The Gold Eaters

by Ronald Wright

  “Oh, I’m not a Peruvian. I’m a Mexican! Came with those native troops of Alvarado’s. Most of them froze to death in Quito. None got down here. Nobody speaks their language. So it’s perfect. And Peruvians are afraid of Mexicans. They think they’re berserkers.”

  “Who does the Inca Manku think you are?”

  “The Inca knows everything. The only one who does. He’s very glad to have me. Treats me well. Good house. Even a good woman to keep me warm.” He winks. “Just for the time being, of course. She’s from the jungle too. Did my tattoos.” He puffs out his cheeks. “Mexican style, near enough. Becoming, no?”

  Molina stops and the good humour drains from his face. He looks up at the window, turns back disconsolate.

  “Ananaw, Waman! It hurts to be away from Chaska and Atuq. We’ll find them one day. I’ll take you there. That’s what we’ll do.”

  Waman is deep in thought, going over all he’s heard. He doesn’t touch the breakfast. Wonderful news! Yet nothing of Tika. Molina is slurping tea and chewing cornbread noisily. Still a ruffian. And now this ruffian is his stepfather—what a thought! But there was something about him Waman liked when he was young. And maybe he still does.

  “You heard Candía died?”

  “I did, Felipe. A sad end to a good man.” He sighs. “God, so many dead! Gambled their lives on Peru. Won it—more or less. And having won, lost all.”

  “What do you think will happen to us if Manku wins? Can Manku win?”

  “You know more than I do about the state of things beyond these mountains. I may be safe here, but I’m stuck. Hideouts are always traps.”

  Waman nods. “Sometimes I think I’ve spent my whole life falling into traps.”

  Molina gets up and fiddles with the windows, taking down the night screens. A shaft of sunlight strikes the unmade bed. “Sail with the wind, Waman, wherever it takes you. That’s my advice. Who can foresee next week? If Manku does win, stay with him. The lords of Peru are as good as any. And so are the gods—better, I say, because they don’t mind what others you have.” He blows a kiss to the Sun and winks. “Badluck Molina worships anything that keeps him in one piece.

  “Even if Manku wins back his whole Empire,” he adds, “he’ll still need people like us. If only to help him keep the rest of us away.”

  “Is that why he keeps you?”

  “I do certain things for him that no one else can.” Molina lowers his voice, sweeps his eyes from side to side. “From now on, you and I speak only Peruvian. Even in private. My name is Coyotl, if anyone asks. And we never met before last night. If I’m overheard talking Castilian I’m done for. There are some other Spaniards here. To them I’m just a lowly indio from New Spain. They treat me like a shitarse. Load my back like a mule. Hey, Mexicano! Son of a whore. Fetch this, carry that! That’s all they ever say to me. But I listen. I hear. I am the Inca Manku’s ears.”

  Waman smiles. Molina always was a braggart.

  “Is that what I’m hearing out there—these other Spaniards?”

  “War games. Come and watch.”

  Once outside, Waman sees that his room is in a long block of apartments on a terrace, with the small city spread before him on a sunny spur. The day is bright and clear, a scarf of mist sailing down the valley below. There are other buildings on either hand, roofed with steep thatches in the usual Inca style. And an open square or parade ground with an usnu making one side. On the right, to the east, fields drop away in flights of terraces to the step-road he climbed in the dark. The Willkapampa can’t be seen under its white shroud, though its voice echoes from steep crags on the far bank. Beyond these green walls are other walls, darker, more jagged, and above them peaks and icefields.

  Townsfolk are gathered round the edge of the plaza. On the usnu—a broad one in a single tier—lords and ladies are standing under sunshades and banners held by attendants. There’s a burr of lazy conversation, outbreaks of laughter, the onlookers relaxing during a break in the show.

  The tattooed “Mexican”—what did he say his name was?—leads his stepson through the crowd to the parade ground, a dry lawn studded with the yellow heads of dandelions, one of the new weeds come to Peru. Near the middle the turf is broken up by hooves. A musk of horses hangs in the brittle air.

  Conch trumpets sound, rising to a howl like high wind in a ship’s rig, dying away. Two files of horsemen enter at a trot, half a dozen riders on each side. They are in full armour with steel helms and visors. Some carry lances, all wear swords. One team has white plumes in their crests, the other red. The horsemen canter and joust, wheeling and rearing their mounts.

