by Greg Bear
After what seemed like hours, the living god-emperor of the Incan people pronounced his decision.
“We will provide these twenty men as requested. You will give them this vaccine and we will expose them to smallpox. When you have proven your claim, you will receive half the amount you request, paid in silver.”
“Half!” shouted Loddington, then regained himself. “Half is simply not enough,” he said. “And our payment must be in gold. Our creditors will not accept silver. If you do not want this vaccine, then I will go home.”
“You are a fool to throw away so much wealth,” said the Sapa Inca.
“We will find resources through other means,” said Loddington.
“You would kill innocent men, women, and children for the sake of greed?”
Loddington’s face darkened, and he said, “I would save each and every citizen under threat. It is you who would kill them by refusing this deal.”
I cringed as I translated this, carefully specifying that he said these things, not I. After a long silence, the Sapa Inca said, “One-fourth your requested price in gold when you prove your claim, and another one-fourth half a year after this vaccine continues to be effective.”
Ah, the wisdom of the gods indeed! Loddington countered with, “One-fourth when the vaccine proves effective, and the remaining three-fourths at the half-year mark.”
“You are dismissed,” said the Sapa Inca coldly.
To my surprise, Loddington shrugged and smiled. He bowed deeply and turned to his dark-skinned companion. “Come, Marco,” he said. “We have a long voyage ahead of us.”
Loddington strode down the long hallway, chin lifted like an emperor. His party followed. Every noble’s head turned to follow them. I heard loud whispering behind the screen—this time an unknown man’s voice, along with the two rulers. Loddington had nearly left when the Sapa Inca commanded, “Call out for him to stop.”
“Stop!” I shouted. Loddington paused near the door, tilting his head. But he didn’t turn around. He gave no indication he would hear any more. I realized that I had met a rare creature: a man to whom the living god himself must submit.
The Sapa Inca said, “One-half when the vaccine proves effective, and the other half a year from that day. The full amount that you request, paid in gold.”
Loddington turned on the threshold, and smiled. His face reminded me of a raptor diving toward prey. “And the peace treaty?”
“As requested, provided it cover aggression by either nation.”
“Agreed,” said Loddington smoothly, “by power vested in me from the Governor of Virginia and the General of the American Revolutionary Army. Shall we formalize in writing?”
The rest of the day—and then the week—fell to writing endless documents. The scribes took care of the Quechua versions, and Loddington wrote the English ones. I had to catch discrepancies, which twisted my stomach. Too many papers and not enough time! Luckily English and Quechua shared an alphabet, as we’d taken the Spanish letters—but still I felt overwhelmed. No one could help me; even another English-speaker offered little help, as those few men were illiterate peasants.
I was not called to further meetings, as they mostly consisted of Coniraya with his chief advisors. I did hear about the changing plans, though. The first plan was to test the vaccine on criminals, in case the American intended to attack us with poison. Because we do not keep prisons, this required bringing in criminals who’d committed two crimes and would normally be killed outright. They were kept under strict guard, until someone realized that of course the guards could not accompany the criminals so closely to an infected village and ensure proper exposure.
Attention turned to those loyal men who would volunteer for this task, and to my surprise, twenty were found. I suspected that the Sapa Inca had ordered compliance, and they dared not disobey, but I was not privy to these discussions. Most likely many llamas died as the High Priest examined their entrails, and runners wore themselves out relaying messages between the Sapa Inca and his spiritual advisor. I was notified that the village chosen for the test was Sayacmarca, and that several pox survivors would accompany these men, in order to assist should they fall ill.
Thus I learned that my wife Yma would go with these volunteers, as one volunteer was a widow who required a female companion. I supposed this was the Coya Inca’s doing; it made sense to ensure the vaccine worked on women too, but I wished anyone other than my wife might go. My family was already entangled too far above our station. Great harm came to those who mingled with too-powerful people. Yma would go, and endure a twelve-day quarantine before her return. I was assured that my children would be cared for in her absence, as I was needed at the palace—and in particular that my lovely Chaska would join the priestesses, as a reward from the Sapa Inca. Yes, I was assured.
