The Gold Eaters (29 page)

“Me too,” the Greek answers, bending over the cannon he's placed to command the square. Candía's black mane is shaggier than ever, a single pelt from head to belly, his liquid eyes shining above sunburnt cheeks. “This thing's mainly for show,” he says, tapping the bronze barrel. “Never seen such a huge plaza. I'd be lucky to hit the nearest house.” He draws himself up to his full height, stares over the city roofs to the darkening pampa. “So flat. So big. If your horse ran away here you could watch him leaving for a week.”

Waman laughs, arches an eyebrow. “Time for a game?”

“I'll fetch the set.” Candía strides through the twilight to the royal compound.

Waman feels the wind dropping, as it often does at sundown. But the usnu is exposed to every whim of the chill air. He goes to the rear of the unusually large stone platform—a raised plaza itself—where a small open-fronted building offers a sheltered spot. Candía is soon back with board, candles, and beer.

“How are things with your sister, Felipe? Has she got her voice back?”

Waman shakes his head, sorry he must lie to his friend. Candía gives a sympathetic grunt, sets up the board. He pours them a drink. “To Pachamama!” he says brightly, tipping a few drops. It cheers the lad when he acts Peruvian.

“What are they saying about her?” Waman asks. “Almagro's men are always teasing. ‘You're a sly one, Felipillo. A girl who can't talk. Lucky dog.' That kind of thing. And they leer at her. I hate it. She fears them enough as it is.”

Candía nods. “We'll be out of here soon, day after tomorrow. On to Hatun Xauxa. Pizarro wants me to find iron. The horses' shoes
are wearing out. What are the chances, Felipe—is there any in Peru? There must be. How could they build so well without it?”

Waman says there's a word for iron in the language, but he has never seen any. After the next game, which the interpreter wins, he returns to the matter of his ‘sister,' sensing Candía is withholding something.

“Well, yes,” the Greek admits gloomily, “there's worse than jokes. Worse and more . . . dangerous. I was wondering whether I should tell you. If anyone asks, I haven't.” He taps the side of his nose. “They're saying Tika isn't your kin at all. That she was one of Atawallpa's wives. You fell in love with her and did what it took to get her.”

Was she a wife or just a helper? Only Tika can answer that. All Waman knows is that she doesn't seem to miss the dead Inca. He picks up a pebble and hurls it into the night. “It's Pizarro and his men who got Atawallpa's wives.”

“They're saying you plotted to get Tika by seeding the rumours that Atawallpa was planning an attack. Rumours that sent him to his death.” Candía lifts his hands theatrically, puts them around his throat with a gargling sound. “Inca garrotted. Interpreter takes the girl.”

“They're trying to blame me for their own treachery!”

“Of course they are. They need a scapegoat. In case King Charles ever charges them with regicide. Almagro's likely the one behind it. Watch out for him.”

The Spaniards press on
towards the south. Finding no iron in Xauxa, they have Inca smiths make horseshoes out of silver.

In early November they approach the Apurimaq canyon, a deep
gash through the Andes crossed by the greatest suspension bridge in the World, the last obstacle before the capital. The rains have just begun. Without this crossing—a span of two hundred feet stretched high above the river—the way will be impassable. Hernando de Soto is leading the vanguard, one-third of the whole army, rushing onward to the bridge before it can be cut.

The highway approaches the structure by a tunnel hewn through the canyon wall. Soto enters its dark mouth on foot, drawn by a promise of light and the Apurimaq's voice at the far end. Beyond this is a massive buttress, like a ledge, supporting the stone pylons. He is too late. The cables have been burnt. Their stumps, thicker than a stout man's body, are still smouldering like giant cigars.

Soto pulls back, searches the canyon for another way across. The rains have been light so far; he finds one place shallow enough to ford.

Late that day the remnant of Atawallpa's southern army makes a last stand in the hills, killing enough Spaniards and horses that Soto is forced to retreat. But in the small hours after midnight comes the sound of trumpets. Almagro has broken through with reinforcements.

The road to the capital lies open.

Cusco and Chile

1533–
35

16

A
pair of young eyes, watchful, long in hiding, observes the strange procession straggling for leagues along the highway. At the head are armed barbarian riders, four abreast; then foot soldiers, hundreds more bearded ones, thousands of auxiliaries; in the rear come women, chained prisoners and slaves, a pack of hounds, a long llama train carrying supplies. The watcher notes several palanquins of Inca lords, their colours and banners, the bearers' uniforms: members of his own kindred and others who opposed Atawallpa. Friends.

