The conspirators, quite naturally, immediately suspected that someone had revealed their plot. Now a quick decision had to be made, for if their plan had been exposed, then they would surely be apprehended and either imprisoned or killed. Gathered in the house of Diego de Almagro’s son, the assassins turned toward the leader of the group, Juan de Herrada, who now offered them a stark choice:
“Gentlemen … if we show determination and are resourceful enough to kill the Marquis, then we will avenge the death of the Adelantado [Almagro] and will … [receive] the reward that our services to the King in this realm deserve. [But] if we do not leave here and carry out our purpose, our heads will be hung from the gallows in the square. It’s up to each one of you, however, as to how you want to proceed.”
The Almagristas agreed that they had but one choice—to carry out the assassination of Pizarro as they had originally planned. Throwing open the door and armed with an assortment of halberds, two crossbows, a harquebus, and a variety of swords, they now swarmed out onto the street and began heading to the central plaza, shouting “Long live the King!” and “Death to Tyrants!” A number of the town’s startled inhabitants no doubt watched them as the men burst out onto the plaza and headed directly for Pizarro’s home. The latter—a two-story structure with ample rooms for the governor’s servants, guards, secretary, majordomo, pages, chamberlains, children, and his native mistress—lay behind two courtyards and fronted the square directly across from the cathedral.
Pizarro, meanwhile, having already heard mass, was presently dining with his half-brother Francisco Martín de Alcántara and with about twenty others in the large dining room upstairs. As the sounds of men shouting began to be heard in the distance, Pizarro’s page abruptly burst into the room shouting, “Grab your weapons! Grab your weapons! Because all those men from Chile are coming to murder the Marquis, my lord!” Almost immediately, the guests lurched up from their chairs, unsure about what to do. In the confusion that followed, Pizarro and some of his companions rushed to the stairway that descended to the inner courtyard to see what was going on, just as the mob of Almagristas began entering the outer courtyard, brandishing their weapons.
One of Pizarro’s pages, who had been working in that area, was the first to encounter the assassins; they stabbed him and left him for dead on the ground. Those of Pizarro’s guests who had witnessed the attack now realized that their own lives were in danger and rushed back into the dining hall, showing “great cowardice and fleeing in an abominable way,” as Pedro Cieza de León would write more than a dozen years later in his La Guerra de Chupas. As the Almagristas began ascending the main stairway, shouting for Francisco Pizarro to show himself, Pizarro’s lieutenant governor—a man who had recently boasted to Pizarro about how the latter could count upon him in any crisis—climbed through a window, clambered down the balustrade, and then fled through the garden below. Some guests followed suit while others even tried hiding beneath large pieces of furniture.
Pizarro and his brother Francisco Martín, however, along with two of Pizarro’s pages and one of his guests, were determined to fight; they quickly rushed into one of the adjoining rooms in order to arm themselves. As the five of them hurried to strap on their breastplates, Pizarro shouted to another guest, Francisco de Chávez, to shut the door to the dining room, in order to prevent the entry of the mob. Chávez, however, apparently hoping to change the minds of the conspirators, walked through the door and left it open behind him. Only two years earlier, Chávez had led a brutal counterinsurgency campaign against rebellious natives in the Callejón de Huaylas, a campaign in which he had allegedly slaughtered some six hundred native children. Now, in deciding to try to speak with the assassins, Chávez had made a fatal error. His last words were reported as being “Don’t kill your friends!” before, according to Pedro Pizarro, “they killed him half way up the steps, stabbing him many times with their swords.” Chávez’s crumpled body soon lay sprawled on the governor’s stairs, soaked with blood.
The Almagristas had by now reached the dining hall, where they quickly began searching for Pizarro, brandishing their swords and shouting, “Where is the tyrant? Where is he?” Still in the adjoining room, Pizarro was unable to finish fastening on his breastplates and thus was forced to leave them half buckled. He quickly seized a large sword, then turned to face his attackers, along with his two pages, his brother, and the only guest from among the twenty who had chosen not to flee, Gómez de Luna.