  Then come two squads of infantry, a hundred men each, some in Spanish mail and leather, others in the quilted armour and wicker or bronze helmets of Inca troops—a mix of this battledress on either side. Several have long pikes, which they stake at an angle in the ground to fend off cavalry. The rest carry Toledo swords—or so it seems. The chime of the blades is of wood, not steel.

  A cannon barks from the usnu, followed by a patter of musketry and sulphurous waft of gunsmoke. The fighters take no notice; they are used to the fire-shooters now. In the middle of the square, an imposing figure on a chestnut stallion unhorses a bearded opponent and dominates the fray.

  “That one.” Molina at Waman’s ear. “That’s the Inca Manku.”

  The weapon drill adjourns for lunch. Onlookers are chatting and picnicking nearby. So this is Vitcos. Hardly the reclusive fragment of the Empire he’d imagined, ruled by a broken man living on dreams. Here Peruvians become Spaniards, and Spaniards Peruvians. He regards Molina, seeing how easily he fades into the crowd. Yes, the rogue can pass for some kind of Indian here, so long as he remembers to pluck his beard. But what does he think he is?

  Neighbours in the crowd—a couple with a lively girl of ten or eleven and two small boys—invite Waman and Molina to share steamed corn and bowls of soup. Who are those bearded fighters? the interpreter asks the wife, accepting a warm cob in a leaf from her hand. Women hear more than men. Sometimes they tell more. But all she says is pipas pillapas, whoever. Her daughter is more forthcoming: Almagrista! Almagrista! the girl shouts gleefully, as if she’s just learnt the word.

  Almagro’s men?

  Molina accompanies Waman back to his room at sundown. Food and drink have been laid out on a dining board, though no one is there when they come in. He fastens the door and fits the screens. He pours beakers of beer. Both men spill the customary drops to the Earth.

  “That girl was right, Fel— Waman. There are seven Spaniards here, followers of the Boy. You know he’s dead? No more Almagros, thank Christ!” Molina explains that after the Boy’s defeat and execution, these seven were jailed in Cusco. Somehow they broke out and fled to Manku, begging asylum. “Watch out for the lot of them, but especially Méndez. The leader. Diego Méndez. Heard of him?”

  Waman shakes his head. “I haven’t been following public affairs. Though they seem to follow me.”

  “He’s the one stabbed Pizarro down in Lima. The others all had a hand in it. But Méndez’s blade was first in the Old One’s back.”

  Waman is astonished. He studies Molina for any trace of a lie. He gets up and lights the lamp with a spill from the brazier, returns and again looks at him intently.

  “You think I’m making this up?” Molina says.

  “No. But it makes no sense. I can see why the Inca might want Spaniards here to train his men. But the very ones who murdered the Commander . . . It’s madness. Those aren’t soldiers. They’re murderers.”

  “Tell me the difference, Waman. Who here’s not a killer? Maybe you. But not me. Not Manku. He likes to boast he’s killed two thousand Spaniards. He probably has.”

  “But in war. Not cold blood.”

  “He killed three of his own brothers in cold blood. True, that was years ago and they were working for Pizarro.” Molina rubs his chin, as if
suddenly aware he needs a tweezing.

  “Walk carefully here, Waman.”

  —

  That night he lies awake, feverish, blood throbbing in his ears, his thoughts in Spain, Cajamarca, Cusco, Chile. The dead walking in his mind, a repeating play he can’t escape, a cycle of mistakes, evils, disasters; an endless tragedy. Have I killed thousands, with my tongue?

  The stage behind his eyes does not fall dark until the small hours, when—he can hardly believe it—he hears a cascade of plucked strings far away. The sound of a lute, an Andalusian melody, pure and clear on the night.

  21

  The days go slowly. There’s nothing much to do but see the small city with Molina—and not all of it. Manku’s royal compound is closed, the gate flanked by sentries. They also avoid the lower ward where Pizarro’s assassins live.

  Waman asks if there’s a Chosen House in the city.

  “Not in Vitcos, far as I know. There are holy women at a temple nearby, a shrine called White Rock. But I doubt there are many. You’ll have to ask Manku when you get the chance.”

