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  Jeers erupted into a collective roar. The Incas were appalled. Our men salivated.

  Then Diego inched closer and threatened Atahualpa with his sword. He pretended to stab him several times, coming inches from his flesh, but making no contact. He repeated this with a devious smirk.

  But to Diego’s dismay, Atahualpa didn’t move. He only glared.

  Diego moved in closer with his sword and then cut Atahualpa cheek, but Atahualpa didn’t even flinch.

  Diego then repeated one word over and over again, and the translators dictated.

  The word was “beg”.

  The translators repeated.

  But Atahualpa smiled and shook his head from side to side.

  Then Diego threw down his sword and the whole crowd was baffled.

  Francisco belted out from the crowd and the order was given, and the guards approached Atahualpa and unleashed him from his chains.

  And without hesitation, Atahualpa went straight for Diego and tackled him to the ground. Atahualpa then mounted on top Diego and threw as many punches as he possibly could. Then he reached out with both hands and tried to strangle Diego.

  It was only then that his Spanish guards intervened and pulled Atahualpa off. They surrounded Atahualpa, kicked him to the ground and wrapped his wrists in chains once more.

  The Pizarros and Almagro came to the aid of Diego who was bloodied and hyperventilating. They all nodded at each other and then patted Diego on the shoulder. The plan was executed.

  It worked to perfection.

  Then they formed a line and headed to the center of the square, and the crowd roared with a cheer.

  And from there the trial began.”

  CHAPTER 3

  The noonday sun arrived and Waman Poma saw it all. Eight months of torture was finally drawing to its inevitable end.

  Atahualpa again was surrounded by six guards and was forced to stand up with his face bloodied, his wrists swelled, and his whole body wrapped and locked with rusted chains.

  A crowd assembled and the men enjoyed and reveled as the word spread that today was the day. Trail or not, Atahualpa was finally going to meet his fate.

  Then the drums blared and the men gathered Atahualpa and forced into the center of the square. The whole square was filled and we felt the haunting anticipation.

  Again Valverde showed off the Bible as he marched with it, hands raised to the sky. Valverde’s face was full of pure hatred, hatred of the kind only seen in demons of a biblical text. He blessed himself more times than he could count, and stood in reverence behind his cross, and as his other friars joined him, they walked single file towards the square and assembled to their seats.

  Then Valverde hastened and wrote on a piece of parchment. He drew several lines at the bottom and the document was complete. About twenty men looked over Valverde’s shoulder, and after he scribbled together the last paragraph he drew several lines at the end.

  Then Valverde handed Francisco the quill, and Francisco carefully signed, as did each of his brothers, Almagro, his son, and Soto. Then the jury assembled and the trial commenced.

  They stared at Atahualpa and spat at the ground when Valverde took the stand.

  Valverde took the helm and sitting on wooden chairs, the jury assembled and they consisted of the Pizarros, Almagros, Soto, and four other men.

  “Atahualpa Inca,” Valverde began. “You are hereby charged on the following counts.”

  Waman Poma wiped away his eyes, and shook his head, and Valverde went on and read from the parchment.

  “Atahualpa Inca, you are accused of conspiracy to the Crown and to the Holy Catholic Church for attempting to incite and injure. You are also accused of high treason and perjury to the estate of King Charles and the appointed Governors of New Spain by knowingly withdrawing secrets thereby causing severe and insufferable damage to us and our sacred mission.”

  The servants looked on in grief. They knew there was only one outcome.

  The executioners smiled and sharpened their swords. The trial continued. Almagro seemed to take the greatest delight.

  The light came in from the broken stone pillars and shone through shadows.

  Atahualpa couldn’t even scream anymore. And he knew for sure that this was his last day among the living.

  Then Valverde addressed the jury.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, how do you find?”

  Then the Brothers and Almagros sounded.

  “Guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  “Guilty.”

  The rest of the jury members went silent and merely nodded their heads.

  “Atahualpa Inca. You are hereby charged with high treason. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  And before Atahualpa could yell his last defiant cry, three Spanish soldiers plunged their swords into his back.

  The Spanish stood still and silent as Atahualpa’s blood poured into a pool, and the Incas screamed in horror. They stabbed him more for good measure, and the crowd watched in utter shock when he fell face down into a pool of his own blood.

  It happened so quick the Incas thought they were dreaming. They cried and shrieked and prayed and sulked.

  Waman Poma held his head in his hands and convulsed. He looked again, but it was true. Their king was dead. Their great king Atahualpa was dead. Their world was upside down.

  A mass exodus followed as Inca after Inca fled Cajamarca and headed for the dense jungle. The Spanish gave chase, but only momentarily. The Inca cries echoed and could be heard throughout the entire Andes.

