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  Like Atahualpa, Manco was chaperoned by three Spanish guards who watched his every movement, and when Francisco finally made acquaintance with Manco, he knew he found an Inca he could control.

  Manco was left with his thoughts. He thought about Cusco, the city that he once knew, he thought about his brother Atahualpa and all that happened in Cajamarca. But then another thought resurfaced, and it horrified Manco. The thought was who the Royal Court of Cusco would put in charge to replace Atahualpa. Certainly he himself was in line, but not before Tupac Huallpa, a brother he barely knew. But had the elders named him king already? Or had they name someone else?

  It was agonizing thought, and Manco squirmed as more thoughts poured in. He doubted and fretted. He pretended it wasn’t happening. He pretended that if he closed his eyes hard enough that he would awaken from his nightmare. He quivered in the coolness of the shifting winds, and he bit his lip until it bled. But when he opened his eyes and saw the chains wrapped around his wrists, he gave out and cried for minutes at a time, but he didn’t make a sound.

  Surely his people knew the Spanish were approaching. Surely they knew all the events of Cajamarca.

  Why hadn’t they attack already? What were they waiting for?

  He knew Cusco was close. It was another three day's walk. He could smell the bread and the smell of the burning wood. If they didn’t rest and went on walking they’d reach it by nightfall of the next day.

  But Manco soon realized that he was on Spanish time. Not his own. He would enter into Cusco as their prisoner.

  And there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  XI

  “So Manco led the way, with Francisco at his left, Almagro on his right, and myself and Soto behind.

  We were informed of how much we trekked, and there was a general consensus that Cusco was finally near, but we remained skeptical and watchful.

  Getting to Cusco was an endless march through endless swamps, but by then we were used to it. We were used to the ungodly heat, the ungodly dense rainfalls that came in sporadically. We were used to the humid nights where we were slowly being eaten alive by mosquitoes, and we were more than used to the horrid sounds of the jungle that seemed to come before and after each storm. The sounds of shrieks and shrills and swarms and echoes, but by then we were used to its horror, and we tamed all these things with thrusts and hacks from our swords and with the obsessive cadence of our boots marching back and forth. We were weary but we were not at all afraid, and after a while, we hardly noticed the sounds. We finally embraced the misery. And each man had his share of perverse enjoyment.

  I stayed close to the front of the line and periodically I talked to Soto and I asked him questions. He did his best to ignore me, but then he answered my questions out of utter pity.

  “Are we close?”

  “Keep your eyes open, Sardina.”

  “We should be there by now.”

  “Yes, we should.”

  “Can’t you even doubt, Captain Soto?”

  “I’ve learned not to doubt, Sardina.”

  “How is that even possible?”

  “It’s possible. Doubting only causes pain. But no one can see that pain.”

  From the days after Cajamarca, Soto was very reticent, not just to me but anyone besides the Pizarros and Almagros. For the families, Soto delved into every possible twist and turn of the next course of action, for the rest Soto’s new cardinal sin was wasted breath, and in the days that followed he certainly enjoyed silence more than any man I came across, and cryptic as it might have sounded, I repeated that brief conversation over and over again in my mind.

  At nights, I set up the board and accepted any challenger who dared, but most nights went uncontested. Then on the night, before we reached Cusco, Soto joined me and we set up the board and it felt like old times.

  His face looked terrible. He played black and he didn’t even mention yet alone noticed that his rook was missing.

  “Make your move, Sardina.”

  We played one game, but it was a very long one and I knew I had impressed him.

  I managed to pull off twenty moves, but after I took Soto’s bishop, I knew I fell into his trap. Afterward, Soto took control of the game and cornered my king, and three moves later he pinned me to a checkmate with a rook and a pawn.

  “You’re getting better,” He said. “All in time, Sardina.”

  Then we cleared the board and he stared up into the stars.

  I knew this was my opportunity to ask Soto all my questions, but I also knew that Soto wasn’t a priest and certainly he was a man of compassion. And I could tell that his mind was exhausted.

  I ran through questions in my mind. He was probably answering them telepathically.

  “What is this Cusco? What are we going to find? What will be of Cajamarca? What are we going to do with Manco?

  But neither of us said a word in all that time. We just looked up to the heavens, which were always too big and too incomprehensible, and too beautiful for words to describe. As the silence took over, I could see Soto’s eyes flutter in exhaustion, but he blinked hard and forced himself awake. Then after a while, Soto finally gave in and drifted into sleep.

  I kept an eye on him, but my attention fell into the great sky and I gazed on and wondered. The billions of stars reminded me of God. The old God of my childhood. The High and Almighty. The one I once knew. But I must admit the feeling was not the same. It was fading. That is to say, I could still feel, but it only in spurts and blips.

  Then I thought of talks with God. At that time, He was the best communicator. I could hear him in my conscience.

