‘We shall go, since you consider that it’s the path we must travel. I shall ignore the premonition of danger that I feel within myself. You will have to pray for us, my brother.’
Bartholomew grinned.
‘You’re always in my prayers, whether you like it or not.’
Gabriel turned to Katari.
‘And you, Master of Stone, don’t abandon us.’
‘We shall meet again soon.’
‘How shall we know it?’ asked Anamaya.
Katari pulled some cords from his chuspa, and deftly tied a series of knots in them with his strong fingers. He handed them to Anamaya and said firmly:
‘Take this quipu. When the time has come, it will direct you to where I am. And the stone key will open up space and time to you. I shall be reunited with you as I am separated from you, I shall bury myself while you raise yourselves up, I shall sink where you rise. But together, we shall be in the eternity of Viracocha’s way. Now go.’
As Katari set off back to Vitcos alone, without even a torch, Bartholomew, the dwarf, Anamaya and Gabriel set off into the jungle on their journey of hope and doubt.
CHAPTER 30
Lima, 24 June 1541
Seabirds came in from the fog-laden ocean and glided on their big white wings over the newborn city. They wheeled around in the air over the city square and the unfinished cathedral, then headed off toward the verdant hills along the coast, squawking as they went.
Anamaya looked up and watched them. The mild morning breeze caressed her forehead. The strange veil covering her hair fluttered gently against her cheek and lips, and she pushed it away with a surprised gesture.
Everything that she had seen since arriving in Lima had amazed her: the birds, the houses, and the immense ocean, which she had never before laid eyes on.
Gabriel had taken her to the top of the scaffolding around the cathedral, and from there she had seen the entire plan of the city. She saw that the Strangers arranged their houses with as much systematic order as the Incas did their canchas. Each was exactly the same size and perfectly square. Their roofs here had no tiles. They were flat and covered with a thick layer of earth, and the houses sat between identical courtyards and perfectly straight streets down which the Strangers came and went all day long, as if that was all they ever did.
Like the cathedral, which still had no bell tower and whose nave had been hastily given a temporary roof of planks and straw, most of the houses were unfinished. Some were nothing more than a few beams and some shingles. Plots here and there with no buildings on them yet served as enclosures for pigs or poultry and sometimes even for those strange things that the Strangers called ‘carriages’, wooden contraptions consisting of a box set on four wooden circles on which they sat and had themselves pulled along by their horses.
The building across the square from the cathedral was far bigger than any other in Lima. Its walls were evenly covered with a perfectly white roughcast, and wooden balconies and louvred shutters painted blue jutted out from them. The building included two courtyards and a bushy garden the size of the ground floor of a house. This was the home of the Governor, Don Francisco Pizarro.
‘Do you remember the letter I sent to Bartholomew to read to you, when I was on my way to join de Almagro in the south?’ Gabriel asked Anamaya in a low voice, holding her hands in his. ‘Do you remember? It must have been seven, eight years ago now. I think it was also in June. Well, this is where I wrote it, just before nightfall. The sun was already low over the ocean. There were no houses then, only a stand of trees ripe with fruit. There were a few huts in a clearing from which children stared at us, flabbergasted. It had all the elements of paradise that one can imagine.’
He pointed at the spot where the river met the ocean in a whirl of yellow water and then beyond it, toward the opulent orchards and then at the still-empty land beyond them.
‘Don Francisco very solemnly declared to me: “It shall be here!” The next day, a few stakes were driven into the ground and everything was decided: the square would be here, the church there, over there the houses and the streets. Nothing could have been simpler! Each plot four hundred and fifty feet square and to contain four houses, and each street forty feet wide. And so it was done: the capital of Peru was born!’
There were notes of both pride and bitterness in Gabriel’s voice. Anamaya gently remarked:
‘It displays the power of the one who has conquered a nation. Emperor Huayna Capac did the same at Quito after having defeated the northerners. His Powerful Ancestors did the same before him throughout the Empire of the Four Cardinal Directions. But all that’s over now. We shall no longer build cities.’
