Civilizations

by Laurent Binet

  The Waldensians – a Lutheran sect from the south of France persecuted by the previous king – were the first group to rally to the new power. The rest of the country followed unenthusiastically, but without any serious rebellions. The few uprisings that did occur were ruthlessly suppressed.

  The king of Portugal and the king of England – allies, respectively, of the Incas and the Mexicans – also attended the meeting.

  In gratitude for his military aid during the invasion of France, Henry VIII was officially granted the northern French coastline around Calais and Boulogne, but his other territorial claims were denied.

  Navarre was cut in two and divided between Spain and France.

  Portugal’s inviolable sovereignty was guaranteed, and France granted it the same licence to trade with the East Indies that Spain had granted before.

  The islands of Cuba and Haiti were declared free zones in the Ocean Sea, with an obligation to welcome all ships authorised to follow the three maritime routes linking Cuba to Cadiz, Lisbon and Bordeaux.

  The archipelagos of the Azores, Madeira and the Canaries were subject to the same obligations, with their geographical situation making them ideal as stopover points for ships crossing the Ocean Sea. However, the Azores were ceded to France. Madeira and the Canary Islands remained in the hands of, respectively, the Portuguese and the Spanish.

  England was authorised to explore other maritime routes between the Azores and Iceland, with the treaty guaranteeing it possession of all lands and islands that it might encounter in this strip of sea.

  It was agreed that, in the event that a ship belonging to one of the four aforementioned nations should lose its way and take a maritime route that it was not authorised to take, its safety would be assured until it reached port, in return for the ship giving up one-fifth of its merchandise.

  The treaty was sealed over glasses of the black drink from local vineyards, which had an excellent reputation. All present agreed that the reputation was entirely merited.

  The last Levantines to continue resisting the foreign conquerors were gathered in an Italian city named Trento, where they organised numerous debates examining the reasons for their defeat and asking why their nailed god had not protected them. (At the time of writing, these debates are still ongoing.)

  Ferdinand retired to his kingdoms in the east – Austria, Hungary, Bohemia – which still allowed him to govern a vast territory, albeit one perpetually threatened by the Turks. However, Suleiman was too preoccupied fighting the Persians to really trouble Ferdinand.

  The republics of Genoa and Venice were allied, respectively, with Atahualpa and Ferdinand, but both retained their independence.

  The Duchy of Milan was restored to Spain.

  The Holy Roman Empire signed treaties with the Lutheran countries to the north of Germany: Denmark, Sweden, Norway.

  Hatuey was named chief admiral of the Ocean Sea.

  Mary of Hungary was dismissed from her position as regent of the Netherlands, with Higuénamota taking her place.

  Atahualpa never saw the Cuban princess again.

  85. The Death of the Inca

  Peace reigned in the Fifth Quarter, which entered a period of harmony and prosperity.

  One day, Atahualpa decided that he wished to see the beauties of Italy, which he had heard so much about and which had inspired so many great artists. Perhaps the emperor had grown melancholy since his Cuban princess had retired to Brussels, refusing to see him, refusing even to reply to his letters, other than those concerning the administration of the Netherlands. Perhaps he sought some entertainment to distract him from his sadness over his friend.

  Lorenzino had invited Atahualpa to visit Florence many times, thus far without success, since the affairs of the Empire left him little spare time.

  However, Atahualpa wrote to the duke promising that he would visit him in his famous city during the fourth festival of the Sun, in the sixteenth harvest of the new era.

  The festival had become very popular here because its aim was to ward off disease, and the cities of the Fifth Quarter were often blighted by the plague, a fatal illness that decimated the peoples of the New World.

  Fasting began on the first day of the moon that they called September.

  Here, the bread, which they bake in ovens, is not mixed with the blood of young boys, but of young girls who have never lain with men, because, as I have said, they attach a great deal of importance to this inexperience (only where females are concerned, however; virginity is not prized at all among males). They draw blood from the young girls in the same way we do with young boys, by pricking them between their eyebrows.

  Until this point, the emperor had hardly suffered from homesickness, and some might have thought that his natural temperament had preserved him from a feeling so unsuited to the conquest of a new world. But perhaps, after all, the series of extraordinary events that had defined his life had simply never given him the opportunity. When he discovered Florence, Atahualpa felt as if he were pushing open the doors of a dream that led him back to his homeland.

