The Moche Warrior

by Lyn Hamilton

  There was even louder applause this time and I could certainly see why. While I’m not exactly a fan of magic acts, I had to admit the young man was very good. He had no sleeves in which to hide anything, and I was close enough to be able to watch him pretty carefully. I could not see how he had done it. He did a couple of other tricks, one with a coin, and another with a plastic tube, both of them equally baffling. As he came to the end of his performance, the young woman made her way from the back of the bus with a baseball cap and began to collect tips. I could see that those ahead of me had given very small coins, brown ones which I knew to be almost worthless by North American standards, and although I knew I had to be careful with money, I gave the Peruvian equivalent of about three dollars. The young woman looked suitably impressed with my generosity as my coins dropped into the hat, and a few minutes after the act was finished, the young man plopped into the seat beside me.

  “Speak English?” he asked. I nodded. He was an American.

  “The name’s Puma, after the wild cat that roams around here,” he said. “My girlfriend’s name is Pachamama. That’s the native word for Mother Earth. They aren’t our real names,” he added, “just ones we’re using for now.”

  I would never have guessed. Not that I could be judgmental. “I’m Rebecca,” I said, taking his proffered handshake and complimenting him on his magic act.

  “What are you doin’ in the back of beyond?” he said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “I’m going to work at an archaeological site,” I replied.

  “Wow!” he exclaimed. “Amazing!”

  “How about you?” I asked politely.

  “We’ve been doin’ the sites, Inca mainly, down south. But now we’re gonna join a bunch of people, a commune sorta, not too far from here. We’re gonna grow our own food and stuff.”

  How sixties, I thought. “What a lovely idea,” I said.

  He looked carefully at me to see if I was kidding, and apparently concluded I was taking him sufficiently seriously. “I’ll tell you a secret,” he whispered solemnly. “We’re here to ‘excape’ the end of the world.” Inwardly, I groaned.

  “There’s gonna be a huge ‘pocalypse, you know,” he added. He didn’t appear to know or care that apocalypse starts with an “a.” “Earthquakes, fire, volcanoes, floods, everything. Followed by nuclear holocaust.” It sounded like overkill to me.

  “Right at the stroke of midnight on December 31, 1999,” he went on. “I seen it, in my head, I mean. All the capitalist countries, the United States, Europe, everything, will be destroyed. You’re lucky to be here.”

  We were silent for a moment or two after that conversation stopper. Then he went on. “I’m a little worried about your archaeology site, now that I think about it. You might find a tomb or something and unleash some terrible curse.”

  “I’ll try not to do that,” I replied.

  “Good.” He grinned, getting up and heading back to his seat. “Thanks for the donation.”

  I turned back to watch the scenery flashing by. Peru, it seemed to me, was a land of geographic extremes, from the world’s driest desert, the Atacama in the south; to some of the richest ocean waters, teeming with marine life, created by the cold Humboldt from Antarctica and the warmer Pacific current coming south; to the Andes, the world’s second greatest mountain range. In this part of the world, there are no foothills. You could crawl out of the Pacific, cross a few miles of arid desert, and come upon a wall of rock rising almost vertically from the desert floor. Beyond that is the rain forest, in some cases, in others huge grassy plateaus and jagged valleys.

  The area is unstable, geologically speaking, with the oceanic Nazca plate sliding under the South American continental plate at a rate that, while imperceptible to us, is the fastest tectonic activity anywhere. It is this action that created the Andes and an extraordinarily deep ocean trench off the coast. It is also the reason for a geological instability that results in bad earthquakes on a reasonably regular basis and sporadic volcanic activity. Puma’s and Pachamama’s choice of Peru as a place to avoid the cataclysmic upheavals of Armageddon was, from that standpoint, a poor one.

  This is Moche country, I thought and marveled at it. How could such a remarkable civilization, capable of the art I had seen and held, flourish in such an inhospitable place? I wondered. But it had. Around 100 B.C., some kind of political alliance coalesced in the Rio Moche Valley, then spread north. Enormous complexes were built at Cerro Blanco, a capital city dominated by two enormous pyramids, the Huaca de la Luna and the Huaca del Sol, temples of the Moon and the Sun.

