The Andes, South America, 1527
I.
THE SUN MAIDEN
The Inca, Huayna Capac – lord of the
Four Quarters
– died while on campaign. At the head of
his ever-victorious army, festooned with brilliantly-dyed feathers, he had
plunged into the steaming jungles beyond the Andes, beyond the northernmost
city of the Empire, Quito. He did not
fall in battle, however: it was sickness
that laid him low. Swarming with
mosquitoes, full of slithering snakes and scratching beetles, vampire bats, and
poisonous frogs and lizards, the jungle was a dangerous place – it was
quicksand, grass sharp enough to cut flesh, voracious ants, dangling creepers,
steaming rot, and pestilence.
The Inca’s fever, accompanied by an
odd rash, left his physicians baffled. Some
feared an epidemic had broken out when the Inca’s favourite wife and eldest son
also died. Even so, the royal embalmers set to work
immediately. Well aware that the
humidity would bring on decay at once, they embalmed the bodies of the ruler,
consort, and prince, carefully cutting out their hearts and removing their
internal organs, which were claimed by the Gods. Then the corpses were placed on a gilded
litter, in a seated position, with their hands tied across their chests, and
carried home, sheltered by a tasselled canopy.
Atahualpa, who was one of Huayana
Capac’s adult sons, at once consulted with his father’s generals, Chalcuchima,
Quizquiz, and Rumiñavi.
“Huascar, your half-brother, is at
Cuzco,” Chalcuchima said, addressing Atahualpa.
“The Sapac Inca’s remains must be taken to the mausoleum-hall of his
ayllu. Appropriate offerings must be made at the
Temple of the Sun. But Huascar will take
the fringe for himself.”
Atahualpa pondered his general’s
sage words for a few moments. The fringe
was a special head-band, profusely decorated with tassels that dangled down
over the eyes – it was the special headdress worn only by the reigning Sapac
Inca.
“Now that my brother is dead, too, I
am the eldest son of the Sapac Inca,” Atahualpa said, frowning. He was thirty years old that year, six years
older than Huascar. However, he did not
need to remind the three generals of this.
“You were the Sapac Inca’s son by
his cousin,” Rumiñavi reminded him.
“Huascar will claim he has greater legitimacy, being the son of a
sister-wife.”
“Huascar has the priests, but we
have the army,” Quizquiz said, and he did not have to say more. Eleven Sapac Incas had ruled the land in
succession, but few had taken the fringe without a fight, or at least a palace
coup. The empire was orderly and
predictable, except on those rare occasions when rival brothers fought for
control. The Incas had no external
enemies capable of attacking them, and yet the empire bristled with fortifications
– defences raised primarily against each other.
“Send Cusi Tupac Yapanqui to Cuzco
with your father’s corpse,” Chalcuchima urged.
“Meanwhile, you must go establish yourself at Quito.”
Cuzco, the royal city, was sixteen
hundred miles away, but the royal litter-bearers made the journey with solemn
dignity, accompanied by thousands of soldiers and attendants. Leaving the jungle, they proceeded along the
stone-paved royal road, which snaked through the mountains, zigzagging up the
nearly vertical slopes of mountains, rising across high passes, sometimes
striking out straight as an arrow’s flight across high, desiccated
plateaus. With every change in
elevation, the scenery was completely altered.
At the top of the mountains, the atmosphere was so thin that the soldiers
chewed their rations of coca leaves to help them breathe and endure the pain of
marching for hours on end in such thin air.
Soon, however, they were descending to the high, grassy slopes where the
llamas grazed, making their way down into the Quechua – the biome of high,
level valleys that nestled between the eastern and western mountains, or, as
the Inca called them, the White and Black Mountains.
The Inca made his last journey
through the rich farmlands of the Quechua, following the royal road past fields
of maize and beans. Here and there, terraced fields climbed some
distant hill under snow-capped mountains.
Here and there, the stone-paved road came to a chasm. The smaller canyons were filled with rubble,
upon which the level surface of the road was laid, but the deeper gorges –
thousands of feet deep, some of them – could be crossed only by means of
bridges made of rope. And everywhere the
procession travelled, the people lined the road, bowing their heads and
groaning as the Inca’s soldiers walked quietly through them. In contrast to the commoners, who wore simple
but modest clothes, the soldiers almost seemed gaudy in their dyed alpaca
garments, each unit’s attire bearing a peculiar pattern that designated its
ethnicity. At long last, resplendent and
colourful, the Inca’s procession entered the royal city of Cuzco.
Illari was a girl, about fifteen
years old. Until she was ten, she had
lived with her parents, who were weavers, but in that year she was selected by
the district chief to become a Chosen Woman.
She was brought to the sanctuary of the Sun Maidens at Cajas, and there
initiated into a new way of life. The
Moon Priestesses told her that, as a Sun Maiden, she might become a nobleman’s
wife, or the consort of the Inca, or even a Moon Priestess in her own right. Meanwhile, she was to learn how to weave
special royal garments from vicuña wool, and chew maize so that she could spit
her saliva into the great cauldrons in which chincha was fermented to provide a
pleasant drink for the lords and libations for the Earth Mother.
“Chosen Women are selected for their perfection,” she was told by the Moon Priestesses. “Special you are – above all others. The Incas, Children of the Sun, touch only what is perfect.”
Illari was sent for by the Sun
Priests: she was dressed in the most
beautiful cloak she had ever seen and carried in a litter to Cuzco, hundreds of
miles away. A chosen boy also was
selected, dressed like her, and they were referred to as if they were husband and
wife, although Illari had never known a man, and the boy was younger even than
her. In fact, they did not know each
other, and never spoke. At Cuzco, there
was a vast assembly in the square, and rituals at the great Sun Temple she
could not quite comprehend. There were
boys and girls there from all over the Four Quarters, a matching couple from
each district. A new Sapac Inca took the
fringe, conferred upon him by the Priest of the Sun. Illari heard that his name was Huascar.
And then her journey began – a
curious journey, for they set out in a straight line, and followed it,
regardless of the terrain encountered.
Because she was older, she had to walk – climb, at some points – always
accompanied by the priests, who spoke encouraging, gentle words. They gave her coca leaves to chew, to numb
the pain, especially when they began to climb high into the White Mountains.
They climbed for days, literally,
until they could scarcely breathe. It
was cold: the sky was clear and blue,
the world reduced to boulders, permanent snow, and jumbled piles of ice. The coca leaves helped, though, leaving her
dizzy and euphoric. Her last meal had
been simple and fortifying – quinoa and some vegetables. She felt a little hungry, but the priests
insisted that they keep going.
Eventually, they said, “Far enough this is.”
“Hanan Pacha, this is?” Illari
asked, referring to the Upper World, the abode of the Sun and Moon, and the God
of Thunder and Lightning, Illapa.
The priest said nothing, at first,
but when he spoke took a deep breath, troubled-looking: “Toward the east, now you must face....”
Illari gazed around. She could see a small, stone-walled temple
built in this wilderness – in all directions the world seemed to consist only
of mountains, each peak cradling a vast glacier. The priest manoeuvred her into the proper
position, for she was too befuddled by the coca to remember her
instructions. She looked up into the
clear blue sky, her glazed eyes dazzled by the sun – Inti, the Sun God, the
husband of the Moon. The very thought
pleased her, although she wondered what had happened to the boy who had come
with her, and she smiled as the priest behind her struck her head with a bat,
knocking her to the ground, dead.
II.
TWO
OLD FRIENDS
“Here I am, a foundling, the son of
God knows who and some whore, probably, and you, a bonafide hidalgo’s bastard
from Trujillo – and we’re going to ask the Emperor for a license to conquer an
empire that only exists in our imaginations?”
“At least I didn’t have to leave
Spain on the next ship because I’d killed some fool in a bar fight,” retorted
Francisco Pizarro, smirking at his friend and business partner, Diego de
Almagro.
The two men were sitting upstairs in
Almagro’s breezy house on the central plaza in the hardscrabble little town of
Nuestra Señora de Asunción de Panama. The
walls were built of blocks of coral rock, hastily and none-too-skilfully
mortared together and plastered. The
roof over the heads, however, was still thatched. So it was with the whole settlement: the fort was still a stockade, although stone
walls were being raised, and other workers were toiling to raise up a proper
cathedral. Most of the pueblo’s houses were mere huts made of logwood,
canes, and thatch.
“Now,” Pizarro added, “you know as
well as I that it was no imagined enemy who took your eye.”
Almagro shrugged, although the loss
of his eye was real enough. If only he
had known, in advance, that Pizarro had been repulsed by the Burnt Village
Indians, he might have saved himself the aggravation of trying to assault the
place. The village, seemingly abandoned,
had been a trap.
“That raft wasn’t imaginary,
either,” Pizarro said, reminding his friend of the balsa-wood boat they had
encountered.
Twenty men had been on the boat when
it was sighted, well off shore, hundreds of miles south of Panama. Eleven had leapt into the sea, but nine
remained, cringing as the Spanish sailors quickly overtook them, Six of the hapless men were set ashore, but three
boys were retained and brought back to Panama to learn Spanish,
“I know the argument,” Diego de
Almagro replied. “No primitives built a
raft like that, or stocked it with such rich trade goods.”
“Don’t forget the camels,” Pizarro
said. “Or sheep – or whatever the damned
things are.”
The woolly beasts, with their long
necks, had been the first clue, really, that something different lay to the
south, somewhere along the unknown coast.
Pizarro had seen images of them carved into rocks when he and Balboa
first had set foot on this side of the Isthmus of Panama. Gold trinkets had been found, too – not many,
but of exquisite workmanship. At that
time, fifteen years ago, nothing quite like these objects had been found in all
of the hundreds of Indian villages the Conquistadors had raided.
But the real prize had been the city
of Tumbez, and it was a proper city, not some stockade screening a handful of
huts. Pizarro had no words to describe
what they had seen: massive mud walls,
thousands of thatched hovels, to be sure, but splendid mansions, temples, and
warehouses. The people wore clothing and
demonstrated modesty, manners, and a sense of civility, although they laughed
and marvelled at their first sight of two strange men, one white and one black. Two of Pizarro’s men, enchanted by the new
society they had found, volunteered to remain behind and learn the language and
the local customs. Although it had been
impossible to carry on a proper conversation with the people of Tumbez, Pizarro
had seen and heard enough to realize that he and his men had just made contact
with the outskirts of an extensive, rich, and powerful Indian empire.
“My second cousin, Cortes, conquered
the Aztecs,” Pizarro reminded his friend, who nodded. “If there are such cultures among the Indians
as the Aztecs and Mayans, why should there not be others?”
“I’ve seen some of the Mexican plunder...
and the carvings of the Mayan pagans.
These items we’ve found are at least as good, maybe better.”
No more needed to be said, at the
moment. Their conversation turned,
instead, to practical matters.
“There’s no way I can go back to
Spain: I’d be arrested as soon as I set
foot on shore. My past might foil our
plans,” Almagro laughed, listening to his wife yelling at their son,
downstairs. “Mozo’s growing up,” he
added, thoughtfully.
Ana Martinez was Almagro’s woman –
not exactly a wife. She was one of the
hundreds of people he and Pizarro had captured in their various entradas, or
exploratory raids. Almagro had found her
cringing under ferns, in the jungle, naked and eating fruit; now she wore
clothes, like a Spanish doña, considering herself a caciqa presiding over the
household slaves.
“By the time you return, Mozo will
be old enough to come with us. You go to
court, Francisco. You at least know who
your father was. You haven’t killed
anyone, as far as I know, and you’re related to Cortes. I’ll look after our property.”
Both of them had come out to
Castilla de Oro
with Dávila’s armada, and being loyal tenientes,
and among the villa of Panama’s first settlers, they had been granted
encomiendas, or the right to exploit native labour. Pizarro held the encomienda of Isla de
Taboga, one of the many islands dotting the Gulf of Panama, Almagro held the
cacicazgo of Susy
together with a small encomiendero, and their partner, the priest Hernando de Luque,
held the cacicazgo of Perequete. Thus,
they were lords of a few Indian villages, and they could requisition the labour
of nearly two hundred natives, by feudal right of conquest. Some of the encomienda Indians tended the
cattle herds that occupied their lands, but mostly they were expected to dive
for pearls and prospect for gold. The
natives were wonderfully clever about finding and recovering minute quantities
of gold from sandy jungle river beds, one small nugget at a time, but they were
only just learning to value these rare pebbles as mineral wealth.
When all was settled between the two
old warriors, wine was called for – a welcome if rather expensive, imported taste
of home.
“We’ve been out here a long time,”
Pizarro remarked. “I’ve been on more
entradas than I can count. I’ve got
scars on every part of my body. Frankly,
I’m getting too old for this, Diego, and I’m still not settled down. At least you have Ana.”
The reminisced a little about how
they had met in a waterfront cantina in Santo Domingo, years ago, when Dávila’s
armada was being organized for the invasion of Castilla de Oro. They also laughed at how they had been
staggering and puffing through the jungles, during the last entrada into
Nicaragua, no longer young men – less agile and considerably less good-looking.
“We’re not getting any younger,
that’s true,” Almagro observed. “It’s
time to do something really big. We’ve
had all the glory. We’ve seen that God
has nothing to do with the conquest.
Now, it’s time for gold, and perhaps some respect.” He paused, however, and taking a deep breath
– followed by a deep draught of wine – he asked, “What were you thinking when
you captured Balboa?”
Pizarro did not like this
question. He and Balboa had been
friends. They had stood together, amazed
and laughing, on that beach, staring out at the Pacific Ocean, the first two
Europeans to see proof that Columbus has not reached some unknown part of Asia,
after all, but rather a completely new world.
Balboa had been the hero of the hour, but Dávila, who had raised him up,
cut him down just as quickly.
“Dávila was testing my loyalty,”
Pizarro said, quietly. “You know how
these things are. We’re a long way from
home.”
“And what did you think when they
chopped his head off?” Almagro inquired, frowning as he poured another goblet
of wine.
“I thought, ‘Balboa is no longer in
my way.’”
Almagro nodded, hearing this. He glanced at Pizarro for a long moment
before saying, “You and I have been friends a long time, Francisco. Please don’t betray me when you’re at court,
eh?”
