“That is all.”
Waman hears nothing more from Manku for some time, though he sees the Inca from a distance: practising new arts of war; playing horseshoes with Pizarro’s assassins on a pitch beside the usnu; presiding over the weekend feasts, when all are given a long lunch in the plaza by the state—a custom dying out in occupied Peru.
Meanwhile he is well looked after by Molina and a young woman who brings beer and meals from the Inca’s kitchens, and who often busies herself (more than necessary, it seems) in the room when Waman and his stepfather are talking. Is he an honoured diplomat, or simply a valuable prisoner? Either way, Waman concludes, Manku means him to absorb an education: from the good order of Vitcos, a miniature Cusco-in-waiting, its main buildings named after those of the lost capital; and from the weapons drill, designed not only to dispel fear of Spanish tactics but to foster confidence that Incas can do anything Spaniards can do, and do it better.
This, Waman guesses, is why Manku is in no hurry with their business.
—
For a few days Waman is unwell. Loose bowels, aching bones, a fierce headache. When he is better, Molina comes one evening to lead him through the darkness for an audience in Manku’s palace.
“There, Waman, look!” he says excitedly, pointing out stars between the dark shoulders of the mountains—and a deeper darkness within the powdered starlight. “Look there. The Black Llama. A good sign, no? The Llama high in the sky.”
Waman wonders about his stepfather’s enthusiasm for everything Peruvian. Is Molina a true convert, a Christian gone to the other side? Or is he simply an unbeliever, a man with faith in nothing but himself and what his hands can grasp? That feels more likely.
Sentries admit them at the palace gate and usher Waman to a reception hall, taking Molina to a smaller room across the courtyard.
Manku is standing in the ruddy glow of a heater, arms folded, his back to the yellow lamplight in a wall niche. Waman falls to his knees, a furled cloth on his shoulders.
“Ah, the man from Cusco. Off your knees. You may look at me.”
They are alone. No ladies, lords; not even helpers. The Inca pours two beakers of beer, hands him one, motions him to a stool beside the heater—an earthenware brazier shaped like a frog, coals glowing in its maw. “I hope Sisa has been giving you good care. No need for friars, I trust? Who would you rather have at your bedside—a sweet young girl or a smelly old buzzard?”
Waman is taken aback by the informality. With formality there is safety, predictability. Now it seems anything might happen. Without his crimson fringe, Manku’s broad face in the firelight reminds him of their first meeting—when the young Inca, alone and dressed as a farmer, strode boldly up to the Commander’s column on the road to Cusco. More than ten years ago now. And more than eight since Waman last saw Manku, at the palace on Granary Terrace now occupied by Pawllu. The Sapa Inka is still handsome—strong chin, good teeth—yet worn by the years, which have deepened his resemblance to Atawallpa. Furrows on forehead and below the eyes. The rough etch of smallpox on his cheeks.
Manku regards Waman, similar thoughts in his mind.
“Ah, yes, we share this.” The Inca swells a cheek, tapping his scar. “We’re lucky men, you and I. The Great Death marked us and moved on. Where did it catch you—in Tumbes?”
“In Spain, Sapa Inka. I nearly died.”
“So did I. Very nearly.”
Manku falls silent. This interpreter, now envoy, is potentially dangerous. Many have said so. A man of two tongues. And two hearts. At best a go-between; at worst a spy, a betrayer. Yet in their dealings in Cusco years ago, he found that Waman answered his questions plainly, and asked few—only those he was obliged to by the barbarians. Some think well of him. Molina, of course, for what it’s worth. Yet also some of Manku’s informants in Cusco. And he himself took a liking to the interpreter in those early days. If only because they were both young, both bearing the same scars.
“I’m told you turned against Almagro and my brother Pawllu years ago in Chile. Any truth in that?”
“Yes, Sapa Inka. After witnessing many evils, many killings and cruelties, I got away from him in the mountains beyond the salt lakes.”
“Where was that exactly?”
At a small place called Mawk’a Pukara. The local people had fled to an old fort. I tried to help them hold it against One-Eye. We did not succeed. The Spaniards killed almost everyone inside.”