  “Do like Christ, Sardina. Be like Christ, for he so loved the world that he died on a cross and came back to life. He is the Lord Thy God. He is your exemplar.”

  But since I left Spain, I hadn’t heard from Him. He seemed as vague and unimportant as a forgotten, old beggar. Perhaps He was still there in Spain. Perhaps He was waiting by the docks, waiting for my arrival. And if that were the case, He’d have to wait for a very long time.

  I laughed, knowing those thoughts I had so long ago. It was a feeling that I was lighter than air. And looking back, I probably realized that I was at the height of my youth and exuberance.

  In all that time, it’s quite possible I wouldn’t know God’s voice even if I heard it again, even if it came in clear, for my world changed and so did my reverence and deities.

  It was odd in that jungle that I did not for a second think of my own mortality. That thought never crossed my mind in all that time. It must have been youth. And there that night I had a vision that eventually one day I’d be an old man, perhaps a middle aged man, and there I’d finally think about my own death, for I’d be forced to. But those days seemed so long away.

  Then Soto awoke. He wiped the dust away from his shoulder and got to his feet.

  “Good night, Sardina,” He said.

  And as he departed I rested my eyes, drifted into a dream, and slipped back into blackness.”

  XII

  “A day later, Manco led the way and we finally reached the city of Cusco. And my God it was beautiful.

  The city itself stretched about five miles wide. Wooden palisades and gates on either side surrounded it, and the roads were paved with great shiny slabs of stone, and the palaces and temples were tall and grand and inside each room was decorated with glimmering gold and gems.

  Cusco was indeed the richest city of all the Indies. We knew it when we saw it. Old Francisco knew it too well. But the Incas knew it more.

  We continued to marvel in disbelief. Cajamarca was grand. But Cusco was the dream of dreams that God Himself wouldn’t believe.

  We were invited to the tops of the temple, and as we looked down, I along with every man smiled at our prize below. The gold, that came in view looked as if it were sprinkled all over the city, and the closer we moved in, the more we saw.

  And the light was marvelous.

  From my view on high, I studied the e
ntire city and its people. There must have been half a million of them. There were craftsmen and poets. Architects and artists. Jugglers and mathematicians.

  Then I saw Cusco’s massive irrigation system that ran from the center of the city and all throughout its perimeter. Then I saw Cusco’s farmers who toiled and sweat, and grew crops and fed every soul. They were tired but they were proud, and I felt the utmost respect for them. When we got back down I felt more at ease. This was an old city and still very much the Incas.

  Francisco ordered Manco to be unleashed from his chains but to be closely watched, and from there Manco introduced us to the members of the Inca Royal Court. But to our surprise, there seemed already to be a king of the mighty Cusco, though he was very small. He was a brother of Atahualpa and Manco, but a distant one. His name, they said, was Tupac Huallpa and he seemed to be sapped of all energy. He was short and thin. His hands trembled and from the moment I saw him I immediately knew he was quite ill. He was dressed well in a golden gown, but his face was gaunt and growing pale by the minute, and it seemed as if uttering a word was a strenuous activity for him.

  Tupac Huallpa resembled Atahualpa but only in facial features. He had the same staggering eyes and shoulders, and the same wide brown nose, but much of Tupac Huallpa’s expression seemed defeated as if all the blood in his body was taken from him. We were told after Atahualpa’s disappearance and stay in Cajamarca, it was thought that Tupac would hold the throne, and although he did for a large majority of the time, the Royal Court members did not make it official until six months after Atahualpa’s last appearance. But having Manco captured brought an interesting dilemma.

  When the two brothers met again, there was neither embrace nor any signs of acknowledgment, and it was strange to say the least. During the afternoon we saw Tupac Huallpa remain standing with his guards surrounding him, and as the translators got situated Francisco performed the generalities and customs with his usual booming face and bombastic expressions. But unlike Atahualpa, Tupac held no reservations. He accepted, succumbed, and bowed with each request, and afterward we were told we could stay in Cusco as long as we liked.

  It felt too easy. It felt as if they were planning something, but the more I looked at Tupac’s face, the more I realized we had stolen something from the Incas. Not just their lands, but their souls. There wasn’t any life left in their bodies. And their leader embodied their lifelessness.

  As for our men, the joy was only at its beginning. We spent the following day, exploring Cusco and all of its glory, and at nights we sauntered, still lost in the immensity of it all. We celebrated. We celebrated like damn fools. We did so because we struggled for it. We did so because for we were at the height of the dream of dreams.

  And we knew it very well.”

  XIII

  “A cheer went out in each group and we gathered wood and built fires, and we drank to our hearts’ content.

  The men handed over wine that was saved for two years, and in a matter of three hours we drank every bottle until all that was left was speculation, and it was a fate that we felt we deserved.

