Cura said, “Well, of course they do. They have enjoyed the Inca’s hospitality—oh, for a month or more, since their selection for this procession. And of course only one will be chosen.”
“For what?”
But before Cura could answer there was a blast of horns. The people swarming in the chamber pressed back against the walls and ceiling as best they could.
And through this living archway a procession advanced.
First came a party of men and women dressed in brightly colored tunics in identical chessboard patterns. They moved in as stately a way as possible, Mardina thought, given they needed to use ropes and guide rails to advance. They glared at anybody in the way; they physically pushed people back or had the warriors remove them. They even swept bits of debris out of the air.
“Every one of them, even performing those menial tasks,” Cura breathed, “is a noble, a highborn . . .”
Next came a troop of noisy musicians, drummers and singers and players of horns and panpipes, and dancers who wriggled and swam in the air.
Following them came warriors, dressed in armor of heavy plates and with crowns of gold and silver on their heads. The armor, in fact, looked too cumbersome to wear in combat, and it took the soldiers a visible effort to propel their bulk through the air.
And then came a kind of litter, pulled through the hall by dozens of men and women in bright blue uniforms. The man carried in the litter looked almost lost in a heap of cushions to which he was strapped by a loose harness. His clothes were even more dazzling than his attendants’; it looked to Mardina as if his jacket had been woven of the feathers of gaudy rain forest birds. He wore a gold crown, and a necklace of huge emeralds, and a headband from which hung a delicate fringe, over his forehead, of scarlet wool and fine golden tubes. He was younger than Mardina had expected, slim, and not very strong-looking; perhaps the family faction he had behind him was tougher than he was.
Still, he was the Sapa Inca.
Cura pushed Mardina’s head down. “You don’t look him in the eye,” she said. “Nobody looks him in the eye unless he acknowledges them.”
From her peripheral vision, Mardina saw the Sapa Inca throw something out of his carriage. They were birds, she saw, a dozen small songbirds perhaps, but they were unable to fly in the lack of weight, unable to orient; flapping and tweeting, they spun pitifully.
Then one exploded, burst in a shower of feathers.
“One,” said Cura breathless. “They dose their feed with explosive pellets. It’s quite random—”
Another rattling explosion, a gasp from the crowd.
“Two!”
And another. The tiny feathers hailed down close to Mardina’s face this time.
“Three!”
And then a pause—a pause that lengthened, and Mardina seemed to sense, under the noise of the music, a vast collective sigh, as the remaining birds struggled in the air.
“That’s it! Just three of twelve! The selection is made—number three it is. Look, Mardina, Clodia, the third compartment along . . .”
Mardina saw the one Cura meant. Standing on the window, above the vacuum, the third bottle contained a girl, slightly younger-looking than the rest, but just as bewildered. Just for a heartbeat she seemed to be aware that everybody in the hall, including the Sapa Inca, was looking at her. Fear creased her soft face.
Then a hatch opened beneath her. The puff of air in her bottle expelled her in a shower of crystals—frost, Mardina realized, condensing from the vapor in the warm air. Already falling into space, the girl looked up, her mouth open. Just for an instant she seemed not to have been harmed. Then she tried to take a breath. She clutched her throat, struggling in the air like a stranded fish, and blood spewed from her mouth.
All this just a few Roman feet from Mardina. People crowded so they could see her through the windows. They laughed and pointed, and some imitated the girl’s helpless, hopeless struggle, as she receded from the window.
“You are not of our culture,” Cura whispered in the ears of Mardina and Clodia. “But can you see why this is done? Yupanquisuyu seems strong, solid. Yet just an arm’s length beyond this window lies death—the Gaping Mouth. The Sapa Inca reminds us all of what will become of us if we fail to maintain the integrity of the habitat, even just for an instant. And it is just as the gods hover, angry, cruel, vengeful, an arm’s length in any direction from our world. It is only the Sapa Inca and the order he imposes that excludes them from the human world. Do you see? Do you see?” She stroked Clodia’s head. “And do you begin to see, now, child, why it is that you must die?”