“How come you escaped?”
Waman tells how he played dead, swapped clothes. “The body was headless. Nobody could tell it wasn’t me. But somehow they’ve found out. The Vicar-General threatened me with this—so I would agree to come here.”
The Inca nods. What the interpreter has said agrees with what he knows.
“Why didn’t you flee the moment they tracked you down near Cusco?”
“That was my first thought. But it was too sudden. Too late. They would have caught me.”
“There are also tales about Cajamarca. Is it true you took one of Atawallpa’s wives?”
“Only King, forgive me, but you’ve been misinformed. One-Eye and others accused me of that to hide their own crimes.”
“More than likely. But I don’t care what you did in Cajamarca. Atawallpa deserved what he got. Tonight, Waman, we speak as friends, without reserve. But just here, you understand. Between ourselves.”
Emboldened by this, Waman admits that he did rescue a woman from Atawallpa’s retinue. He tells Manku about his cousin Tika, his long search for her. He asks if the Chosen of Cusco escaped the war.
“We got most of them out in time. They’re not all in one place now. There are many towns in Willkapampa besides Vitcos. I’ll raise it with the Queen. All things concerning women rest in the Qoya’s hands, not mine. She is, as it were, their Sapa Inka.”
Manku takes off his russet cloak banded with heraldic symbols. “You may also ask our people here,” he adds. “But do not speak to the Almagrists. Keep your distance there.”
Beneath the cloak is a Toledo breastplate, which the Inca unstraps, emerging slim and human from the shell of steel. He takes up the brocade vest sent by the Vicar-General, richly embossed with silver and gold thread. He holds it to the light, frowns, lets it drop to the floor. “Their work is always so . . . so overwrought. Or did you grow to like their style in Spain?”
“There’s no question, Sapa Inka: our kumpi is much finer. In Spain they value it more highly than any cloth of theirs. They deem it equal to the silks of China. They also like our tweezers.”
“Ah, yes.” Manku laughs. “Barba told me. They send tweezers home to their wives, hoping they’ll put them to use. I gather Spanish ladies are almost as hairy as the men.” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Now to business. The Vicar-General didn’t send you here to speak of faith and friars. I may live deep in these mountains but I have ears throughout Tawantinsuyu. Things are changing. A few months ago a great lord arrived from Spain. They say he comes to leash the wild dogs, especially Gonzalo Pizarro. What do you know of this lord—what support has he? Is he strong enough?”
“I know little, Sapa Inka. I’ve avoided all Spaniards for years.” He tells Manku what Morales told him: that this new lord comes straight from the King of Spain. That he holds the title of Viceroy and brings new laws to curb the conquistadors, who are working the people to death. “The rest is rumour. In Cusco it’s being said that Gonzalo is raising an army. That he claims he’s doing this to attack you, Sapa Inka. But few believe it. They say he really intends to march on Lima, overthrow this Viceroy, and make himself King of Peru. No one is sure who will win if it comes to war.”
“This office—Viceroy—how do you translate it?”
“In their language it means a stand-in, a second person to their King. Like an Inkaq Rantin.”
“The invaders certainly don’t lack ambition.” Manku r
efills the golden beakers. “I assume the Vicar-General sent you here because this half-king told him to?”
“It seems likely. Vicar-General Morales told me this visit is only a first step. An exploratory gesture. He said the Viceroy holds out to you the branch of an olive, which is the Christians’ tree of peace, like our qantu.”
“They might have sent a cask of real olives while they were about it.” Manku chuckles, adding charcoal to the brazier. “I’d rather have that than a fancy jacket. Go on.”
“He says the Viceroy invites you to send ambassadors to Lima, to seek terms under which peace between yourself and King Charles might be restored. That with peace you might wish to leave Willkapampa and reside in Cusco. If so, he would settle great lands on you, estates that belonged to your late father and his kindred.”
“The Spaniards are always so generous with our property! What do they mean to do about my brother Pawllu?”
“I don’t know, Sapa Inka.”