III.
THE INVESTORS
The fort of Panama was defended by a
ditch and a wooden stockade, within which the administrative buildings of the
settlement stood, facing the azure blue waters of the gulf. The Governor, Pedrarias Dávila, was looking
down from the balcony outside his office, watching a small party of soldados
drilling with pikes in the fort plaza.
He found himself thinking about the course of the conquest thus
far.
The first expeditions to the New World had focused on
exploring and settling the islands on the other side of the Ocean-Sea, but
reconnaissance parties had begun to report long stretches of land to the north,
west, and south, and it did not require much imagination to piece these
together and conclude that a vast continent had been discovered. For lack of a better word, the Spanish had
begun to call this mysterious landmass Tierra Firme. Dávila had led the first major expedition to
the mainland, but it was Cortes – the mutineer, a daring, swashbuckling captain
– who had gained untold glory and riches beyond imagining by leading the
garrison of Cuba on a harebrained invasion of the Aztec Empire, against the
orders of his superior. What had Dávila found? Naked pagans living in thatched huts, and
just enough gold trinkets to whet the curiosity of his men.
Dávila’s initial attempts to settle
the eastern shore of Tierra Firme had not been very successful. Garrisons had been set on the beach only to
be wiped out, within months, by disease, famine, and overwhelming attacks by
the native peoples. Of all his captains,
only Balboa and Pizarro had been successful, discovering the route across the
Isthmus and the Pacific Ocean beyond.
Now that Panama had been established, however, the conquistadors were
forming compañas – private expeditions organized as commercial ventures. Men shared in the loot a compaña might take
in proportion to their investment – even men who did not want to fight, such as
the Italian merchants and priests who stayed behind at Panama – contributed a
sword, an arquebus,
a horse or two, anything that might prove useful and earn them a share. These compañas, however, divided the Spanish
forces. Losses could be heavy, and were
not easily replaced. But, perhaps worst
of all, the captains of these compañas were beginning to contest the same
territory in their insatiable quest for gold and slaves: they were beginning to fight each other,
driven into an absolute frenzy by frustrated greed. Unpaid, except by gaining plunder, the
conquistadors literally had to succeed or die.
Gaspar de Espinosa and Hernando de
Luque, the priest, arrived, and these men – urbane and sophisticated – sat down
in the Governor’s office to discuss the proposed expedition.
“Let us consider what we know,”
Espinosa said, smiling at his companions.
“We know, for instance, that Amerigo Vespucci found the estuary of an
enormous river flowing into the Ocean-Sea from out of the west – a river that
could only drain a vast area, an area perhaps even larger than all of
Europe. They say the mouth of the river
is a hundred miles wide. Moreover, this
river very likely flows from immense mountains lying somewhere in the west.”
Hernando de Luque nodded, and
warming to this exercise, added, “And there is the recent voyage made by
Magellan – although, sadly, not completed by him. Still, the circumnavigation of the world....”
“So, we now know that the Earth is
round,” Dávila snorted. “You’re not
going to turn me in to the Inquisition for saying that, Padre?”
“What can I say?” the affable priest
chuckled. “There’s a mistake in the
Bible. Perhaps there’s hope for us all,
yet? If God can allow an error in Holy
Scripture, he no doubt will tolerate a few errors in us.”
“What Magellan has demonstrated,
gentlemen, is that we’re sitting up here at the edge of a continent that
extends southward for thousands of
miles. Along the eastern coast, mariners
have found only savages, no signs of civilization – only a vast forest. We, however, have evidence of a civilization
located south of Panama – there are people down there who are capable of producing
art and building cities. And you’ve all
heard Pizarro’s stories. If Tumbez is
just an outlying settlement, what lies in the interior?”
“Yes,” Father de Luque said, “and if
I’m not mistaken, the ornaments Pizarro and Almagro found represent pagan
deities and devils, indicating that these people – whoever they are – have a sense
of religion, albeit one founded on the darkest superstitions. There may be hundreds of thousands of souls
to be saved, if not millions.”
“A developed religion and mythology
suggests a society that has been established for some time,” Dávila
replied. “These people likely will be
different from any other race we’ve encountered in the New World so far, apart
from the Aztecs and the Mayans.”
“Do you think our two bastard amigos
are up to the job, Señor?” Espinosa smirked.
“Pizarro has more pride than good sense, and he can’t read or write;
Almagro, on the other hand, is a grasping little cutthroat.”
“I know Almagro’s a cutthroat;
that’s why I signed him on – he came out here full of fight, with nothing to
lose but his life. Let these two
captains take the lead – and the risks,” Dávila said. “Pizarro and Almagro have been loyal –
they’ve always done everything I asked them to do. They’ve earned their chance. But there is more than one way to profit from
a conquest. The gold flowing out of
Mexico now enriches Cuba and Santo Domingo.
Well, then – why should the gold of Peru not enrich Panama? It will have to pass through here – through
us – on its way to Spain. If we cannot
find a way to squeeze an easy profit out of such an arrangement, we’re not men
of reason.”
IV.
THE VOYAGE TO SPAIN
Francisco Pizarro travelled across
the Isthmus to the Caribbean port of Nombre de Díos, where he found passage
aboard a ship bound for Santo Domingo.
He had been entrusted with letters written to various members of the
imperial court, fifteen hundred cruzados for his expenses, some examples of
Peruvian trinkets, two llamas (which he called camels), and the two Indian boys
who had been kidnapped along the coast, now sporting the names Felipillo and
Martinillo. Pizarro was accompanied by
one of his most loyal companions, a Hispanicized Greek soldier-of-fortune from
Genoa named Pedro de Candia.
“I need you with me, Pedro,” he
confided, once they were aboard. “I
can’t read, you see. If we’re
successful, there are bound to be documents involved: I need someone with me I can trust, so I
don’t do anything foolish.”
“Don’t worry,” Pedro promised. “Everything will work out.” He crossed himself, adding, “God willing.”
A defensive wall of cemented stone
had been built around the new city of Santo Domingo, and it was evident that
the wealth haemorrhaging out of Mexico was bringing about astonishing changes even
here. Pizarro had come out with the
armada of Nicolás de Ovando, when that officer was appointed Governor of
Hispaniola. Pizarro – then a young man –
beheld with awe his first hurricane, a storm so vast, furious, and sustained
that the town was completely destroyed, first torn apart by wind and then swept
away by the surging sea. Prudently, the
Governor had decided to move everyone to a new location and start over. After participating in a few expeditions to
Tierra Firme, Pizarro had served as a teniente in the Santo Domingo
garrison. He had come out as a raw
youth: hard, dangerous marches into the
jungle and swift, savage battles with the natives had made him hard and
dangerous himself, but his time in Santo Domingo had given him a chance to
observe, at close quarters, the speech and manners of the hidalgos – the
officer class – and ever since he had attempted to emulate them, altering his
accent, his expression, the way he carried himself, even his thinking.
They did not tarry long in Santo
Domingo, however. They boarded the first
ship bound for Seville, and soon were far out to sea, out of sight of land.
The wooden ship rolled miserably
through rolling Atlantic swells, timbers creaking ominously. In the darkness of the hold, the clucking of
chickens and the bleating of goats mingled with the incessant dripping of the
leaking hull and the coughing of sick men trying to make it home before they died. In small but much better-ventilated cabin in
the stern-castle, Pizarro and de Candia lay in their hammocks, pondering the
rising and falling waves through their open port. On deck, the bo’sun was shouting orders, and
there was a thunderous noise as the ship altered its tack and the wind filled
its enormous sails, straining the masts and rigging.
Felipillo and Martinillo, the two
Indian boys, were a study in contrasts.
The former, who seemed younger and more naive than his fellow captive, was
slow, timid, and cringing. He was eager
to please, but inclined to be clumsy.
Everything about the Spaniards had terrified him – their shining armour,
the sudden crack of their guns, spitting fire, their horses and ships. Now, on the open ocean, he behaved like a
person who was certain of his imminent death, shuffling about, despondent and
sad. Martinillo, meanwhile, had encountered every
new thing with quiet curiosity: he was
self-assured, attentive, and a quick study.
The sea, furthermore, did not frighten him at all. Whereas Felipillo learned only a few Spanish
words from the soldados in Panama, which he used in a clumsy, unclear manner,
Martinillo proved himself a perfect mimic of the Castilian accent, lisp and
all, and even demonstrated an appreciation for the nuances of his new
tongue.
“It’s a shame Felipillo and
Martinillo aren’t friends,” Pizzaro remarked.
“It’s clear that Martinillo holds young Felipillo in extreme
contempt: he won’t even let the boy talk
with him.”
“Best to encourage that,” de Candia
said. “If they hate each other, they’ll
check each other’s translations – just in case one of them decides to betray
us.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
“From now on, my friend, you need to
think of everything,” de Candia replied.
“This is the price of command.
Anyway, you know how treacherous the natives are. They don’t comprehend the difference between right
and wrong. They’re barely human.”
Pizarro did not disagree. He had been horrified, when he first came to
Hispaniola, by the brutal manner in which the native Taino people were treated –
beaten, locked up, starved, forced to work until they were sick and dying, and
then left to rot or be cared for by some exhausted, distraught Dominican friar,
if they were lucky. However, familiarity bred
contempt. Armed to the teeth, swaggering
in one’s armour, it was hard not to feel invincible: the natives were cowards – they fled,
cringed, cried like women, begged for mercy.
When they did fight, they preferred stealth, poisoned darts shot from
being trees, mobbing small bands of men who they could catch off guard. Over the years, Pizarro had found it easy not
to like the natives of the New World, to ignore the way the overseers beat the
encomienda Indians labouring in his little shipyard on the Isla de Taboga. When they tried to desert, he chased them
down with hunting dogs and dragged them back through the muddy, steaming jungle
trussed like pheasants, snivelling like frightened children. The important thing, he always thought, was
to make sure that the natives feared the Spanish, for otherwise there would be
no way to control them.
V.
THE
SPANISH COURT
The Emperor, Carlos V, was holding
court at Toledo when Pedro de Candia finally secured Pizarro’s release from the
prison at Seville. The Emperor, however,
was understanding – he joked about it, a matter of old debts, long forgotten,
incurred when Pizarro was young and more frequently on the move. He had heard that many conquistadors lived
interesting and complicated lives. His
Imperial Majesty had his father’s languid good-looks. Not for nothing had his father been nicknamed
“El Guapo.” He was perfunctory and
preoccupied, however – that was clear even to Pizarro, unaccustomed to court
etiquette and protocol as he was.
“Your proposal is of interest to us,”
Carlos said, “all the more so given the stupendous profits reaped by our loyal
servant, Cortes – your second cousin, we believe....” He paused while one of his counsellors
whispered in his ear, and then finished:
“We must attend to our armies, but in our absence you will carry on
negotiations with the Empress and the Council of the Indies.”
Pizarro had not been home to Spain
for twenty-eight years, and many things had changed. Princess Juana had been sent to Flanders to
marry, only to return as Hapsburg Empress; now, her philandering husband was
dead and she was locked up in a convent, semi-hysterical and bereft of all
reason. By law, she was co-ruler with
her son, Carlos, but in fact she was only a figure-head, a sop to Castilian
pride. In the streets, and even at court
– but only in whispers – people called her Juana la Loca, or Joan the Mad. For all that, Carlos had not found it easy to
seize real power: in each kingdom of the
Spanish realm, the members of the local cortes, or parliament, sought to delay
the inevitable, trying to obtain more rights.
There had been a bloody revolt, in Castile, where several cities had rejected
imperial rule outright, but troops loyal to the Emperor Carlos had crushed the
rebel towns. Toledo itself had been at the centre of that
storm, and the people might have been restless, still, had they not found a
capable regent and a sympathetic advocate in Charles’ Portuguese wife,
Isabela.
The Empress was beautiful, graceful,
and smart, and it was clear to all who saw her with Charles that her husband
not only doted on her, but held her in high esteem. Twenty-seven years old, she had been on the throne
for five years. The marriage of Joan the
Mad had united the Spanish Empire in the New World and Italy with the Low
Countries and – eventually – with the Holy Roman Empire. When Carlos had married Isabela, peace was
secured with the Portuguese, who had been building an empire of their own in
Africa, and now were colonizing far-off settlements in the Indian Ocean and the
Spice Islands. True, there was growing trouble in Europe, in particular a
movement against the Church that had not existed when Pizarro left for the New
World, but these Lutherans, as they were called, surely were just another band
of heretics, doomed to failure and obscurity.
It was not easy for Pizarro to make
himself noticed, even with two llamas and two Peruvian youths in tow, although
the court ladies were delighted by the beasts, and remarked upon their
ridiculously cute faces and ever-complacent expressions. The Indian boys, however, were almost
ignored. Hundreds of New World savages
had been paraded at court, by now, and the courtiers were bored with them. Pizarro’s second cousin, Hernan Cortes, had
come home from the New World, too, this time to report personally on the
success of his conquest of Mexico. He
had been sending galleons home, laden with gold, for the last seven years, but
now brought personal treasures to lay in the hands of the ladies-in-waiting,
and the Empress herself, with a smile so charming that even the devil himself
must have been jealous.
At the first opportunity, Pizarro
met with Cortes in the large house that he had rented for himself and his
entourage, and they shared a bottle of wine.
“So, you think you’ve found another
Indian civilization to rival mine, eh?” Cortes smirked.
“Yes – which is why I need your
advice,” Pizarro replied. “You’re the
only one who’s ever done anything like this.”
“Like what?” Cortes snorted.
“Like conquer a completely unknown
civilization,” Pizarro said. “I’ll probably
only have a few hundred men: there might
be millions of people in Peru, like there are in Mexico. I need to know what to do.”
“Well, this is what happened in
Mexico. One of the coastal tribes tried
to buy peace by giving us young women, for they saw we didn’t bring any with
us. One of the girls they sent us was a
slave they had acquired, but she had been born into a noble family among the
Aztecs. Girls inherited equally amongst
the Aztecs, so her parents got rid of her in order to leave everything to her
half-brother. She was given to one of
the soldados, first, but I took her for myself, and she became our
interpreter. She had picked up a little
Spanish from a shipwrecked sailor, you see.