The column is nearing the causeway across the Anta marshes. Cusco is only hours away. Now is the time to end his exile and announce himself. Now or not at all.

Waman sees the lone figure walking down a grassy hillside on a course to intercept the Old One and One-Eye at the column's head. The Spanish leaders also notice the visitor. Though he seems young and slight, wearing the dress of Indian farmers in these parts—a simple tunic and yellow cotton cloak—there is something in his bearing and the boldness of his approach which makes the Commander call a halt.

Always more at ease on his own feet, Pizarro gets down from his horse and calls for the interpreter. The visitor can be no threat. His hands are open and empty, and when the wind presses his clothing to his body there's no trace of hidden weapons; only the slim build of
a youth in his teens. But a youth who seems to have something of importance to say.

By now two other men are coming down the hill—older, judging by their gait; though dressed as plainly as the first, they too have the bearing of lords. “Stay in your saddles,” Pizarro tells his officers. “Keep your eyes on that ridge.” He signals Candía to ready a musket. The young stranger, now only yards away, is unfazed by these preparations, though he knows very well what they are. He watched the fighting above the Apurimaq two days ago; he saw how these barbarians use their weapons.

“Ah, Felipe. There you are!” the Old One says. “Find out what this Indian wants.”

Waman looks at the youth. A few years younger than himself, perhaps seventeen. The sun brightens from behind thin cloud, lighting their faces, and as their eyes meet a spark of empathy passes between them, an unspoken
you too
. Both are marked by smallpox, and in much the same way: each has a light drift of pitting on one cheek, a deeper roughness on the other. Waman is about to speak when he recognizes something else. In the broad highland face, strong-boned and handsome but for its scars, there is a look of Atawallpa.

“Get on with it, Felipillo!” The Old One hisses. But Waman deems it unwise to speak first. This is no lowly farmer. It is an Inca; likely a prince.

“I see you understand their tongue,” the visitor says, looking the interpreter up and down. In deference to Tika, and not expecting to have any duties until Cusco, Waman is dressed as the northern lowlander he is, with the unhappy addition of a threadbare velvet cap. “Do you understand me also?” the youth asks.

Waman nods, unsure how to address him. He adds a hesitant
Arí, qhapaq Inka,
Yes, mighty Inca, lowering his eyes.

“Good. I am Manku Yupanki, son of Inka Wayna Qhapaq and Qoya Mama Runtu. I am the brother of Inka Waskhar, half brother to the rebel Atawallpa.” He pauses while Waman relays this to Pizarro, going on to say he has lived in hiding for more than a year, ever since Atawallpa's army occupied the capital and began slaughtering potential rivals for the throne. “This is why I am disguised as you see. Tell the Machu Apu here that I have heard great things of him, that I would have preferred to welcome him to my city more fittingly. This will be done in due course. All in Cusco are grateful to the bearded ones for killing the usurper. We shall honour and reward them well. That is all.”

By this time the two elders who shared Manku's exile have joined the group. They summon Inca lords with the barbarian column. All give the same answer to the Old One's eager questions. This young Manku is the highest-born prince in the Empire. He will be crowned Sapa Inka in Cusco's great square as soon as members of the royal clans who fled the northern occupation have returned.

Waman hears excited chatter among the Spanish leaders. Broad grins on hairy faces show their delight. Here is the puppet king they need! Better still, this new Inca is a boy. It will be easy to tug his strings.

“Felipe, tell Lord Manku this. That I have come here not for my own ends, but for the express purpose of freeing him and his people from the tyranny of Atawallpa. Those are my Emperor Charles's orders.”

Suppressing a skeptical smile (a smile, Waman thinks, much like Atawallpa's when Hernando Pizarro boasted so windily at the Cajamarca baths), Manku steps forward and embraces the Old One in the way he has seen them do amongst themselves. The coarse wool of the beard brushes his cheek; the barbarian's foul smell invades
his nostrils. But Manku, too, is delighted. Drawing back, he turns to his nearest kinsman. “They mean to use us,” he whispers. “We shall use them.”