  For several centuries, the Moche consolidated their position by building ceremonial and administrative centers in the river valleys—control of water being absolutely critical to their empire in such an arid part of the world—to the north and south of their capital. They had a system of canals, high up in the Andes, that diverted water from the river chasms in the mountains to irrigate the desert lands.

  The Moche had a complex social structure, with an elite, a warrior class, artisans, and commoners; they practiced elaborate rituals, many of them involving human sacrifice; buried their most important citizens with treasures that rival the Egyptians; and had a vivid mythology, tantalizing hints of which remain.

  Late in the sixth century, though, environmental catastrophe began to wreak havoc on the northern coastal desert. Long periods of blistering drought interrupted by sudden and devastating flooding destroyed much of Cerro Blanco and other Moche cities. There were attempts to rebuild, but the damage to the empire proved irreversible, and gradually the Moche culture faded away to be replaced by others. And it was a very long time before the grandeur of that period became known and appreciated once again.

  It occurred to me, as I pondered the rise and fall of civilizations, that I might better spend my time contemplating events a little closer to home. I felt I hadn’t always been thinking as clearly as I might like in the last little while, not since I’d found Alex barely conscious in the shop, and the charred body of Lizard, and certainly not since my grisly discovery at the Ancient Ways Gallery in New York.

  I could laugh at Puma’s notions about “’pocalypses” and the dangers of unleashing curses from tombs, but there was no question I felt that all the bad things that were happening were linked to some Moche artifacts, and that strange things had started happening right after I’d acquired the so-called replicas. Furthermore, almost everyone who had some association with them, however tenuous, had endured some unfortunate happening in their lives, some of them coming to a very bad end indeed. Even A. J. Smythson, the late owner of the Smythson Gallery, who hadn’t actually acquired them but was supposed to, had died a horrible death.

  The point was, I didn’t believe in curses, not when I was being rational, anyway.

  And now here I was on a bus headed for the purported point of origin of at least one of these artifacts, the flared vase from Campina Vieja. I was almost three hours north of Trujillo, four or five hundred miles north of Lima, and a lifetime away from the people I cared about.

  This is nuts, I thought. Go home. You can persuade Rob of Alex’s innocence and yours. He’s angry, but he’ll get over it, and he will help put this right.

  “Campina Vieja,” the driver called out. I’d arrived at my destination, good idea or not. I disembarked. So did my two young friends.

  Steve Neal had said that he’d be in town to meet me, and he was as good as his word. For the very few minutes I had to wait for him, I did a quick survey of my surroundings. I was in a reasonably large town and across from a bustling open-air market. I also watched the two young hippies—really there was no other word for them, as outdated as the term might be—try to negotiate their onward journey to the commune.

  The preferred method of transport in Campina Vieja appeared to be motorcycle taxi. Puma and Pachamama carefully counted out their change—they were obviously broke, even more so than l—and then tried to negotiate the fare with one of the drive
rs near the bus station.

  They were at a serious disadvantage, not speaking Spanish, and dealing with a destination that was either unknown to the driver, or one which he didn’t want to go to. Eventually they picked up their packs and started to walk. Shortly after, Steve Neal pulled up in a grey Nissan truck.

  For the next half hour or so, Steve did a few errands around town, giving me a running commentary on the place as he did so. We picked up four large plastic cubes of water, a tank of propane and some kerosene, and then we were headed out of town on the northbound Pan-American highway once again. A couple of miles out of town, I saw up ahead of us the two young people, trudging along the edge of the road. They were covered in dust, and the young woman, in particular, looked tired.

  As reluctant as I was to pursue this relationship—inhabitants of communes waiting for the end of the world are not exactly my cup of tea—my maternal instincts, usually dormant, were roused, they looked so forlorn. I told Steve about them, and he pulled on the shoulder several yards ahead of them, and I got out and waved. The two of them ran to catch up to us.