The ejected girl had stopped struggling, to Mardina’s relief. She drifted slowly away from the habitat, and then, as she fell out of the structure’s huge shadow, she flared with sunlight, briefly beautiful.
55
Quintus Fabius walked to the crest of the ridge with Inguill the quipucamayoc, Michael the medicus, and a handful of his men: Titus Valerius, Scorpus, Orgilius the aquilifer with his standard, and Rutilius Fuscus, the century’s trumpeter.
Once more, in the light of the new day, Quintus inspected his position. They were close to the hub here, having completed, with Inguill’s help, their surreptitious journey from the western coast of the ocean by train and other Inca transports. They were in the foothills that characterized this part of the habitat—but just here they were in a relative lowland, a wide valley cut by a river fed by glacial melt. And beyond, the hub mountains rose up, clinging to the steel face of the hub itself.
“Certainly this ridge is the highest ground in the area,” Quintus observed.
“You’re right about that, sir,” Titus rumbled. “The surveyors confirm what you can see for yourself.”
“Perhaps there was once flooding here,” Quintus mused. “Even a lake. Some of these landforms have a streamlined gracefulness. Is that possible, Inguill?”
The quipucamayoc shrugged. “The history of this landscape is of course a question of engineering, not of nature. I do know the landscape artists allowed the country to evolve through stages of its own, letting it form as naturally as possible. We are always aware of the limits of our knowledge. Give the gods of nature room to do what they do best—that was the guiding principle. So, yes, perhaps it was once a lake, in some early stage of its forced formation.”
“Engineering.” Quintus looked to where the mountains rose, one range after another, waves of granite topped by gleaming ice—ranges that curved upward, very visibly, to left and right, as if he were peering through some distorting glass. “Yes, one can never forget that this place is an artifact. Now, down to business. War, quipucamayoc, is all about the details—about place and time. As for the place: so, Titus—will this do for you?”
“The highest ground for miles around, sir, as you say. Let them come to us.”
“And as for the timing—”
Inguill said, “Ruminavi has reported to me that the capacocha ceremony is to go ahead this afternoon, as previously scheduled. Meanwhile my contact Villac the colcacamayoc is ready with the permissions and passes to get your party out through the hub portals to your space yacht.”
Michael said, “I can confirm that we managed to get messages out to the Malleus Jesu. We had men volunteer for the details that wash the Inti windows—the details work all day, every day. As the ColU predicted, the little transmitters and receivers in the earpieces it uses to speak to us were sufficient to exchange communications with the Malleus through the window glass. Trierarchus Eilidh knows what we’re doing; we made a final check last night and she’s ready for the pickup.”
“Good,” said Quintus. “So all we need to do is get the travelers up to the portal and ready to go. Oh, and fight a battle against the army of the Sapa Inca. So, medicus, what of the men?”
Michael shrugged. “The whole of this continent, the cuntisuyu, is at a higher altitude than the antisuyu where
we’ve been living—miles higher. The air is that much thinner. However, we’ve rested here seven days. You’ve kept the men very fit. I’d judge that they are acclimatized—and they are as ready as they’ll ever be to fight.”
Inguill frowned. “Should I be impressed?”
“You should,” Quintus said. “You see, quipucamayoc, though a battle itself may seem an arena of chaos to you, victory comes through planning and positioning, as well as reacting to circumstances during the combat.”
“Like the chess you have taught me.”
“That’s the idea. And I’m hoping that your generals, who are used to facing nothing more challenging than rebellions by unarmed, untrained, undisciplined villagers, might prove as poor strategists as you are a chess player. We’ll make our stand here. This may be no more than a skirmish—but it may also be the last battle a Roman army unit will ever wage. Aquilifer, set your eagle standard.”
“Yes, sir,” Orgilius said proudly.
Inguill anxiously scanned the sky, looking for Condors. “The imperial authorities will see that display.”