  Bedecked in the colours of the rainbow, the city celebrated his arrival. Perched on a chariot next to Lorenzino, Atahualpa half-listened to the Florentine’s endless flow of compliments while his eyes widened in amazement at the stone palaces that, although more crudely carved, reminded him irresistibly of the Inca buildings of his past.

  On the other side of the river, high up in the hills, stood a fortress that he thought could easily be Sacsayhuaman.

  On the hillside were terraced gardens. Fireworks exploded above them and memories of Tawantinsuyu flashed through his mind.

  But it was the Palazzo Vecchio, seat of the duke and his government, that made the strongest impression on him. He had probably grown weary of the delicate, orange-scented gardens of the Alcazar, and in this grey stone edifice, surmounted with a crenellated tower, he rediscovered the same brute expression of power that his ancestors had bequeathed him. And while Lorenzino was proudly pointing out the statues of a small king named David, which he had arranged in the grand Council hall, Atahualpa’s mind was drifting from one empire to the other. After a while, he pretended to laugh for no reason and asked to be introduced to the architect of such wonders, because he was prepared, he said, to make him a golden bridge that would take him all the way to Seville. Lorenzino laughed too, since etiquette required it, but he had not forgotten how he himself had stolen Florence’s greatest sculptor to please his master, years before, and taken him to Andalusia. (In fact, that sculptor had already left for Rome, but he didn’t want to remember that.)

  Old Michelangelo was still alive; he was sketching plans for monuments in his studio in Seville, which Atahualpa liked to visit at dusk. But the Lorenzino that Michelangelo had known then was no more. Now, the Duke of Florence went by the name Lorenzo. He was a man in the prime of life, who governed with wisdom and firmness. His wife, the Duchess Quispe Sisa, was widely considered the greatest beauty in all of Tuscany and had given him two children whom he adored. His city was the jewel in the crown of the Fifth Quarter, its glories praised by all. Lorenzo had made peace with Rome and Genoa. His sphere of influence extended as far as Vienna, capital of Ferdinand’s empire. The greatest artists of the Empire clamoured to be part of his court.

  In a word, Lorenzo de Medici reigned. But the will to power suffers no equals. Was Atahualpa jealous? Did he wish to reassert an authority that he imagined was threatened by the splendours of Florence? Did he wish to humiliate his vassal by making him pay for the pomp that he had laid out for his master? If so, then his conduct was reprehensible. Or perhaps he was simply asserting his ancestral prerogatives? But the mores of the Fifth Quarter were different from those of Tawantinsuyu, as the emperor should have known better than anyone.

  He, too, was stunned by his sister’s beauty. She had wide hips, firm breasts, olive skin. The oval of her face was emphasised by her black hair, which fell over her bare shoulders; this style had become the fashion among the Ital
ian nobility and even among the women of the lower classes, who all imitated this sublime duchess. Her brother’s senses were inflamed in a way that, it is said, they had not been since he and the Princess Higuénamota had first become lovers on the ship that crossed the Ocean Sea. He told the duke that he wanted his sister back. But Lorenzo was hardly inclined to give up his wife, even to the emperor. All the same, he knew that nobody could refuse the Inca. In all likelihood, Quispe Sisa herself was not opposed to the proposal, considering her brother’s request as a great honour.

  So Lorenzo had to resort to cunning and dissimulation. He pretended to accept Atahualpa’s request with good grace, even claiming to be flattered. But he kept finding excuses to put it off: his wife was indisposed, or she wanted more time to prepare to receive her lord and brother. She had to fast for longer. She was waiting for certain rare essences from the Indies that she wished to use to perfume herself. The best couturiers in the city were creating lingerie for her worthy of such an occasion, so delicate and precious that it had to be sewn with the finest gold thread.

  Meanwhile, Lorenzo was negotiating in secret with one of the richest families in Florence, the Strozzi – ancient rivals of the Medici, who wanted a return to the republic. (I have already mentioned this original form of government, in which a group of nobles share power and choose their sovereign, as is the case for the doge of Venice or of Genoa.)