So you will understand, dear child, my dead panic when I heard of the Sapa Inca’s plans to appease the gods. You see, Amaru and Paucar—his cousins who had come to me earlier—paid me a visit, shortly into this time of paperwork. I drowned in scrolls, with aching eyes and head. The windowless room was stuffy and hot, and all I could think of was seeing my wife and children again. But then Amaru told me of my next task as translator.
“The Sapa Inca awaits the results from Sayacmarca. Meanwhile, he instructs us to take the American leader and his servant to Machu Picchu and show them that palace’s glory. Their entourage will remain in the palace as honored guests, under guard.”
“Machu Picchu!” I exclaimed, setting down my papers. “No one sees Machu Picchu except the most—”
“Even I have not seen it,” interrupted Paucar, “and I believe the American does not belong there. But this is the order and so we shall obey.”
“I believe,” said Amaru quietly, “that the intent is to impress the man. But yes, the fact that our cousin would allow such savage eyes into a holy place—I think that Coniraya already believes this vaccine will work, and he wants nothing to stop this deal. Perhaps he hopes that an impressed American will show mercy in his dealings.”
I shook my head. “This is all amazing to me,” I said. “I have never dreamed of visiting Machu Picchu.”
Amaru said, “We will meet the High Priest there. I believe Ahuapauti wishes to talk to the Americans without his brother present.”
I knew he meant the Sapa Inca, for then as now, the Sapa and Coya and High Priest were all siblings or at least cousins—and those three were full siblings, which was most unusual. I asked, “What do you suppose the High Priest thinks of Loddington?”
Paucar snorted. “You know as much as we do. You translated his every word.”
I blinked, startled. The High Priest had been speaking in the throne room, as if he ruled the land? I had heard two different male voices behind the screen, along with the female. It was said that Ahuapauti as the elder brother always coveted the throne, despite losing to Coniraya in combat. Perhaps there had been an arrangement between them that they might share governance, and their sister would be wife to both.
“Does Ahuapauti rule this land then?” I asked, feeling like an ignorant villager.
Amaru said, “The rumor around court is that the Sapa Inca defers to the High Priest in all complex and unusual matters. He spends his time listening, rather than speaking, so he can accurately assess the situation. There are some who feel that this encourages the High Priest to desire too much power, but others think the brothers found an effective balance.”
Paucar added, “Some say the Coya Inca prefers her elder brother, but no one says this unless he wants to be thrown off a mountaintop.”
Amaru narrowed his eyes at his cousin, then continued, “However, the Sapa Inca makes all the decisions, including the plan for a hundredfold sacrifice on Atun Cusqui.”
“A hundredfold!” I exclaimed, for normally only six boys and six girls were married at the festival.
“Yes. Six hundred boys and six hundred girls, aged nine to thirteen, will be married and then given to the gods near
Lake Titicaca. The Sapa Inca believes we must increase our sacrifice as penance for spending our gold, which is Inti’s sweat that we have earned.”
I hardly heard his words, for my world collapsed around me. My family was being discussed in every noble household by now. Any hope of obscurity was gone. My beautiful Chaska—my darling daughter, admired by all around me, would surely be targeted for those marriages. She could hardly escape such a huge gathering of children. My daughter would be crowned with flowers—and then killed by a penitent priest.
I had never liked the festival sacrifices, but Inti demanded them, and who could question a god’s will? And now the sacrifices seemed nightmarish. What god would ask this of a father? I turned away, that these men would not see my pain. I was trapped between two terrible outcomes. If the Sapa Inca consummated this trade, it would cost me my daughter—and hundreds of other daughters and sons. Yet if he rejected it, how many children would die from smallpox? Perhaps twelve hundred lives was a bargain indeed.