A fierce battle now ensued, constrained by the narrow doorway, with fifteen to twenty Almagristas on one side and Pizarro and his four companions on the other. Two of the Almagristas fell, run through with swords, and now lay clutching at wounds that spurted blood onto the floor. Their fellow conspirators, meanwhile, found themselves unable to breach the doorway, protected as it was by the defenders’ five swords. Frustrated by their inability to reach Pizarro, the Almagristas now resorted to a desperate measure, shoving one of their own attackers through the doorway as a kind of shield, while the rest pushed forward behind him. Pizarro impaled the man, but in so doing he tied up his sword at precisely the moment that the Almagristas pushed their way into the room on either side. As the sharp, slicing twang of sword upon sword filled the air along with the sounds of men’s shouts and the scuffling of boots, the attackers finally succeeded in impaling Francisco Martín, Pizarro’s brother. Mortally wounded, he now fell to the ground. Pizarro’s other three companions soon followed suit, staggered by sword thrusts until, one by one, they crumpled to the floor.
Pizarro now found himself surrounded by a circle of stabbing daggers and swords, receiving wound after wound until he, too, fell heavily to the floor. On his back now and bleeding severely, the governor is said to have used a finger from each hand to make the sign of the cross over his lips, then to have gasped the word “confession,” meaning that he wanted time to confess his sins to God. One of the attackers, Juan Rodríguez Barragán, however, is said to have picked up a large vase full of water, to have lifted it high over Pizarro’s head, and then to have shouted “You can go to Hell … to make your confession!” before bringing the vase down and crushing Pizarro’s head. There on the floor, amid a pool of blood and water—in the city he had founded and in the country he had conquered—the sixty-three-year-old conquistador, Francisco Pizarro, expired.
News of Pizarro’s death, and of subsequent political events—the arrival in Peru of a representative of the crown, Vaca de Castro; the representative’s defeat of Diego de Almagro the Younger’s forces at the Battle of Chupas; and the general chaos that descended upon Peru after the deaths of both Almagro and Pizarro—gradually made its way down to Manco Inca in his rebel redoubt of Vilcabamba. Manco had followed the Spaniards’ shifting fortunes closely, ever hopeful that his enemies might eventually massacre one another and save himself the trouble. At the Battle of Chupas, in 1542, in fact, a number of Manco’s followers had watched as at least twelve hundred Spaniards had done their best to slaughter one another in an effort to determine who would ultimately rule Peru. Once again, however, the followers of Almagro were defeated: more than two hundred died during the fighting and many more were hanged afterward. In the battle’s aftermath, as the king’s representative hanged the rebel Almagrista leaders, chronicler Cieza de León observed that “The ditch beneath the gallows was full of dead bodies…. [This gave] considerable pleasure to the natives, although they were amazed when they realized that many of … [those killed] had been captains and men holding posts of honor. They took news of all this to their king, Manco Inca.”
Not surprisingly, perhaps, within little more than a year after Pizarro’s murder, at least fifteen of the roughly twenty Almagristas who had murdered the marquis were dead. Two of his assailants had been killed during the attack itself. A dozen others were hanged, quartered, or otherwise killed during or just after the Battle of Chupas. One of the few of Pizarro’s assassins to survive was a man named Diego Méndez, a half-brother of Rodrigo Orgóñez, Diego de Almagro�
��s former second-in-command. It was Orgóñez who had almost captured Manco Inca at Vitcos in 1537 and had helped Almagro seize Cuzco from Hernando and Gonzalo Pizarro. A year later, Hernando had defeated and executed Orgóñez outside Cuzco and had displayed the latter’s head on the gallows on the main square. It shouldn’t have been surprising then that, a little over three years later, Diego Méndez would have been among Pizarro’s assassins, bent upon avenging his brother’s death.
After the Almagristas’ latest defeat at the Battle of Chupas, both Diego Méndez and Diego de Almagro the Younger had fled to Cuzco, hoping to escape capture by the royalist forces fighting on behalf of the king. The younger Almagro was nevertheless soon apprehended and was quickly executed, roughly four years after the execution of his father. Diego Méndez, meanwhile, was also captured and charged with having been one of Pizarro’s murderers. Méndez, however, somehow managed to escape; he soon fled to the only place where he felt Spanish jurisprudence would be unable to reach him—to Manco Inca’s rebel kingdom of Vilcabamba.