  What did he promise the Strozzi? What foolish oath sealed this agreement? What support could they boast? Venice? Perhaps. Ferdinand? Probably not. What could they have expected from yesterday’s oppressor, except the promise of another tyranny? Young Lorenzino had turned to the Inca precisely because he wanted to usurp his cousin Alessandro, a Habsburg puppet. The Pope, then? Yes, that was more likely. The chief of the nailed god’s worshippers had endorsed Atahualpa’s coronation against his will, and was disturbed by the growing number of conversions to the religion of the Sun. Moreover, he was an old hand at such machinations: hadn’t he ordered the assassination of Doria, in Genoa, not long before this?

  Lorenzo held talks with the Strozzi, the Ricci, the Rucellai, the Valori, the Acciaiuoli, the Guicciardini, and even with the Pazzi and the Albizzi, who had every reason to hate the Medici: ‘That time can neither destroy nor abate the desire for freedom is most certain; for it has been often observed, that those have reassumed their liberty who in their own persons had never tasted of its charms, and love it only from remembrance of what they have heard their fathers relate; and, therefore, when recovered, have preserved it with indomitable resolution and at every hazard. And even when their fathers could not remember it, the public buildings, the halls of the magistracy, and the insignia of free institutions, remind them of it; and these things cannot fail to be known and greatly desired of every class of citizens.’

  In truth, Lorenzo’s political intentions were unclear, because he seemed to be moved more by personal motives. His determination, however, was no less unfailing for that. To those who hesitated, he said that it was craven to turn away from a glorious enterprise just because the outcome was in doubt.

  Soon, the excitement provoked by the rebellious duke’s plans gave rise to rumours. Talk of a plot reached the ears of Ruminahui’s spies and the general attempted to warn his master, but Atahualpa paid no attention. Perhaps if Chalco Chimac had been present, he would have been persuaded of the danger, because intrigues and conspiracies were his domain, not that of the old, stone-eyed general. But perhaps Atahualpa was simply so weary that he relaxed his usual prudence, his attention to signs, that animalistic survival instinct. Perhaps the Inca, the conqueror of the New World, emperor of the Fifth Quarter, sensed that his mission on earth had already been accomplished, and that it was time to bring it to an end, one way or another. No doubt this man wanted to rest, he whose destiny had been even greater than the great Pachacuti. Did he dream of a sunny retirement in some peaceful place, surrounded by orange trees, paintings, talking sheets and chosen women, where he might smoke cohiba while dictating his memoirs? We will never know.

  For nine days, the festivities continued.

  Jousts took place in the Piazza Santa Croce, then lots of small white llamas were sacrificed and roasted on spits, and the people feasted with the nobility, amid singing and dancing.

  At night, messengers of the Sun ran through the streets, whirling their torches around their heads, then threw them into the river Arno, where the current took them to the sea, and with them all the evils that they had chased from their houses and their city.

  In the mornings, the inhabitants went to Mass after only a few hours of sleep. The religion of the nailed god was still very popular in Florence, which possessed the most impressive temple in the whole of the Fifth Quarter. It was a white marble building that rose up to the sky, gleaming as if it had been cut like a gigantic jewel by the best goldsmiths of Lambayeque. Atahualpa had attended Mass the day after his arrival, but had not bothered since then, sending Ruminahui in his stead for these solemn ceremonies, which, as everybody knows, are very important to the Levantines – and particularly to the Italians. The old general accomplished his task with diligence, if without much enthusiasm.

  As for the Duchess Quispe Sisa, she would usually attend Mass, to please the Florentines who went to admire her, but the succession of parties organised in honour of the emperor’s arrival had made her less assiduous. Her nocturnal exertions left her preferring the chimeras of sleep to tales of the nailed god.

