Three Princes (26 page)

Mabruke sighed. “They will become targets of both assassins and seducers,” he said sadly. “They will need your protection.”

Viracocha agreed. “They will always have my love. For good or ill. I determined when she was born that I would free Runa, and give her the honor of her title, as Firstborn of the Firstborn, if I ever had the power.”

“Keep a good thought,” Oken said.

There was little else any of them could say after that, and the weariness of their arduous journey was stronger than further need for conversation. Viracocha stood when Mabruke pushed himself up to his feet. Oken stood when he heard water being poured into the cup. Viracocha showed him the covered jugs of broth and water, as well as the other meager comforts of the cell. A hole in the floor in the corner was the closest they had to plumbing.

The men felt their way to the beds, making what bedding they could of straw to lie down on. Oken was amazed at how comfortable cold stone and loose straw could be. Music and singing from the festival reached them in the darkness, distant angels singing them to sleep, filling Oken’s dreams with happy children and glowing pumpkin lanterns dancing through midnight streets.

THE BLARE
of sound and light that woke him was woven within the fabric of sleep for long seconds before Oken realized he was no longer dreaming nor asleep. Guards pushed and shoved the sleeping men roughly, shouting for them to stand. The light was from flaming torches, held by guards standing to the side.

Oken was almost proud of how many guards they needed for just three weary men.

They were cuffed and chained as before, with Viracocha placed between Oken and Mabruke. They put Mabruke in the lead and marched them out. The light from the dancing torches was only enough to orient up from down. Oken focused on keeping his feet under him.

At ground level, they were loaded into another wagon. Oken knew they were outside only when the cool breeze touched his face with dark perfumes. The voice of the villagers singing was loud, a clear, pure song filling the night.

The clatter of hooves, and the rush of the river’s voice, marked the bridge. After that, the song grew distant, and they smelled the wild perfumes of the imperial garden. Oken could hear Mabruke sniffing eagerly, like a dog on an outing. He focused on making that sound the theme of the ride.

THE STAIRCASE
they were led or prodded up this time was not a spiral to the top, but rather a series of long, straight climbs, zigzagging like switchbacks on the mountain slopes, shorter at each level. They were inside a place that sounded hard, and heavy and tall, and smelled old. Dim light from crystal lamps showed whitewashed walls and stone steps. They had to wait on every landing for an iron gate to be unlocked. Oken was able to catch his breath a little at each.

The stairway led to an open area, the rooftop of a building of pink stone, and there was a brief moment standing in the clear night air beneath a midnight sky alive with stars. The Milky Way was a clear pathway of light. A tall structure in the center of the roof stood in the starlight, carved with an open grillwork of fabulous animals and figures. Oken recognized it as the top element of the primary temple design of Tawantinsuyu. A section of the grillwork opened inward, showing the chamber inside the structure— the Attic of the Sun.

Even in the dark, it was clear that their new accommodations were an improvement over the last. The air was cleaner, and night breezes floated through. Stars glittered in the many openings in the walls.

Viracocha asked a question of the guard in Quechua, and got a noncommittal grunt in reply. They were untied and released as before, left with no explanations or instructions. The wall swung shut behind them, and they heard the grinding sound of the stair mechanism, the resounding thud as the stairway was closed.

The song of the mountain was fainter. Oken stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Viracocha and Mabruke groped their way to the sleeping platforms against the walls, stretched out, and went back to sleep almost at once. Oken paced slowly, peering into the corners and through the open shapes in the wall that let in the chill night breezes. Through one section, he could see the spangled garment of Noot, as innocent as if shining over Memphis, rich with diamonds spilled in the void.

Oken made himself lie down finally, listening to the mountain singing.

DAWN FILLED
the chamber with an exquisite light. The stone walls were translucent, glowing with a rosy hue, and bright beams, shaped by the carved openings, painted sun-colored animals and swirls on the floor. Oken allowed himself a few first seconds of being charmed by the light before waking fully to the moment.

