“This we think broadly reliable,” says Wayta Yupanki. “It comes from several sources. Then there are those who say the intruders are sorcerers, that they can hurl thunder and lightning, that they eat silver and gold. But we think these are the tales of simple folk frightened by the strange beasts and fire-shooters. The latter appear to be the same as an iron blowpipe the late Emperor’s men took from the bearded ones who raided Qollasuyu. The All-Seer of Tumbes—a good servant of the Empire—sent your father a full report on the weapon brought ashore by the barbarians last time they came.”
“Very well,” says Atawallpa absently. He is tired of hearing how wise his father was. “Let me know if more arrive. And if they make any move beyond where they are now.”
—
The new Inca begins making his way south from Tumipampa in his father’s palanquin, so heavy with gold that eighty uniformed men—all of high rank—are needed to shoulder its long poles of mahogany and silver. Travelling behind him, in smaller litters, are lords and ladies of the northern court, along with Atawallpa’s wives and concubines. Ahead of the procession march fifty thousand troops, preparing way stations and pitching tents at each halt.
Not ten days out from Tumipampa, more news comes from the seaboard. The invaders have been plundering houses, farms, and shrines. They have raided state warehouses, taking food, clothing, footwear. They have broken into a Chosen House and raped the girls. They have also taken many prisoners, whom they keep in collars and chains. Any captives who sicken are fed to their dogs.
In response to these outrages the local people attacked, killing three barbarians and one of their big animals. The barbarians’ protector Chillimasa then fled, but the invaders regained the upper hand by terror, seizing a dozen lords and burning them alive.
Atawallpa’s advisers renew their call for action. But the Inca thinks only of Cusco, of his triumph, of rounding up his brothers and crushing Waskhar’s faction.
At last comes such worrying news that Wayta Yupanki is able to catch his nephew’s attention.
“The barbarians are on the move, Sapa Inka. You told me to warn you should this happen. They have advanced south from Tumbes to the Chira valley, which was emptied by plague and war. There they have dared to start building houses, using their prisoners and blacks. Meanwhile one of their ships has sailed north. It left empty except for the crew and some gold. It also carried a barbarian leader the lowlanders call One-Eye. We believe he may have gone for reinforcements. Lastly, my lord, they have expressed a wish to come and see you. In friendship, so they say.”
Atawallpa lifts a beringed hand for silence while he thinks seriously about the intruders for the first time. They can’t be ignored much longer, if only because he would look indecisive.
“Have them investigated thoroughly. I want to know everything they’ve done since they got here. How many men they’ve killed. How many women they’ve assaulted. Everything they’ve taken from government stores and private houses. What they eat and drink. Their height, their girth. Their ages. Same with these big llamas of theirs. I need a man to spend time with them, to make a thorough report. Who have we got down there? Who’s the All-Seer?”
“The All-Seer of Tumbes died in the plague, Only King, at the time the city was evacuated. He has yet to be replaced.”
“What happened to the barbarian left behind years ago, the prisoner?”
“Nobody knows. Some say he died in jail when the Great Death came. Others say he escaped into the hills.”
“Find out.”
—
That night Atawallpa wakes from an uneasy sleep. His eyes stare at the moonlight filtering through the cotton of his field tent. These barbarians: whom to send? His cousin Maytawillka comes to mind, one of old Wayta Yupanki’s sons. Atawallpa has known him since they both were small. An annoying fellow at times, but a clever one. A joker, a charmer. The sort everyone likes right away. A loud dresser too: earspools with fussy inlay, gold sequins on his shirt and cape, on his bag. A follower of fashion—that ugly short hair, like a brush. And no headband; only a jaunty little hat like a pie. He will amuse the invaders, swim among them like a gaudy fish.