  As he was short and rather puny, the duke had no intention of getting into a fight with Atahualpa, who was a head taller than him, with a remarkable physique. But there was in his service a highly devoted Yana, known as Scoronconcolo, who often carried out the most delicate missions on his behalf. The duke asked him if he was ready to avenge a great enemy, without revealing any details about his plan, and it is said that the Yana replied: ‘Yes, sir, even were it against the emperor himself.’ So Lorenzo devised a plot: he would lure Atahualpa into his room one morning, during Mass, by assuring him that his sister was waiting there for him, but in reality it would be Scoronconcolo, hiding behind a door, ready to slay him. At the same time, his acolytes would stab Ruminahui in the great temple, counting on the ensuing chaos to help them escape through the crowd. (When he greeted the old general, Lorenzo put his hand on his chest, in a show of friendliness, but in fact he was checking that Ruminahui was not wearing armour or chainmail under his mantle.) Then they would gather at the Palazzo Vecchio and call upon the city’s inhabitants to rise up against the imperial tyranny, and Lorenzo would proclaim the return of the Republic.

  And so it was done: during the evening banquet that followed the jousts in Santa Croce, Lorenzo whispered to Atahualpa the place and the time when he could see the duchess. He simply had to go to the Medici palace during Mass, and the duke himself would lead him to the bedroom where Quispe Sisa would be waiting for him. This was news the emperor had long been craving and he believed it eagerly. He spent the rest of the evening flirting with his sister, but without either of them ever mentioning their coming rendezvous – Quispe Sisa because she knew nothing about it, Atahualpa out of gallantry.

  That evening’s banquet was taking place in an immense palace that the Medici had just acquired, in the hills of Oltrarno, the neighbourhood of Florence where they had chosen to reside. When the duchess left the party, she went to bed in her new apartments, rather than travelling all across the city to the old Medici palace where she still had a room. The duke did not tell Atahualpa this, of course, because he wanted the duke to find nobody behind the door of that room, other than death.

  When the party was over, the last witnesses saw the emperor walk through the palace gardens to the Belvedere fortress, which overlooked the Tuscan countryside. He dallied for a moment on the battlements, alone, admiring the sunrise. On the distant hilltops, silhouetted against the sky, pine trees merged with crenellated towers.

  After such wild festivities, the city had a muddy taste in the mornings. Atahualpa
went back to the Palazzo Vecchio, where he was staying, to prepare for his rendezvous. He decided to walk there, with a reduced escort, to savour the cool dawn. He crossed the Ponte Vecchio, which was starting to come to life, stepping over the bodies of drunken Florentines who had collapsed in the gutters and avoiding – more out of instinct than superstition – the burnt-out torches used to expel the city’s evils that were still strewn across the streets.

  At the given hour, he presented himself, dressed in a tight-fitting alpaga mantle, to the door of the Medici palace, which he recognised from its famous emblem: five red balls with a blue ball above them. The duke himself opened the door. Atahualpa bade farewell to his retinue. He and Lorenzo walked through a garden of orange trees populated by Roman statues, then through an inner courtyard of finely worked arches; together, they climbed the stone staircase that led to the private apartments, then went through a small chapel, its walls covered with tapestries of hunting scenes – Lorenzo told people afterwards that the emperor lingered in front of one of those hangings, and asked him the names of certain animals represented therein. Then they passed a corridor of several rooms before reaching the duke’s. Lorenzo gave three discreet knocks, then moved aside to let the emperor pass.

  The curtains were drawn, so the room was in darkness. He could just make out the outline of the bed, and perhaps a shape under the sheets, though these were in fact only pillows. Still, that shape was enough to sharpen Atahualpa’s desire, and he stepped forward. Behind the door, the duke’s man was waiting, dagger in hand.

  He was aiming for the emperor’s throat, but it was so dark that he had to operate by guesswork, and the blade only entered the shoulder. Atahualpa cried out, spun on his heels, and threw himself at his attacker. Scoronconcolo stabbed him several times in the sides, but the emperor was remarkably strong and would have strangled the Yana were it not for Lorenzo’s intervention. The duke, unable to see anything, first had to open the curtains. Sunlight entered the room, exposing the furious struggle between the two men, who were now rolling around on the floor. Atahualpa was getting the upper hand when the duke, armed with a dagger, stabbed him in the back, burying the blade all the way into his flesh. The emperor had enough strength to turn around and see his murderer. ‘You, Lorenzo?’ were his last words, but his body, although covered with wounds, did not lie still. Atahualpa roared and attacked the duke, biting his thumb before collapsing on top of him.