Waman and Tika
have heard many tales of the capital's splendour. Cusco, they expect, will be like Cajamarca and Huanuco Pampa, only more so. A vast city rearing from the land on some height or rise where its buildings can impress from afar. They are up at the front now, walking beside the Old One's dapple mare. Manku leads the way, riding in a double palanquin with one of the Inca lords from the column, dressed now in borrowed finery: a vicuña tunic of brightly coloured squares; gold earspools with emerald inlay; a gilt-bronze helmet framed by a short arc of crimson plumes.

The city itself is not in sight, though outlying towns already climb the hills on either side of the highway. These suburbs are as dense as any Waman saw around Spanish cities, though better laid out, with paved streets and water channels. The road is sloping downward, beside a small river in a conduit, and the steepening hills are contoured with terraces.

Manku calls a halt and steps down from his palanquin. He beckons Waman and the leading Spaniards, bidding them follow him a few yards to a rock outcrop carved like a dais. From here, with outstretched arm, the Inca blows a prayer to the Sun, to snowpeaks on the horizon, and to Qosqo Llaqta, the City of Cusco, at his feet.

Waman feels a light touch on his elbow. Tika has come up silently behind him, lifting herself on tiptoe to rest her chin on his shoulder. They look down on an extraordinary sight, one neither of them could have imagined, or will ever forget. The Empire's capital, Navel of the World and City of the Sun, lies hundreds of feet below. It fills the
head of a long valley sunk among mountains on three sides. The fourth side is open to the south, widening out to distant fields and icy ranges. Nearest them is the heart of the royal city, steep roofs and bannered towers laid out between two rivers. One of these is the Watanay, the same stream that runs by the highway, water and road descending to a broad square in the midst of great halls with elaborate thatches and dazzling crests of gold.

The only building Waman thinks he can identify—from descriptions brought back to Cajamarca by the two Spaniards who looted it on Atawallpa's behalf—is a high structure commanding the far end of the city, where the two rivers seem to meet. That must be Qorikancha, the Golden Court, the Empire's greatest temple to the Sun and heavenly powers.

Manku stands on the carved rock as if in trance. He says nothing, takes no notice of the throng behind him, the gleeful backslapping, the greedy laughter, the din of the barbarian tongue. After a year of flight, hardship, and fear for his life, he has returned at last, ready to rule the United Quarters of the World.

The Inca beckons the Old One and an ugly one-eyed man, also old, who is with him. The column moves down into the city, drawing up in the great square, which Waman now sees is two squares divided by the Watanay yet joined by a row of three stone bridges. A large crowd has gathered, cheering, singing, waving banners. The Inca orders his palanquin to halt on the middle bridge. He stands up, raising his hand and letting it fall slowly until there is silence, even among the Spaniards.

A herald announces who he is, though this news has already been brought by runners sent ahead.

“All hear me,” Manku begins. “I stand here today on the bridge between the squares of War and Peace. Beneath me runs the River of Years. These outlanders from across the sea are my guests and
allies. They have killed the killer of my brother Waskhar. Young though I am, in due course I shall offer myself for election by the royal clans to take my worthy brother's place. In the meantime I ask you to treat these people as our friends. Do anything they ask of you, as you would if I asked it myself. The times of war are ending. A new peace begins.

“That is all.”

A month goes by.
The Inca kindreds—all those who have survived the plague and civil war—return to the city and declare their support for Manku, their new Sapa Inka. His coronation is about to be held, coinciding with the solstice.

Alone at dawn some days beforehand the young Inca leaves his palace on Granary Terrace, halfway up the escarpment crowned by Cusco's hilltop citadel. Dressed once again as a simple farmer, though for humility now, not disguise, Manku climbs a road that runs beside a stretch of the megalithic ramparts above the city. From here he will walk all day without food or drink, making his way by nightfall to a small mountain shrine where each new Sapa Inka must fast three days, mourning his predecessor, calling on all his forerunners to guide his hand and mind.

The path is in deep shadow, the air cool, Cusco's other river, the Tullumayu, plunging behind him in its conduit. Manku takes a last look at his waking capital, its rooftops draped with scarves of mist. He turns to the huge stones beside him, some big as a house, all flawlessly cut and fitted, a masterwork that took thirty thousand men fifty years to build. He remembers when his father brought him up here as a boy, showed him every feature—the tiered ramparts, the water supplied to the heights by pressure, the towers' tall windows
watching over the city. At the top of the middle tower, his father traced out for him the schematic puma in the city's plan, explaining that the fortress is the head of the great cat, with the zigzagging bastions its teeth.