pleasure with a different Inca woman every night. But each morning his face was filled with dissatisfaction. His gratification needed to be instant, and I wondered sometimes how in the world he managed to sleep.

  There were only two occasions where I shared a conversation with Gonzalo, and the things we talked about were commonalities, but even then I could tell he wanted something more than gold, and from there I drew one obvious conclusion. Gonzalo marveled at the gold like anyone else, but I could tell that he remained empty. The gold wasn’t enough for him. He was yearning for something else.

  I wondered what raced through his mind. What pleasure was to be gained if there was no end point? And his face above all led me to become aware that there was, in fact, evil
in the world. Not morally but spiritually, for it transcended the physical, and was of another world. And it could all be seen in Gonzalo's face alone.

  What was it then? I couldn’t tell, and I doubt that he knew himself. He lived in his mind more than any man of the expedition, even more than Soto, I believed. Steps ahead were inconceivable to me, but Gonzalo was infatuated in defending what was gained. And I could see the thoughts pour into his mind.

  Perhaps he was thinking of what to do with the Incas and in what manner. Perhaps he was thinking what life would be without Francisco and who would take the lead? Perhaps he was thinking of what he would say to God when he died.

  Perhaps.

  And as I stared at Gonzalo, I wanted desperately to play chess with him, to see what he was really made of. But to my dismay, every time I offered him to play he refused. I was shocked at first, but the more I thought about the more knew the reason. He was afraid of it. For I saw the same fear I had when Soto first introduced the game to me.

  There were too many pieces. Too many rules. And too much could go wrong. It was too much of a mystery, too much like real life. But I secretly knew the real reason he didn’t want to play. He was afraid that he would learn something, and he said what most men say when they couldn’t feign interest.

  “I cannot waste my time.”

  But Gonzalo had a point. Playing the game meant delving much time. I guess it was too much to invest. I didn’t blame him for not wanting to pursue the game. There was no pretense to Gonzalo at all, and his honesty clearly won the hearts of many, and it was refreshing. But sometimes the ferocity of his honesty got in the way of his communication. He had no time for ethics or apologies. He was too busy being Gonzalo. It must have been exhausting.

  I must admit, though, I did learn a tremendous amount from him. He was forming his own identity, and even though he was the youngest of the Pizarros, he established his character very early. And maybe that was the reason he didn’t want to play. He was beyond the game. Or at least, that’s what he thought.

  In the angst of his eyes, I could tell that he was thinking about one solitary thing: how he was to become king and when his time would arrive. Deep down he wanted power. Deep down he wanted dominance and control. He wanted to be king of his own accord, but he knew he’d have to share it first and then wait his turn. And deep down I knew these things were true.

  He was simply too young, and he still lived in a very old world. And perhaps that’s what he was doing: waiting. Waiting for his time.

  And when he was done thinking, Gonzalo took to each day and did what was asked of him. He fulfilled orders, he asked questions, he tortured. For every day, it was required of him to do such things. And with that acceptance, he lived in the present moment, still ornery and unsatisfied.

  For the facts were ever present and the facts remained.

  The conquest was not over, and there was still plenty gold to be found.”

  VII

  “In two months, a quarter of the chamber room was filled.

  In three months half of the room was filled.

  And in eight months, Atahualpa's promise was there for all to see.

  The entire chamber room, all twenty-two feet, every square inch was filled with gold.

  You would think the Pizarros would be satisfied.

  You would think.

  But rather than marvel, the Pizarros were quite dubious and their emotions escaped them. They were too busy thinking.

  The Brothers talked amongst themselves and the Almagros did the same. They stared at Atahualpa, but Atahualpa's face was not of sadness, rather it was of pride. He set out to accomplish the deed, and fulfilled the promise, and believed with all his heart the Spanish would grant him his freedom.

  When the final wheelbarrow was brought and finished dumping its contents to the floor, Atahualpa turned to the Brothers and held his chained hands above his chin.

  But the Pizarros just smiled.