Manku lifts his drink and Waman follows his cue. The two toast Pachamama.
The Inca is silent for a while, then: “Let me guess. They’ll want me to become a Christian, at least in name. That means I’d have to give up my Qoya, Kusi Warqay. She’s already borne me a son. You may have seen him, he just turned three. Tupa Amaru is his name. The Christians don’t like our royal marriages. They call it incest.”
“The Vicar-General spoke several times of your conversion. I don’t know if this came from him or the Viceroy, but he said the Pope in Rome—the Holy Father who rules their Church—might be willing to grant a special dispensation. So you and the Qoya can stay wed.”
“How big of him. Perhaps he should grant himself a dispensation too. I gather not all his fathering is holy.”
Waman laughs. “The word of their god is often unclear to me, Sapa Inka. Translating earthly things is easy enough. But heavenly things are less straightforward. Sin, for one. Is it crime? Is it filth? Is it guilt? Is it shame? Or take their word salvation. The nearest equivalent we have is freedom.”
“Freedom! Is that what Pawllu thought he was getting?” Manku chuckles scornfully. “My brother’s a fool. By converting he thought he’d make himself the only true Inca in Christian eyes. And the Christians thought our people would follow him into church like their sheep into a fold. He couldn’t have been more wrong. Nor they.”
The Inca takes up a small pouch made of antique cloth with a striking black-and-red design: great staring eyes of a feline god from long ago when the World was young. He reaches inside for leaves and lime.
“We’ll chew. You’re not so Christian you won’t take Lady Coca, are you?”
“Not at all, Only King. But it’s too great an honour.” Waman retrieves some fine coca from his own bag. He holds it out shyly, the leaves trembling in his hand as if in a breeze. The Inca takes them, fanning out the best from both bags on a cloth, making up two quids with catalytic lime. He blows gently over these, invoking the mountain lords and Mama Kuka, the plant herself. He hands one to his guest.
The men chew in silence for a while, feeling the leaves bestow their mysterious power, numbing their cheeks, sending warmth throughout their being. With warmth comes energy, clarity. And confidence, unbounded confidence. For the first time Waman feels equal to his mission, that all will be well, that he can nimbly sidestep any snare which fate may set in his way.
“What Pawllu achieved by converting,” Manku volunteers, “was to make himself less of an Inca. Pawllu is just a man. I am still a god. Now the people look only to me—as much in the occupied provinces as here. I am my people’s freedom. Their salvation.”
The boast is not an empty one, Waman knows. Few have given up the old beliefs and observances. They offer breath each dawn to the Day, to the mountains, and to this Inca who lives defiant in the mountains. There isn’t a Peruvian on the road to Cusco who doesn’t stretch out a hand and pray at first sight of the City of the Sun, gutted and desecrated though it is. Apart from Pawllu’s followers, only the Empire’s bitterest foes—those who fought Inca rule and were crushed—have welcomed the new order. And even among these the welcome wears thin as the Spaniards abuse power, take all they want and, unlike the Incas, give nothing in return.
Manku is deep in thought, the strong bright thought of Mother Coca. How the barbarians fight one another—more fiercely than they fight himself! He will bide his time. He will keep the interpreter idling here as long as possible. He will watch how events unfold among the bearded ones. Which will prevail: the half-king sent from Spain, or Gonzalo, last and worst of the Pizarros? If Gonzalo marches on Lima, so much the better. General Pumasupa is poised to retake the capital and cut the great bridge across the Apurimaq as soon as Cusco’s Spaniards are gone down to the coast to war.
As always when he thinks of Gonzalo, Manku hungers for revenge on the man who took his first Qoya, whom the Old One later burnt to death. A brave woman, shouting insults at the barbarians to the last. He remembers her poor charred body, sent floating down the river from Tampu in a basket for his people to find. Woe to Gonzalo when he’s in my hands!
The Inca’s thoughts turn to pleasanter things: rebuilding the capital as it was; ousting the friars from the temples, tearing down their dolls and images of death. And exposing their ridiculous lies. No miracle, no lady from heaven, put out the flames on the Sunturwasi, as they are boasting now. They sent their black slaves up on the roof with buckets of water. He saw it himself.