  “Steve,” I said, “these are my new friends Puma and Pachamama.”

  I could see mirth touching the comers of Steve’s eyes and mouth, but he managed to control himself.

  “How do you do,” he said gravely, shaking their hands in tum. I explained where they were headed, and Puma showed him some directions. “Throw your stuff in the back and hop in,” he said, gesturing to the backseat. “We have one stop, but it’s on our way.”

  The two grinned ear to ear with gratitude.

  Puma sat up front with Steve, while I took the backseat with Pachamama. She didn’t have very much to say, but I noticed Puma was doing card tricks for Steve, which must have been a little distracting.

  A few miles out of town, Steve made a left turn on a dirt road that ran between two buildings. Standing in front of one of them was a tiny woman, skin very brown and wrinkled, wearing a brown felt hat the shape of a lamp shade, an embroidered blouse covered by a brown vest, a short full skirt of navy blue over leggings, and black work boots. Her dark hair, streaked with grey, was twisted into two long, thick plaits. Beside her were two very large woven baskets in bright colors, pink and orange and green. Steve pulled the truck up beside her, loaded the baskets in the back, then helped her up into the back of the truck as well.

  “Ines Cardoso,” he said, getting back behind the wheel. “Our cook. With our dinner,” he added.

  About half a mile down the dusty road, he pulled off the road again, and we bumped down what was essentially a cart path in the general direction of a clump of trees. I could see a few primitive huts to one side, some laundry flapping in a breeze, a fenced-in area beside them where a few tired stalks of corn were growing. “Here we are. The commune,” Steve said. My heart sank for my two young friends.

  We disembarked, and Puma and Steve unloaded the bags from the back of the van. I smiled at Ines, who was staring at me. She didn’t smile back.

  I hugged both the kids and, in a moment of weakness, slipped the Peruvian equivalent of about twenty dollars to Puma, then watched as they headed toward the encampment. “Don’t forget what I told you,” Puma called back to me. “About December 31 and everything.” How could I forget when I was being reminded about it everywhere I went?

  “I won’t. And thanks for the advice.”

  “Thanks for giving them a ride,” I said to Steve. We were alone in the truck. Ines, although there was now plenty of room, preferred to sit in the back.

  “No problem. They’re not much older than my kids, you know. My son’s in college, and my daughter is just finishing high school. I know this puts me solidly in the camp of male chauvinist pigs, but I particularly wouldn’t like to think of my daughter in that place.” He glanced over at me. “By the way, I saw what you did.” I feigned innocence. “Feeling flush, are you?”

  “No,” I replied. “Actually, I’m feeling broke. But it’s all relative. You’re going to see that there’s a roof over my head, and you’ll feed me. I’ll manage.”

  He sighed. “I don’t much like the idea of their staying at that place,” he repeated.

  “They’ll be okay,” I said, somewhat hesitantly. “Is there something other than their general comfort you think they need to worry about?”

  “Not really,” he replied, just a tad too quickly. “Have I conveyed to you how absolutely delighted I am that you accepted this position?” he went on, changing the subject. I smiled.

  “Really, I mean it,” he said. “I’m a field man, not a businessman. I’m itching to be out there at the site. But there’s so much to be done, just to keep this project running, and I’m second on the totem pole. Hilda, Dr. Schwengen, is the head of this project, really, although she and I are called codirectors. Have you heard of her? No?” he said, looking at my blank expression. “She’s the high priestess of field archaeology in this part of the world. Austrian, originally, but she emigrated to the States when she was very young. Done some wonderful work on Inca sites, cleared a whole city up in the mountains almost singlehanded, fighting off banditos in the process. Something of a legend, is our Hilda. She’s now turned her attention to the Moche. So far, though, we’ve come up dry.”