  When the execution was over, the Incas requested to possess the Atahualpa remains. They plead to Francisco several times, and Francisco accepted their request but ordered them to be followed.

  And another day drew to a close.

  II

  “I watched about a hundred Incas gathered and muttered their prayers out in the open. About another hundred Incas gathered around Atahualpa’s corpse and from there they prayed on for hours. With heavy cries they wailed and recited a lilting song, one they said Atahualpa recited every day, and when the song was over they laid Atahualpa’s corpse across a wooden bed and elevated him up.

  The Incas shook a powdery white substance and covered the corpse from head to toe. Then they took a roll of cloth and began to wrap the corpse, weaving layer after layer and then tightening each pass over. After another prayer, they wrapped the corpse entirely and the mummified corpse was blessed for the final time and encased in a wooden box and it stayed there alone.

  As the sun went down, our men returned to the fires and drank senselessly. In the morning, the box was nowhere to be found, but there wasn’t any reproach from either the Pizarros or Almagros, and indeed it was absurd to think what a corpse could be capable of doing besides corpse-like things.

  Still, I wondered what the Incas did to it, where they hid it, what they were hiding. But after seeing the corpse in full and the flies gathered among, my hopes were that they’d secure it in a secluded place and that it would eventually escape my memory.

  I peered over to examine the Incas faces. They were still gray and solemn and there was no telling what they were thinking.

  Then like every day, I lost sight of them and gave them little thought.”

  III

  In Vilcabamba, Manco found fifty other Incas gathered around a sacred stone. Manco long forgot about the stone and was amazed how long it was since he last saw it. The stone was much smaller than what he remembered.

  Cusco was another fifty miles away, and it seemed for Manco that it was the only destination. He saw it in his followers’ eyes that they could not thrive alone in Vilcabamba, that Cusco had to be preserved, else the Spanish would annihilate it the same way they annihilated Cajamarca.

  The Incas waited for the shaman to arrive, and after an hour, they grew impatient and prayed in their own way. But all were afraid.

  They stopped prayin
g during the evening, and Manco held his son, Titu Cusi, in his arms. There was no shaman, and many of the people knew that they weren’t going to see the shaman for a very long time.

  For days on end, Manco did not sleep. The only thing he ate were the leaves of a coca plant, which he chewed from morning to night. His eyes were always open and his hands trembled, and every half minute he turned his head to see what was behind him. But what haunted Manco the most was that he was unable to do fall into vision, even with his eyes closed.

  There weren’t many followers left and what few followers were left, were fearful of Manco, for he gave them maddening glares. After a week, Manco looked very strained. After another week, he looked half dead.

  For Cura, each day got worse and as more time passed the less she would talk to Manco. For several days, she hadn’t talked to her husband at all. There was no reason to, and she simply did not know what to say. Although she loved her husband very much, Cura knew that Manco was timid and quiet about certain matters that were beyond his control, and indeed saying needless words to him wouldn’t amount to any useful conclusion. So she stared at him in silence, but as the weeks passed by, it was clear to Manco that her assurance was dwindling, and quietly Cura had thought to herself about how impossible of a situation they were in. The only thing that aided her was Titu clinging on to her legs. That was her only respite.

  Then one day Manco saw a familiar face appear from the stream. It was Waman Poma and his face was grim and filled with pain. As he made his way down the ledge, deep down Manco knew full well what Waman Poma had to say, and as Waman Poma came to embrace him, Manco suddenly found it hard to breathe.

  Waman Poma told the events to Manco, and Manco cried and fell to his knees. But Waman Poma clutched to his trembling hands, then embraced Manco's whole body and tried to stop him from shaking.

  “This isn’t happening. This isn’t happening.” Manco whispered.

  But it did happen, and deep down Manco knew it was true. And he knew there was nothing he could do to bring Atahualpa back.

  He tried to think. He failed.

  So he felt. Then he remembered the vision. The visions of when the world went cold. The last vision he shared with Atahualpa and the shaman. The words were repeated. The vision. All too familiar. But now, all too real.

  A Pachukuti.

  “They killed him.” Said Waman Poma. “They killed him like a llama.”

  Then Waman Poma handed Manco a small piece of stone.

  “I found this.”

  Manco examined the tiny piece of stone. It was square with carvings on its top that were waves and undulated. It was a black rook. Sardina’s missing piece.

  “Do you know what this means, Manco?”

  Manco shook his head. “No. No, I have no idea.”

  “Does this mean?…”

  Again Manco shook his hand and patted Waman Poma on the shoulder.

  “I have no idea, Waman Poma.”

  And with that, Manco clutched on to the chess piece and placed it in his sack and moved away.

