Thus died Emperor Atahualpa.
Just then, Mass was beginning in the great marble temple, but Ruminahui wasn’t present. The conspirators who’d gone there to stab him were bewildered. While the priest spoke to the crowd in his learned language, they wondered what to do next. Finally, after much muttering, as their fellow Catholics’ songs rose up into the great dome, they decided to head for the Palazzo Vecchio. Luckily for them, the general was there. (He’d been told about suspicious troop movements near the neighbouring towns of Pisa and Arezzo.) They asked to be seen urgently, and Ruminahui agreed to receive them in the vast Hall of the Five Hundred, where the grand council used to meet, amid statues that almost all – apart from those of little King David – represented scenes of bestial lovemaking. Present were the senators Baccio Valori, Niccolò Acciaiuoli, Francesco Guicciardini, Filippo Strozzi, and one member of the Pazzi family. They surrounded the general but didn’t dare go through with it because of the guards who stood at the doors of the room and who had not been made aware of their plan, which made it difficult to predict how they would react. Not knowing what to do, and keen not to awaken the general’s suspicions, they pretended to warn him about a military rebellion that was being hatched in Tuscany, with the support of Rome, which was, in fact, true (they simply omitted to mention that they had incited this rebellion themselves).
So there they were, circling the general like indecisive birds of prey, when Quispe Sisa suddenly appeared, in a white silk dress. She had been surprised, when she woke, not to find her husband or her brother in the Pitti palace. So she had gone to the Dome and, not seeing them there either, had come to the Palazzo Vecchio.
Where was Lorenzo? Where was the emperor? The senators, obviously unable to answer these two questions, feigned surprise, as if they had just discovered the two men’s absence. Ruminahui didn’t know these men, and didn’t speak Italian, but the duchess knew them well. She could sense something strange in their behaviour, something suspicious that went beyond the usual difficulties of officialdom. She heard how they stammered, watched how they hesitated, and saw fear in their eyes.
From outside came a distant roaring. The five senators, the duchess and the general listened to this sound, which grew louder and clashed with the deathly silence that now filled the hall in which they stood.
Quispe Sisa said something in Quechua to the general.
They heard the rioters proclaiming the Republic in the name of the Medici.
News of Atahualpa’s death was starting to spread. It reached the Hall of the Five Hundred. The duchess turned pale. Encouraged by Lorenzo’s success, the senators grew bold and tried to unsheathe their daggers, but Ruminahui was on his guard. The Inca giant grabbed the axe and the star-headed club from his belt. He smashed the skull of his first attacker, gouged out an eye from the second, disarmed the other three, and told the guards to arrest them.
Outside, the rioters, led by the Rucellai and the Albizzi, were hammering at the doors of the palace. Ruminahui ordered the doors to be barricaded. One of the ringleaders – perhaps Leone Strozzi, the senator’s son, who had a youthful, impressive voice – yelled at the Incas to surrender, in the name of freedom. The emperor was dead. His troops were outnumbered. Florence was once more a republic.
They started hammering on the doors again.
Lorenzo had not appeared, but the crowd was cheering him anyway. ‘Long live the duke! Long live the Republic!’ they shouted. Quispe Sisa knew the customs of the Florentines, and of the Medici in particular. She had no doubt that Lorenzo and his accomplices had fomented this rebellion. In fact, most of the rioters outside had probably been bribed. Now the Strozzi son was demanding that Ruminahui be handed over. With Atahualpa dead, the conspirators had thought the arrest of his general all that was needed for them to be in control of the situation.
Lorenzo’s mistake was not going to the Palazzo Vecchio himself. Had he shown himself to the people at that moment, he could have rallied all of Florence, all of Tuscany, all of Italy down to Naples. But perhaps he had been surprised, at first, not to hear anything from the temple where Ruminahui was supposed to be killed. He probably wanted to wait, to be informed of the turn that events had taken, to be given a sense of the people’s reaction to his act: did he have the support of the Florentines? What he lacked now was the very audacity he had shown when he killed the emperor, and that was what prevented him reaping the benefits of the murder.