You need someone who can explain not just the words they’re saying,
mind, because the Indians can lie as well as any Christian. You also need to understand the symbols,
facial expressions, gestures, hidden meanings, the works. Doña Marina, as we called her, saved our
hides several times.”
“I’m getting a little old for
mistresses,” Pizarro laughed. “Anyway,
our interpreters are boys.”
Cortes scoffed. “I’ll believe you’re too old when I see you
put down your sword. At least you’re not
married! Doña Marina and I were getting
on splendidly until my wife arrived from Cuba.”
Pizarro laughed, imagining how
awkward this must have been. “What did
you do?”
“She married my right-hand man: the three of us had an understanding, you
see. After all, Doña Marina has borne me
children. A veneer of respectability is
important – eventually,” Cortes smiled.
“Eventually, you have to come to court.
They don’t like irregularities at court.
You need to find a way to make those go away.”
Pizarro pursed his lips and
scratched his forehead, trying to imagine all the irregularities Cortes must
have conjured under the rug in the aftermath of his conquest.
Cortes sipped a glass of wine and
said, “You need a woman to interpret, at some point. Women see the world differently. They’re more subtle than we are.”
“I’ll take your word for it,”
Pizarro chuckled, stifling a belch as a servant poured them more wine.
“Now – these steps are crucial,”
Cortes said, leaning across the table. “First,
be gentle with the people living on the edge of the empire. They were probably conquered recently, and
will be ready to rise up and aid you, so use just enough force to show them the
superiority of our arms. Then offer them
the olive branch.”
“The what?”
“Peace,” Cortes sighed. “It’s a pity you never acquired a proper
education, Francisco. You need some
smart fellows around you, and a priest or two, malleable friars who won’t get
in the way. The last thing you want is
some religious fanatic tagging along who thinks he wants to save everyone. But it’s useful to show the natives we have a
religion of our own. I’ve never known a
court, in the New World or the Old where there wasn’t some sort of rivalry
between the ruler and the priests. Find
every fissure in their society you can and pry them all open. Weaken every institution as much as possible.”
Cortes continued his
instructions. An empire, he said, could
best be conquered by a handful of men if they could turn its own strength in
upon itself. He had conquered the Aztecs
with the assistance of thousands of native allies, all of them sick of the
oppressive rule of their overlords. The
Aztecs, it turned out, were merely a ruling class, stretched thin, a minority
within their own empire. At some point,
however, there was bound to be a head-on clash between Spanish troops and the
enemy’s force.
“Because the situation will be a
novel one, they’ll want to begin by negotiating. They’ll be curious. In Mexico, Montezuma, didn’t know who or what
we were. Doña Marina told me they
believed one of their Gods might have come back from across the sea, in
accordance with a prophecy. Well,
whether Montezuma believed that or not, he soon figured out what we wanted –
gold – but he couldn’t understand why. The
Aztecs called our horses deer, if you can believe it – they’d never seen
anything like them. But there’s the
thing. You’ll only have one chance to
surprise them with the horses and guns.
They won’t be so frightened the second time. And the third time, they won’t be scared at
all. Here’s what you must do. Coax their leader into a place where you can
ambush him, and take him prisoner.
That’s the only reason our men left behind in Tenochtitlan weren’t massacred: they held Montezuma hostage.”
“Then what?”
“Find someone legitimate and
amenable. Make him your puppet, if that
helps. At every court there are people
with grievances who will welcome a usurper, even a foreign one. Form alliances with such people in every way
you can. Let them think they’ll be
equals, or even superior, but don’t trust them.
Learn from them, rule the country through them, and – at least at first
– change things as little as possible.
That’s how we rule New Spain, and it seems to be working.”
“Why don’t the Aztecs rebel?”
“We either converted them into
allies, or we killed them,” Cortes said in a matter-of-fact way. “And I mean kill them. Show no
mercy. They don’t understand mercy –
they certainly don’t show any in their own wars with each other. But the real danger, in the end, will be the
other Spaniards who are with you, especially those who feel slighted in some
way.”
VI.
THE
COUNCIL OF THE INDIES
The Empress Isabel studied the
letters Pizarro had brought from Panama – mostly from Espinosa, who held the
post of Treasurer under Governor Dávila.
She eventually received the report sent in by the Governor sent out to
replace Dávila, a man named de los Ríos, who – as usual – described a long list
of deficiencies and abuses, all of which he blamed on his predecessor. Isabel also met with the Council of the
Indies, then headed by a Cardinal of the Church, García de Loaysa and Diego
Beltrán, Councillor of the Indies.
“Why does Pizarro call this new land
Peru?” she asked.
Beltrán spoke: “Apparently, Your Majesty, that is the name
of a river, flowing into the Pacific Ocean, where they first began to find
evidence of the new land.”
“Do we really have sufficient evidence to
believe Pizarro’s tales?” This
cautionary question was put by the third member of the Council, Francisco de
Los Cobos.
“If I may beg your pardon in
advance, Your Majesty, we must consider the possibility that the Portuguese may
reach the new land first.” Juan Suárez
de Carvajal, Bishop of Lugo, had spoken.
“Even if they do, it lies on our
side of the Demarcation Line of Tordesillas,” said Cardinal Loaysa.
“With all due respect, Your
Excellency, we don’t know that,” Beltrán interjected. “Proper astronomical observations would have
to be made to verify the location of Peru.
But all the more reason to let Pizarro and his partners go, in my
opinion.”
“It is true that the Portuguese
court is considering planting a colony on the coast of this new land they call
Brazil,” Isabel said. “They will say it
is a way-station for their India-bound fleets, but, of course, they will
explore the interior.”
“We’re spreading ourselves too
thin,” Los Cobos warned. “We have only a
handful of Spaniards, in Mexico, trying to control a population at least as
large as that of Spain. We’ve all read
Cortes’s official account of the conquest.
There must be at least ten million people in the lands he’s conquered,
and he has what? Two thousand men – if
that? If we were to find another
civilization, of comparable size, so soon after trying to absorb Mexico into
the Empire....”
“Then we’d be twice as rich as we
are now,” Cardinal Loaysa sighed. “Look,
any problems that arise can be dealt with, especially if there is sufficient
incentive.”
“And the Philippines?”
“The dispute with the Portuguese
over the occupation of the Moluccas will soon be concluded,” Isabel
reported. “We have received word from
Rome that the Pope is close to reaching an agreement with our representatives.”
“The important thing is not to
promise too much, at this stage,” Los Cobos said. “Your Majesty, I believe it would be prudent
to give this Pizarro enough latitude to make his conquest, but not enough to
usurp power the way Cortes has done in Mexico.”
“Cortes presented us with a done
deal,” Isabel nodded, “and there is no argument quite as compelling as a fait
accompli. Pizarro has at least come here
asking our permission for the conquest:
he understands his place.” She
turned to Cardinal Laoysa. “What are his
antecedents, exactly?”
“His father served in Italy and
Navarre – a captain, from Trujillo, a member of the minor nobility,” the
Cardinal replied. “I understand he is
one of the captain’s many natural sons, by a woman named Francesca, whose
parents were launderers for the convent of San Francisco. The old man had a whole slew of bastard
sons.”
Isabel was not surprised to hear
this. Landless knights and their
illegitimate sons, runaway servants, Moriscos, crypto-Jews, criminals fleeing
justice – the Americas were fast being populated by the cast-offs and refuse of
Spanish society.
“We will offer him a knighthood,”
Isabel said, decisively. “However, we
will limit his share of the riches to be taken to one-twentieth of the royal
fifth, but in any event no more than one thousand five hundred cruzados.”
Cardinal Loaysa raised his eyebrows,
hearing this. “Will he accept such
limitations, Your Majesty?”
“If he doesn’t agree to them, we
will make the offer to someone who will,” Isabel replied. “Cortes had his way with us, Señores, but the
Spanish Crown will never again tolerate such insolence on the part of a subject. The conquistadors must be brought under
control, even if Spain is far away.”
VII.
THE
COMPAÑA FOR THE CONQUEST
Francisco Pizarro was baffled by the
complexity of the negotiations with the Crown, and he was glad he had Pedro de
Candia with him to help him negotiate the political maze of the Hapsburg
bureaucracy. He might be illiterate and
untutored, but he at least had friends – not just the Greek mercenary, but an
old comrade from his youth, Luis Carrillo, brother of Doña Maria Niño, whose
husband now was the Royal Secretary, Lope Conchillos. Another ally, Juan de Semano, also helped
Pizarro with the delicate task of bribing Francisco de Los Cobos, who in the
end withdrew his opposition to the venture.
As for Diego Beltrán, he was satisfied easily enough, being promised a
place in the expedition for two of his sons.
Briefly, Pizarro visited his home
town of Trujillo. His mother and father
were both dead, but he had many relatives there still. All of them had heard of the riches won by
Cortes in Mexico, and they listened eagerly to Pizzaro’s offer of a share in
the proposed conquest of Peru. Hernando,
the youngest, was – rather ironically – the only legitimate one of the bunch,
but in keeping with the old traditions, Captain Pizarro had encouraged his boys
to think of themselves as brothers, regardless of who their mothers had
been. Thus, all the brothers – Hernando,
Juan, and Gonzalo – and even Francisco’s half-brother, Martin de Alcántara –
agreed to return to the New World with him, as did many other men of
Trujillo. After all, a chance to win
riches on the edge of the known world was better than herding swine, even if
there was a very high probability of death.
Extremadura was one of the poorest corners of Spain, a rugged and
parsimonious land that bred tough lads.
There were only a few thousand people in Trujillo, however, and Pizarro
had been authorized to recruit three hundred men.
For Pizarro, the most thrilling part
of his journey back to Spain had been the ceremony in which the Empress
Isabella knighted him, proclaiming him Don Francisco Pizarro, a member of the
Order of Santiago. He now had a
coat-of-arms – appropriate, perhaps: an
imagined Peruvian city, a llama, and a ship at sea. However, by January, having been gone nearly
a year, he still had only two-thirds of the men he needed mustered at Seville,
while the ships he had been able to arrange were in very poor condition.
“We should leave now, Don
Francisco,” Pedro de Candia urged. “If
we wait any longer for Hernando to come down from Trujillo with his men, the
royal officials will arrive. Do you
really want those fellows underfoot?”
The Empress had insisted that Pizarro
accept into his force a small staff of imperial bureaucrats – inspectors and
accountants, court spies essentially – who would report on all his activities
and also make sure that the Crown received its due share of the spoils, if any
were to be found. No doubt, they would
make it to Peru eventually, but Pizarro agreed with de Candia. There was no point in making the officials’
jobs easy: they would set sail at once,
from a small port not far from Seville, and plead the age-old sailors’ excuse
of wind and tide. A messenger was sent
to Hernando to tell him to hurry up and rendezvous with the rest of the force
at the Canary Islands.
Once at sea, however, Pizarro found
himself immersed in anxiety. The
imperial officials would be mad, surely, that they had been left behind. They would exact their revenge, if they
could. Meanwhile, the Empress had driven
a hard bargain. No wonder the Emperor
did not worry about leaving the administration of such a vast and complex
empire in her hands. She was beautiful
and elegant, and she could strip you of every advantage in a negotiation, while
smiling, and make the whole business seem like a kiss on the cheek by an
angel.
They sailed within sight of the
cloud-capped mountains of Madeira after about a week rolling and pitching on
the sea, but the Trade Winds were with them, and only a few days later they
were riding at anchor off the island of Gomera, waiting for Hernando, who
showed up in due course, having himself successfully avoided the imperial
officials. At last, firing salutes, the
little armada unfurled its sails and set a course for the Caribbean and the Tierra
Firme port of Nombre de Díos.
The llamas had remained at Toledo,
joining the rest of the royal menagerie, but Felipillo and Martinillo were returning
to the New World with Pizarro. The
latter, in particular, had been astonished by the splendour of the Castilian
court, and something about the halos over the heads of the Catholic saints, and
the sun-burst symbols of the intricately-carved altars of the churches had
captivated his imagination. Martinillo
now was the constant companion of the Dominican friars who accompanied Pizarro,
among them another of his relatives, Fray Vicente de Valverde.
VIII.
SUSPICIONS
& SETBACKS
By May, Pizarro was back in Panama,
presenting to his business partners the articles of agreement drawn up by the
Empress and the Council of the Indies.
“Great,” muttered Almagro. “It bears Juana la Loca’s name - the crazy
Queen gives her assent to our madness....”
“We also had an imperial cédulo,
instructing Governor de Los Rios to assist us and make no effort to impede our
expedition,” Pizarro explained.
“You’re to get fifteen hundred
cruzados, while I get five hundred,” Almagro noted. “How the hell did that happen? You get to be
Captain-General, the Padre here is to be made a bishop, and me? Mayor of a town that doesn’t even exist yet,
located in a land we know next to nothing about.”
“These are just preliminary
agreements,” Padre de Luque said, trying to soothe Almagro. “I’m sure there will be changes once the
expedition has penetrated into the country.”
“Her Majesty said there should be only
one leader – she wanted to avoid the problems Cortes had in Mexico when
Velazquez tried to interfere,” Pizarro replied. “I swear to you, Diego, I will see you have
your due, somehow.”
“That promise is worth about as much
as a tinker’s fart in a high wind, Pizarro.”
“Señores, let’s not quibble over
spilled milk we don’t even have yet,” Luque advised. “Better attend to the expedition. The town is full of rumours. The men are frightened – many have
deserted. Of the six friars who came out
from Spain, one has returned home already, two want to stay here, and you have
only three remaining. You’ll have no one
left unless you finish your preparations and set forth immediately.”
“Padre de Luque is right,” Almagro
nodded, sagely, “there are other captains in Panama looking to recruit men for
their own compañas. I’ve seen them eyeing our men with an indecent degree of interest.”
Governor de los Ríos had no interest
in the success of Pizarro’s expedition, especially since he was unlikely to
benefit from it in any direct way.
Gaspar de Espinosa, who remained on the new Governor’s staff, now had to
become a silent partner in the enterprise, laundering his money with a priest
named Juan de Asencio, who had recommended by Padre de Luque. With the transport vessels nearly completed
at the shipyard, Almagro sharking up every wharf rat and idler he could find,
and a stockpile of supplies ready to carry aboard, all that remained were some
last-minute financial arrangements.