I had no answer then, and no answer now. At that moment, I desperately wished for my child’s sweet face and her arms thrown about me.
3. Machu Picchu
Let me tell you, child, of how smallpox strikes. This is the tale told to me by your grandmother Yma, from when she was fifteen.
Put yourself here, with your grandmother. You’re lying on your reed mat in your house’s loft. It’s summer and you’re far too warm. You hear your parents talking below, of how smallpox has swept through villages too close to Cusco. They talk of rumors, how a man escaped quarantine. This man, you think, may be in Cusco now, infecting the millions gathered here.
The thought makes your forehead sweat. You shiver. And you think, I am scaring myself, but you know you can’t sicken yourself with a thought. Still, your stomach twists and your back hurts, which could be from weaving wool today. And there’s a lump in your cheek, which you run your tongue over, which might be where you burned yourself on supper. Perhaps you should show your father this lump, or not—why worry over nothing?—but you decide you should. You try to stand up, but the world spins. So you crawl, and fall against your hand—and where did you get those two blisters on your cheek? You’re sure they’re new, those two dots like the sun and the moon. You call for your parents, but your voice is weak.
And your parents come, and wrap you in blankets, but you hear soldiers surrounding your house. This must be quarantine—it happened once before, in childhood. But that was other children, not you who lay here, sweating and shaking, your tongue swollen like boiled squash. A hot red rash blisters all your skin. A scarred stranger brings you water, and you drink, and the stranger is gone and back again. You call for your parents, but they do not come. All around you the city of Cusco is silent, except for cries of pain and death. You do not know what happens next.
In time you come to your senses, not knowing the day or week, and the stranger is someone else. You’re feeble as a newborn pup and your face is scarred like baked earth. You ask for your parents, but the stranger shakes his head. You wail as grief consumes you. And this house is yours now, empty and cold.
And that house is this house, where now we sit and I tell you the story of you. That plague was in 1793, when one-fifth of Cusco perished by smallpox—and still that toll was better than 16th-century plagues, where nine of ten might die. It’s a miracle that we survived at all, Inti’s blessing that the physician Ronpa discovered quarantine. Even the Europeans who brought this horror could not destroy the Incan Empire at its height. Though had the Spanish fully assaulted us in the earliest years, it might have been different, child—so very different.
So you see the choice we faced in 1806, my dear grandson, and why it mattered. Smallpox crippled us. It forced a twelve-day quarantine for all travelers. Without smallpox, our Empire could explode northward, taking the Spanish lands and all their wealth. We could replenish any funds we’d spent to get this vaccine. But everything relied on the vaccine doing what the Americans promised.
We went to Machu Picchu on litters carried by imperial runners, and we had scarcely begun our journey before Amaru ordered his runners to carry him close to me. The Americans were far behind us; I had no doubt they were being reminded of their place.
Amaru said, “I’m told that when the twenty volunteers reported to Loddington’s camp, he blindfolded them and separated them from their sighted companions. He brought them into a tent and promised that the vaccine would hurt only briefly, and they would sicken slightly but recover within three days. Then they would journey to Sayacmarca. Five volunteers quit at this point. I believe they preferred to risk the Sapa Inca’s wrath over sickness.”
Intrigued, I asked, “What did he do to them?”
“None are sure,” said Amaru. “All reported a stab in the arm, as with a cactus. The woman declared it was a sewing needle she felt. Several heard labored breathing and coughs—small coughs, like a child. One man reported the stench of stale urine and feces, as if someone had perhaps lain in them for some time.”
I considered the mystery and had no ideas. “And did they sicken?”
“Yes,” said my companion, as if thinking aloud to himself. “They became ill, though not with smallpox. All had to wait in these tents for three days. The smallpox survivors who had come with them were forbidden to enter the tents, and witnessed nothing. But these volunteers all emerged with slight scars, mostly on their hands.”
“As with smallpox.”