Having lived with his followers in Vilcabamba for the last five years, Manco Inca was by now twenty-seven years old. And, despite the Spaniards’ successful counterinsurgency campaign against his forces in the Andes, Manco nevertheless continued to train his warriors in insurgency techniques and to stage guerrilla raids on the Spaniards whenever feasible. When Diego Méndez unexpectedly arrived at the outskirts of his small kingdom, therefore, and asked for refuge, Manco’s generals not surprisingly wanted to execute him. Manco, however—no doubt having been informed that Méndez was one of those responsible for Francisco Pizarro’s murder—instead welcomed the Spanish refugee and offered him sanctuary. The emperor did likewise with six other Almagristas who had fled from the highlands and who now sought safety within the Incas’ hidden kingdom.
Manco did take some precautions regarding his potentially dangerous guests, however; instead of inviting the Spaniards to live in his capital of Vilcabamba, he housed them in Vitcos, about thirty miles away. As Titu Cusi later remembered:
My father ordered his captains not to harm them [the Spaniards] and to build houses in which they could live…. He had them with him for many … years, treating them very well and giving them whatever they needed, even ordering his own women to prepare their food and drink. He … ate together with them … enjoying himself with them as if they were his own brothers.
In return, the renegade Spaniards instructed Manco and his warriors in the finer arts of European warfare, teaching them how to load and fire their captured harquebuses correctly, how to use Spanish weaponry, and how to ride, shoe, and otherwise make use of captured Spanish horses. Pizarro’s assassin, Diego Méndez, meanwhile, gradually became Manco’s confidant, no doubt informing the emperor about the current conflicts in Spanish Peru, about life and politics in Spain and Europe, and so on. In short, the seven Spanish renegades became advisers to the Incas on all things Spanish, helping Manco to gain a deeper understanding of the nature of his enemies so that he might better be able to defeat them. For their part—exiled in an Inca kingdom that for all practical purposes was nowhere near Spanish Peru—the renegades patiently bided their time. The Almagristas spent their days resting, playing games of quoits, and no doubt hoping that one day they would be able to emerge from their self-imposed exile to rejoin Spanish society.
It took almost two years before political changes in Peru afforded the Spanish refugees just such an opportunity. In the power vacuum left by the murder of Pizarro, King Charles had sent his first viceroy—Don Blasco Núñez Vela—to take over control of the country. A new viceroy was precisely what Pizarro’s assassins had hoped for. But more than likely only one of them—Diego Méndez—had lived to see this happen. Now, deep in the jungles of the Antisuyu, Méndez and his companions decided that the time was finally ripe for their next move. Manco’s guests had realized that they were finally in a position to offer something of extreme value to the new viceroy—the death of Manco Inca. Manco’s unconquered kingdom, after all, still threatened Spanish control of Peru; it also continued to serve as a lightning rod for native defiance against the Spaniards. Both the viceroy and the king were therefore quite anxious to put an end to it.
If Méndez and his men could somehow manage to assassinate the rebel emperor, Méndez believed, he had no doubt that that would end the Inca rebellion. Méndez and his co-conspirators could then surely win pardons for themselves and would be able to reintegrate themselves into Spanish Peru. In fact, if they played their cards right, they might even be rewarded with encomiendas by the grateful new viceroy. The seven renegades made a decision: just as Méndez had helped to assassinate Francisco Pizarro, now he and his fellow exiles would likewise assassinate Manco Inca. They would then escape to Cuzco and would announce Manco’s death there as a fait accompli.
In order for Méndez and his coconspirators to carry out their plan, however, they would have to wait until Manco made one of his frequent visits to Vitcos from his nearby capital. When an unsuspecting Manco finally arrived with his now fourteen-year-old son, Titu Cusi, the seven renegades quietly prepared their weapons, readied their horses, and waited.* One of Manco’s favorite pastimes was playing horseshoe quoits, a game in which each participant tried to throw a horseshoe so that it touched or encircled a stake driven into the ground. In the hilltop city with sweeping views over the countryside, Manco’s son watched as his father began playing quoits with his Spanish guests, having played numerous games with them before. Suddenly, however, just as Manco was about to make a throw, Diego Méndez pulled out a hidden knife and impaled the emperor brutally from behind. Manco’s son later recalled:
My father, feeling himself wounded, tried to defend himself … but as he was alone and there were seven of them he finally fell to the ground, covered with wounds, and they left him for dead. I was a small boy and seeing my father treated in this manner I wanted to go there to help him. But they turned angrily towards me and hurled a spear at me … that just missed killing me as well. I was terrified and fled into the forest below … [and] even though they searched for me they failed to find me.