After breakfast the Inca watches with satisfaction as Maytawillka—normally so familiar—enters his field tent carrying a burden of red cloth, humbling himself at the royal feet. Atawallpa makes him stay there longer than is proper, especially for kin. Let him learn his place! Not so long ago this cousin dared tease Atawallpa, flirting with his women to his face, yet somehow with such wit and lightness it was impossible to show offence. A joke, of course: Maytawillka likes women but not in that way.
“At ease, Cousin,” Atawallpa says at last. “Get up and sit over here. We will chew together. We’ll talk.” From a bag at his waist, the Inca takes some coca leaves and fans them out in his palm. Blowing over them gently in the four directions, he recites the names of the highest peaks around the camp. Then he takes lime from a little golden flask with a dropper, and makes up a quid. Maytawillka does the same. The two exchange quids. For a while they chew in silence.
Maybe my cousin’s not so bad after all, thinks Maytawillka. Maybe he’ll grow into his new office. Maybe power will bring confidence, in others and in himself.
When the inward warmth of the coca has spread throughout his being, Atawallpa comes to the point.
“You’ve heard of the bearded invaders on the north coast? Much is said about them, but little is certain. Some call them vagabonds and pirates. Others say they are wizards. I want you to visit them at a base they’re building near the sea, at Chira. Get to know their leaders. Tell them I send you as my ambassador. Invite them to come and pay me homage. But take your time. Linger. Spy on them, play with them, induce them to lower their guard, as you do so well. Yet be sure you overawe them with my power. And tell them as little as possible, especially about my brother Waskhar and the recent troubles—”
“No fear of that, Atawallpa. They won’t understand a word. Nor I.”
“Don’t interrupt! You will be able to speak with them through their interpreter—a Tallan boy they took away with them some years ago. I want to know everything. What they fear. What angers them. What they wear. What they eat. How they are led and disciplined. The smell of their sweat and the colour of their shit. Why they have no women of their kind. And all the obvious things: their animals, their weapons, their plans, their prisoners. Take them food—dry meat, corn, beer, baskets of guavas, avocados. Also, I’ll send a royal gift. Fine cloth and emeralds for their leaders, mummified ducks for their gods, and a pair of stone vessels shaped like the Sun House at Tumipampa. Have your men pick all this up from the stores on your way out.
“One other thing. Be sure to ask the locals what became of a man these barbarians left in Tumbes five years ago. That is all.”
Francisco Pizarro is equally keen to learn Molina’s fate but has been unable to do so until now. After withdrawing from Tumbes and losing several men in skirmishes, his priority has been to set up his base in Chira, where he found an abandoned town his men could repair and fortify.
This turned out to be less than two days’ march beyond Little River. It took all of Waman’s self-control to keep outwardly calm while they passed so near his old home by the tupa ñan, the royal highway. Throughout the weeks in Chira, Waman has watched for a chance to flee. Once, after relieving himself outside one moonless night, he began to steal away, following the bank of a canal he thought would lead to the main road. But he did not get far before a heavy bark drummed on the night air, answered immediately by others. Soon the war-dogs’ compound was in uproar.
And if he had got away, he has asked himself often since that night, what then? From what he’s seen of Tumbes, Chira, and other places on the Spaniards’ march, Little River will not have escaped the smallpox. Nor the wars. It may well be utterly forsaken. Always he arrives at this: that he will never find his family. That at worst they’re de
ad, all of them. That at best one or two may have survived the pox, as he did in Seville, only to have been killed or scattered by the war of succession, itself a consequence of the Great Death.
As Waman comes to accept these conclusions, he decides two things. He must find out what happened—and soon—before his captors move on. And since it’s unlikely his family will still be in Little River, he can go there openly without putting them at risk. Or can he? The dilemma is a pain within him, like a growth.
To be so near is unbearable. This may be his only chance. He must go now.
So he tells the Old One of his parting words to Molina on the caravel in Tumbes. How he begged him to go to Little River. The Commander bends his head and studies the floor. He casts his eyes up at Waman, an ironic smile under whiskered brows.