And yet, a huge crowd had gathered in front of the old palace.
Ruminahui thought about this. He was aware of the existence of a passage that connected the palace to the other side of the river, and he suggested to the duchess that they take it without delay. From there, they would flee the city, which was clearly lost, and ride to Milan. Or, if she preferred, prepare a counter-attack. He understood the duchess’s conflicting loyalties. But whatever she decided, she should go with him now.
Quispe Sisa pointed at the five senators lying on the floor, two of them already dead, and said to the general – in Castilian, so the Italians would understand – ‘Hang them from the battlements.’ The three wounded men stared at her incredulously. ‘Now.’
The rebels were hung from the top of the tower. The crowd yelled in disbelief. Then Quispe Sisa appeared on the balcony, in her white dress. Silence fell on the square. All eyes were on her.
‘Florence!’ she shouted, and the hoarseness of her voice surprised all those present, coming from such a slender figure.
‘Florence! This is what happens to those who try to harm you!’ she said, gesturing at the hanging bodies. ‘Look at their faces: they are the faces of treason. Look at their beautiful clothes: paid for by your sweat and blood. What did they want, these traitors? To overthrow the Empire. Why? So they would be free to tyrannise the people. Think, Florence! Overthrowing the Empire means losing its laws. Do you want to go back to the old days, when a handful of families sucked your lifeblood? Do you want those enemies of the people to return? Do you want an end to the public shops? Where will you get your bread the next time there are food shortages? Where were these traitors during the plague? Where were their hospices for your sick? What have they ever done for your grandparents, your children? Beware, Florence, that you do not to fall for the empty words of these cannibals! I am told that the emperor is dead … killed by the duke? If that is true, then I count the duke among the traitors, and I will offer four thousand florins to anyone who brings him to me alive, so that he can be tried for his crimes. And I will offer a thousand to anyone who brings me the heads of his accomplices!’ With these words, she pointed at the Strozzi and the Rucellai, whom she had spotted among the crowd. Raised voices spread through the square. The duchess continued her diatribe: ‘Because if my brother is dead, let nobody here be in any doubt: it is Florence that they have killed! Live, Florence! Rise up! Jewel in the Empire’s crown, do not let those greedy tyrants return! Long live the law! Long live Tuscany! Long live Florence!’ Just then, a beam of sunlight pierced the clouds. And the duchess, raising her arms to heaven, gave her final exhortation: ‘Long live the Empire of the Sun! Long live the people! And death to the traitors!’
The crowd roared. It swelled like a wave. The Rucellai and the Albizi were torn to pieces, and only the Strozzi son managed to escape, using his sword to cut a path to the Arno.
Satisfied that she had shifted the balance of power, Quispe Sisa went inside and told Ruminahui: ‘Go to Milan to seek reinforcements.’
News of Atahualpa’s murder was confirmed around noon. Quispe Sisa wrote a letter to Coya Asarpay, which she entrusted to her best chasqui, informing her sister of the situation so that she could prepare for the succession of her son, the future Sapa Inca Charles Capac.
Lorenzo fled. It is said that his wife personally furnished him with a horse and secretly gave orders that the gates of the city be opened for him. He took refuge in Venice, where he was assassinated by Chalco Chimac’s spies, who threw his body into the lagoon. (There is a painting of this scen
e by the famous artist Veronese.)
Quizquiz was sent to Italy at the head of a formidable army to pacify Tuscany, and to protect the region from Rome’s attacks. He seized the city of Bologna, which belonged to the Pope, and settled there. He became the city’s governor, then the Duke of Emilia and of Romagna. From his base in those two Italian regions, he exercised great power over the whole country, and was able to protect Florence from its enemies. He married Catherine de Medici; she was the widow of Henri, son of Francis I, and she gave Quizquiz nine children.
Atahualpa’s body was embalmed and taken back to Andalusia. He was mourned for a year, in accordance with Inca customs. His mummy now rests in the cathedral in Seville, beside his old rival Charles and their wife, Isabella.