The merchant guild of Seville
enjoyed a royal monopoly
on all trade between Spain and the New World, and their agent in Panama,
Domingo de Soraluce, agreed to invest part of his fortune in Pizarro’s
expedition, helping the conquistadors obtain a few small cannon, shot, and a
few casks of gunpowder. Soraluce assigned
one of his underlings, Francisco de Calaborra, to accompany Pizarro’s men and
attend to the important task of assessing their loot, advancing credit in
return for taking unwieldy treasure off the soldados’ hands.
At last, the day of departure
arrived, December 27, 1530, and the members of the expedition assembled in the
Dominican church at Panama, hearing mass and receiving communion before setting
forth amid blaring trumpets and trooping standards, cheered on by the motley
inhabitants of the settlement as they marched out of the chapel and down to the
jetty, where the ships awaited them.
As the men climbed up into the
transports, Pizarro stood at the end of the jetty, clad in his shining
conquistador’s armour, with his new coat-of-arms emblazed on his shield, crying
out, “Boys! Here lies Panama in her
poverty – ahead of us lie the riches of Peru!
Only volunteers will come with us – if you are not a true son of
Castile, you’re free to go!”
No one backed out. The weak-of-spirit had deserted already,
leaving the loyal, the tough, the brave, and the truly desperate, one hundred
and eighty in all, thirty of them caballeros whose horses had been swung up
into the holds of the ships by means of winches, pulleys, and ropes attached to
canvas slings. As Pizarro himself
climbed up to join his men, crowded onto the decks of the ships, they drew
their swords, upon which they raised up their steel helmets, shouting in unison,
“Por Dios, Carlos, y España!” Then, much
louder, and with great enthusiasm, they cried, “Santiago!”
Pizarro embraced his brothers and
made his way to his cabin with tears in his eyes, for this was the proudest
moment of his life.
Soon
enough, they were at sea again, their navigator, Juan Ruiz de Arce, setting a
course for the Pearl Islands. Beyond
these jungle-covered specs of land, the ships sailed southward, out of right of
the coast, buffeted by contrary winds and tricksy currents. Fourteen days passed, the fresh provisions
brought from Panama dwindling.
“The men need to get their feet on
dry land – and so do the horses,” Pizarro said to Juan Ruiz. “Take us in – we’ll advance along the shore
while you sail parallel to the coast.”
After all, it would not do for his
little army to stumble ashore seasick, horses barely able to stand. That would not impress the Indians, and – as
Cortes had warned – first impressions were vitally important to the success of
the mission.
IX.
ATAHUALPA
& HUASCAR
In the Land of the Four Quarters all
was confusion and fear. Some said
Atahualpa started the civil war by refusing to go to Cuzco with the embalmed
corpse of Huayna Capac. The official he
sent in his stead, Cusi Tupac Yapanqui, was seized and tortured by Huascar, who
demanded to know what Atahualpa meant by this insult. They stripped him naked, to humiliate
him. They tore out his fingernails,
pulled his hair and eyebrows out, then his eyelashes. Finally, they began to cut him, slowly, and
applied hot copper tongs to his private parts – calm deliberation on their
part, frenzied screaming on their victim’s part.
“I don’t know!” was Cusi Tupac
Yapanqui’s final defence. He struggled
as the guards dragged him away, literally kicking and screaming, but Huascar
had given them the frowning signal.
Slowly and deliberately, Huascar
spoke: “From now on the ayllu of
Hanan-Cuzco is cut off. They have
supported Atahualpa’s rebellion against the Sapac Inca, and for this they will
be punished.”
Atahualpa, however, sent messengers
bearing gifts to Huascar, protesting his innocence. He did not deserve to be branded aucca, or
traitor, he protested. He had remained
behind at Quito only because he was busy suppressing a revolt in Huancavilas,
the region around the Gulf of Guyaquil and the city of Tumbez.
“Kill the messengers,” was Huascar’s
response to these excuses. He then
ordered officials to descend upon the Sun Maidens’ sanctuary of Tumipampa to
seize the royal insignia kept there, as well as the women set aside for Huayna
Capac, who no longer required them now that he was a pickled, brittle corpse
laid out in his family’s mausoleum-hall.
In Huancavilas, meanwhile,
Atahualpa’s soldiers interrogated several curacas, or local chiefs, who
informed them that strange men had come across the sea, carried aboard boats
larger than anything anyone had ever seen.
Some said the men were bearded, like Viracocha, the Creator and Preserver,
who had disappeared across the ocean according to the ancient traditions.
When he had crushed the revolt in
Huancavilas, leaving the city of Tumbez depopulated, Atahualpa returned to
Quito, despatching two of his generals, Chalcochima and Quizquiz, along the
spine of the mountains toward Cuzco.
Committed, now, to a fight to the finish, Atahualpa took the fringe for
himself, assumed the title of Sapac Inca, and laid claim to concubines from the
sanctuaries occupied by the Chosen Women.
Sun Maidens came to attend him, and Atahualpa insisted that they hold a
screen of cloth in front of him, if a commoner sought an audience, so that he
did not have to look upon any but the faces of beautiful young women, nobles,
and priestesses. All who questioned his
presumption openly were seized and killed.
While Chalcochima and Quizquiz
marched toward Cuzco to confront Huascar, slowly Atahualpa and his entourage
made their way down the royal road, pausing along the way to receive the
submission of provincial chiefs. No one
who was not part of the inner circle of nobles was allowed to speak directly to
Atahualpa. Instead, they had to address
an official dubbed the Apu Inca, who stood beside the Sapac Inca at all times
when he was holding court.
When Atahualpa’s entourage – now
tens of thousands strong –
arrived
at Huamachuco, he sent royal servants to consult the huaca, or oracle. An elderly priest, said to be more than one
hundred years old, attended the shrine, communicating with the spirits who
lived there on behalf of those who arrived bearing offerings. He wore a cloak covered with sea-shells.
“What is Atahualpa’s fate?” the
royal officials asked.
“He will be destroyed on account of
his cruelty,” the old priest replied.
When Atahualpa heard the oracle’s
reply to his query, he was furious. He
marched at once to the hut where the old priest lived and ordered him to come
outside. Without delay, he struck the
old man with a halberd made of copper-gold, severing his head from his shoulders.
“We will proceed to Cajamarca,”
Atahualpa said, handing his bloodied royal weapon to an attendant to be
destroyed.
Nothing the Sapac Inca touched –
except his women – was ever touched again.
Every day, all the utensils he had used, all his clothes, were gathered
and burned. New implements and clothes
then were brought for his use.
“This sacred hill has offended me,”
Atahualpa added, glaring up at the rocky eminence. “Level it.
There will be no more huaca here.”
When he reached Cajamarca, however,
Atahualpa once again received a report that Viracocha had appeared on the coast
in the region of Huancavilas.
“How can there by more than one
Viracocha?” Atahualpa asked his attendant priests.
“Let us wait here at Cajamarca, for
now, until we learn more,” suggested one of the commanders of Atahualpa’s
escort.
“The prophecy does say, Sapac Inca,
that Viracocha will return in a time of calamity,” the priest said.
At first, conflicting reports
arrived from the front lines. After
defeating one of the younger princes, loyal to Huascar, Chalcochima and
Quizquiz went up against Huascar’s main force.
Initially, the battle did not go well for Atahualpa’s forces, although
they fought bravely. The two generals,
however, did not yield: they knew that
if they were defeated, they would not just be killed, but skinned alive
first. The flesh of their bellies would
be tanned and stretched over the heads of the royal war drums. They fell back, therefore, laying a trap
carefully, and Huascar, who knew nothing of war, walked straight into the
ambush. His men were slaughtered,
thousands of them, and he fell – vanquished and miserable – into the hands of
Chalcochima and Quizquiz.
When Atahualpa learned that Cuzco
was now controlled by his army, he rejoiced.
However, he sent one of his relatives – Cusi Yapanqui – to instruct
Chalcochima and Quizquiz to eradicate Huascar’s family from the face of the
earth.
“Huascar’s seed must die in the
ground where it has been planted,” Atahualpa said. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Cusi Yapanqui nodded.
“But let Huascar live, for the time
being,” Atahualpa added. “Make him
watch.”
Cusi Yapanqui travelled at once to
Cuzco, a thousand miles to the southeast, a journey that would take nearly a
month and a half. Atahualpa remained at
Cajamarca, for he had received fresh reports from the coast regarding the
intruders from across the sea. They wore
armour made of a metal no one had ever seen before, with a sheen like burnished
silver. Their flag was white, with a red
cross, and they rode animals like llamas, only larger and stronger. They had slaughtered the inhabitants of Puna,
it was said, and had committed all manner of depredations on the mainland. They did not understand Quechua or the local
language, but conversed awkwardly through two young men who served as their
interpreters.
“What are they doing now?” Atahualpa
asked.
“Building a town in the Tangarara
Valley, south of Tumbez, but they do not build with blocks of stone. They make bricks, with mud, and they use a
great deal of wood.”
Atahualpa turned to his priest,
looking quizzical. The priest, who had
listened attentively to the reports, said, “It is a fertile area, Sapac
Inca. This means they want to farm the
land. As for the rest, it seems these
strangers are not Viracocha after all.
If they were, they would speak Quechua.”
“My father told me of rumours he had
heard, concerning such men,” Atahualpa remarked, looking pensive. “They first were seen in lands far to the
north, a generation ago.”
“Sapac Inca,” the messenger said,
still staring at the floor in front of Atahualpa, “the strangers have begun to
march toward Cajamarca.”
“There are only a handful of them. We are thousands strong. What can they do? Let the intruders come here, and then we will
find out who and what they are.”
X.
PIZARRO’S
FOOTHOLD
This time, Pizarro and his men had received
a cold reception from the Inca officials at Tumbez. They had learned that the two men who had
stayed behind had been killed. Unwilling
to attempt an assault a large town with less than two hundred men, Pizarro had
withdrawn to the Isla de Puna, off shore in the Gulf of Guyaquil, north of
Tumbez. Here, however, there had been
trouble. Warned by their interpreters
that the Puna chiefs were plotting a surprise attack, the Spanish soldados had seized
the curacas, beheading them. The
spirited warriors of the island attacked, but they had never faced the levelled
pikes of Spanish infantry before, to say nothing of the shock of dozens of
arquebuses fired in unison, along with crossbows. Four hundred Indians had been killed, while
only three Spaniards were slain and twenty-six wounded. Even so, the local people had not relented. They had continued to harass Pizarro’s
contingent until an unexpected reinforcement arrived from Nicaragua – an
uninvited interloper named Hernando de Soto, who had brought with him one
hundred volunteers and a handful of Nicaraguan Indian scouts.
“What brings you here?” Pizarro
asked de Soto.
“Governor Dávila died, which leaves
me at loose ends as far as I’m concerned,” de Soto replied. “My men and I are looking for adventure. It looks as if you found some. Perhaps more than you bargained for?”
“You and your men are welcome,”
Pizarro said, considering de Soto’s unspoken proposal, “but you must agree to
serve under my command.”
Not long after de Soto’s unexpected
appearance, another ship arrived from Panama bringing the four royal officials
Pizarro had left behind in Spain and thirty more men under an officer named
Balcázar. The four officials, however, were not as angry as Pizarro had
expected. Perhaps they had been
mollified by the twenty thousand cruzados worth of treasure his men had taken
from various villages thus far, and the fact that there really was a new
civilization, seemingly ripe for the taking, being distracted by a civil war.
Pizarro decided to please the royal inspectors
even more by returning to the mainland, which he now could do safely, having
received reinforcements. His men had
seen on the Isla de Puna that although the natives were brave, their leather
armour offered them no protection, while their weapons – copper-tipped javelins,
bows and arrows, stone axes, wooden clubs, and slings – were no match for
gleaming Spanish steel. Thus, when they landed on the main, they did
so with a light heart, being young men, mostly, convinced that they would live
forever.
They had been isolated on the Isla
de Puna, however, for several months, receiving no news from the
hinterlands. What they found was
astonishing. The once-populous town of
Tumbez was destroyed and abandoned.
Villages lay empty, fields unsown.
The countryside was all but deserted, and the people they encountered
offered no resistance.
“Martinillo, what happened?” Pizarro
asked his interpreter, who had been interrogating captives from a
semi-abandoned village.
“The people of Huancavilas rebelled
against the new Sapac Inca, Señor, but Atahualpa’s armies destroyed them.”
Pizarro cautiously moved inland
through an arid country of brush-covered hills and sandy plains, eventually
selecting a fertile valley, near the coast, where he could found a pueblo, or
town, as per his instructions from the Crown.
The place was to be called San Miguel de Piura, and newly-enslaved
Indians began to build it for the Spanish in June, 1532. A chapel was constructed, as well, but the
ecclesiastical component of the invasion had suffered setbacks, too. Of the three friars who had set out for Peru,
one had died, and another had turned back, leaving only Father Vicente de
Valverde. The friar was from Trujillo,
like many of the men, and thus related well to the soldiers, but it was a
bookish man. He had studied at the great
university of Salamanca, and his understanding of religion was theological
rather than emotional, scriptural and dogmatic rather than a matter of
experience.
Pizarro was restless. He had not come to Peru to build towns. The expedition had been away from Panama for
nearly a year and a half. His own share
of the Crown’s fifth of the plunder taken thus far amounted to no more than two
hundred cruzados. His men – there were now
some two hundred and seventy of them, many of them ill and half of them ragged
scarecrows – they had to share in various proportions a mere sixteen thousand
cruzados.
“At this rate,” Hernando muttered,
“we might have been better off staying in Trujillo, herding pigs.”
Up to this point, the army had lived
on rations sent from Panama, and on what could be found in or taken from the
half-empty villages of a rather sparse and wretched-looking country. The mangrove forests and swamps along the
shores of the Gulf of Guyaquil gave way quickly to a desert-like landscape of
mottled brown, where even the trees resembled large, scraggly bushes. It was a country fit for goats, which – oddly
– the Spanish soldiers resembled somewhat as they grew thin due to long marches
on patrol, food they were unaccustomed to, and sickness. Up to this point, Pizarro had reserved all
the plunder for paying the expedition’s expenses, but he knew it was only a
matter of time before men began to ask for their share, and for permission to
go home.