“Suddenly so keen to help, Felipe. Why is that?”
“Why would I not be, sir? This is my only chance to find my people. Or at least seek word of them.”
“You think I’m daft, boy? Suppose we do find Molina. Then I’ll have two interpreters, and one of them a Spaniard. Your worth to me will be halved. Are you trying to trick me? Or is your family so dear to you they’re worth risking your life for?”
“Yes, sir.” The words come out in a squeak. Waman clears his throat. “Yes”—more manfully—“they are.” Again he fears what he might bring down upon their heads. But his plan is to make enquiries without giving anything away. Only he knows Little River—and Tallan, the local tongue.
Pizarro acts at once, sending two men with Waman and the Greek. “Keep Felipe roped to his saddle. If Molina’s there bring him back—in chains if he won’t come quietly.”
They ride all day, sleeping that night by the roadside. The highways are empty, not only from plague and civil war but because the invaders’ reputation runs before them, the burnings, the enslavements. Travellers hide in the desert at the first sound of hoofbeats, the first plume of dust.
About noon the next day they come to the imperial barracks near Little River and some outlying houses. All roofless. Bush has grown up along canals and streets. Everything looks smaller. Nothing fits with Waman’s memories. This desolate village might be anywhere. Most houses are still standing, but empty for years, drifts of sand in doorways, rags of awning here and there, overgrown yards, pelicans nesting on roofs, their droppings daubing the walls. Pelicans in town? He’s never seen that before. Nothing makes sense until they reach the square and he recognizes the open-fronted hall where he and Tika went to school. The plaza trees have grown tall and wide, shutting out the sky, and the ground is carpeted with leaves and carob pods. Fear roils in Waman’s belly. He knows where the old house will be—only blocks away. But can he face the sight of it in ruins? And if anyone is there, what might these Spaniards do? Candía he thinks he can trust, but not the others.
“Smoke!” one of them calls. “I smell smoke. Over there.” The four dismount and tether the horses. Waman’s hands are untied from the pommel of his saddle, retied behind his back. His ankles are hobbled; he can walk but not run. Sorry, Candía mouths.
The smoke draws them to a house on the town’s edge, beside the dunes. The Spaniards burst in, finding an elderly couple curing fish in a courtyard. Waman does not know who they are.
“Go on, Felipe,” the Greek says. “Tell them they’ve nothing to fear. Then ask about Molina.” He taps his nose, unseen by the other two. Waman takes this to mean that anything else will be kept private. Candía has a smattering of Quechua now—not much, but more than any Spaniard—perhaps enough to trace the bones of a conversation. But Waman speaks in Tallan.
The old couple’s eyes, clouded with fear, widen at hearing this youth, who seems to be a barbarian and is bound like a criminal, speaking their language, claiming to be Chaska and Mallki’s long-lost son. At first they give curt, wary replies. As belief grows that Waman really is the neighbourhood boy who ran away to sea, they begin to open up. The wife does most of the talking, telling Waman that none of his family is here now—there’s only a handful left in town, all old like themselves—but as far as she knows his mother and brother are alive.
“My brother?” he says, crushed. They must be thinking of some other family. “I have no brother. Only my cousin, Tika. She lived with us.” He wipes a wet eye on his arm. “I am the son of Chaska and Mallki,” he says again.
The two speak quickly to each other, voices low. He can’t follow this. “Then it must have been after you left,” the woman tells him. “Your mother gave birth to a little boy. We don’t remember what she called him. But you do have a brother. Lady Chaska took him with her when they went away.”
Detecting embarrassment, perhaps evasion in her manner, Waman asks what they know of his father, grandfather, and cousin.