She said this with real sadness, but also with a serenity that made Gabriel feel ill at ease. He felt her shiver, even though the breeze off the ocean was warm.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked, worried.
‘No,’ she said, smiling. ‘No, it’s nothing.’
In truth, it wasn’t any feeling of cold that made her shiver but the unnatural silence reigning over Lima that morning. Apart from the cries of the birds, not a single sound rose from the city: it felt as though the day was holding its breath, the better to scream later. Very few people were hurrying through the streets. The wind created little whirlwinds of dust here and there on the empty square.
Anamaya had heard silences like this before. Every time, they had preceded an upheaval. She thought of Emperor Huayna Capac’s words despite herself: ‘The Strangers, in their triumph, will know misery.’ She noticed the concerned look on Gabriel’s face and said, with an amused smile:
‘It’s only that I’m not used to these clothes!’
Less than a week ago, before they had entered Lima and despite Gabriel’s protestations, Bartholomew had forced them to put on Spanish clothes. ‘Can you imagine the reaction were Anamaya to go into town all dressed up like an Inca princess? In less than an hour, all those gentlemen would be interrogating her about why she had come! And it wouldn’t take Don Francisco’s henchmen any longer to begin asking her about the whereabouts of the gold statue. No, dressed in the Spanish manner, with her hair curled and her blue eyes, no one will think that she’s an Indian. There are already many well-dressed, young, mixed-blood women in Lima. And the same goes for you, too. You’ve been forgotten: try to stay that way, at least for a while.’
‘These damned clothes,’ grumbled Gabriel, unbuttoning the collar of his shirt, which he had become unused to wearing. ‘I guess we’re going to have to wear these disguises for a while. There was bad news yesterday. Bartholomew heard that the vessel carrying Judge Vaca de Castro was wrecked before even reaching Tumbez.’
‘Does that mean that he’s not coming?’
‘For the moment, it means nothing at all. Except perhaps that this city seems to me even sicker than Bartholomew, and that I’m beginning to regret agreeing to his request.’
Gabriel looked at the houses around the square, then shook his head and said:
‘No, that’s not right. The city isn’t sick: it’s just stuck between Pizarro’s people and those loyal to de Almagro, now dead. It’s stuck in the mire of mutual hatred. I don’t like this silence, and I don’t like the emptiness in the square. I don’t like being here and I like even less having brought you here. And I don’t like this disease that is consuming Bartholomew. It could well be contagious, particularly for you. I’ve heard that vast numbers of Indians are dying from the fevers that we have brought with us.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m safe,’ Anamaya reassured him. ‘And if your friend would accept my help, I could cure him.’
‘Bah! Bartholomew is as stubborn as a mule. He grows worse with each passing day, yet he accepts no other remedy but his prayers! I’ve never seen him like this, at once so impassioned and so doubtful about his god – not even when he arrived at Titicaca in rags. Indeed, if he wasn’t so consumed by fever, I wouldn’t stay here.’
‘We must do what we must do,’ said Anamaya quietly.
&n
bsp; ‘I’m not so sure that we can do anything at all!’
She was about to answer when a sudden gust lifted the hem of her long Spanish skirt. She cried out in surprise and slapped it down, and as she did so, her shawl slipped away so that her long hair streamed out in the breeze.
Gabriel laughed a tender, teasing laugh. He helped her set herself right, and each time he looked at her, he felt stirred by her beauty. Her innate grace was accentuated by the long, large-pleated silk dress that followed the curve of her waist, and by the cambric camisole she wore beneath a velvet blouse, revealing the curves of her bosom.
‘How beautiful you are,’ he said, moved. ‘Sometimes I feel as though nothing can touch you, that your beauty protects you and me with you.’
Gabriel was about to pull Anamaya to him, but he remembered where he was and refrained. A man was walking quickly across the square. He was tall and Gabriel instantly recognized his gait. Before entering the cathedral’s shadow, the man looked over his shoulder, as though he feared that he was being watched. His hat hid his face and his hands were concealed beneath an old, faded cape that hung from his shoulders. But Gabriel knew exactly who he was.