Part Four
The Adventures of Cervantes
1. On the circumstances in which the young Miguel de Cervantes left Spain
In a neighbourhood of Madrid, the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived, not so long ago, a stonemason. He had a wife who was not only beautiful and sturdily built, but so wealthy that they had all the local judges and sergeants in their pockets.
It so happened that the stonemason had a bone to pick with a young man in his neighbourhood, who answered to the name of Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra. This boy, who was not yet twenty-five, was of handsome appearance and good education. He was very taken with poetry, his head a little over-stuffed with the plays of Lope de Rueda, and he spoke with a stutter, yet he charmed everyone who encountered him.
One day, it is said, the stonemason found his wife in the company of this young man in some nearby stable. It is not known how far their harmless fun had gone, although from reasonable conjectures it seems plain that it was quite advanced. This, however, is of but little importance to our tale; it will be enough not to stray a hair’s breadth from the truth in the telling of it.
You must know, then, that the young man wounded the stonemason during a duel that probably took place under the arches of the Plaza Mayor.
Young Miguel, who was aware of the mason’s social influence, fled the city in order to escape the wrath of a judicial system whose scales, he knew, were usually tipped by the weight of gold coins. So it was that he took refuge in a hostelry in La Mancha, in an attic room that showed clear signs of having formerly served for many years as a straw-loft. This was the right move, because soon afterwards news arrived from Madrid of his sentence: he was to have his right hand chopped off in public, and furthermore to be banished from the Empire for ten years.
Consquently, Miguel’s only desire now was to leave Spain as quickly as possible, to escape this cruel punishment. He remained a few days longer in his attic, where an obliging female servant brought him food and other delights every night, then he left with a group of six pilgrims who were on their way to Wittenberg, eager to see the doors of the church where the famous theses of the Sun had been nailed all those years ago. These men were happy to welcome him into their company, since with his good looks they thought it likely that they would be given at least one silver réal in alms at each village they went through. As soon as he had made a double-headed staff and a pigskin knapsack, into which the female servant who was so fond of him stuffed a loaf of bread, some cheese and olives, with a bottle of wine to quench his thirst, they set out northward, towards Zaragoza.
The many books he had possessed were now reduced to the Orisons of Our Lady and a Garcilaso without commentary, which he carried in two of his pockets.
The pilgrims had planned to cross through France to Germany but, in an inn where they’d stopped en route to Zaragoza, they were told that this would be madness, due to the troubles in Navarre and parts of Occitania, where people were rebelling against the Mexican crown.
So, abandoning all thoughts of passing through Zaragoza, they changed course for Barcelona, where they went in search of a boat that would enable them to bypass the overland route that was barred to them. Finally, they found a knarr that was headed towards Florence with a cargo of wine, and consequently the crossing, although long, was joyful, because they spent the whole time sampling the wine’s delights, and it was with unsteady legs that they staggered on to land in Italy. At that moment, young Miguel could not know that he would soon be going to sea again, nor in what circumstances.
2. Which treats of young Cervantes’s meeting with the Greek Doménikos Theotokópoulos, who leads him to Venice
Florence was governed at the time by the Grand Duke Cosimo Hualpa de Medici, eldest son of the peerless Quispe Sisa and the regicide Lorenzaccio. While the Grand Duke enjoyed relative freedom to govern as he wished, the city itself and all of Tuscany were nevertheless part of the Fifth Quarter, from which Miguel had been banished for ten years, and where he would always remain under threat of losing his right hand. He thought about going to Rome and seeking refuge there, but there were rumours of troops moving towards the Holy City, which was said to be in a state of siege, so Miguel decided against undertaking such a journey. He preferred to follow his pilgrim friends to Bologna, where a Medici also reigned – Duke Enrico Yupanqui, counselled by his mother, Catherine, the widow of the great general Quizquiz – then to Milan, which was still an imperial city. From there, they would reach Switzerland, where Miguel hoped finally to be free from the hungry jaws of justice, able to enjoy more peaceful days in Geneva, Basel or Zurich.