“So, where is Almagro?” the soldados
began to ask.
I’ve
been in this situation before, Pizarro remembered. How could he forget? When the second expedition to this country
had fallen apart, he had refused to waver, and only thirteen men had been brave
enough to stand by him. This is about more than gold, he
thought, although it was hard to forget the gold. It’s
about the worth of a man – it’s about how far a man is willing to go.
Martinillo turned out to be well-informed
about the Land of the Four Quarters.
Being the son of a curaca, or local chief, he had been sent for
schooling to Cuzco. He explained that
whenever the Incas conquered a new territory, they generally left the old
chiefs in charge, provided they submitted to the empire. The chiefs’ sons, however, were required to
go to Cuzco, where they were held as honoured hostages, but also trained in
various ways. They learned to speak
Quechua, to honour the Incas’ gods, and practice the culture of the imperial
elite.
The empire, Martinillo explained,
was vast. Each of the four regions was
divided into provinces, or wamani. There
were one hundred and two of these, and each wamani was furthermore broken into
districts, or sayas, all of which were reckoned to contain at least ten
thousand families. There was not a
single wamani, he thought, that had fewer than two or three sayas.
“If this is true,” said Alonso
Riquelme, the royal treasurer, “this land must contain at least fifteen million people.”
Although he was not a well-educated
man, Pizarro had learned a thing or two about the world, and he realised that
if what Martinillo was saying was true, and if the treasurer’s calculations
were correct, the empire of Peru was even larger and possibly richer than
Mexico. He encouraged his men to talk
with Martinillo, so that the young man’s stories might inspire them.
Martinillo remembered his journey to
Cuzco, winding his way through mountains along stone-paved roads extending for
hundreds of miles, travelling for more than a month. He answered all the questions the Spanish
officers put to him – no, there were no wheels or carts. Everything was carried by men, or on the
backs of pack-llamas. How much could a
llama carry? Not much, really – only a
hundred pounds. There were no horses, no
draught animals, and thus no ploughs.
The farms were gardens, worked with hoes and digging sticks, and the
land in the interior was so steep that the villagers had to build
terraces. However, he had heard of large
estates, especially in the southern part of the empire, with huge fields,
worked by requisitioned labourers.
Martinillo informed his companions that the Incas collected taxes in the
form of grain, dried potatoes, and other foodstuffs; in cloth and craftwork;
and in labour. The labour system was
called mita, or “turn,” because men from each sub-district took their
turn. The drafted men from each area
performed different kinds of labour, according to local talents – some repaired
bridges, some worked in the mines, others tended the royal herds or the estates
of the Inca lords.
Martinillo also tried to explain the
civil war, although he had been kidnapped by the Spanish before the fighting
had begun. Still, he had managed to
piece together the rumours he had gleaned from the captives Pizzaro had
taken.
“Atahualpa has sent his army to
attack Cuzco, the capital; he is waiting at Cajas, not far from here, until he
hears word from his generals....”
Turning to his officers, Pizarro
said, “That’s it, Señores, we can’t wait any longer for Almagro’s reinforcements. We’re going to have to march into Peru on our
own.”
Pizarro immediately ordered all the
men he could spare – one hundred and six infantry and sixty-two caballeros – to
march toward Cajas, where he hoped to find Atahualpa and enter into
negotiations. The Spanish marched for
days across a desert landscape of sand and brush before coming to the foothills
of the Andes at Sarrán. Sending for de
Soto, Pizarro said, “Take a small force with you and seek out Cajas – and
Atahualpa, if he is there. This is what
you are to say....”
Captain de Soto nodded. Pizarro gave him the usual orders. The conquistadors were to avoid affronting
the Indians, but Atahualpa was to hear – as all other native caciques had – a
modified form of the Requiremento. For
the past nineteen years this had been standard policy: inform the Indians that the Spanish came in
peace, but demand that they accept, immediately, the Christian faith and the supremacy
of the Spanish Crown. If a native chief
refused the Requiremento’s terms, he and his people were to be considered
enemies of Christ, subject to plunder and destruction in accordance with the
customs of war.
XI.
DE
SOTO’S PATROL VISITS CAJAS
De Soto’s force – horse and foot –
reached Cajas after a short but arduous march.
The distance was only fifty miles, but the town lay eight thousand feet
higher up in the mountains than Serrán. The
approach to the place, however, was eerie and unsettling. The villages were empty, many of the houses
burned. Terraced fields lay fallow, run to
weeds, or trampled. At intervals, the
Spanish soldiers marched, grimacing, past trees hung with rotting corpses –
men, women, even children, all stripped naked and hanged. They had been there for a while, de Soto
judged, for birds already had picked out their eyes, and many of the corpses
were bloated, ash-grey, fly-encrusted, and beginning to fall apart.
At Cajas, the cacuna received de
Soto with unfeigned relief, even joy, especially when he realized that the
stranger brought with him Martinillo.
“He says they’ve heard of us,” the
interpreter explained. “He says
Atahualpa’s army killed all these people – seven thousand in all.”
“Why?” Hernando de Soto asked.
“Because they supported Huascar, the
rival Sapac Inca, who rules from Cuzco.”
“Where is Atahualpa?”
“His army has moved on – toward
Cajamarca.”
It was a great deal to take in, de
Soto thought. Cajas was not a large
town, but it was the first proper Inca city he or any other Spaniard had come
to, and quite different from ruined Tumbez.
Although some of the huts were built of rocks, mud, and sticks, covered
with thatch, the center of the town – the storehouses, temples, administrator’s
mansions, and plaza – were all built of massive stones, carefully fitted
together, with immensely strong, thick walls.
These were thrown open to de Soto and his men, and the curaca even
brought the young conquistador captain five young women in white robes, wearing
golden necklaces, to serve him.
“They are Sun Maidens,” Martinillo
said, “chosen by the Incas and dedicated to the service of the Gods and the
Sapac Inca. There are sanctuaries full
of Sun Maidens all over the country.”
“Virgins?” de Soto asked.
“Similar to your nuns, Señor, but
some of these girls will marry,” Martinillo replied. “They are given to the nobles, and sometimes
they become the concubines of the Sapac Inca himself.”
De Soto and several of his men rode
out to the edge of the city to inspect a road that one of the scouts had
seen. Martinillo, who came with them,
said there were thousands of miles of these roads linking all the cities of the
empire. Like the administrative area of Cajas, the
road was built of fitted stone, forming a smooth surface. There were gutters to carry off water, during
the rains, even stairs to aid climbing where the path had to mount up a steep
incline. To their dismay, however, a few
of the caballeros discovered that the horses could not keep their footing on
these roads, not with a rider mounted on them.
There was very little gold left in
Cajas, for Atahualpa’s soldiers had carried most of it away, but the local
chief nevertheless managed to bring de Soto and his men several wall-tiles of
unrefined gold that had decorated the local temple. The Sun Maidens, meanwhile, brought the
Spanish troops all manner of exotic fruits and even pitchers of sacred maize
beer they had brewed themselves, called chicha, which was yellow, cloudy, and
quite bitter.
“That’s disgusting!” de Soto
snapped, making a face as he took a sip of the drink. “What in the hell is in this?”
Martinillo explained the
ingredients, but added, “The secret is that the corn has to be chewed by the
Sun Maidens first. They spit their
saliva into the jar, which ferments.”
At this juncture, an envoy arrived
from Atahualpa’s camp, who was carried on a litter and accompanied by a small
guard of armed men. He wore woollen
strings around his head, marking him as a nobleman, and carried various golden
insignias of rank. Unlike the commoners,
who were astonished by the Spaniards, he merely smiled at them, and acted as if
he saw conquistadors and horses every day.
He settled down amiably with de Soto, sharing meals with the Spanish
troops and speaking affably, although they noticed that he keenly took in
everything he saw.
“My master, Atahualpa, sends you
these ducks – and a token of his esteem.”
De Soto regarded the ducks – which
were plucked and stuffed – as a veiled threat, and likewise the little
fortresses fashioned out of gold that were presented to him.
“Where are you people from?” the
Inca nobleman asked, sitting in one of the houses off the main plaza, alongside
de Soto and Martinillo. He looked on
with surprise as one of the Sun Maidens appeared, offering him a pitcher of
chicha, which he sipped, pouring some of the brew onto the ground, which did
not displease the young woman in the least.
“That is a libation for the
Goddess,” Martinillo said, causing de Soto to raise his eyebrows, regarding the
envoy carefully.
“We are from across the sea,”
Hernando de Soto replied, waiting while Martinillo translated his words.
“Why did you come here?”
Before de Soto could answer this,
they all were startled by a terrible commotion outside. Pedro de Cataño, the teniente, rushed into
the room, shouting, “Señor Capítan, come quickly!”
As soon as he burst out into the
plaza, de Soto could see what was afoot – his men had stormed into the House of
the Sun Maidens, which fronted the square.
They were dragging the young women out into the street, brandishing
swords, shouting and yelling. The young
women, screaming as they were pushed and pulled, their hair torn, their clothes
pulled askew, cried out for help, and instantly a mob of townspeople – outraged
– swarmed on all sides.
It began with some of the townsmen
throwing rocks at the conquistadors, who shook their weapons and roared back
defiance. Soon enough, armed Incas began
to appear, and a few of the more truculent villagers tried to rush upon the
soldiers and rescue the Sun Maidens.
Gaspar de Gárate, one of the first men attacked, ran his sword through
one of the Incas, and instantly all his comrades fell upon the townspeople with
all their might and fury. Juan Jiménez,
who suffered a minor cut from a copper knife, responded with instant, shocking
brutality, cleaving his assailant’s head in half, driving the blade of his
sword down to the center of the man’s chest.
Another blow nearly cut the man in half at the waist before he
fell. Blood splashed and jetted back and
forth as the Spanish soldiers cut and hacked at the Indians all around them,
sending them flying in all directions.
Mangled, blood-soaked corpses littered the stone-paved ground.
De Soto himself joined the fray, and
– swept up in the spirit of the moment – returned to his headquarters with a
captive Sun Maiden for himself, spattered with blood, sweating, and full of
fury.
“What have you done?” asked
Atahualpa’s envoy, standing in the doorway, from which he had watched the
massacre in the plaza. “My master is not
far away: none of you will be spared,
after this.”
Without waiting for Martinillo’s
translation, de Soto threw his captive woman through the door of his room, onto
the stone floor, and – turning to the Inca envoy – said, “I don’t give a damn
what your pagan lord thinks. You have
copper and stone – we have Toledo steel:
what do you think is going to happen!”
XII.
THE
MARCH TO CAJAMARCA
Pizarro was upset but not surprised
by what had happened at Cajas. For every
one hundred Spaniards who crossed the Ocean-Sea, only one woman arrived in the
New World. The conquistadors were young men, full of
ambition and fire. Although most of them
dreamed of returning home wealthy, and marrying, they had no intention of being
celibate in the meantime. They were men
who believed in God, kissing the crosses they wore, praying fervently when they
heard mass: they took communion; they
adored the Virgin Mary, venerated the saints, the holy relics. And Pizarro had seen these same men smash the
brains of Indian babies out of their heads against the trunks of trees; he had
seen them whip the flesh from the backs of African slaves; he had watched them
rape screaming Indian women, crushing their naked brown bodies under gleaming
steel armour. Some of them came to the
Indies as innocent boys, but they soon left their innocence behind. One of the first things they learned was that
most of them were going to die – relatively soon, and probably in some gruesome
manner, from disease, starvation, or slaughter.
They knew they had to win every battle:
defeat, for a conquistador, usually meant certain, ignominious, and
hideous death. It made them reckless
with their own lives and brutal with the lives of others. It made them hypocrites. It made them crazy.
“I could care less about these Sun
Maidens,” Pizarro said when de Soto arrived, bringing with him the Inca
envoy. “My mother was a laundress in a
convent: I am under no illusions about
nuns.”
“He’s a spy,” Hernando observed,
watching the Inca prowl through the Spanish camp.
“Of course he is – let him have a
good look at us,” Pizarro replied. “Our
weakness is our strength. We want them
to think we’re harmless.”
Although he had been moved to utter
threats while watching the Spanish troops massacre the people of Cajas, the
envoy was gracious enough when presented to Pizarro. He remained with the conquistadors for a few
days, full of good cheer, conversing amiably.
It was as if he had entirely forgotten the whole affair, and he departed
for Atahualpa’s camp pleased, bearing gifts for his lord – a Flemish shirt and
two goblets made of coloured Venetian glass.
Pizarro ordered his troops to march
toward Cajamarca immediately – that is, to cross the coastal range of the
Andes, which the natives called the Black Mountains. The distance was only about a hundred miles,
but the terrain was unlike anything the Spaniards had seen, and theirs was a
mountainous country. They marched along
rivers at the bottom of narrowing valleys, and then climbed up steep trails,
ascending through forests, eventually reaching terraces where the people were
growing cotton and maize. They came, at
last, to the royal road of the Incas, which allowed them to proceed much more
quickly. Every six miles, the
conquistadors passed one of the supply stations, where the officials had been
instructed to open the granaries for them, as well as the lodges.
“Either this Atahualpa is a cunning
bastard, or he’s a fool,” Hernando Pizarro said, sitting down one night with
his brother after a long, hard march up the mountains. “Why is he helping us like this?”
Pizarro grunted a little as his
African slave helped him remove his breastplate, saying – with a sigh of relief
– “Atahualpa doesn’t know any more about us than we know about him. Less, in fact, is my guess.”
Gonzalo Pizarro nodded, and
philosophically remarked, “I wonder what the Emperor Carlos would do if a few
hundred strangers turned up on the coast of Spain, who had the ability to fly
through the air, blow purple smoke out their asses, and kill people at a
distance just by looking at them.”
Laughing, but keeping his voice low
so as not to be overheard by the royal treasurer, Ferdinand Pizarro said, “He’d
probably send Queen Isabela to deal with them.”