Gabriel grabbed Anamaya by the hand and led her toward the wooden stairs.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘It seems that we have an unexpected visitor.’
* * *
‘Sebastian de la Cruz!’
The brim of the broad hat tilted up, revealing the dark shadows beneath Sebastian’s eyes. His face was marked with more lines than it had been when they had last met. But his eyes still had that familiar twinkle, glowing brightly in his blackface. The former slave flung his cape over his shoulder and warmly extended his strong hands toward Gabriel:
‘God’s blood, it’s true, then! You’re here!’
They embraced fervently, albeit briefly, and Sebastian’s happy, welcoming grin quickly gave way to a furious expression.
‘Damn the devil!’ he fulminated. ‘What has corrupted your mind so that you return to the wolves’ den? And, what’s more, accompanied by a—’
He stopped short, dumbfounded as he recognized Anamaya.
‘Damn my eyes, it’s you! Forgive this fool, princess,’ he guffawed, bowing gallantly. ‘Your disguise is most effective. I had taken you for one of those gold-diggers who are arriving here by the boatload. Indeed, I was asking myself what our dear Gabriel was doing with a woman like that.’
‘Bartholomew wants Anamaya to meet this judge, Vaca de Castro, when he arrives,’ Gabriel explained, smiling.
‘If that’s the case, you’re going to be waiting for a long time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean that the judge won’t be here until hell freezes over.’
‘Those are hardly appropriate words to speak in this place, Don Sebastian.’
All three turned around at the same time. Sebastian chuckled about having been addressed as ‘Don’.
Leaning against the post of the door leading into the sacristy was Bartholomew. His skin was pallid, his forehead glistened with clammy sweat and his eyes were strangely dilated. The scar across his left cheek was swollen and looked as though it had been applied with a branding iron. Anamaya went toward him, but he held up his hand to stop her and protested:
‘I am fine, my girl. My appearance is deceiving. It’s like this every morning, but the fever abates after a few hours. I must simply be patient: the day will come when God wills that I be cured.’
‘You’ve been saying that since we left the mountains,’ said Anamaya gently, ‘and yet it seems as though your god cannot hear you. I have some herbs here that will cure you in just a few days, and—’
‘Quiet,’ interrupted Bartholomew. He took Anamaya’s hand and brought it up to his lips, much to Sebastian and Gabriel’s surprise.
‘Quiet – don’t say another word, Coya Camaquen. I know what you can do; I’ve seen you at work. But you are in a house where it’s best to not mention those things.’
He crossed himself and uttered a little laugh, which set off a fit of coughing. When he had recovered, he waved at Sebastian and said:
‘Let’s forget about all that. Don Sebastian has more important things to tell us. What do you know about Judge de Castro?’
‘He’s dead – drowned.’
‘By the blood of Christ! Are you sure?’
‘Whether it’s the truth or a rumor? It’s hard to tell. Don Juan Herrada spent three hours last night assuring us that the sinking of Judge Vaca de Castro’s vessel was no act of God. The waves and currents had nothing to do with it, according to him. He claims that the Governor sent a ship to sink the judge’s.’
‘Does he have proof?’ asked Gabriel.
The question made Sebastian smile. He shrugged and said:
‘We’re beyond needing proof, Gabriel. In any case, there’s another rumor going around town as well: that the judge’s vessel was damaged beyond repair in Panama, and that it will never reach Peru. Whatever the truth, everyone is convinced that the judge is dead, and as a consequence the Pizarros’ tyranny will last as long as the Governor lives.’
‘So,’ said Bartholomew, running a bony finger along his scar, ‘Don Herrada fans flames from the embers, knowing full well what his fire will burn.’
‘Do you mean to say that Herrada and his followers are plotting to kill Don Francisco?’ exclaimed Gabriel.
‘At this late hour, it’s more than a plot: it’s a commitment,’ said Sebastian.
‘Be careful, Don Sebastian,’ mumbled Bartholomew, opening the door behind him and glancing out. ‘Your voice carries far, and the unfinished walls of this church will not hold your words in. Let us go into my cell.’