  Manco commanded his followers to press on, and he led them down a new trail. They crossed streams and waterfalls, and jungles that were dense and dark and filled with giant woods and endless vines. Days went on. They rested when they could, but most of the time they trudged.

  For another week and a half, they trekked through the same Vilcabamba jungle. And in all that time, Manco didn’t say more than two words a day. All he could think about was Cusco, and he wondered if it were still there.

  Then Manco ordered Waman Poma to take control of the group. All were shocked when they received the word, but Manco knew that it was the right decision.

  “Take them to Cusco,” He said to Waman Poma. “It shouldn’t take more than a couple more days. Warn the Royal Court of these spirits. Warn the people. I’ll return shortly. I promise.”

  He kissed Cura and Titu Cusi then headed back to the jungle with a bow and arrow in his hand. A dozen Inca men followed Manco, and they went back into the jungle and searched for the right trees.

  IV

  “When the time came, the men distributed our payment. And to every man’s delight, we finally felt our fortune in our own hands.

  My own fortune filled a small chest, and it weighed about thirty pounds. If I were to return to Spain, I’d own five miles. Five miles that were exclusively mine, and no one else's.

  I thought about my father and how I wished he were alive to see it up close. My father couldn’t even dream these things, or maybe he did dream about it but forgot. My father was a farmer and died poorer than any other man in Spain, but now his son could rule the entire world.

  Often times I’d see my father’s face in the full moon, and this made me feel at ease, for it was always smiling. I wished he were still alive. He would have loved the story if he lived, and I would have loved to tell him the tale. Sometimes at night, I dreamt of my father and in the dreams, I shared smiles and glasses of wine. I could picture his entire face as I told the tale. His bright red face. His soft snicker that led to a bumbling howl. Seldom times, I thought about it, but as I dreamt I told him every word, I could see that he was proud. I could hear him tell everyone the story of his victorious son. And it would be his story to tell. And every soul would stare into the gleam of his blue eyes, and they would have to listen to his every word.

  “Did I tell you about my son and his fortune?”

  “Yes, Sardina. You told me a hundred times.”

  “Care to hear it again?”

  I savored the moment and it lasted long into the night and was repeated several nights after. Each night was disgustingly boring, and I slept in a deep peace, and each morning I awoke rested and energized and held my fortune in my hands.

  It was the only truth I needed.”

  V

  “A week went by and another batch of Spanish men gathered into Cajamarca. More men arrived another a week later. Days after even more men had joined. I had never before seen these men in my life, but when they talked and opened their eyes, I could see a former version of myself in them.

  Many of the new men had brought their wives and children, and the more Spanish faces I saw, the more I knew this land would never be the same. They brought their books and tapestries. They brought their guitars and their pipes. The women brought their white gowns, kirtles, and headdresses. And the children brought their toys, their dolls, and wooden swords.

  It was beginning to look a lot like Spain.

  But most of all, what they brought that really made the difference were their tongues and dialects. From their speech, I could discern their dialects and from where they came. I heard men from Seville and San Sebastian. Some from Portugal. Some with a slight slip of French. But it was all Spanish to me, and hearing it again made me think of how powerful that Mother Tongue really was.

  There was one morning I saw it in action, for one morning, I saw a mother teach her daughters how to say certain words. The girls had a marvelous time repeating and correcting, and it wouldn’t be long that they’d be the masters of those words. And indeed, the language was our tool to command the Incas to perform our demands. One language needed to be in control. One language needed to dictate the motions.

  Of course, we learned their language too. With the Incas, the friars learned their language, Quechua, quite well, but they hardly listened to anything besides the daily essentials. Where food was to be found. Where gold was to be found. What tribes were lurking to ambush.

  But when it came time for the Incas to learn Spanish, the friars taught them everything. Morality. Ethics. Law. But most of all, they taught the Incas our one and only perfect God. And they stressed this every day with gestures to the sky and warnings of eternal damnation.

  The friars then told the Incas that they were to forget about their gods; that all the gods they prayed to were false and blasphemous and altogether evil. It must have been a hell of a thing to do to tell someone that what they knew and loved was false, but the fri
ars never hesitated. The Incas who were willing to learn and succumb, the friars took as their own sons and daughters. The Incas who resisted were tortured and burned. The friars tried to keep things very simple, and for the most part, it worked very well.

  The more I thought of this, the more I realized how each man was lost in his own language. The language of the sacred. The language of fear. The language of gold. Whatever it was the language was our worship. It was language that shaped our worlds, and each day we worshiped and concentrated to whatever our deity, or what replaced it, and our thoughts followed suit with the proper words that fell in accord. But like many worthwhile things, these prayers and meditations were hidden and private, and trying to speak about such matters was better left for silence.