  Idleness makes him uneasy. Has the Inca no interest in hearing what brings him here? Or is he making him cool his heels to show there are weightier matters in hand than dealing with a barbarian emissary?

  Someone has been looking through his things. His clothes, writing materials, the gifts from the Vicar-General—all put back too neatly.

  One afternoon, while Waman is napping, Molina brings word that the Inca may at last be ready to receive him.

  “We’ll watch target practice. After that Manku may summon you. Dress your best. Bring something to carry on your shoulders as you approach him. Get down on your knees and never look him in the eye. To your clergymen pals in Cusco he may be just a rebel Indian. Here he’s a god.”

  “I know how to behave around Incas.”

  Molina waves a jug. “A beer before we go. Good for the nerves. There’s time.” He adds that the meeting, if it happens, will be just for show. Nothing of substance will be discussed.

  Waman asks about the lute. He’s heard it twice now, enough to be sure it’s real.

  “Francisco Barba, most likely. If it’s any good, it’ll be him. He plays for the Inca sometimes. It amuses Manku to keep a bearded one called Beard.”

  “He lets them into his palace?”

  “He treats them as guests. They tell him about Spain. Play cards together. Horseshoes—Manku loves to play horseshoes. If he asks you, don’t say no.”

  “Chess too?”

  “They’re not the sort for chess. Neither am I, come to that.” Molina rolls his eyes. “How things change, eh? When they showed up, begging for their lives, all the lords spoke against it. They told Manku to kill them right away. But he decided their use outweighed the risk. He keeps a close watch on them. And he did take away their weapons. They’re only allowed toys, like you saw.”

  Waman nods.

  “I’ve warned him,” Molina goes on loftily, shaking his head. “Watch out, Sapa Inka. That’s what I tell him. It doesn’t take a sword to kill a man. A broken bottle will do. Seen that enough times. Trouble is they’ve been here so long they seem like friends. And they’re showing Manku how to make gunpowder. They found saltpeter up the valley.” Molina spits. “I still don’t trust them.”

  “How much can Manku trust them if he has you spy on them?”

  “Manku’s no fool. When you knew him . . . well, he was just a boy then, wasn’t he? Not now. Way he sees it, they’ve burnt their bridges. Owe him their lives. They’ve nowhere else to go.” Molina sighs. He reaches for the jug.

  “To health and wealth!”

  “And time to enjoy them,” Waman replies. His face falls, turns bleak.

  “What sorrows, lad? Drink up.”

  “Nothing . . . That toast. Reminds me of Candía. He taught me that in Spain. Candía was a good friend to me.”

  “And to me, Waman. That Greek was worth all the Spaniards on Ruiz’s ship. Here’s to his heretic soul.”

  Several hundred townsfolk have gathered to watch the gunplay. Targets are set up on the far side of the square, where there are no buildings and the land falls away to the river. Four marksmen stand with arquebuses, sighting along the heavy barrels on forked rests. At the first war game Waman saw, the musket reports had seemed a mere patter after the thundering cannon. But today they are deafening, carried to the onlookers on a breeze sharp with brimstone.

  After each volley targets are inspected and smoking guns exchanged for loaded ones. The gunners seem to be a bearded Spaniard, two Inca lords, and a third wearing a rich cloak of coloured squares over a steel breastplate. This last is also the best shot. Though who would dare outshoot the Sapa Inka?

  “Not many gunners today,” Molina says quietly in Waman’s ear as the shooting ends and the Inca’s party strolls towards the usnu. “And I don’t see Pumasupa here, Manku’s top general. There’s a rumour he’s on the move with his crack troops. To Cusco.”

  —

  “Approach the throne, say who you are, and state your business.” It is a herald or spokesman calling from the usnu, beckoning Waman to climb the stairs. The interpreter does so, legs weak with nerves and beer. He draws level with the top, where the court is arrayed in the sloping light of late afternoon. He lowers his eyes, dropping to his knees.

  Manku and his Queen, the Qoya Kusi Warqay, are side by side on a twin stone seat, lords and ladies standing in an arc behind them. Above the royal couple is an awning of parrot feathers. Tame pumas crouch on either hand, gold-collared and tethered to stone rings. Waman can smell their meaty breath.