In the morning, they continued their
march inland, coming to a windy, open pass, beyond which lay a broad, empty
plateau of grassland, thirteen thousand feet above sea level under a brilliant
tropical sky. They were south of the
Equator, and they gave thanks, for although it was late September the southern
hemisphere’s summer was beginning, and they did not have to worry about
snow. Even so, they could see mountain
peaks, in the distance, rising higher even than the plain over which they
marched, covered in gleaming, eternal snow.
On the other side of the plateau,
they came to another range of mountains and another pass. From here, the road wriggled down toward the
valley of Cajamarca, and upon every ridge, at the top of each towering cliff of
iron-dark stone and clay, there loomed a stone-walled watchtower or
fortification. The forts were empty, but
they did not need to be. Gazing up at
one of these outposts as they passed beneath its ramparts, Gonzalo said to Juan
Pizarro, “If anything goes wrong, we’ll never get out of here.”
“That would seem to be Fernando’s
plan,” Juan laughed. “We either succeed,
or we all die.”
“That’s a plan?” Gonzalo
scoffed. He crossed himself, only half
in jest, and muttered, “Madre de Díos – why did I agree to come here?”
“You’re here for the same reason we
all are,” Juan replied, smiling genially.
“You were poor, and you wanted to be rich.”
XIII.
THE
SPANISH MEET ATAHUALPA
Cajamarcas was a town at least as
large as Cajas had been, but most of its population had run away, leaving only
the Sun Maidens in their sanctuary, situated next to a temple, a small citadel,
and the usual rectangular storehouses.
The Spanish force proceeded down to the level floor of the valley
cautiously, however, for they could see – arrayed across the other side of the
valley – an army so vast that its encampment extended for miles. And it was a well-equipped army, too, with
proper tents – pavilions, many of them – and the cloth dyed purple, red,
orange, blue, and green.
“Advance in three divisions,”
Pizarro shouted, ordering his trumpeter, Pedro Alconchel, to announce their
approach.
The Incas allowed the Spanish to
ride down upon the town, and made no hostile moves when Pizarro’s men assembled
in the plaza.
“We have come to see the one who
calls himself Atahualpa!” Pizarro announced to the officers who met them.
“He is staying at the lodge, by the
hot springs – you can find him there,” the men replied.
Martinillo translated their words,
giving the signal that they were to be relied upon. One of the peculiarities of the Quechua
tongue, Pizarro had learned, was that it included certain markers that
indicated whether or not information was reliable.
“De Soto, go ask the Inca lord where
he would have us camp.”
At first, Hernando de Soto rode on
alone, accompanied only by Martinillo and sixteen of his horsemen, but Hernando
pointed out the folly of this, suggesting that de Soto ought to have more men
with him, just in case. Pizarro agreed,
and thus his brother led a second contingent off toward Atahualpa’s lodge,
which was situated about three miles away.
They rode past thousands of soldiers, all told off into specific units,
wearing coloured uniforms and sporting standards, but they were allowed to
pass. Even so, many of the warriors
jeered and shook their maces and javelins.
“What’s all that about?” de Soto
asked, turning to Martinillo, who rode beside him, albeit awkwardly, having
only just learned to sit a horse.
“They say they are sorry for you, as
you will all be dead tomorrow,” Martinillo answered.
There was a rather pleasant house
located at the hot spring, enclosing a stone-lined bath filled with streams of
both boiling and frigid water. The walls
of the little mansion were painted crimson-red, rising upward to rosewood
rafters. Here, Atahualpa sat on a low
stool, surrounded by Sun Maidens and the officers of his court. Every man wore colourful robes and some sort
of headgear, the warriors sporting painted wooden helmets topped with plumes of
feathers, the officials bands of twisted wool, but only Atahualpa wore the
fringe of royalty, which half-covered his face.
The Inca prince seemed not to notice
the Spaniards as they approached. Rather
than dismounting, de Soto rode straight toward Atahualpa, whose officers and
courtiers trembled visibly. The Sun
Maidens also were alarmed – no doubt they had heard about the rapine committed
at Cajas – but Atahualpa simply looked down at the ground, taking no notice
whatsoever of de Soto even when the latter’s horse drew so close that the
breath from its flaring nostrils stirred the Inca’s imperial fringe.
“I am here on behalf of my
Captain-General, Don Francisco Pizarro, a servant of their Most Catholic
Majesties, the Emperor Carlos and Empress Isabela, rulers of the Holy Roman
Empire, Spain, the Kingdom of Naples and Sicily, and all the lands of this New
World!”
Atahualpa continued to stare at the
ground, silent and unmoved. Rather
exasperated, de Soto glanced about at the faces of the Incas, one of whom stepped
forward, next to Atahualpa.
“Only members of the nobility may
address he who is to be Sapac Inca directly,” said the Apu Inca.
“Well, then,” de Soto replied,
pulling his horse away, the beast snorting and clopping at the stony ground
with one of its hooves. The courtiers
watched him in awe, as if he was riding a dragon, and they murmured among
themselves.
Hernando Pizarro, who had watched
this fruitless transaction, came to the fore and said to the Apu Inca, “Our
Captain-General, who is my brother, wants to know where you want us to stay.”
Only now did Atahualpa raise his
face from the ground and take an interest in his visitors.
“Your brother must be a very bad
man,” the prince said. “I’ve heard all
sorts of complaints from the coastal curacas.
They say you marauders have been abusing the people of Huacavilas. They tell me they have killed several of your
men, including two of these llamas you ride.”
“That is a lie,” Hernando
retorted. “The men we met with on the
coast fought like women: one Spanish
horseman – I dare say a Spanish fishwife – could vanquish them all. Tell me, my lord – for my brother sends you
his love – if you have any enemies, just point the way, and we’ll take care of
them.”
“There are a few tribes who have
given me no end of trouble,” Atahualpa said.
“Perhaps you could send some of your men to assist my troops?”
“Ten of our cabelleros could ride
down any enemy you have, Señor,” Hernando scoffed. “Your men would hardly be needed.”
To
drive home the point, de Soto proceeded to give them all a display of Castilian
horsemanship, demonstrating how the Spaniards’ horses could rear up, pull up
short, wheel, and back, instantly obeying verbal commands, taps of their
riders’ feet, and the guidance of the reins.
Atahualpa raised his eyebrows, impressed, but frowned when some of his
warriors cowered as de Soto trotted toward them. Chewing a mouthful of coca leaves, he leaned
forward and spit his saliva into the cupped hands of one of the Sun Maidens,
then spoke tersely, angrily, to one of his army commanders. The officers bowed their heads, shamefaced,
but said nothing.
“I will come visit your chief in the
morning,” Atahualpa said, at last. “You
may take over the three buildings around the plaza in Cajamarca. I ask only that I have the fort for my own
lodging.”
De Soto, Hernando, and their men
were allowed to depart, unmolested, and Pizarro could scarcely believe his good
fortune when they reported what they had seen and heard.
XIV.
ATAHUALPA
HEARS THE REQUIREMENTO
All that night, the conquistadors
had remained on their guard, terrified by the sight of the Incas’ camp fires,
which filled the valley for miles, as if half the stars had tumbled down from
the heavens. Pizarro and the captains
walked among them, trying to rouse their spirits, but although the
Captain-General had a plan, the men were unable to imagine how such an
audacious plot could work. Many of them
prayed, expecting death, and a few of the younger fellows were so frightened
they pissed themselves, especially as the first light of dawn lightened the
horizon.
“To your places – via con Díos,
Señores,” Pizarro said, saluting his captains as Atahualpa began to approach,
accompanied by thousands of attendants, guards, and courtiers.
Pizarro climbed stone steps up to
the roof of the little fort, where he could see several men-at-arms crouching
out of sight behind a parapet. Pedro de
Candia was standing nearby, with three of the expedition’s little cannon, which
had been dragged up to the top of the fort during the night. Advancing to the edge of the roof, Pizarro
glanced at the long, rectangular structures that fronted three sides of the
square, opposite the gate – a typical thick, trapezoidal Inca gate. There were twenty doors opening onto the
plaza and two hundred windows. A more
perfect location for a surprise could hardly be imagined.
Slowly, with great pomp, Atahualpa’s
entourage began to file into the yard, marching in perfect unison,
four-by-four. The canopy-shaded litter
carrying Atahualpa himself soon appeared, coming to a halt while his guards,
nobles, officials, and attendants arranged themselves in their finery on all
sides, carrying symbols of office and colourful, chequered standards.
Pizarro was joined by his personal
secretary, Jerez, to whom he whispered, “Do you know how to use that?”
Jerez regarded his sword sceptically,
and with a sigh replied, “Not really.”
“Well, don’t get yourself killed,”
Pizarro chuckled. “I’m going to need you, when this is over, to come up with a
plausible explanation for what’s about to happen....”
The Dominican priest, Father de
Valverde, accompanied by Martinillo, walked alone out of the doors of one of
the buildings fronting the plaza, approaching Atahualpa. The tonsured missionary carried a breviary in
one hand and a processional cross in the other.
He was nervous, but summoned his courage and stood in front of the
Inca’s litter, holding the cross up so that Atahualpa could see the odd figure
of Jesus, crucified.
“Pagan, do you accept the Messiah,
Jesus Christ, as your Lord and Saviour?
Do you renounce sin and the devil?
Do you accept the obligation of obedience to the authority of the Holy
Catholic Church in all matters spiritual!”
Martinillo took a deep breath, but
before he began to speak, he said, “Father, I don’t think....”
“Tell him!” the priest cried.
“Father – he doesn’t understand what
you’re saying,” Martinillo replied, “and I’m not sure how I can translate these
ideas into Quechua. There is too much
context.”
At the sound of the word ‘Quechua,’
Atahualpa scowled through his dangling fringe as Vincente de Valderde, ignoring
Martinillo’s protest, continued to preach, speaking rapidly, almost
breathlessly in Spanish:
“Jesus Christ, the Son of God, of
David’s royal line, was born of the Virgin Mary. He is God incarnate – God made flesh – sent
to earth to redeem mankind from certain destruction, for the Lord is
merciful. He suffered, died, and was
buried, in accordance with the scriptures:
he rose from the dead so that men may enjoy eternal life. He invested his power to absolve sinners in
the Holy Catholic Church, and in the Pope, whose representative I am....”
Looking affronted, suddenly,
Atahualpa turned to Martinillo, to whom he said, “You’re one of us, aren’t you? Why are you with these bandits?”
Martinillo stared up at Atahualpa,
even more dismayed now than he was a moment earlier, for it was clear to him –
he could smell it now – that the Inca lord was drunk, and probably stoned as
well, for the Inca lords, he knew, had access to all sorts of vision-inducing
drugs that ordinary people were not allowed to consume.
“What in the hell is this old man
saying?” Atahualpa demanded, speaking slowly, and with a slight slur. “Why doesn’t he shut up?”
“It’s all here in this book!” Father
de Valverde concluded, handing his breviary to Atahualpa, who took it in his
hands, staring at it, turning it round and round. At length, he opened the book, putting his
nose in between the pages, sniffing the parchment and ink, peering closely at
the little, closely-printed black shapes that meant nothing to him. It was one of the strangest and most
incomprehensible objects he had ever seen.
“What is this?” he asked Martinillo.
“It’s....” Martinillo stopped, for Quechua did not have
a word for book, as the Incas did not write.
“It is a sort of record of their God.”
“We already have a God – several of
them, in fact. Do these fools not know
that?”
Snorting, disgusted, Atahualpa
tossed the breviary over his shoulder, onto the ground.
Martinillo closed his eyes for a
moment, unable to believe what was happening.
He turned to Father de Valverde, who was gazing upon Atahualpa,
horrified.
“You have blasphemed against God! That is
holy scripture!”
Atahualpa giggled at the Padre, but
said nothing. He merely sat back on his
chair as the priest turned, marching toward the steps leading up to the roof of
the fort. Martinillo followed him while
the assembled Incas watched, curiously.
“See how the pagan has rejected Our
Lord! I absolve you all, my brothers!”
Pizarro nodded to Pedro de
Alconchel, who raised his trumpet and sounded the alarm. Instantly, the three cannons fired, hurling
smoke and fire across the square, causing all the Incas to shrink back,
astonished, even as the three shots ploughed through them. From the windows of the three long buildings,
arquebuses and crossbows were fired, creating more visual and aural shock, cutting
down dozens of Atahualpa’s followers, including two of his litter-bearers. As his gold throne wobbled, the Inca prince
clutched the sides of his chair, aghast, and watched, mouth hanging open, as
Spanish men-at-arms rushed from the doors of the buildings all around the
square, crying out, “Santiago!”
The pikemen stormed into the shocked
masses of Inca noblemen, bowling them over, cutting them down, bellowing,
“Santiago!” Carrying only ceremonial
arms made of gold, the nobles could offer no effective resistance to thrusting,
cutting steel. Caballeros now were
galloping through the doors of the buildings, led by Hernando de Soto. They waded through the crowds of Indians, who
fled in every direction, desperately trying to find a means of escape. De Soto trampled men and chopped them
asunder, crying, “Santiago!” At the
gate, there was a frantic crush as men trampled each other to death, or were
crushed and suffocated, trying to get out of the plaza. Pizarro himself rushed from the roof of the
fort, accompanied by a small band of men whose sole objective was Atahualpa
himself.
XV.
THE
RANSOM ROOM
The
slaughter continued for two relentless hours as the sun set, and it only ended
as darkness settled over the landscape and Pedro de Alconchel sounded the
recall. The conquistadors retreated into
the fortified plaza, literally covered from head to toe in blood and gore. The plain outside the gate was littered with
the bodies of men cut down by de Soto’s charging cavaliers, while the plaza
itself was so choked with corpses that they were piled in heaps.
“It’s a miracle!” Pizarro cried,
grinning as he walked among his exhausted but exhilarated soldiers. “See the great victory our God has granted
us!” Coming at last to their prisoner,
Atahualpa, he said, “Why are you so sad?”
It was a barbaric question,
Martinillo thought, but he translated the Captain-General’s words anyway.
“I had hoped to take you prisoner,” Atahualpa replied, still
hiding behind his red fringe, “but things worked out differently.”