  “Is this your first year here?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Fourth,” Steve replied. “Fourth and last unless we can come up with something spectacular. The grant I got for this dig runs out at the end of this season, and unless we can bring in another sponsor or two—we’ve got one small one to help out this year—we’re done here. I’ve talked to a couple of the Peruvian banks, but sponsors look for something a little more exciting for their money than what we’ve found so far. The stuff we’ve found is all really interesting; we’ve uncovered a workers’ cemetery and what was probably a village populated by craftspeople.”

  “But that sounds fascinating,” I interrupted him.

  “Oh, it is,” he replied. “But it’s not glamorous. We’ve learned a lot about early Moche times, but sponsors want something more exciting than that, and they know it’s possible. There have been terrific finds a little north of here. Sipan, for example. Those tombs were just spectacular. I’m biased, of course, but I think they’re the New World equivalent of King Tut’s tomb. Enough gold and silver to keep a Croesus happy. That’s what sponsors want. I’m still convinced, though, there’s something big here, and so’s Hilda. I have a feeling in my bones this is the season we’ll find it. All the signs are right. Hope so, anyway, as much for Hilda as for myself.”

  “That’s terrific,” I said.

  “It is. I should warn you about our sponsor, though. One Carlos Montero. He’s the mayor’s brother and owner of one of the few big businesses in town. This is essentially a one-factory town, by the way.”

  My ears pricked up. Steve went on. “As you can see, there isn’t much here. Fishing certainly, some farming. And Carlos and us. As for Carlos…” He paused for a second or two. “Let’s just say that political correctness has not reached the northern coastal desert of Peru. Carlos and a lot of the local men around here think that if a woman is out on her own, she’s fair game. I wouldn’t take in any of the local bars at night without a guy present, if I were you. The women on the project find Carlos a bit of a pain, I should warn you, always hitting on them. We try to make sure you women aren’t left alone with him for long.”

  “So what does Carlos do, if anything, when he’s not bothering women and being the mayor’s brother?” I asked.

  “Owns the local factory, one with the rather amusing name of Fabrica des Artesanias Paraiso, which means paradise as you probably know, the Paradise Crafts Factory,” Steve said. “They make reproductions of Moche artifacts, and ship them all over the world.”

  Now this is interesting, I thought to myself. “Montero supports our work here,” Steve went on. “I’d be hard-pressed to make ends meet without him. He makes a donation of some substance every year, and lends us tools and worker
s from time to time. I rent the truck from him, and he gives us a good rate. It’s generous of him, but not a bad deal for him either. Let’s just say we have a rather symbiotic relationship. He helps us financially and in kind. We agree to let him see whatever we find before it’s shipped off to Lima, and we kind of tum our backs while he photographs it in some detail, so he can make reproductions later and be first on the market. Most of the souvenirs of Moche objects that you find around here are manufactured in his plant.”

  “Is yours the only dig he does this for?” I asked.

  “The only one this year. He supported a dig the Germans did south of here for a few years. Got some lovely stuff from there. Montero usually does ceramics. He’s got a mold maker who can do a quick mold right from the photograph, and then the factory chums them out by the hundreds, if not thousands. He’s got a chain of little dealers that sell it for him. They hang around the tourist sites and flog the stuff. You know the sort: Wanna buy a watch, mister? That kind of thing. They look like independent dealers, but they’re just as often as not Montero’s people. He’s doing very well, and thinking about branching out into gold and silver reproductions, because the Germans found the tomb of a Moche priestess, lucky sods.” He paused. “Do we detect a hint of professional jealousy here, you’re wondering?”

  I laughed. “Maybe just a whiff. But go on.”

  “Okay. Some of Montero’s stuff is kind of tacky, I’m afraid. It offends me slightly to take his money, but not enough to stop taking it. The Germans pulled up stakes last year and didn’t come back this season, so now we’re the recipients of all of Montero’s largesse. There’s a little work still going on way down south, but essentially we’re the only project in these parts this year.”

  “Does Montero make replicas too? In addition to reproductions, I mean,” I asked in what I hoped was a casual tone.