After repeatedly stabbing their host, Méndez and the other renegades now raced to their horses, leapt upon them, and galloped away. Women screamed while others gathered around the stricken emperor, now covered in blood. Soon, however, Manco’s captains sent runners in the direction the Spaniards had gone, in order to alert the countryside as to what had happened and to the fact that those who had attacked their emperor were now trying to escape.
All afternoon the assassins rode in the direction of Cuzco, putting as much distance between themselves and Vitcos as possible. As darkness fell they continued their flight, alternately riding and leading their horses by their reins. In their haste, however, the Spaniards had made a critical error in taking the wrong fork in the trail. By the time daybreak arrived, the fugitives realized that they would probably have to retrace their steps. Exhausted, they decided to rest for a while inside a thatched-roofed building before continuing.
While the Spaniards were sleeping, squadrons of Antis forest archers and native warriors discovered the building and quietly surrounded it. Soon, they set its roof on fire. As flames began to rise up and smoke began to pour out of the door, one by one, Manco’s assassins began to emerge, some desperately running out with their clothes on fire while others attempted to climb up onto their horses and escape. The jungle archers, however, immediately unleashed volleys of arrows at the escaping Spaniards while other natives surrounded their horses and pulled the riders off, spearing and clubbing the men savagely with their chonta-wood clubs. “They killed all of them very cruelly and some were even burned,” recalled Titu Cusi. Within a short time, native warriors had killed all seven of Manco’s assailants, including Pizarro’s assassin, Diego Méndez.
MAY BY PAUL PUGLIESE
The news that Manco’s attackers had been captured and killed was quickly sent to Vitcos and was relayed to Manco, who was conscious but lay dying
from his wounds. Manco had already designated a successor—his nine-year-old son, Sayri-Tupac Inca. Although native healers no doubt desperately tried to save him, three days after the Spaniards’ attack, in the hilltop city of Vitcos high above the western rim of the Amazon, the now twenty-nine-year-old Inca emperor died. The ruler whom Francisco Pizarro had crowned a decade earlier had in the end outlived Pizarro by a mere three years, leaving behind his wives and his three small sons. Manco also left behind a tiny rebel kingdom whose stunned inhabitants now fell into mourning over the loss of their leader. The emperor who had had the force of character and skill to organize the greatest native rebellion ever against Europeans in the New World had ultimately made a single fatal error: Manco had chosen to trust the Spaniards not once but twice—and in the process had lost both his empire and his life.
With Manco Inca and three of the five Pizarro brothers now dead—Francisco, Juan, and Francisco Martín—and with Hernando Pizarro currently in prison in Spain, only one surviving member of the Pizarro family remained in Peru, thirty-two-year-old Gonzalo. The youngest of the Pizarro brothers, Gonzalo had been only twenty when he and his brothers had helped to seize Manco’s older brother Atahualpa in Cajamarca, twenty-three when he had stolen Manco Inca’s wife, and twenty-seven when he had led the expedition that had sacked Vilcabamba.
Strikingly handsome, fabulously wealthy, and an excellent horseman, Gonzalo was also vindictive, impetuous, and possessed of the conviction that other people were either good friends or bitter enemies. Since the death of his three brothers and the imprisonment of the fourth, Gonzalo’s tendency to see the world in terms of black and white had no doubt become even more pronounced. Faced now with the unpleasant prospect of having to live under the rule of the king’s new viceroy—a man who had taken no part whatsoever in the conquest and who thus had risked nothing—Gonzalo predictably followed the dictates of his own character: with one impulsive decision, Gonzalo now placed the viceroy at the top of his list of enemies and then declared himself the new governor of Peru.
The Last Days of the Incas Page 40