He knows them, and he knows how to kill them—in highland ravines where armour can’t save them from cascades of rock. Soon the World will be rid of the bearded ones. We shall awake from this nightmare and rejoice. Qosqoman! On to Cusco!
The brazier dies down. A lamp flickers and winks out. A cold blade of the night slips in beneath the door. But for a long time the coca chewers do not notice the gathering cold and dark.
Manku claps his hands for a helper, awakening the interpreter from reverie. “Send in the Mexican to see my guest home. And bring more charcoal and lamp oil.”
The man bows and backs out of the room.
“So. Enough of these matters for now, Waman. You’ll have a reply and gifts for the Vicar-General in due course. In the meantime enjoy yourself amongst us. See all you want but say nothing of our talk. And keep mum around Méndez and his friends. If they corner you, give them only the weather and the time of day.”
Now Waman is often invited to keep company with Manku and the Inca’s inner circle. He stands in the front row at war games. He tries his hand at tossing horseshoes. And he watches the archery—squads of bowmen from the forest who shoot at stuffed targets shaped like men. Men with pink faces and black beards.
“When those are real Spaniards,” a young voice at his shoulder says one day, “they’ll use real arrows. Poison tipped. They paralyse in the time it takes to fry an egg.” It is Titu Kusi, the Inca’s eldest son.
“I didn’t know you cooked, my lord,” says Waman. He has met the prince several times at the horseshoe pitch. The boy never tires of the interpreter’s tales—his capture at sea, his voyages on both oceans, above all his time in Spain. At thirteen, Titu Kusi carries himself like a man. An outgoing nature makes him older. As does his figure: he has the body of one who will grow stout. He jokes with his father and Molina, fences well with a dulled sword, is a good rider and arquebus shot. Already Titu Kusi drinks beer and has a pair of concubines.
The boy reminds Waman of himself at the same age, of his own unruly spirit and thirst for a wider world. Titu Kusi, too, has been a captive of the invaders—taken when he was five, along with the first Qoya. For several years he was kept in Cusco at the house of a Spaniard, apparently a kind man, who taught him a bit of Castilian and urged him to be baptised.
And were you? Waman once asked. It was the wrong thing to say. The prince snapped that he didn’t remember, in both languages: no recuerdo; mana yuyanichu. But surely he would reme
mber? He was nearly eight when Manku freed him and brought him to Vitcos. Of course—Manku has sworn to oust the Christians and their faith. No son of his can admit any contact with it. Especially after Pawllu’s treason and conversion. Not that Titu Kusi seems religious at all, avoiding routine observances of any kind, preferring to stalk deer in the hills or disappear on picnics with his girls.
—
It is November now and the highland rains have begun. Great thunderheads boil up from the jungle, borne aloft on sultry winds to crash against the glaciers, spending themselves each night in epic lightning storms. Rivers are swollen, red with the gore of landslides. Rocks and trees career down canyons, branches plucking at the bridges.
One afternoon Waman and Molina are invited to the Inca’s palace for a meal, to the main hall ringed by a row of niches and the usual dark band at eye level. A red cloth and gold service cover the dining board. The Qoya Kusi Warqay is there, welcoming the guests. On her back, in a shawl, she carries a baby girl, also called Kusi Warqay; at her side is the youngest boy, Tupa Amaru, peeking shyly from behind the Queen’s flared skirt. The same reserve seems to affect Manku’s middle son, ten-year-old Sayri Tupa, whose mother was seized by Gonzalo Pizarro and burnt by Francisco. Waman wonders what the boy might have seen.
Titu Kusi comes in last—only when his stepmother yells K’usillu! at the door. Waman smiles at the nickname: Monkey. To judge from his peeved look, the boy feels he has outgrown it. Hence its effectiveness.
There is fish and meat and jungle fruit, and plenty of young beer, which has a light fizziness Waman likes. Helpers move silently behind the diners. It is a family affair, no other guests, no hurry in the conversation.
The Gold Eaters Page 31