  “You couldn’t believe these rumors. Nor could I!” I heard some of the men cry.

  “We’re in heaven, boys. Heaven at last!”

  I couldn’t argue with the claim.

  I kept to myself much of the afternoon and towards dusk Juan Pizarro approached me and he informed me that I was invited over. I followed Juan and he led me to the family fire where all the Brothers Pizarro joined and commiserated.

  I felt honored to say the least. We ate chicken, llamas, and steers, and the Inca delicacies of stews and soup. And we gorged accordingly. I felt like a distant friend of the family, perhaps a bastard infant that they took akin to. I bowed and curtsied and joined the Brothers Pizarro and all of them except for Juan and Francisco greeted me with indifference. Gonzalo glared. Hernando sighed. Juan was too drunk for words. And Francisco smiled.

  I thought Francisco would bring up the time on the beach, and his grand gesture and promise. His line in the sand. His plea of agony. But instead, Francisco merely gazed into the fire and the blackness of the night and ate what the servants had brought him, and he chewed slowly and respectfully.

  Not far away I saw another fire consisting of the Almagro’s and their cohorts. Their fire was much larger and much brighter than the Pizarros, but there were far fewer souls among it.

  As the night progressed, Hernando began to tell a story about their childhood. He told the tale of how Francisco used to beat him with his own shovel. Hernando laughed, but it was a nervous uneven laugh. He probably thought of that memory every day he lived.

  Then Francisco dictated the conversation as he told his story. The story of an illiterate man who now was the richest man in all the land.

  Gonzalo had other things on his mind, primarily the women, and one in particular. He was overlooking Cura, Manco’s wife, who was asked to dine with them at another fire. But she did not stay for long. She accompanied her husband Manco and proceeded down to the main temple, and a half a dozen guards closely watched them.

  I saw that internal lust in Gonzalo’s eyes when he gazed at her. Indeed, Cura was beautiful, and as our Spanish ladies accompanied us, the other sex was finally there to quell our qualms, but there was something else to Cura that struck Gonzalo so strongly, and something told me he found his new obsession.

  I looked at the Almagro’s fire again, and to my surprise, I saw Soto’s face as clear a full moon. Then I realized Soto’s inherent loyalty. It was with Almagro that Soto had first entered into the New Land, and it was on Almagro’s ship that he arrived on the coast. Although Soto was diplomatic, he certainly knew that time had to be well divided, even more so when he knew others were watching.

  Then Juan interrupted and stared at me with drunken eyes.

  “What are you looking at, man?” Juan asked me.

  “Nothing. Nothing in particular.”

  Juan gazed over the Almagro fire. Then he spat and finished his wine.

  “You see those men at that the fire? Those over there.”

  “Yes, I see them.”

  “They’re assholes. Bastards. All of them. Greedy, stupid, little pigs. That’s all they are.”

  I merely nodded. Staying mute and respectful worked in the past, and I knew it work this time

  Then Gonzalo joined in the conversation. “If it were up to me, I’d kill them all now.”

  “It’s not up to you. Thank God.” Hernando retorted.

  There was a lull. Then Gonzalo turned to Francisco.

  “Have you come to terms with them yet, Francisco?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Now is not the time. We’re still guests of this city.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “This city is not ours yet.” Said Francisco. “This Inca king they have now is pleasant and peaceful. Yes. But he’s not the king his people need.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “It’s already done. You needn’t worry.”

  Most of his brothers remained confused. But I could follow Francisco’s twisted logic step-by-step, and playing chess in all that time made me understand fully. Francisco was right. It wasn’t our city yet. It felt still very much the Inca’s city, and its king, Tupac Hualpa, although not as threatening and powerful as Atahualpa, was a man Francisco found hard to control, and being that he was not of strong health Francisco immediately made sure to expedite the process, and once finished a new Inca King would be summoned. Francisco, himself, would selectively choose a king. A man who would follow his every demand. And Cusco would have a king that Francisco could control.

  “After he’s crowned, I’ll discuss the terms with Almagro. Only then.” Said Francisco.

  “Come now. Drink some more. Enjoy yourselves.”

  And so we did. We drank and sputtered and slurred, and our stupors lead us down the hell that deep down we knew was exclusively ours.
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  Memory only went so far. And all remember was waking up, elated that I was still alive.”

  XIV

  “The next day I woke up with a basket on my head, and I felt very dizzy. There was a thrashing pinging pulse circulating through my head.

  And behold the next day, the mighty Cusco was still here. And the dream of it was still very much real.

  The morning was filled with commotions of all sorts. Some of the men sequestered the Incas and their threatening routine progressed through the afternoon.

  But there was an odd silence to that afternoon. The sky turned red, and there was no breeze. I reflected and went through the events in my mind. But the reflection lasted too long. And that horrible silence that I felt told me something.