He sat up, stiff and sore in every part of himself, and plagued most strongly by a powerful thirst. The sound of water pouring into the cup woke Mabruke, and he sat up slowly, wincing. The swelling on his face was worse, his eye closed. Oken drained the cup in a single gulp, then refilled it, and took it over to Mabruke, who also drank it in one gulp. He was blinking sleepily, and yawned. Oken brought him another cup of water. After drinking that, Mabruke lay back down and rolled over, to return to sleep.

Oken wondered if he should do the same. Water when you’ve got it. Nap when you can. He drank another cup of water while admiring the delicate shades of light. They were in a long, tall, narrow chamber, the color of a Britannic baby’s bottom. There was no table, just narrow shelves of the same pink stone. Straw was piled up in the corners. The center of the floor was a sunken fire pit, perhaps two cubits across, cold, blackened, clean of ashes.

Elaborately carved openings in the walls let in the light and air. Oken knelt at the largest of the openings. He could see the flanks of the Qurikancha, and the ball court at its base, ringed by terraces and plazas. Statues of divinities and kings stood in fabulous poses, guarding the entrances between levels. Morning mists hung heavily, cloaking the scene with innocence. The gardens beyond the temple walls were illusive, mazes of color in the mist.

A bell rang out from high above, on the ridge overlooking Ollantaytambo, a bell with a voice big enough to ring through the valley and echo from the mountainsides, accompanied by a rush of wings on the other side of the glowing wall, hundreds of birds taking off at once. From his peephole, Oken saw a flash of colorful feathers.

A yearning for the open sky filled him with a sudden weariness. He lay down on the straw-covered shelf and fell immediately to sleep.

ROSY CLOUDS
floated past on the breeze of Viracocha’s voice, a strong, gentle, yet weary voice, drifting in and out of the swirls and streamers of mist. “. . . the river in the sky from which the rain falls. That one is the llama, with the baby llama at her heel. Behind runs the fox, and here are the turtle, the quail and the bird. These lines are lightning, the plumed serpent who is Quetzalcoatl.” As each one was named, it formed itself in the rosy light and dashed away. Then the mountains rang a double stroke like a great bell. The clouds were blown clear by the sound, revealing a cold, grim landscape toward which Oken fell, headlong and helpless.

He sat up abruptly. The rosy light was real, the Sun shining through the translucent walls. The bells still echoed, the mid-hour of the morning.

“Welcome back,” Mabruke said. He and Viracocha were sitting cross-legged before the front wall, deep in discussion about the artwork of the carvings.

“Hoy,” Oken said thickly. He pulled himself up, wincing at the aches and stings, and the stink of his own sweat, thick in his clothes. Viracocha pointed to the fire pit, guessing at Oken’s first question. There was a drain hole in the center. Oken relieved himself, drank more water, then lay back down, falling into a dark, restful sleep without dreams.

He awoke several hours later, according to the changed positions of the sunny beasts on the floor. Mabruke and Viracocha were still talking philosophy. Mabruke was stretched out on the shelf, lying on his back with his hands folded across his stomach. Viracocha sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, and had just begun speaking as Oken tuned in. “How do you mean, we are shaped by the land, Mik? We are masters of the land.”

There was no point in interrupting them. Oken settled back, letting himself enjoy the luxury of being rested, more or less.

Mabruke was quiet for a time, considering his words. “In Egypt, human beings overwhelm the landscape. What we build is made by our hands, by our minds, by our souls. The Pyramids transcend space and time. Even our gardens and growing fields are sustained only by our work. Without us, the land is only sand and mud. In your world, the land shapes the humans. Earth decides what you build, what you make. We have the vastness of sky, and the solitude of the desert, the magic of a single river. You are overwhelmed by Earth’s life here. Life in the sky, in the treetops, in the soil, in the waters. The Earth is so dominant that you are creatures of the forest, and of the mountain, as surely as the puma, the llama, the ea gle. The skull-sized egg of Africa’s ostrich gave us our metaphor of creation. You have that metaphor around you in every instant, life and death entwined in a dance as relentless as lightning, and as ancient as the hills. Your gods are the size of mountains, and as powerful as the winds. Ours are small enough to fit within the human skull.”