“No, nothing like. The scars were so mild they might have been caused by childhood injury. They reported feeling feverish, and blistering a bit—but with larger blisters, they said, based on talking with the smallpox survivors.”
I glanced backward where the Americans rode. “And now they will not get smallpox?”
“So he claims. They are traveling to Sayacmarca now. I am sure that word will come from that village before the volunteers return; the Emperor has of course assigned smallpox survivors as runners.”
And their clothes would be burned before they met the next runner, and their hair shaved off. No chances could be taken. With a start, I realized my wife would lose her beautiful hair, and this was only the beginning of changes for my family.
I realized Amaru had addressed me while I was lost in thought, and I asked his pardon. “Again, please?”
“I said—befriend this American. Get him to trust you. I must play the arrogant noble, but he will relax around a man of more ordinary rank. Find out what this vaccine is, if you can. If nothing else, learn what moves him, so that we might leverage it against him if needed.”
“I will try,” I murmured, feeling pressured.
Shortly we crossed the holy bridge over the Urubamba, and stopped to let our carriers rest. Amaru and Paucar offered coca leaves to the river, since this site lay on the sacred lines. Amaru gave me two small leaves and I understood his intent.
I took the leaves to Loddington and his companion. Loddington looked quite pale from his travels, though his servant appeared wide-eyed and excited. Up close, I saw that Loddington’s coiled white hair was actually a fitted item that sat atop his head, like a hat. Small tufts of red-brown locks peeked out underneath. How peculiar, to wear hair as a hat. I wondered if the boy’s llama hair was also a hat, but it looked natural.
Bowing slightly, I offered the two leaves on an outstretched palm.
“What are these?” asked Loddington.
“Coca leaves,” I told him. “They will help you adjust to the mountain air.”
Loddington grabbed both leaves and stuffed them in his mouth. Surprised, I looked at his companion, but the boy seemed to expect this behavior. I had meant one for each man, but indeed the boy seemed healthier. I knew from my grandfather that some men found our air easier than others.
“I am called Lanchi Ronpa,” I told them. “Lanchi is my name, and Ronpa is where my father’s name should be—but because some of my family survived smallpox, we are children of Ronpa, the great physician who became Sapa Inca. He is
the disfigured god of our people.”
“I know Ronpa,” said Loddington. “Without him, Incan civilization would have collapsed. You owe him a great debt. Actually, some of our modern science is based on his work. For a man who didn’t know what a germ was, he did an amazing job protecting your people.”
I didn’t know what a germ was either, but felt reluctant to ask. “We will meet Ronpa at Machu Picchu. He lives there along with all other past rulers.”
Loddington gave me a strange look. I figured he might not understand that our god-emperors were immortal, but he didn’t question me further. Personally, I was excited beyond belief that I would see the mummies of Ronpa and Atahualpa and our other great leaders. Loddington’s color improved greatly with the coca leaves, and he asked me, “How is it that you speak English?”
“My grandfather was a British merchant. He came to these lands before the Expulsion and married here.”
“Oh, he went native. I see. Our previous translator had a similar story, but his English was better. I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I prefer to speak my mind. Diplomacy tires me.”
The boy smiled at this, but didn’t say anything. He picked up a fan and created a small breeze for Loddington. I liked the way this boy kept his own counsel and never spoke out of turn. Suddenly I wondered if he was mute. I asked him, “What’s your name?”
He looked away shyly. Loddington said, “Go on, boy. Answer the man.”
“Marco,” he said, quietly but clearly. I noticed that his jawline was nearly as square as Loddington’s, and both Americans had hooked noses. They bore a certain barbaric look; they resembled coarse peasants rather than elegant nobles. Despite their oddness, I felt more comfortable with them than the wealthiest of Incan society.
Loddington said, “Named him for the famous explorer who opened China. His mama still cooks for my family back in Virginia. He’s here to help me carry out my work. And he helped sail the ship here. Smart boy, he is. Natural on the water. Shame he’s a mulatto, or he’d be a captain by now!”