  Sweat runs inside his tunic, though the air is cool. The thick bolt of vicuña cloth on his shoulders is more than a symbolic burden: it is heavy with the Vicar-General’s gifts.

  “Sapa Inka, Sapa Qoya,” Waman begins, eyes fixed humbly on the flagstones of the usnu floor, repeating words he first spoke half a lifetime ago to a king and queen in Spain. He gives his name and reason for being here, adding that he is from Little River, near Tumbes, and that his father, Mallki, had the honour of fighting under Manku’s father in Quito Province.

  The fingers of a royal knotkeeper weave his words onto strings.

  “Are you the same Waman, called by the Christians Felipe, who spoke for them at Cajamarca?” asks the herald.

  “I am.”

  “And who spoke for them also when our Sapa Inka Manku Qhapaq Yupanki, here presiding, was crowned in Cusco?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I am told you are sent by the Bishop of Cusco.” Manku’s own voice, older and deeper than Waman remembers, yet the same. An honour. A sign that all is well.

  “Sapa Inka. The late Bishop Valverde has still to be replaced. In the meantime a deputy runs the bishopric. This lord, Vicar-General Luis de Morales, sends his most respectful greetings and these humble gifts, which he begs you will be kind enough to accept.”

  “You may sit up and offer the gifts,” the herald says. Waman unrolls the bundle at the royal feet, revealing a canvas of Virgin and Child, a letter on parchment, two beeswax altar candles thick as bedposts (luckily unbroken), a brocade vest, a Venetian glass goblet (likewise), and two pairs of Flemish hose.

  The Inca makes a gesture of acceptance with his hand.

  “And what word does the Bishop—the Bishop’s stand-in—send with his kind gifts?” Manku’s own voice again. “What does that qillqa say? Just in short.”

  Waman takes up the parchment and is alarmed how it amplifies the shaking of his hand.

  “Only King. The Vicar-General greets and salutes Your Highness. He longs to kiss your royal hands and feet. He says these gifts are mere tokens of an infinitely greater gift—the gift of the Holy Faith, which he prays you will one day allow into your soul as your brother Pawllu has done, called Don Pablo by the Christians—”

  “Don Pablo, in
deed?” The Inca chuckles sardonically. “How lucky for my brother!” Answering laughter—some hearty, some sycophantic—sweeps the usnu. At the far end of the crowd Waman spots two or three beards: Almagrists watching from the wings.

  He waits until the mirth subsides. Then: “Only King, the Vicar-General humbly begs that Your Highness consider the wisdom of admitting some friars here—kind and godly men who will tend the sick and poor—so that your subjects too may see the mercy of the One True God. This is what is written here, Sapa Inka.”

  Manku’s hand reaches down to the puma beside him. He strokes its back and scratches its head between the rounded ears. The resulting purr, a mighty rumble like the gears of a mill, is for a long moment the only sound in Vitcos.

  “You may tell the Bishop’s stand-in this: I thank him warmly for his gifts. I accept them in the spirit of friendship he extends. I shall send him gifts in return when you leave us. But kindly remind my friend in Cusco that I have heard these entreaties before. The request has not changed. Neither has my answer.”

  The Inca stands and turns slowly, casting his gaze on all, who look down as the royal eye sweeps over them.

  “Wawqiypanaykuna, uyariwaychik,” he resumes formally. “My brothers and sisters, hear me. Many of you have seen for yourselves the new kind of people who have come to our World, the bearded ones who infest this land and for the time being occupy the capital. They gave me their word that they were with me, that we were allies. You will recall that from the first I commanded you to serve them as you serve myself. Since then I have learnt, as have we all, how cheap is their word, and how vilely they repaid me.”

  The Inca sits, the crowd is still. The pumas are dozing. Only bird sounds now: the far scream of a hawk, the thrum of a hummingbird sipping at blooms along the usnu wall.

  “No doubt there are some worthy men among the bearded ones,” Manku continues, with a glance at the Almagrists. “No doubt the acting Bishop who has sent you is among these few. I’m sure he means well. But if he were to favour us with his presence he would find no work for his friars. Here there are no poor, nor any sick who lack good care. However, we hear that in Cusco there are many poor—many hungry, lacking food and help. Even begging on the streets. These are shameful things, things never seen in this land until the Christians came.