To the astonishment of the
Spaniards, none of Atahualpa’s vast host made a move to attack them. They hung back, afraid, and in the morning
when Hernando de Soto and Hernando Pizarro rode out to their camp, the warriors
laid down their arms and gave every sign of submission. The Spanish troops were allowed to ride into
Atahualpa’s camp, unobstructed, seizing everything that struck their
fancy. Indeed, they returned with an
immense haul of treasure. Pedro de
Pineda, the goldsmith attached to the expedition, valued the plunder at eighty
thousand pesos’ worth.
“That’s one-fifth of all the gold
that’s ever been found in Castilla de Oro,” Pizarro reported, “and one-sixth of
all the treasure taken in Nicaragua – and that in just two hours, Señores!”
As native prisoners hurriedly removed the dead
bodies that choked the plaza, dragging them away to be buried in mass graves,
Pizarro and his officers approached Atahualpa, who sat despondently in a rather
large room, surrounded by guards. Only
now did he push the fringe from his eyes, staring up at Pizarro, and he spoke
in a strained and piteous voice.
“He wants to know if you intend to
kill him,” Martinillo said.
“That is not our intention at the
moment,” Pizarro explained. “Tell him
that if he cooperates, he has nothing to fear.”
“If gold is what you want,”
Atahualpa replied, “I will fill this room, up to a line above your head, with
gold – all the gold you could possibly want.
And then I will fill it twice over with silver, in return for my life.”
The Spanish officers glanced at the
dimensions of the room, and then at Atahualpa.
“That’s a lot of gold,” Pizarro
said, scoffing. “Where’s it going to
come from?”
Atahualpa laughed – an almost insane
laugh – but said, “You know nothing about this land. But trust me, if anything happens to me, you
won’t get anything for your trouble, and you’ll all die. Let me live, and my people will pay a ransom
beyond reckoning.”
“Boldly stated,” Pizarro said,
stroking his beard as he considered the offer.
“You know, I think I will hold you to this proposition.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Martinillo
said. “He really means it.”
“You know,” Hernando Pizarro chuckled,
“I’m actually beginning to like this fellow.”
Decisions had to be made – important
ones. It was decided, to begin with,
that Atahualpa would be allowed his dignity:
he was to remain under guard, but he would be allowed to have his pick
of Sun Maidens to attend him, and other servants as well, along with all the
royal paraphernalia that seemed appropriate.
He would continue to receive messengers and administer his empire. After all, he needed to make the arrangements
necessary to raise his stupendous ransom.
Runners were despatched to every part of the empire, informing the local
chiefs that they should collect as much gold and silver as possible and sent
it, at once, to Cajamarca.
XVI.
DANGEROUS
GAMES
During the days that followed, the
full significance of what had happened at Cajamarca settled in. Pizarro, dictating his report to Jerez, said
that eight thousand Indians had been killed, but the Incas themselves – very
particular about numbers – counted seven thousand bodies. Most of those who had been killed were
commanders, noblemen, officials, priests, and royal servants – they represented
a significant portion of the Inca ruling class, almost the entire top and
middle layers of the administration of the northern half of the empire. As Atahualpa’s surrendered soldiers melted
away into the mountains and valleys, word of what the Spanish had done spread
from village to village and town to town.
Soon, porters and caravans of llamas began to appear at Cajamarca,
loaded with gold and silver. A line was
painted around the interior of what became known as the ransom room, and
Pizarro promised to free Atahualpa as soon as the gold and silver vessels,
implements, and statues reached
the height of the line.
The gold and silver kept coming, a
steady torrent now, forty or fifty, sixty or even seventy thousand pesos worth
every day. Pizarro began to send small
parties of troops out to supervise the gathering of the ransom. Captain Martín Bueno and two of his
foot-soldiers volunteered to go to Cuzco, an especially dangerous task, to
organize the gold shipments from the capital.
In the meantime, some of the soldiers at Cajamarca were so worried there
might not be enough gold that they began to smash the bowls and goblets, so
that the ransom room might hold more, until Pizarro ordered them to stop.
Atahualpa, meanwhile, enjoyed
himself as best he could under the circumstances. He dallied with his women, feasted, and
learned how to play chess. De Soto, who
commanded his guard, in fact spent hours with the Inca prince, not only
teaching him how to play chess, but learning a great deal from him about this
peculiar new land.
“Do you understand what a puppet
is?” Captain de Soto asked Atahualpa one day.
He frowned, confused, as Martinillo
did his best to convey the Spaniard’s idea.
“It’s a kind of symbol... and a
person can be a puppet. They do the
talking, but someone else does the thinking.”
De Soto laughed, a little, and said, “I don’t think you’re very clever,
Atahualpa. In fact, I think you’re proud
for no good reason, and stupid to boot, like a lot of rich men’s children, but
you could be the Captain-General’s mouthpiece.
You can have all the women you want, eat well, dress in finery, live in
a palace, have all sorts of gold and jewels, you’ll never have to think, or do
any work, or risk your life in battle.
We’ll do everything for you.
Because here’s the thing, Atahualpa:
we’re going to take over your country, and there’s nothing you can do
about it. The only way you’ll ever be
Sapac Inca is if you agree to work with us – for us.” De Soto paused, and finally said, “You know
we have choices: there’s always Huascar. And there can only be one Sapac Inca.”
At that moment, de Soto’s teniente,
Pedro de Cataño, stepped into the room and whispered, in Spanish, “Señor, we’ve
just received word from Cuzco – Huascar has been executed. Almost the whole of the Cuzco aristocracy
that sided with him have been eliminated – slaughtered, frankly. They even killed the children. Bueno says they even strangled Huascar’s
sister-wife in front of him – made him watch.
Can you believe it? What a bunch
of savages.”
Atahualpa moved his queen across the
chessboard, acting as if he had ignored de Soto’s words, and said – in Spanish
– “Checkmate.”
De Soto glanced at Atahualpa,
shaking his head, not quite sure whether the Inca prince was a brainless
monster or an evil genius. Rising to his
feet, he hurried outside with de Cataño, saying hurriedly, “Mind your tongue,
my friend – Atahualpa understands more than he pretends to, I think, or else
he’s very good at second-guessing us.”
On April 14, 1533, with the Andes
winter coming on, Diego de Almagro appeared at Cajamarca with his
long-anticipated reinforcements – one hundred and fifty-three men, with fifty
horses, which was the best he could do.
Pizarro was pleased, and welcomed his old comrade with open arms. Atahualpa, however, peered out from his room
at the dismounting caballeros, realizing now that he was not dealing with
marauders. This was an invasion: these men, whoever they were, intended to
stay. How many of them were there? What on earth were these beasts they
rode?
That’s
all I really wanted from them, one of these beasts, Atahualpa sighed.
Pizarro meanwhile took Almagro to
his private quarters, hurriedly explaining what had happened, and what the
current situation was. His business
partner listened intently, sitting down wearily as soon as his servants had
helped him unbuckle his breastplate and other armour. Removing his helmet, he looked across at
Pizarro, his greying temples wet with perspiration, and said, “You mean to tell
me there are two of this Atahualpa’s generals still out there, somewhere, with
armies amounting to something like a hundred thousand men? Jesus Christ, Fernando....”
“It’s hard to explain what numbers
mean here,” Pizarro replied. “This isn’t
Europe. When we attacked Atahualpa’s
entourage, they had us outnumbered seventy-to-one. Eighty thousand warriors just stood all
around us and watched – they didn’t so much as bat an eyelash. I tell you, Diego, without their leaders to
tell them what to do, these Incas are rag dolls. They just give up. It’s as if they don’t know how to think for
themselves. All we need to do is take
down their leaders and put ourselves in charge.”
“Or perhaps they’re just very good
at deception,” Diego replied. “You know
what my Indian woman, Ana, calls us Spaniards, when she’s mad?”
Pizarro shrugged.
“She calls us cockroaches. Don’t think, just because you don’t
understand what they’re saying, they don’t have minds, that they don’t
think. They do. And they don’t think we’re gods. They know exactly what we are.” After a pause, during which he accepted a
pitcher of water from Pizarro’s African slave, Almagro added, “There’s such a
thing as being over-confident, you know.
Pride has killed more men than fear ever did – don’t let that damned
knighthood go to your head. You can be
killed as easily as any other man, and you’ll die in just as much pain.”
XVII.
THE
FAITHFUL GENERAL
As soon as Calcuchima heard that
Atahualpa was being held captive, he marched from Cuzco toward Cajamarca. Hernando Pizarro rode to meet the on-coming
Inca forces at Jauja, accompanied by Martinillo. With some difficulty, he obtained entry into
the Inca camp and an audience with the commander of Atahualpa’s armies. The negotiations were tense, but after more
than five days of deliberations, Calcuchima allowed himself to be persuaded to
come to Cajamarca to speak with his lord, who – he was told – desperately
wanted to see him. The ruse paid
off: Calcuchima left his army at Jauja
and hurried to Pizarro’s headquarters with Hernando, only to be imprisoned as
soon as he arrived. Hernando and de
Soto, wasting no time, immediately subjected the Inca general to
interrogation.
“Where have you hidden the gold your
troops plundered from Cuzco!”
“What are you talking about?”
Calcuchima groaned as he lay strapped to a wooden table covered with
straw. “Cuzco is a royal city – a sacred
city. It’s the Centre of the Four
Quarters. No one would dare plunder such
a city.”
“We know all about Cuzco!” de Soto
shouted. “Don’t pretend you don’t know
anything!”
“Damned heathen,” Hernando Pizarro
growled, “we’ll have the truth out of you!
Stop lying to us!”
They stripped the general and
applied hot tongs to his flesh, burning his skin until it blackened,
smouldered, and bubbled.
“Confess, you
devil-worshipping dog! Tell us where the
God damned gold is!”
The Inca, however, was both brave
and stoic – he gritted his teeth and glared defiantly, but said nothing.
“Burn him alive,” de Soto said,
grimly, and when his men did not move quickly enough, he bellowed, “A stake,
firewood, straw – in the plaza – now!”
They released Calcuchima from his
straps only to find that he was so badly injured he could scarcely stand, and
had to be dragged across the stone pavement.
De Soto stood him up against the stake, tying his hands behind his back
– behind the post – personally, and pulling the ropes very tight.
“You’re going to hell,” said
Hernando Pizarro, staring into the Inca general’s face. “Now, tell us where you hid the gold from
Cuzco. We know your army took the city. We know you hold Huascar prisoner!”
They sent for Atahualpa, who seemed
distressed to see the commander of his armies tied up in this fashion, with
straw and firewood stacked around his legs and Spanish soldiers standing beside
him holding lit torches.
“Don’t tell them anything,”
Atahualpa said. “They’re just trying to
intimidate you.”
Atahualpa was led away, and de Soto
– who did not wish to be toyed with – ordered the soldiers to light their
fires. The Spanish then stood back,
letting Calcuchima struggle as smoke billowed into his face and flames licked
and snapped at his bare legs.
“I’ll tell you everything you want
to know! Please! Please – no more!”
“Cut him down,” de Soto said,
grimly.
Captain Bueno and his men returned
from Cuzco on May 13, announcing that several large trains of pack-llamas were
on their way from the capital, laden with gold, and in mid-June, with his
brother’s blessing, Hernando Pizarro left for the coast with a body of troops whose
task was to see the royal fifth safely to San Miguel. Hernando himself was to travel with the
treasure all the way back to Spain, accompanied by Jerez, where they were to
deliver to the Emperor an official account of what had happened in Peru.
Only a few days after Hernando
Pizarro’s departure, the Captain-General assembled his men and declared that he
was ready, now, to distribute each man’s share of the compaña’s profits. The silver was ready, but the gold would have
to wait until mid-July. Nine forges had
been working day by day from mid-March until the ninth of July to keep pace
with the steady influx of treasure. On
some days, a quarter of a ton of precious artefacts was thrown into the
cauldrons. The gold and silver was
melted, poured off, measured, recorded, and struck into coins. Pedro de Pineda reported that he had prepared
thirteen thousand, four hundred and twenty pounds of gold at twenty-two and a
half carats. Twenty-six thousand pounds
of silver had been melted down, as well.
A prize committee was assembled,
composed of officers present at Cajamarca when Atahualpa was captured. They quickly decided that Almagro’s men would
not share in any of the loot taken thus far.
The prize belonged to those who had taken the risk: thus the shares were determined. After setting aside the royal fifth, and the
amounts due to the Captain-General and his subordinate captains, each caballero
was to have ninety pounds of gold and one hundred and eighty pounds of silver;
each foot-soldier would receive half that amount. All told, Pizarro’s men lined up to receive
over one million, three hundred thousand pesos worth of gold and some fifty-one
thousand marks of silver. The Captain-General’s own share was
fifty-seven thousand, two hundred and twenty gold pesos and two thousand, three
hundred and fifty silver marks.
XVIII.
DESPERATE
MEASURES
Almagro was understandably angry
that he and his men had been cut out of their share of the prize money. Indeed, he was furious, and he demanded to
know what Pizarro intended to do, now, with Atahualpa. With
the passes closed by winter snows, the Spanish garrison at Cajamarca was cut
off from the coast and vulnerable: what
if the Inca armies that were still in the field, still under arms, chose to
attack, hoping to free the man they believed to be the rightful Sapac Inca?
“He has a point,” de Soto said,
hearing Almagro’s argument in Pizarro’s presence. “Atahualpa has not been formally installed
yet, as Sapac Inca. That can be done
only in Cuzco, at the Temple of the Sun.
Now that Huascar is dead, there is no emperor. There is no authority. If something isn’t done, soon, everything
will begin to collapse.”
Rumours soon began to circulate at
Cajamarca that Rumiñavi, commanding some thirty thousand men at Quito, was
marching south to rescue Atahualpa. One
of the Nicaraguan Indian scouts appeared, breathlessly reporting that he had
seen an Inca army closing in from the north.
Pizarro despatched de Soto with a small force of cavalry to ascertain
whether or not this was true, sending Martinillo with him. On the southern front, for the time being,
all was quiet, the Inca force at Jauja making no attempt to advance toward
Cajamarca. Meanwhile, an Inca prince
named Tupac Huallpa arrived at the Spanish camp who claimed to be the sole
surviving male representative of Huascar’s lineage.
Tupac Huallpa told Pizarro and his
officers the harrowing tale of his escape from the bloodbath unleashed by
Atahualpa’s army after the capture of Cuzco.