  He turned to the Almagro and his son and each of them glared and scowled.

  Then Atahualpa whispered in a mild tone and repeated several times.

  “He asks for his release.” Said the translators.

  “He asks for his freedom.”

  But there was no reply.

  Then the Brothers left the room and the Almagros followed.

  Atahualpa screamed at the top of his lungs, and he bent his knees with his arms outstretched and begged for the final time for his release, but the guards took their whips and lashed him ceaselessly until they were ordered to stop.

  The lashes dug straight into his back and Atahualpa winced, fell to the ground, and bled.

  We knew the room was full, but we could only speculate the Pizarros’ next move. But none knew for sure.”

  VIII

  “The next morning was the feast of St. Andrew and we all awoken by the solemn opening prayer. I remembered the hymn. It was sung only during weddings and on St. Andrew’s mass, but the monks sang it with a perfect pitch. Every chord was devastating, and the forgotten Latin throttled my mind. For I always attested that Latin was ancient and more powerful than our common Spanish. It was mystical and haunting and altogether frightful, and not hearing it for a while and then hearing it in full it felt as if the words were fermenting in my mind, and like a sweet wine, it would have to wait for another generation to enjoy.

  The monks looked to the blue sky and caressed their rosary beads. Valverde’s face was always wrinkled and domineering but it seemed to be at the height of its arrogance that day. He led the opening verse with his booming loud baritone, and sung and slurred his verses to the crowd. It was clear to everyone that he was extremely hung over. Then the monks chose the Incas worthy of baptism, and they blessed and caressed them tenderly like wounded lambs. They then laid their hands on the Inca’s foreheads dipping them backward into the marble fonts. When the sacrifice ended, they were new holy children of God, faithfully accepted. And afterward Valverde lightly struck each of them on their head and slapped them across the cheek, and he watched them all gag on the holy host. They were wild, new, Christians, drowned in subservience, and for some, it was a pure delight to see.

  I drifted again, but not in a dream, rather in the immensity of it all. It was a time for us to give thanks to our Lord thy God. And so we did. And for most they were glad and relieved.

  Then after mass, a great feast was held on the temple steps, and a dozen llamas were pitted over a fire and then cooked medium rare. I looked around to see if I could find the Pizarros or Almagros, but I was really looking for Soto. After a few minutes of walking from the temple back to the square, I realized they were hiding for a reason.

  Then as the sun went down, I looked at the chessboard and came to the horrid conclusion that I drank too much wine. Darkness came and so did confusion. A familiar face stared in the eyes. For a long time I thought it was Soto, but when he spoke I knew it wasn’t.

  It was Almagro’s son, Diego. He too was very drunk, and his face was red with quiet, restless rage.

  “Have a game?” He said to me.

  “Sure,” I said, half delighted and half frightened.

  He defeated me two times out of three. His moves were quite aggressive, but I caught on to it quick.

  Then he slurred his words and told me what would happen the next morning. I didn’t believe him at first.

  “He’s mine,” Diego said.

  I saw the madness in his mind as he clutched his sword.

  “Why do you want to kill him?” I asked.

  “Because of what we’ll gain.” Said Diego.

  “And what’s that?” I asked.

  “The bastard’s dead tomorrow.” Diego said and repeated. “That’s all you need to know. It’s about fucking time.”

  And with that, Diego scoffed at me, left me alone, gave me a final glare and then disappeared from sight. I saw him later that night as he sat with his father and shared a jug of wine. But I stayed put and hadn’t had the heart to walk over.


  In the morning, Diego made his daily stroll around the square, and from there a small crowd began to form. He patted a dozen men on the shoulder and shook each Pizarro’s hand. The crowd grew and I knew exactly what was happening.

  Some time ago Soto explained to me the importance of the pawn sacrifice, and this was it in full, and when Diego made his way towards the square I knew for sure. He held his sword along the air with the point upwards, as if a priest carrying a cross. Then as planned Diego walked up and made his way toward the chained Atahualpa, who was standing alone in the center of the square.