“I’m very sorry to have to tell you that both those good men were taken by the spotted death.” The woman’s eyes redden; talk of Waman’s dead has brought others of her own to mind. “I’m sorry,” she says after a while. “You see, Little River lost three in every four.” She weeps quietly for a moment. “We ourselves lost our children. But I believe the girl you mentioned may be alive. I didn’t know your mother well. I thought that girl was her daughter. I think she became a Chosen. That’s right, isn’t it, Ni?” Her husband nods.
Waman presses for details, but they can’t remember where Tika went, or when. Only that it was some years ago, to a big city in the highlands.
“When did my mother leave here? Do you know why?”
Again a quick, private exchange. The husband speaks.
“I remember your father. Tayta Mallki. A fine man. We fished together sometimes. He was headman for a while. Less than a year. Before . . .” His voice dies in shyness.
The wife resumes. “Widow Chaska stayed on here for some years after your father died. She left when war broke out between Cusco and Quito. So did many others.”
She hesitates, glances at her husband. “There’s one thing more you should know. By then your mother was no longer alone. She got married again. To a . . . a stranger who came here. Can they understand us?” she asks, shooting a fraught glance. He shakes his head. “The stranger looked a bit like one of them. Half dead when he got here, he was. Your mother took him in, cared for him. When he got better he worked for her. Later they got married. They all left here together. Those two and the little boy.”
“Was the stranger’s name Molina?” Waman blurts, instantly biting his tongue. The others must have heard.
“Mulina?” The two look baffled. “Turtle, his name was,” the husband offers. “That’s what folk used to call him. Can’t think why.”
“Felipe!” Candía cuts in. “What was that? What are they saying about Molina?”
“Only that they’ve never heard of him.”
—
Candía sends the other two back to fetch the horses. “What news of your kin, Felipe?” he asks, treading carefully, his tone solemn.
“They’re not here. I’ll tell you the rest later. Not now. I can’t . . .”
Candía’s large hand falls lightly on his shoulder. “Want to look for your old home?”
“We passed it already. Empty, like the others. They said a few more townsfolk are living by the beach. If we can find any, I should speak to them.”
What Waman really longs to do is go to the Town of the Dead in the high desert, mourn quietly there, say words that should be said for his father, his grandfather. But this is impossible. He’s seen what Spaniards do at Peruvian cemeteries. Rooting for gold with their swords, cutting up mummies, scattering the dead like trash.
They ride through dunes to the seashore, Waman lost in his old life, his sorrow. And the astonishing tale about his mother and Molina. Can that be true? It is shocking, almost obscene. Yet who is he to judge her, after what she must have suffered here?
A few huts above the foreshore. All empty. But some hearths still warm
. The owners hiding.
Waman stands on the long, curving beach where he used to fish, the wind loud with the cries of seabirds.
One man is riding a tiny boat on the horizon, so far out that only Waman sees him. As if seeing himself from years ago. The interpreter breathes a prayer to Mother Sea.
Atawallpa is nearing the highland city of Cajamarca when Maytawillka returns from his assignment, borne swiftly in a travelling hammock by a team of runners. The envoy is bruised about his face and arms. The Inca, on a small throne in his tent, does not look up at him.
“Back so soon? I told you to linger there, Cousin. Not come back in a week.”
“Only King, the time I spent among them seemed enough. I thought it best to report quickly—though of course I can go again if you wish.”
A nod for Maytawillka to continue.
“The barbarians are two hundred at most. I couldn’t make an exact tally because some were away from the camp—at their ships or scouting roads. They have about five hundred prisoners, and auxiliaries from lands beyond the Empire. The bearded ones are lazy. Some never walk more than a few steps, riding instead like children on their beasts. These resemble the big llamas of Qollasuyu, though more heavily built, needing ropes and bridles to stop them bolting. When they run fast the ground shakes. The barbarians also have about thirty fierce hounds, big as pumas. I saw them throw a hotlander to these dogs. He was torn apart in no time.”
“Did you see their blowpipes shoot fire? The All-Seer of Tumbes sent my father a description. Like thunder, he said.”
The Gold Eaters Page 16