‘May I ask what you’re doing here?’ Gabriel asked Sebastian as they passed through the sacristy toward Bartholomew’s tiny room.
‘Oh, playing the fool, like you. Three months ago, I decided that I had had enough of this country, and particularly of its inhabitants.’
Sebastian put his hand on Anamaya’s shoulder, walking between them, and clarified:
‘Its Spanish inhabitants, I mean. Those whose skin remains white despite the mountain sun. Whether they’re part of the Governor’s clan or allied with de Almagro’s son, I cannot condone what they’ve done to Peru. I continue to see clearly, despite having become a free and rich “nigger”. And what I see is entire boatloads of slaves being unloaded here and each slave sold for half the price of a pig or a mule. So I sold my house in Cuzco, with the intention of moving to Panama. I sold it for a good price, I’ll admit, and I’ve bought myself a lovely boat with some of that glittering gold, big enough to carry all my treasure.’
‘Panama?’ said Anamaya. ‘Where’s that?’
‘North of here, princess. It’s the country where I was born and where we were when we discovered that yours existed. But my plans may shift like the wind. After all, who knows? Perhaps Panama will prove itself to be as nasty a place as Lima, and I too will have to discover my own country!’
Sebastian’s laugh sounded a little forced, and his eyes revealed more emotion than he might have wished.
‘Why haven’t you left yet?’ asked Gabriel.
‘Ah, as for that, it’s a long story. My caravel lies at anchor three cable-lengths from the port. But for the past eight weeks, Don Francisco has forbidden any boat belonging to de Almagro’s people to take to the sea. He’s worried that they’ll sail to meet Judge de Castro. And although I did my utmost to distance myself from Herrada and de Almagro’s son, I will forever remain “Almagro’s nigger” in the Pizarros’ eyes. As for de Almagro’s people, they never miss an opportunity to show that I belong to them.’
‘What do you mean?’
Sebastian sighed a deep, heart-rending sigh. He watched Anamaya as she left through a little side door, the hem of her dress brushing along the stones. He smiled and murmured to Gabriel:
‘One almost regrets that she’s not always dressed like that. The fashions of Spain suit her like a glove
.’
‘Don Sebastian,’ interrupted Bartholomew abruptly, pushing him into his tiny study, ‘we’re safe from indiscreet ears here. Let us talk about fashion some other time. Are you sure that a plan to kill Don Francisco is afoot?’
‘Don Herrada is not the only one whipping up dissent. The weapons have been ready for the last two days. Even the moment has been chosen.’
‘Where and when?’
‘Later, when the Governor crosses the square on his way here.’
‘Before Mass?’
‘Herrada hopes that the Governor will find his place in hell as soon as possible, despite Don Francisco’s daily devotions. He doesn’t want to allow him the opportunity to repent at Mass.’
Bartholomew shook his head and sighed, as though the last of his strength was draining from him. He slumped into a high chair and closed his eyes before murmuring:
‘What can I do? Don Francisco knows that I had something to do with the judge’s coming. And he even holds his brother Hernando’s imprisonment against me. Even if I tried to warn him about the plot, he would never listen to me. No doubt he’ll even suspect that I’m part of it.’
‘Forgive me, Brother Bartholomew,’ said Sebastian, ‘but there is one person who can warn the Governor – he even has an excellent reason for doing so.’
Sebastian and Bartholomew looked at Gabriel at the same time.
‘No!’ protested Gabriel, raising his hands in front of him.
‘Gabriel…’
‘No, Bartholomew! Whatever quarrel there is between these murderers, it’s no concern of mine. The time when I lent support to Don Francisco, and even justified his actions, is long gone. And what’s happened over the past few months, including Curi Ocllo’s horrendous death, has done nothing to change my mind.’
Sebastian grabbed Gabriel’s open shirt with his right hand and almost shouted:
‘Why do you think I’m here, Gabriel? Your soul to the devil! Your name was mentioned in de Almagro’s house last night. Herrada and his men know that you’re here in the church. Someone must have recognized you. And do you know what they concluded?’
The Light of Machu Picchu Page 32