“Ah, the skull-sized egg!” the prince said. He was leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, listening to Mabruke with his head cocked to one side like a child in school. “The secret of life locked up in the seed of death.”

Oken was roused by the annoyed shriek of birds somewhere close by.

Mabruke teased him as he stood drinking his second cup of water. “No comments from the Horus Scope for such a day?”

Oken shook his head. “We are too far away from the horizon of Memphis. I think the rules of a different calendar are at play here.”

“That would explain a great deal, I suppose.”

There was a single, hard thump on the wall, jolting everyone into tense silence. Mabruke sat up, and Viracocha rose to his feet, less awkwardly than the day before. Oken stayed where he was, finishing the water in the cup quickly, just in case.

The stone panel of the door swung into the chamber. A pair of guards stood in the doorway, one armed with a spear held to the ready and aimed, the other holding a large platter piled high with fruit. The spearman covered him while he stepped into the chamber only far enough to clear the door.

“Pomakanchy,” Viracocha said amiably, addressing the man with the tray by name. The prince did not stir from where he stood, directing a rapid question in Quechua to the man.

The two guards exchanged troubled glances, and the spear was lowered an inch or two. Pomakanchy set the platter onto the floor. He straightened, staring at the fruit, then raised his gaze to meet Viracocha’s eyes. His answer was terse, almost muttered. The two men then hurried out, and the door swung shut behind them so hard that they could feel it reverberating in the floor of the chamber.

Viracocha picked up the tray of fruit and carried it over to them, setting it on the shelf beside Mabruke. “Try this,” he said, selecting a fist- sized orange and red fruit. The scent of roast fowl caught their attention at once, and Viracocha pushed the top layer of fruit aside.

A brace of beautifully roasted birds, in a honey glaze, had been hidden among the fruit. Viracocha laughed. “I see that I have not lost all my friends. Those to be sacrificed must be pure, no flesh, no drink.”

“Then I would say these birds are flavored with the exquisite spice of hope,” Mabruke said. He took a large leaf from under the fruit and used it to pick up one of the birds.

They followed Viracocha’s lead and tossed the bones through the openings in the stone wall. Each bone was met by a squawking of birds on the other side fighting for them.

“What did you ask him?” Oken said to Viracocha finally.

“What his orders were, what is next for us.” Viracocha tilted his head to one side as he thought more on the guard’s words. His expression was not happy, his eyes hooded. “We are being prepared for the Tlachtli, the sacred ball game.”

Oken had a unbidden flash of memory of vividly painted murals of the severed heads of captives used as the ball in Tlachtli. “I take it they will not be playing with a ball of grass?” The innocence of the children playing the sacred game in the Queen Mother’s gardens seemed part of another world, just a scene in a play.

Viracocha turned his hooded gaze to Oken, then caught the meaning, and scoffed mirthlessly. “No, they will not be playing with our heads. That is not what he plans. Our hearts will be the victory meal at the end of the games, shared by Kuchillu and the champions of the court.”

This was met with a chilled silence.

“They will come for us when the game has been won,” Viracocha went on. “We will know they are coming when the bell of victory rings. The people sing the anthem of the winning team, while the losing players carry the winners on their shoulders around the ball court. They cheer and scream as the captain is carried up the steps to the altar, passed from hand to hand. A wonderful moment. The excitement used to thrill me.”

Viracocha sighed. “Everyone chants the captain’s name louder and louder as they climb, then they put him on the altar” Mabruke and Oken both frowned, and Viracocha shook his head. “The priests switch the captain with a deer for the actual sacrifice. The people see the spray of blood on the first cut, and the blood poured down the steps from the ceremonial bowl. The deer’s meat is served at the team’s victory dinner, and the winning captain takes home the skull.”

“Why would the captain of the winning team have accepted being the sacrifice as his reward?” Mabruke said. “That seems a cruel punishment for victory.”

“They once believed that such a death would deliver them directly to the court of Inty,” Viracocha said, “directly to the divine court of the Living Sun in the high heavens. To die in this way saved them from the terrible journey through the blackness of Xibalba. They go to heaven without fighting demons and angels, as ordinary people do.”