“Let them see us. The die is cast, as Julius Caesar once said.”
Titus Valerius stepped forward. “There’s one detail, sir. If we’re to give battle, you need an optio. Somebody who’ll be there to kick the arses of the men in the rear ranks, and hold the formation for you. Now, Gnaeus Junius is of course off on the Malleus Jesu. So if I may, I’d like to volunteer for the job. Just for the day, you understand; I’m not angling for a field promotion or a rise in pay—”
Quintus clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Titus. But if you were to be taking part in this fight today, I’d turn you down; I’d want you at my side in the front rank, one wing missing or not. You’re certainly not getting a pay rise.”
Quintus saw complicated expressions chase across the man’s face. “Thank you for that, sir. But—are you saying I won’t be in the century when we give battle?”
“I’ve a much more important task for you, Titus. Remember—the battle we fight today is only a diversion. The whole purpose of this is to get Collius, and your daughter and her companion, Mardina, out of this habitat, and then to Mars, where—well, as I understand it, Collius intends to challenge the strange entities at war over human history. Now, Titus, when everything blows up, I need somebody in place, up in Cuzco at the habitat exit, to make sure the final escape takes place. And indeed to provide protection on the way. Although if it does turn into a battle up there, we’ll have failed.”
“That’s where you want me to go, then, sir? But how?” He glanced down at himself. “I am an overweight one-armed Roman legionary in uniform. I might be spotted, you know, even by these slow-witted Incas. I remember once on campaign—”
Inguill said smoothly, “We’ve worked this out, your centurion and I. I’m going up shortly myself. I’ll be on hand, with Villac and our other allies, to make sure Collius’s party get to where they need to be. And you’ll be at my side, Titus. As my yanakuna, my slave. A punishment for some outrageous behavior or other.” She grinned. “You’re ugly enough, and surly enough, to make that convincing.”
Titus looked doubtfully at Quintus. “My place is at your side, sir.”
“No, Titus. Your place is at your daughter’s side. Take care of Clodia. After all, she is putting her own life at risk in this game we play today, as much as any man of the legion. And, remember, I won’t be leaving this place.”
“You won’t?”
“Of course not,” Inguill said. “We can get a handful of you out, but there’s no way we can break out fifty men.”
Quintus said, “And their wives and, in one or two cases, young families. It was always a dream that we would all be able to leave. No, the men’s place is here, now, Titus, where Jesu in His wisdom has delivered us. And my place is leading them.” He peered into Titus’s eyes. “I can see you haven’t thought it through this far. Well, I wouldn’t have expected you to. Trust me, Titus. Do as I say. Your daughter isn’t coming back here, ever—so just be at her side, wherever she goes next, and protect the rest. That’s your duty now.”
Titus was visibly struggling with this. But he growled, “Very well, sir.”
Inguill blew out from puffed cheeks. “Well, thank Inti that’s resolved. We need to get moving, before it’s too late. Look . . .” She pointed upward. “Your activities have been noticed, at last.”
A Condor craft hung high above the air, a very obvious eye in the sky.
Quintus grinned. “The moment approaches, then.” He clasped Inguill’s hand. “You must go. Goodbye, then, quipucamayoc—I appreciate all you’ve done for us.”
She pursed her lips. “I don’t see it as a betrayal of the Sapa Inca emperor, you know, as much as a challenge to these history-eating monsters we all face.”
“I understand that. And so we’re on the same side. Go now—you too, Titus Valerius, and make sure you tell that daughter of yours what a fine Roman I believe she has grown up to be. Now let’s get the century drawn up. Don’t want them thinking it’s a Saturnalia, do we? Give them a blast of the horn, Rutilius Fuscus . . .”
56
There were a dozen, in all, Mardina had slowly learned, as their days had passed in chambers of unimaginable luxury. A dozen victims of the planned sacrifice. Or, depending how you looked at it, a dozen children privileged to have been selected for the capacocha ceremony, selected for the glory of living forever, in the unblinking gaze of Inti.