He was a handsome young man, only twenty-three, and thus he was readily
believed when he told them that, at the time of the civil war, he had been
hurled into prison for being caught, en flagrante, with one of his elder
brother’s concubines. The poor woman was
buried alive, but putting an Inca prince to death was not something done
lightly, even by a Sapac Inca. After
Huascar’s downfall, Tupac Huallpa had begged for mercy, arguing that he had
been treated as an enemy by Huascar, despite the fact that they were related.
“Calcuchima ordered everyone to be
put to death,” Tupac Huallpa said. “All
the women who were pregnant were hanged on stakes, along the road. They hanged the children, too, and cut the
unborn from their mothers’ wombs, and hanged them up as well.”
The Spanish soldiers listened,
appalled, to Tupac Huallpa’s tale, and were mystified when they heard that even
the mummies of Huascar’s ayllu had been dragged outside the city walls and
burned.
“I came here because you’re the only
people who can protect me,” Tupac Huallpa explained. “And maybe I can help you?”
That evening, Pizarro and his
captains sat down to play cards, opening some bottles of wine that had been
sent down from Panama. After several
hands had been drawn, Almagro entered the Captain-General’s chamber and said,
“Well, my lord, are you trying to get
us all killed? The longer Atahualpa
remains here, the more likely he is to call down one of his armies on our
heads. Rumñavi could show up at any
moment and wipe us out. We won’t receive
any more supplies until the snow melts in the passes.”
Pizarro ran a hand through his hair,
listening to his old friend’s words.
“He ought to be sent to Spain,”
Almagro urged. “Or at least to Panama.”
“De Soto favours using Atahualpa as
our puppet Inca,” Gonzalo remarked, glancing at his brothers.
“De Soto isn’t here,” Almagro
retorted, quickly. “I say, take him out
of the country at the first opportunity.
He’s dangerous.”
After a long, thoughtful interval,
Pizarro spoke, his words slow and deliberate.
“Atahualpa has served his purpose, but I see no reason to send him into
exile or kill him. Alive, he will be
useful – he can help us win over the armies that lie between us and Cuzco.” Laying his cards down, Pizarro said, “He’s a
bargaining chip.”
“Is that what you think? Do you think you can trust a native?” Almagro
shook his head and stormed out of the room, leaving the other captains to
regard Pizarro quizzically.
By morning, the soldiers were all in
an uproar. Almagro had roused them to
fury, and they were swarming around the plaza of Cajamarca, demanding
Atahualpa’s death. Pizarro, fearing a
mutiny, hastily convened a committee of officers, informing their captive that
he was to stand trial for treason and rebellion against Huascar, polygamy, polytheism,
deceit and treachery against the Spanish, murder, and a host of other
crimes. Atahualpa scarcely could
comprehend any of this, for the only interpreter available was Felipillo, who
could not speak Quechua. Alas, the
Spanish did not realize this, nor did they understand that Felipillo, eager to
please and terrified, was making up Atahualpa’s responses.
The Inca prince was summarily
condemned to death, but Father de Valverde came to him, saying, “You will be
burned at the stake, as a pagan child of the devil, unless you confess your
sins and accept Jesus Christ as your saviour, in which case you will be
strangled, instead, but your soul will go to God.”
Felipillo spoke to Atahualpa in his
Huacavilas tongue, which the Inca did not understand. The prisoner stared at the boy, then at
Father de Valverde, and nodded gravely, although he had no idea what he was
assenting to. He was shocked, in fact,
to see the missionary making the sign of the cross over him, and he flinched as
water was sprinkled on his forehead.
“I baptize thee, in the name of the
Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
“You’re a fool,” Atahualpa
muttered. “What do you think you’re
doing? Do you realize no one here
understands anything you say?”
“He says, ‘Gracias, Padre,’”
Felipillo said.
Two soldiers marched forward, immediately, and
seized Atahualpa, dragging him across the plaza toward the now empty ransom
room, where he was ordered to stand with his back to a wooden post. Hurriedly, the soldiers pulled his arms back,
trussing him tightly. A third
conquistador stepped up behind Atahualpa and pulled a leather strap around his
neck, slipping a wooden baton between the bands.
“What’s that damned noise? It sounds like two cats trying to make
kittens,” one of the soldiers asked his companions.
“Sun Virgins – they’re beating their
heads and crying, outside the door,” the man with the baton remarked. “They say they must be buried alive along
with this stupid idiot. I told them
we’re going to find nice Castilian husbands for them, instead.”
“Just you wait,” laughed the third
soldier, “they’ll all be Doña this, Doña that, riding around in carriages,
dressed like ladies and putting on airs.
Too good for the likes of us. The
hidalgos will take them on two or three a-piece.”
Father de Valverde, stepping through
the door, folded his hands together and said, “Come on, now, boys – get on with
it.”
“Do you have any last words,
Atahualpa?” one of the soldados asked, standing in front of the Inca, who
simply looked at him, aghast, before taking a deep breath and closing his eyes.
“Thanks for all the gold,” scoffed
the man with the baton, and with a hard twist, he turned the baton once, twice,
three times, and again – and once more, for good measure, until the gurgling
stopped.
Father de Valverde mumbled Latin
prayers and made the sign of the cross, while the soldados heaved a sigh of
relief. It was not pleasant, after all,
to watch a man choked to death, and finally see his neck break, his head
lolling to one side, weirdly. The garrot
was unwound, and Atahualpa’s lifeless body cut down.
XIX.
THE
MARCH TO CUZCO
Hernando de Soto, who learned that
the rumors of an impending Inca attack were untrue, was furious when he
returned to Cajamarca to find that Pizarro had allowed himself to be bullied
into putting Atahualpa to death. Even
so, there was little time for recrimination – the time for mud-slinging would
come later. Realizing they had to move
quickly, before the Inca general Quizquiz could proclaim a new Sapac Inca at
Cuzco, Pizarro and his officers raised up Tupac Huallpa as the new ruler of the
Four Quarters. De Soto, meanwhile, was
ordered to lead the advance toward Cuzco with a mounted strike-force of chosen
men.
A dashing cavalier, de Soto soon put
aside his wrath and focused on his new charge – to capture a key, strategic
rope bridge before the Incas could burn it.
Pressing on as rapidly as they could, the Spanish caballeros covered two
hundred and fifty miles, traversing some of the world’s most rugged terrain in
just five days. The Pampas bridge across
what the Spaniards called the Río Santa had been destroyed, but the men who had
charge of it – partisans of Huascar – had hid away all the materials needed to
repair the span, and they were more than happy to erect a new one, which they
did with remarkable speed. Thus,
Quizquiz’s troops gained only a few days’ respite by burning the Pampas bridge. At other points, the Spanish troops had no
choice but to descend thousands of feet into dizzy canyons, fording torrents so
deep that their horses were nearly swept away.
However, they let nothing stop them.
At Jauja, Vilcas, and again at a
place called Vilaconga, on November 8, 1533, the Inca troops attempted to stop
de Soto’s vanguard. Of all these
battles, the one at Vilaconga was the worst, as far as Pizarro was concerned. Here,
de Soto’s fiery nature induced him to charge blindly up a hillside, into a
gulley, where the Incas ambushed the conquistadors at close-quarters, knocking
down horses and mobbing the men. Six
soldados – all veterans of the massacre at Cajamarca – had their heads smashed
open with clubs and rocks. More
importantly, the Incas had demonstrated their ability to adapt and find new
ways to deal with the weapons and tactics of the invaders. The best way to fight these strangers was to
cling to their belt-straps. De Soto’s
men, ultimately, were rescued only by the timely arrival of a relief force
under Almagro’s command. Five days
later, as soon as Pizarro’s troops joined them, the Inca general Chalcuchima
was accused of treachery, condemned, and burned at the stake. He spurned the cross and baptism, to Father
de Valverde’s dismay. The Inca general
cried out the name of Viracocha and called upon Quizquiz to avenge him as the
flames consumed him.
The Spanish army once more braved
high mountain passes, and this time a freak snowstorm as it drove closer and
closer to Cuzco. The hapless
puppet-Inca, Tupac Huallpa, died at Jauja after a short illness, but another
descendant of Huaypac Capac appeared, named Manco, who offered himself to
Pizarro.
“We have come to liberate you – we
heard of your great suffering, at the hands of the tyrants of Quito, and that
is why we came here,” Pizarro told Manco.
“Have no fear – we will take you to Cuzco, and you will have the royal
fringe.”
Quizquiz’s army made one more stand
in the mountains not far from Cuzco, but although they killed several horses
and even drove Pizarro’s men back, at one point, the Inca troops were too wary
to attack on open ground. They had
learned, to their great cost, that the Spanish horsemen were nearly invincible
on level, open land. In the end,
Quizquiz’s troops abandoned the fight, leaving Cuzco to the conquerors. Pizarro and his troops thus paraded into the
capital on November 15, 1533, hailed by the joyous inhabitants with loud
cheers.
Historical Note
The
fall of Cuzco was by no means the end of the conquest of Peru. Two of Atahualpa’s generals remained in the
field, after all, with tens of thousands of disciplined warriors and access,
still, to most of the resources of a vast empire. However, the civil war and the massacre at
Cajamarca had fatally crippled the Inca administrative system. For the time being, Pizarro’s men held only a
few points along a single road nearly a thousand miles long. The city of Cuzco itself, with a hundred
thousand inhabitants, was almost more than they could handle, although here,
too, they acquired a tremendous haul of loot, even larger than the plunder they
had collected at Cajamarca.
Inevitably,
as Peru was so large, Pizarro – like Cortes – had to delegate authority to his
subordinates. De Soto was, for a time,
in charge of Cuzco. Gonzalo and Juan,
meanwhile, led troops north to capture Quito, while Almagro marched to conquer
the southern part of the empire, or what is now the country of Chile. Pizarro at first tried to establish an
administrative centre at Jauja, in the central Andean highlands, but by January
1535 he had abandoned this scheme in favour of a new capital on the Pacific
coast at Lima. In the meantime,
corruption charges were brought against Pizarro by the royal auditors who had
accompanied his troops, and the Crown expressed its displeasure regarding the
death of Atahualpa, who was inaccurately regarded at the Spanish court as a
proper king. For a recently-elevated
hidalgo like Pizarro to put a king to death, even a pagan king, was almost more
than the Emperor Charles was willing to bear.
Queen Isabela, meanwhile, was appalled when she began to hear how the
Indians in Peru were being treated.
The
Conquistadors, meanwhile, turned on each other as their mutual distrust and
rivalries led to outright violence.
Almagro rebelled against Pizarro, as did the puppet Inca, Manco, who led
a massive revolt that nearly overwhelmed the conquistadors. The surviving Pizarro brothers rallied,
defeating Almagro and his partisans at the Battle of Las Salinas in 1538, but
they were unable to bring down Manco, who managed to escape with his forces to
a secret city, hidden among the mountains and jungles on the eastern slope of
the Andes, a place called Vilcabamba, which held out against repeated Spanish
onslaughts until the capture and execution of Tupac Amaru, the last Sapac Inca,
in 1572.
This
story is based on several primary and secondary sources, ethnographies, and
archaeological studies. The sources for
the conquest of Peru are voluminous, complex, and also contested. To begin
with, there is no clear distinction between “Spanish” and “Inca” accounts; most
of the eye-witnesses on the Spanish side married women of the Inca aristocracy
– often relatives of Atahualpa or Huascar.
These women provided the Spanish with much of their information about
Inca society and history. The Spanish
eye-witnesses also incorporated into their chronicles a large amount of
information gleaned from Inca priests, officials, and nobles. Some Spanish writers favoured Atahualpa,
while others sided with Huascar, and thus there were, for example, multiple
versions of Pizarro’s decision to put the former prince to death. Pizarro made many enemies, and – having put
his old friend Almagro to death – he met his own violent end at Lima in 1541,
being assassinated by Almagro’s Mestizo son, Mozo, who had joined his father in
Peru. In the final, tragic act of the
conquest, the remaining Pizarro brothers resisted the viceroy the Spanish crown
eventually sent out to rule Peru, and – like Almagro – they were overpowered
and destroyed.
Much
as the Incas had done, the Spanish ruled the empire they had won through its
local chiefs, termed caciques. The mita,
or compulsory labour system, continued under Spanish rule, coupled with the
rapacious encomienda system. Sprawling
land grants – handed out by Pizarro himself – apportioned the land among the
conquerors and their Hispanicized Inca relatives. Under the early viceroys of Peru, however,
the mita system was much more destructive than it had been under the
Incas. Much of the labour demanded by
the Spanish was lavished upon the silver mines of Potosí, in what is now
Bolivia, which were discovered in 1544.
These mines produced much of the world’s silver for the next two hundred
years, but they also devoured the lives of hundreds of thousands of men from
all over the region. Finally, as in
Mexico, the violence, forced dislocations, and new diseases occasioned by the
Spanish conquest led to nearly catastrophic population collapse during the
latter half of the 16th century.
However – again, as in Mexico – the Spanish colonists remained a tiny
minority, Indian cultures and languages survived, and although a thin veneer of
Latin, Catholic culture was imposed on Peru, along with new technologies,
political systems, and economies, the rhythms of pre-conquest life were not
eradicated.
The
dialogue in this story either is based on the writings and considerations of
the individuals connected with Pizarro, or else is a close paraphrasing of
dialogues presented or described in the chronicles of the conquest. The dramatic qualities of the story of the
conquest of Peru are such that one has to invent very little in order to
produce an interesting and exciting tale.
In fact, what is truly amazing are all the details and fascinating
side-stories that had to be omitted in order to maintain the focus of the
narrative.
Eventually,
I want to enlarge this story. I want to
include more female characters – examining the cross-cultural relationships
formed by Pizarro and his men – and I want to take the tale up to 1542. In that year, Francisco de Orellana, a
subordinate of Gonzalo Pizarro, became the first European to travel down the
Amazon River from the Andes to the Atlantic, having begun his march at
Quito. The finished story, which
probably will be long enough to be classified as a novella, will serve as an
in-depth introduction to the European “discovery” and colonization of the
Americas, and the resistance of indigenous peoples to the first wave of
colonial rule.