Fortune, however, decided otherwise. On the outskirts of Como, they came across a patrol of Quitonians, who had come to the north of Italy to inspect all arrivals to and departures from the Fifth Quarter. Although the Emperor Charles Capac’s reign was a peaceful one, there were still many old Christians who refused to live among the sons of the Sun, and more particularly under their dominion, so that some of them sought to leave for Rome, or Venice, or Vienna (or even, for a few, Constantinople, on the basis that they preferred the laws of Mohammed to those of the heathens from the west, because the Turk, at least, recognised only one god).
His pilgrim friends had long ago converted to Intism, and around their necks they wore the little golden suns that attested to their religion, so they had no difficulty in justifying their destination. But fatal destiny, which directs, arranges and settles everything in its own way, did not wish this for young Miguel, who was discovered not only to have no little sun around his neck, but to be in possession of a Catholic book of hours, which, it has to be said, did not really back up his story about being on a pilgrimage to the Temple of the Sun in Wittenberg. As he was also unable to provide any proof concerning the reason for his journey or even his identity, they took him to be a refractory old Christian seeking to reach Vienna via Switerzland, and so he was sent to Milan with his legs in irons.
From Milan, he had to walk to Genoa, chained to other prisoners who were being sent to the galleys. The plan was for him to be put on the first ship to Spain so that the judges could clear up his case.
So there were twelve men, threaded together like rosary beads, one long chain attached to each of their necks, and their hands cuffed as well. With them were two men on horseback and two others on foot. The ones on horseback had wheel-lock muskets, while those on foot had spears and swords.
Young Miguel, whose flesh was cruelly bruised by the irons, was even more wounded in his soul, and he was lamenting his misfortune when a man came towards the small troop. The man was young and his clothes were well made, if simple in design. He was dressed completely in black and he had a ruff around his neck, a neat little beard, and no hat. A flask and a cutlass hung from his belt. When he reached the troops, he asked the guards in very courteous language what crimes had been committed by these men in irons. One of the guards on horseback answered that they were prisoners of His Majesty the emperor, and that was all that was to be said and all he had any business to know. Nevertheless, as the man with the ruff insisted on knowing more, with the greatest courtesy imaginable, and in an accent that Miguel realised was not Italian, the other guard said he might as well just ask the men himself, an
d they could answer him if they wanted to.
Some confessed to terrible crimes, while others piteously claimed their innocence, and others still told stories that drew laughter because they had gone about things so foolishly; one, however, who was chained more heavily than the others, provoked general admiration, and no little fear, with an account of his terrifying exploits, which I will perhaps tell you another day. But when it was Miguel’s turn, he was so downcast by his ill fortune that he stuttered terribly as he spoke, so that nobody understood much of his story, but all were deeply moved: not only was his face sad, but they supposed that his story must be truly pathetic if it could only emerge from his mouth in such jolts and splutters.
While everyone was feeling sorry for tearful young Miguel, the man with the ruff shouted: ‘No matter what crimes they have committed, they are all children of God!’ At the same time, he grabbed the boot of the first horseman and tipped him off his mount, so that the guard landed face down on the ground. Then, with a speed that stunned all witnesses to the scene, he drew his cutlass from his belt and planted it in the guard’s chest. The other guards were shocked by this unexpected action, and at first they did not react; but then, recovering their wits, the one on horseback lifted up his musket and those on foot lifted up their spears and they joined together to attack the man with the ruff. However, he had already picked up the dead horseman’s musket and he fired it at the other horseman, who fell to the ground with a moan. Now, the two infantrymen, armed with spears, faced the man with the ruff, who was left with only his knife. The prisoners, spying this opportunity to free themselves, tried to break the chain that connected them. But when it became clear that this was impossible, the man who was most heavily chained threw himself at the closest guard and used those chains to strangle him. The last guard was promptly knocked out, and so it was that the prisoners were all restored to liberty, once their chains had been removed.
Civilizations Page 25