And today was the first time they had all been brought together. Today, the day on which their young lives would be ended—mercifully enough, Cura had assured her, they would never know, never feel anything. “Why, what with the drugs and drink and rich food, some of them have been barely conscious for days . . .”
Mardina struggled for self-control.
• • •
The ceremony was to take place in the temple called the Qoricancha. This was a pyramid of bloodred stone, topped by layers of green, sky blue, and a chapel of some pink stone at the very top.
Mardina, with Clodia and the other sacrificial victims, were led hand in hand through a courtyard filled with sculptures of gold: trees, flowers, hummingbirds frozen in flight, even a llama with a shepherd, as if a garden had in an instant been dipped in the liquid metal. The victims, floating in the air, many already drug-addled, stared at all this as if they could not believe their eyes.
Then they were taken inside the pyramid, and into a grand chamber whose walls were lined with gold and silver plates and crowded with shrines to the gods, and niches where, it appeared, the corpses of more dead Incas resided. Over their head was a roof set with stars and lightning bolts wrought in silver. For a moment they were left alone, staring at the latest wonders.
Then a solemn young woman led them all down through an open door set into the richly carpeted floor—and then down, down through tunnels lined with precious metals and lit by oil lamps. They were brought at last to yet another room set in the basement of Hanan Cuzco, another chamber with vast windows offering a view of space. Beyond the window this time Mardina could see detail, shelves of some kind splashed with bright sunlight and fixed with scraps of faded color—human figures, like dolls, perhaps; the details were hard to make out.
It was here that the ceremony would be performed, and everybody who counted would want to be here, and finely dressed people were already pouring in. The place was soon crowded. But the twelve children with the priests and doctors who attended them were guided to the heart of the ornate mob, along with the personal companions they had been allowed to bring into Cuzco—in Clodia’s case, that was Mardina, and Mardina in turn clung to Cura.
And with the children in place, here came the Sapa Inca himself, once more borne on his enormous litter, and his orderly bands of attendants and bearers, all highborn themselves—and wherever the Inca went, a mob of courtiers followed, colorful, swoo
ping through the weightless environment of the axis, each of them striving to catch the eye of the Inca or one of his senior wives or sons. As ever, grim blue-faced axis warriors, their long limbs like knotted rope, slid through the crowds, watching, listening.
In all this, however, the twelve children were the focus of attention, as they had been for days.
Attendants now gently led them forward to a row of elaborate seats, almost like thrones themselves, into which they were loosely strapped by embroidered harnesses. The children had been brought here from all over the habitat, Mardina knew, and represented many of the ethnicities controlled by the empire. There was even an anti girl, the tattoos on her face still livid, a child who had been even more baffled and disoriented than the rest, so alien was the city environment to her, let alone the details of this exotic ritual.
And yet, seeing them side by side, there was a sameness about all the children now, even the anti girl—even Clodia Valeria, who had come here from another reality entirely, from beyond the jonbar hinges. For days—if not weeks or months in some cases—the children had been fêted here in Hanan Cuzco, just like those other blessed children in their bottles, and treated with alcohol, maize corn, expensive meats and seafood, even exotic drugs, all of which luxuries, Cura said with some envy, were usually reserved for the most senior of the elite. As a result they had all put on weight, their skin had taken on a kind of glossy sheen, and the drugs had made them passive, dull-witted, hard to scare and easy to manipulate.
Now the shelf Mardina had noticed earlier outside the window began to move, a platform that rose up before the row of slackly gazing children and the excited courtiers behind them. One of the priests began to declaim in the courtly, antiquated version of Quechua that seemed to be reserved for moments like this, a dialect Mardina found impossible to understand, even after months of studying the language in the ayllu.
Cura murmured, “He is describing the terrible glory of Inti, and of the creator gods who give us life, and can take it away. These children are privileged because they will live forever in the eye of Inti, never aging as we will, never growing ill or frail—never dying—”
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